Scarcity (Jack Randall #3) (18 page)

Walking out again, he quietly closed the bedroom door. Picking up his cell phone he scrolled through the numbers until he found the one he had just typed in a few days ago.

“Federal Bureau of Investigations, how can I direct your call?”

“This is Doctor Mathew Dayo from Johns Hopkins calling. I need to speak with Agent Jack Randall please.”

“I’ll have to page him, sir, is this urgent?”

Dayo ran his hand through his wet hair.

“Yes.”

•      •      •

The ward was quiet as the medical teams moved about caring for the various patients. There were no private beds or different levels of care. All the men, regardless of age or nationality, shared the large room until they were either healthy enough to leave, or they succumbed to their wounds.

The Major was making small talk with the nurse at the desk. He had made it a point to get to know the medical staff as well as possible and they had become used to his presence. He would often walk the ward at all hours, claiming boredom or lack of sleep. He would visit the Afghan patients and flip through the charts so he could report to their superiors or the relatives on their progress.

He had also made an effort at observing the staff while they operated the various pumps and ventilators. Occasionally he would even venture forth a question, and the staff had proven to be eager to explain the equipment, as most professionals are. They enjoyed showing off their skills and he had developed a good working knowledge. He was at the point where he could hear a particular beep and know what piece of equipment had made the sound.

The desk was at one end of the long room with the most critical patients close to it and the rest spreading down the narrow hallway by level-of-care needed. As the conversation continued, he watched as the two doctors on duty made their way slowly down the line. The Afghan boy was about halfway down the right side and they were close. He cut the conversation off with a quick excuse and made his way to the boy’s bed just as the doctors did. One picked up the chart and flipped through it.

“G’mornin, Doc.”

“Morning, Major.”

“Any good news I can tell the family?”

The doctor read a quick graphic before shaking his head. He flipped it shut with a practiced movement before resting his gaze on the patient.

“The only good news is the burns on his neck and face seem to be healing all right. I was worried about infection. If he was in the States he’d be in a burn unit, which is kept a lot more sterile than what we can do here. But he seems to be okay there. We’ll keep the bandages on him for awhile longer just to be sure. As for the chest tube, I think it’ll have to stay for another day or two at least. I’d like to keep him on the vent and let his body rest.”

They both looked the boy over while the doctor spoke. With one eye showing through the bandages covering half his head and all of his neck, it was hard to tell what he looked like. The endotrachial breathing tube protruding from his mouth jerked slightly with each cycle of the ventilator. The bandages on his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and the bubbling of the water seal servicing the chest tube sitting on the floor could be heard over it all. Two pumps served the IVs in each arm, keeping the boy sedated and paralyzed so the machines could do their work without interference.

“So what’s the prognosis? Think he’ll pull through?”

“I don’t quote odds if that’s what you’re looking for. Is he better than he was yesterday? Hard to say really. He’s not worse. If the burns keep healing and the chest does the same, we can hopefully remove the chest tube and start thinking about weaning him off the vent. My biggest worries at this point are infection and a P.E.”

“P.E.?”

“Sorry. Pulmonary embolism. Basically an air bubble or a clot blocking blood flow to the lungs. With chest trauma like he has, he’s prone to developing embolisms and clots. If he throws a big one, he could arrest or even have a stroke.”

“So what can you do about that?”

“Not much. If it happens . . . at least it’ll be quick. I wouldn’t get the family’s hopes up just yet if I were you. Kid’s tough, and he’s got a strong heart, but he’s far from out of the woods yet.”

The Major made a few notes while the doctor waited patiently for any more questions.

“Okay. Not worse, but no real improvement. I’ll lay it out straight for them.”

“That’s all you can do.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Any time.”

In a Poor Economy, Black Market
Organ Trade is a Booming Business
October 27, 2011—International Business Times
 

—THIRTEEN—

R
ita Lamar was out of her element. She gripped the wheel with both hands and tried not to make eye contact with the people on the sidewalk as they stared at her. Why she was drawing such attention was obvious. She was a white woman in a Mercedes traveling through an area where she did not belong. She checked her progress on the GPS and the red line on the map had so far kept her true. She spotted a young boy sitting on a graffitied mailbox. He met her gaze and flashed a hand gesture at her. She had no idea what it meant. Another one, maybe in his teens, moved from his spot against the building and walked to the curb. He looked confused as she drove on by, but just shrugged it off and returned to his spot against the wall.

Soon the neighborhood changed and the parked cars spewing loud rap music gave way to Latin beats. More groups of men, some of them heavily tattooed, crowded the corners and sat in the parked cars. The signs were now all in Spanish and she started looking for her destination. The GPS guided her through a turn.

A stoplight held up her progress and she felt her heart beat quicken as she was eyeballed by the people around her. She kept her eyes straight ahead and prayed for the light to turn.

A loud knock on the window next to her made her jump.

“What you want?”

She just stared back. A young Latino man dressed in baggy jeans and a soccer jersey was standing next to the car. A bandana adorned his head, which was also covered by a baseball cap, while his neck and arms were covered in tattoos. He looked both ways up and down the street before repeating his question.

“What you want, lady? Rock? Powder? I got it all. Good stuff.”

Her mind raced to catch up. Drugs. He thinks I want drugs. What do I do?

“Come on, lady, don’t got all day. What you want?”

She just shook her head. He stepped back and glared at her in disbelief before breaking into laughter. He leaned back in till his face was inches from hers through the glass. Suddenly he punched the door of the car and she jumped in her seat against the seat belt. His laughter was loud and the crowd on the sidewalk joined in.

She quickly recovered and drove through the intersection despite the light still being red. She forced herself to calm down as the GPS took her around another corner.

Four blocks later, she found her destination. The bar sat in the middle of the street and sported a long line of motorcycles in front. A crowd of men and women dressed in leather sat around the entrance and in the street. Two of them stepped into the street and stopped her car. One looked in all directions as he approached. He leaned down to look at her before smiling. He tapped on the glass.

“Mrs. Lamar?”

She rolled the window down an inch.

“Yes.”

“Pull your car around the back of the building. I’ll come and get you. Don’t be afraid, no one will harm you here.”

She just nodded and rolled the window back up before following the pointed finger. The back of the bar’s parking area held even more bikes and she only waited for a moment before the man was back. She unlocked the door and stepped out, quickly closing it behind her. She was about to lock it when the keys were snatched from her hand. She flinched.

“This way. Say nothing until we tell you to,” the man said.

He indicated a doorway. She clasped her purse tightly and did as they asked. A swarm of men surrounded the car, checking every inch inside and out and even crawling underneath it. She forced herself to ignore them and walked through the doorway. A dark hallway led toward the front of the building where loud music emanated from an overhead set of speakers. Another man waited outside a door. A nod from the first man prompted him to open it and she was led inside. The room was lit by a pair of floor lamps and a small desk lamp. On the other side sat a man engrossed in some papers. Not dressed in the leather of the bikers, he instead wore a pair of khaki pants and a silk golf shirt. Unlike the others, his skin was void of tattoos. He looked up as if he were expecting them before shuffling the papers back into a file and putting them away. He waved them inside before stopping to light a cigarette. Rita Lamar met his gaze as he sized her up. When he had scrutinized every inch of her, he nodded a command to the men who had brought her. The guard from the door stepped forward. He pointed to her purse.

“If you don’t mind?”

She pulled the purse off her shoulder and handed it to the man. He dropped it on the floor without looking in it. He then reached out with both hands and took hers. Gently turning her he placed her hands on the desk. She was treated to a very thorough and undignified search. He ran his hands through her hair and down over every inch of her body. He felt inside her bra and between her legs. He removed her necklace and bracelet and handed them to the other man. Her shoes came off and he examined them closely. The other man examined the jewelry under the light of the lamp before tossing it all on the desk. He then retrieved the purse and dumped its entire contents on the table. They all watched as he examined every item carefully, taking his time. He found a box of tampons and sliced each one open with a knife until he had a pile of cotton on the table. Once he was done with its contents he examined the purse itself, splitting the strap open with the knife and probing every corner. When he was satisfied there were no listening devices hidden anywhere, he raked the entire mess back into the purse and dropped it on the floor.

“She’s clean.”

The man behind the desk just nodded and the two left the room, one of them taking her cell phone with him. Once the door was shut, he gestured to the seat across from him. Rita summoned what was left of her dignity and smoothed her dress back down into position. She took the offered seat without touching her hair.

The man sitting across from her gazed at her face, and then at a laptop computer open on his desk. She waited in silence. When he finally did speak it was with a rich Spanish accent.

“Mrs. Lamar, you look just like your pictures.”

He spun the laptop around to reveal a picture of her and her husband on the campaign trail. She stood beside the senator as they waved to the crowd. He spun the laptop back.

“When I got the message to come meet you I was somewhat surprised. My employer is not one who gets phone calls from the wives of senators. Just what is it that prompted your call?”

“I have an offer for you.”

“Go on.”

“How do I know you have the authority to make this deal?”

“Mrs. Lamar, I did not travel for twelve hours to waste my time. Do I need to remind you that you called us? Or that if this is some kind of play to make things . . . difficult . . . for us, my employer will not act favorably toward you? He is not a man who plays games. Nor does he like his time wasted.”

“I understand.”

“Then what is it you want?”

Rita talked for two minutes. The man’s interest grew with each sentence.

“An intriguing offer. I think my employer would be quite interested. You have the information we need with you?”

Rita reached for the purse on the floor and rooted around in the mess until she found the hospital papers. She handed them across without a word. The man scanned them quickly before setting them down on the desk blotter.

“This should be sufficient.”

“When can I expect an answer?”

“I must take some steps to verify what you have told me, but I think we will have an answer for you soon. This number is yours alone?”

“It’s my cell phone number. No one else ever has it.”

“Very well, I suggest you keep it close by. I will have these men escort you back to a . . . more familiar area. We wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you now, would we?”

The man’s smile made her skin crawl.

•      •      •

“One hour, that’s all I can stand.”

“Jack, you’re being ridiculous. Can’t you just enjoy yourself for once? It’s a cocktail party, not a board meeting.”

“There’s a bar right?”

Debra smiled and waved at a woman across the room as they entered, and without losing her grin, berated her husband.

“Jack, if you embarrass me here tonight you may not like how the evening will end.”

Jack frowned at that, but knew better than to reply. He simply put on his best fake smile and followed his wife farther into the house. They made it inside without being announced like royalty, as had happened at the last one of these things she had dragged him to. The Washington cocktail party circle was a list he would rather not have his name on, but due to the press and the connections he had made, it was unavoidable. The invitations came to the house and were intercepted by his wife before he got home. She would spend hours debating which ones they were to attend, and then, of course, there was the shopping. She had a closet full of dresses, but always had to find something new for each party. Jack had finally put his foot down and limited the parties to one a month. The alternative was too unpleasant.