Under the Knife(98)

She eventually handed the phone off to Dad, who repeated much of what Mom had told him, but from his dad’s (not-all-that-different) point of view. They refused to adopt any social media, including Facebook, so when they were done, he hung up with promises to call them tomorrow and let them know everything was all right.

He put his phone down and shifted his sore knee, and his thoughts turned back to Rita.

Spencer, I can’t hear him, I can’t hear him when you’re around.

He remembered her left ear, and the MRI, and about the way the auto-surgeon acted in the OR this morning: how it responded almost too well to that bleeding.

Spencer, I can’t hear him, I can’t hear him when you’re around …

His phone rang again. He looked at the caller ID.

“Hey, Raj. What’s up?”

“Spence.” Raj’s excitement spilled through the receiver. “Dude. I finished the analysis of the MRI.”

“Yeah?” Spence sat up straighter. “And?”

“You have got to see this.”





SEBASTIAN


Preparations.

Preparations, and plans.

Sebastian was again sitting in his car in Turner’s parking garage. A half-empty Thermos of coffee lay in the cup holder next to him. Although the corner of the garage he’d chosen was deserted, he’d covered himself, and his phone, with a thick blanket, away from prying eyes.

Preparations.

After he’d dropped Finney off, Sebastian had stopped at his shabby apartment in Pacific Beach to retrieve his few possessions, brew a pot of coffee, charge his phone, and change into an all-black outfit: jeans, boots, long-sleeve shirt, and formfitting waterproof windbreaker—along with a few extra items he thought he might need tonight, including the conduction gun.

And plans.

From there he’d driven back here. By then, night had descended, the heavens had opened up, and it was pouring. He’d parked the Volkswagen (untraceable to him) in Turner’s garage, which was near empty, most people having fled ahead of the storm. Still, it would be a few more hours before Turner would be deserted enough for him to kidnap Wu.

Kidnapping. He’d never signed up for that. What would Alfonso think?

Or Sammy?

Enough time to finish off what he still needed to do.

Using his phone, and a hacking program Blade had provided him six months ago, he’d accessed the Turner security network and disabled the nearby garage cameras. Then, using the same network, he’d located Wu’s room and confirmed that she was there because the nurses had entered her 8:00 P.M. vital signs.

Around this time, Wu’s sister, who they’d been tracking with the implant, had arrived at Wu’s room. That was when her signal had cut out in a burst of interference identical to Wu’s. Finney had noticed the signal change on his tablet and, agitated, ordered him to Wu’s room to investigate.

But Wu and her sister weren’t going anywhere soon, and he had other priorities now. His own ones. Finney had changed the rules on him, and had no way of knowing where Sebastian was. The sister could wait. So he’d first trotted through night and rain to Higdon Park (another preparation), and crept past the security guards huddled inside a tiny trailer, and into the construction zone (more preparations).

It’d taken him longer than he’d planned. By the time he was done, the interference had gone: disappeared at the same time the sister had left Wu’s room.

Interesting. He’d have to remember that.

At that point, he’d conferred briefly with Finney, who’d agreed that the interference was no longer an issue. He’d reassured Finney that he would send word when ready, and then had returned to his car to wait for Blade to make good on his (her?) word.

Which, as he took a sip of coffee from the Thermos, Blade did: a soft chime of his phone announced that Blade was ready to forward the completed hacking program, pending receipt of payment. Sebastian sighed and hit SEND, imagining the numbers in his bank account spinning down to zero. Several seconds later, the program arrived, with instructions on how to use it.

He read the instructions but didn’t open the program—not the right time yet. He didn’t quite know what he was going to do with it but felt confident that its value would soon make itself clear.

Assuming, of course, it worked.

Twenty minutes later, at 12:10 A.M., Wu’s 12:00 A.M. vitals appeared on his phone, indicating that Wu’s nurse had come and gone on her midnight rounds. Barring the unexpected, the nurse would not return for four hours.

It was time.

Back now into Turner: where, in an out-of-the-way broom closet, he again donned the guise of Robert Rodriguez, perioperative technician. He went to Wu’s room on the seventh floor and slipped unseen past a couple of nurses trying to wrestle some demented old hag in a patient gown back into her room. Goddamn, the mouth on her: filthier than the skateboarding kid.

He reached room 738. Wu’s room, according to the hospital network. The door was cracked open. He nudged it open and crept inside, his eyes soon adjusting to the semidarkness. He dropped to a crouch and glided toward the bed, the conduction gun in his hand.

The bed was empty.

No Wu.

He stood up and searched the room. No one there.

He dug his phone out and double-checked the room number—738. Yep. This was it, all right.

All of her stuff was gone—except for her glasses, which he found stuffed in a plastic bag underneath a blanket, on the empty bed.