Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel (13 page)

“Yes. Hello, Kenneth. Marge told me you were meeting this afternoon.”

“Were you injured?”

“No. I was spared. But there is much need here . . . did you get the photos I sent?”

“Yes.” Ken looked at Marge and the minister, both intently listening to his end of the conversation. “I’m going to put you on speaker. Hold one moment.”

Marge pushed the appropriate button on the base unit, and Ken replaced the handset.

“What is your most pressing need?” Ken gestured to Marge to take notes on the tablet in front of her.

“Many of the medications in our supply room survived, thank the Lord, and we salvaged what supplies and furnishings we could from the clinic. But we are very short on sterile goods and equipment. I’ve been putting together a list.”

As a rustling sound came over the line, Ken could hear the background cries of children who were hurt and afraid.

His stomach clenched.

He hated pain and unhappiness. Had devoted his life to alleviating both.

They had to fix this problem as quickly as possible.

Carlos began speaking again, and Marge filled a page before the local physician completed his list.

“The school officials have been kind enough to offer us temporary quarters, but we cannot stay here long,” the doctor finished. “We need to begin rebuilding as soon as possible.”

Ken ran his fingers through his hair. “We’ll discuss this as soon as we hang up, Carlos. I’ll call you back within the hour with a plan.”

“Thank you, my friend. I know you will find a way. And
now I must return to work. I will pray our next conversation brings good news.”

As the line went dead, the minister folded his hands on the table. “How will we manage? If we dip into existing funds to get us past the emergency, we’ll have no operating dollars for the next few months.”

Silence fell in the room as they all pondered the problem.

“The need is too immediate for any serious fund-raising efforts.” Marge finally spoke, frowning as she read over the list Carlos had dictated. “Though in light of your recent award, the media would probably cover this story. I can contact some of the newspeople who called after the announcement went out. Perhaps, with sufficient publicity, some generous donors will come forward. A few medical supply companies might also step up to offer merchandise.”

Her reasoning was sound. And it was possible a flurry of donations would get them through the immediate crisis. But based on past experience, Ken knew donations would dry up within days of the media coverage, and the total generated wouldn’t be near enough to rebuild.

He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “It’s worth a try. In the meantime, I can provide a personal short-term loan to get us over the hump. We’ll survive this.”

“I have every confidence in that,” the minister seconded. “The Lord has smiled on this enterprise from the beginning. Every time our coffers have run low, he’s provided. I know the same will be true now. He won’t turn his back on such a great need. Shall we pray about that?”

Marge took his hand, and Ken completed the circle, bowing his head as the man asked God to bless them with sufficient resources to continue the noble work of the clinic.

And God would answer.

Ken would see to that.

As he always did.

“I see you finally decided to grace us with your presence.”

At Dev’s greeting, Cal closed the back door of the Phoenix office behind him, pausing as his partner exited the small kitchenette. “I was here all morning doing an employee background check for our newest client.”

“Yeah. Nikki told me. I was just giving you a hard time.”

“So what else is new?” Cal sidestepped Dev, who was toting a steaming cup of coffee, and continued toward his office. “How’s the surveillance going on the child custody case?”

“Nothing to report to our client yet. I handed it off to Connor at 4:00 and swung by here to catch up on some paperwork. Looks like we have a new protection gig in the offing too. Nikki took the call while we were gone, and I’ve been following up on it.”

“If it’s another trip to Bermuda, Connor says count him out.” Cal flipped on the light in his office.

Dev followed him in. “Nothing that exotic—but possibly more dangerous. Ever hear of William Santel?”

Cal set his briefcase on his desk as he tried to place the name. “Isn’t he president of Santel Enterprises? That electronics corporation headquartered in Missouri, with manufacturing facilities around the country?”

“Bingo. They also have a plant in Mexico—where he plans to go next week, despite a death threat.”

“Not too smart. Mexico is a scary place these days even without a death threat.”

“I explained that to him.” Dev blew on his coffee and propped a shoulder against the door frame. “He still wants to go—and he wants us to keep him safe while he’s there. He’s also willing to pay a very nice premium for that service.”

When Dev quoted the amount, Cal let out a soft whistle.

“I had the same reaction.” Dev took a test sip of the still-steaming java and backed off with a scowl.

“Money’s never been our sole criteria for taking a job, though. And the risk is high. A fat paycheck doesn’t matter if you’re dead.” Cal settled into his chair and waited. All of
the Phoenix partners agreed on those points. Meaning there was more to this story—and other reasons Dev thought they should take the job.

“That’s true. But there are extenuating circumstances.” Balancing his coffee, Dev strolled over to the chair across from Cal’s desk, sat, and crossed an ankle over a knee. “Based on my preliminary research, Santel runs a clean, ethical operation that provides an essential service. The company makes high-voltage power supplies for applications like CT scanning, telecommunications, and explosive detection for baggage screening.”

“Okay.” Interesting but not compelling enough to merit risking life and limb.

“Santel employs five hundred people at his Mexican plant and offers higher wages, better working conditions, and far more benefits than his competitors—which they don’t appreciate. He’s also assisted authorities in Monterrey, as well as United States Immigration and Customs agents, with drug investigations—which the traffickers in Monterrey don’t appreciate.”

Cal processed that information. The man treated his employees well and cooperated with law enforcement to bring down drug traffickers, despite the personal risk.

Impressive.

But both of those activities could create enemies.

“Any clue who issued the warning?” Cal laced his fingers over his stomach and leaned back in his chair.

“Nope. It just suggested he stay out of Mexico if he values his health.” Dev tried the coffee again and made another face. “I think the heat sensor in the microwave is busted.”

“So why doesn’t he lay low for a while? Take care of business by phone?”

“There’s been some vandalism at the plant, along with some graffiti. The troops are unsettled. He figures if he expects the employees to keep showing up every day, he should set an example by putting in an appearance on occasion too.”

Cal picked up his pen and tapped the end against his desk. “When does he want to go?”

“A week from today. Fly down Wednesday afternoon on the corporate jet, hang around the plant on Thursday and part of Friday, fly home Friday afternoon. Short trip, but intense. I peg it as a three-man job, plus a well-armed local security specialist and his crew.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“Yeah. He’s former law enforcement too. I worked with him on a border case in my ATF days. A good guy to have around if we run into trouble.”

“Doesn’t matter how good he is. This could still be dicey.” Cal pursed his lips. “Santel’s got guts, though—not to mention good intentions and admirable principles.”

“I checked with one of my former ATF colleagues, who made a few calls to some of his DEA contacts. They confirmed he’s cooperated with drug investigations on more than one occasion.”

“You’ve been busy. When did you manage to do all that?”

Dev shrugged. “Surveillance is boring. Making calls helped keep me awake.”

As if he’d ever doze off on duty. Dev might kid around at the office, but he was a pro on the job. Serious, focused, intense. The kind of partner you could rely on to watch your back in a dangerous situation.

“Okay. I’m in. Did you check with Connor yet?” His other partner’s vote would carry more weight, as they both knew. It always did on protection gigs. He’d also take the lead if they accepted the job, given his Secret Service background. That was one of the things Cal enjoyed most about Phoenix—they recognized each other’s strengths, and no egos were allowed when they assigned roles for gigs. The most-qualified man got the job.

“Next on my list.” Dev stood. “So how did the trash party go last night?”

“It was productive.” Cal gave him a recap of the items
they’d found, his excursion to the nursing homes, and Moira’s plans to visit the Woman’s Exchange.

While he spoke, twin creases appeared on Dev’s brow. “This is sounding less and less favorable to our humanitarian of the year.”

“That’s my take too. I called the first nursing home from my car after I left the second one, and I managed to get Olivia’s last name. It’s Lange.”

“What ruse did you use?”

“I didn’t need one. When I asked for Olivia, the operator asked if I meant Olivia Lange. Then I called the second place and asked for her with her full name. That receptionist told me she no longer worked there.”

“So your hunch panned out. It was the same woman.” Dev tapped a finger against his mug, his expression speculative. “I wonder why she left?”

“According to my tour guide at the last place, no one knows. She just didn’t show up one day. I’m thinking it might be worth paying her a little visit—after I gather some background.”

Dev shifted his coffee from one hand to the other. “Funny how things work out, isn’t it? That day we took the drive into the country to look over the accident scene, I assumed this case was dead in the water. All we found was a tooth that might not even be human. But this thing is really heating up. Proof that persistence pays off.”

“Moira’s more than ours.”

“I don’t know. I think you’re as committed now to solving it as she is.”

“Let’s just say I’m intrigued.”

“By the case—or the lady?”

Cal didn’t dignify that with a reply.

“I guess that’s my answer.” Dev smirked at him as he lifted his cup, took a sip—and sputtered out an “ow!”

“Burn your tongue?”

“Yeah.” Dev grimaced. “I can’t believe this coffee is still scalding. I need some water.” He took off down the hall.

Cal watched him leave, not feeling the least sorry for his wisecracking partner.

Yet as Dev disappeared, Cal’s mood grew more serious. A burned tongue was one thing.

But in light of the potentially dangerous Mexico assignment and the mystifying case of the vanishing woman, he hoped nothing else got burned.

K
en
stared
at
the
syringe
in
his
hand
and
swiped
at
the
film
of
sweat
beading
on
his
upper
lip
. “
I
can
’
t
do
this
.”

His father’s unyielding gaze locked on
him. “Yes, you can. You have to. I can’t
do it one-handed. The degeneration is too advanced. Look.”

Alan Blaine lifted his hand, once strong and steady as
it wielded a scalpel with confidence and precision during even
the most delicate neurosurgery. Ken had watched his dad plenty
of times. The talent and dexterity in his fingers had
been awesome.

Now the arm that had guided that scalpel
was thin and weak, the muscles atrophied, the fine motor
skills in those once-adept fingers deaf to the commands
of his brain.

As his father clumsily tried to pick
up the fork on the tray of his wheelchair, tears
flooded Ken’s eyes, blurring his vision.

The utensil clattered
to the hardwood floor in his parents’ bedroom.

Ken bent
to pick it up, choking back a sob as he
returned it to the tray.

“If I hadn’t fallen
two weeks ago, it would be done already.” His father’
s mouth tightened in disgust as he inspected the plaster
cast and sling immobilizing his broken left arm.
“Now I
need your help. I’d ask your mother, but she
wouldn’t approve—nor have the fortitude for the task.
I know you’re only sixteen, but you have the
inner strength to deal with this—and the courage.”

No,
he didn’t. His insides were quaking just thinking about
it.

When he didn’t respond, his father groped for
his hand. Although his words were slurred these days, his
eyes were every bit as alert and decisive as they’
d always been.

“Please. Help me.” There was a touch
of desperation in his voice now.

That was something Ken
had never heard before.

His heart began to pound, just
like the breast of the terrified robin he’d once
rescued after it got trapped in the protective netting around
his mother’s ornamental peach tree.

“I . . . I can’t.”
He choked out the words, clinging to his father’s
hand as he pleaded with the man he’d loved,
admired, and tried to emulate his entire life. “Please don’
t ask me to do this terrible thing. It’s
wrong.”

“It isn’t a terrible thing. And I wouldn’
t ask you to do anything wrong.” His father struggled
with the words, working hard to form them into coherent
sounds. “This will be a blessing. I’m not going
to get better. You know that. We’ve talked about
it. ALS is merciless. Soon I’ll be bedridden. Paralyzed.
Unable to speak. I may need a feeding tube to
eat and a ventilator to breathe. And in a few
months or a year, I’ll die anyway. I want
to go on my own terms, before I lose any
more of my dignity.”

“But it’s . . . it’s murder.”
Ken barely whispered the word.

“No, it’s not.” His
father’s voice steadied, a hint of the old forcefulness
and resolve adding weight to his words. “I’m asking
you to do this. That makes all the difference.”

“It’
s still against the law.”

“No one will ever know
what took place in this room except you and me.
After you administer the injection, bury the empty vial and
the syringe in the woods behind the house.
My death
will not be unexpected, given the rapid progression of the
disease. The truth will remain our secret.”

The syringe felt
slippery in his sweaty hand, and Ken gripped it tighter. “
Medication isn’t supposed to be an instrument of death.”
A quiver ran through his words.

“Not death. Peace. When
all hope of recovery is gone, when there is nothing
to look forward to except pain and deterioration and dependence,
isn’t this another way to relieve suffering? The very
thing a physician is honor-bound to do?”

Ken furrowed
his brow. Was it? He’d never viewed it that
way before, but everything his father had ever said had
made sense. And despite the ravages of the disease, Alan
Blaine remained lucid, his thinking sound and logical.

But it
still felt wrong.

“I hear what you’re saying, but
isn’t this like . . . like playing God?” Ken groped for
an out, scrambling for an argument his father hadn’t
considered. “Doesn’t it go against the Hippocratic Oath—and
our faith?”

“I’m not playing God.” His father’s
voice was growing weary from the exertion of so much
talking, but it had lost none of its conviction. “The
Lord has already made it clear he intends to call
me home. I don’t think he’ll care if
I arrive a little early. I made my peace with
this decision long ago.” He settled his hands in his
lap and looked toward the second-floor balcony that jutted
over the steeply sloping rock garden in the back. “If
you won’t help me, I’ll find another way.
But this would be easier—and more merciful.”

Ken felt
as if icy fingers had clamped onto his lungs, squeezing
out every last breath of air. He knew that, left
with no other options, with few other resources at his
disposal, his dad would do whatever was necessary to achieve
his goal.

An image of his father’s smashed body
splayed on the rocks below the balcony strobed across his
mind—and knotted his stomach.

“All right.” His acquiescence came
out in a croak.

Relief flooded his father’s eyes. “
Thank you. Think of it
as the last gift you’
ll give me. And it is a gift. Never forget
that. Now here’s what I want you to do.”

Despite the unsteadiness in his hands, Ken managed to follow
his father’s calm, clinical instructions. Once he’d filled
the syringe with a lethal dose of morphine, he capped
the empty vial, set it on the tray of the
wheelchair—and began to shake.

“It’s okay.” His father
touched his arm. “This is what I want. You’re
doing the compassionate thing by saving me the agony of
enduring a life that’s no longer productive or worth
living. Promise me you’ll never have any regrets or
remorse about this.”

How could he promise that, when his
mind was filled with doubts and misgivings, when guilt and
grief were already settling into his heart?

“Look at me,
son.”

Ken lifted his gaze from the syringe in his
hand, blinking back tears.

“Someday you’ll be a fine
doctor. You have the healing touch, and you’ll save
many lives. Don’t agonize over the ones you can’
t save. Accept that sometimes death is a blessing. Think
of mine that way. Now promise me—no remorse and
no regrets.”

A shudder rippled through him. He tried to
speak. Failed. Tried again.

“I promise.” He finally managed to
squeeze the words past the tightness in his throat.

His
father pulled him close, and Ken laid his head on
the man’s wasted shoulder, as he’d done on
occasion as a small child. Except then the shoulder had
been strong and broad and capable of bearing the heaviest
burden.

A sob escaped his lips.

“No tears.” His father extricated himself from the embrace
. “It’s time. I want
this over before your mother comes back from her bridge
club.”

Ken backed off, and though he tried his best,
he couldn’t stem the silent tears trailing down his
cheeks.

“After you give me the injection, I want you
to leave.”

He stared at his father. “But I want
to stay with you and—”

“No.” His father held up
his hand, his tone firm. “I’ll drift off quickly.
You need to take care of the syringe and vial.”

“
But Mom will . . . she’ll be the one who finds
you.”

“Better that than to let her heart break bit
by bit as I wither away. This is kinder in
the end. I want your word you’ll leave—and
not come back until she calls for you.”

His father’
s words were becoming more garbled, the effort to talk
wearing him down. But Ken had no problem understanding what
his father wanted. What he expected. And all his life,
he’d done his best to live up to his
father’s expectations.

“All right.”

“Good.” His father shifted sideways
and flopped his hand toward his thigh, working to position
his index finger. “There. Go through the fabric. Inject it
slow and steady.” His voice was calm.

Ken went down
on one knee. Pulled his father’s lightweight pant leg
taut. Positioned the needle.

Hesitated.

“Just do it, son. It’
s an act of compassion and charity. There’s a
better place waiting for me.”

Pulse hammering as hard as
if he’d run a five-hundred-yard dash, Ken
slowly slid the needle in and pushed the plunger, shooting
the deadly liquid into his father’s body.

It seemed
to take forever in the quiet room, the silence broken
only by the muted strains of a Vivaldi CD.

When
the syringe was at last empty, he withdrew it and
looked up at his father, his vision blurred with tears. “
I love you, Dad.”

“I know. What you just did
demonstrated that better than words ever could. You’re a
good boy. Honorable and conscientious. I’m proud of you,
son.” He touched his cheek. “Now go. But open the
French doors first so I can see the sky and
breathe the fresh air.”

Ken lurched to his feet and
once more followed his father’s instructions.

After he’d
repositioned the wheelchair for a view toward the outdoors, he
crossed to the hall door and paused on the threshold
for one more look at the man who’d been
the center of his world for sixteen years. His father
managed a crooked smile and a weak lift of his
hand in farewell.

The tears started again, and Ken forced
himself to turn away. Clutching the syringe and empty morphine
vial, he raced down the steps and out the back
door, heading for the property line at the edge of
the woods. Once there, he stopped and looked back toward
the open French doors.

To the room where his father
was dying.

“I’m proud of you, son.”

As the
words echoed in his mind, he tried to stifle his
sobs. That’s all he’d ever wanted—for his
dad, the great neurosurgeon, to be proud of him. Alan
Blaine wasn’t effusive in his praise, but when he
gave it, it meant something. And it was always deserved.

If his father was proud of him, he’d done
the right thing.

But that didn’t mitigate his feeling
of desolation and loss.

He stumbled into the woods. Dropped
to his knees. Doubled over. Retched until there was nothing
left in his stomach.

For several minutes he lay there,
spent. But at last he rose and staggered deeper into
the same woods where he’d once played Robin Hood,
smiting imaginary villains, pretending to be a hero.