Tailspin(25)

Until Wilson had remained insistent that she open the box.

“We have Dr. Lambert on the phone,” Wilson told the newcomers.

For her colleague’s benefit, she said, “Nate, we’ve been joined by Deputy Rawlins and the pilot of the plane, Mr. Mallett.”

“Mr. Mallett,” Nate said, “you have my deepest and most sincere gratitude for agreeing to fly tonight. I regret your accident and the damage done to your airplane. But I’m very glad you weren’t injured or worse.”

Rye replied with a laconic thanks.

Dr. Lambert then said, “Gentlemen, Brynn’s detention is costing us valuable time which our patient cannot afford.”

“I’ve tried to convey the urgency of the situation,” she said, “but they have their own agenda.”

“Agenda,” Nate repeated, scoffing. He disdained anyone who tried to cramp his genius. “Am I to understand that the holdup is the matter of what’s inside the box?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well then, Brynn, as long as our patient isn’t named, and the container doesn’t remain open for too long, accommodate them.”

4:53 a.m.



For as long as Rye had been standing in the open doorway, he’d been gauging Brynn’s reactions to what was going on. He’d noted each response, voluntary and subconscious. He’d marked each blink, muscle twitch, everything.

So when Dr. Lambert agreed to reveal what was inside the box, he saw the fractional widening of her eyes. He was aware of the hitch in her breath and her difficulty swallowing.

But those physical reactions probably went unnoticed by the deputies, because she recovered so quickly. “It’s supposed to be kept airtight.”

“Understood, Brynn.” The doctor addressed her in a clipped and condescending tone that made Rye dislike him for no other reason than that he sounded like an arrogant asshole. “But there appears to be no help for it. They’ve got their detective work; we’ve got our seriously ill patient. The sooner we appease them, the sooner we can resume trying to save a life.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right. But I don’t have the combination to the lock.”

“Take me off speaker.”

With a glance, she consulted Wilson, who nonverbally consulted Rawlins, who gave a brusque nod. He said, “I want to see what’s inside.”

Wilson took his phone off speaker and handed it to Brynn, then pushed the box across his desk to within her reach. She put the phone to her ear. “I’m ready.”

The lock was a five-dial combination padlock. When the numbers were lined up according to her colleague’s instructions, Brynn tugged open the metal ring. She looked at Wilson and Rawlins in turn. “Please reconsider. Exposure to air could contaminate—”

Rawlins didn’t let her finish. He raised the lid himself.

Even from his vantage point, Rye could see inside the box. The interior was lined with black formed foam, even the lid. Four tightly sealed cylinders filled corresponding spaces cut into the foam. Vials of blood. All labeled.

“It’s open,” Brynn said into the phone. She listened for several seconds, then switched the phone back onto speaker and set it on the desk. “At Dr. Lambert’s request,” she told the deputies. “Go ahead, Nate.”

“Dr. O’Neal and I specialize in hematologic malignancies. Blood cancers. We have a patient with an extremely rare form. The patient has undergone aggressive rounds of radiation and chemotherapy, to no avail. The only hope for survival is an allogeneic stem cell or cord blood transplant. But therein lies the problem. HLA matching. Human leukocyte antigens. These cell markers…”

Rye tuned him out and watched Brynn. While her pompous colleague waxed eloquent about CBUs and GVHDs, she stood with arms crossed over her middle, her lips rolled inside and compressed so tightly, they had gone colorless.

“What you’re looking at, gentlemen, are blood samples taken from four different possible donors after a lengthy and extremely discouraging search. But we won’t know if any is an acceptable match of our patient’s HLA type until they’re tested, and Dr. O’Neal and I want to do our own testing. Not that we mistrust the labs we use, but our patient is a high-profile public figure who insists on confidentiality, and, of course, we would like to get it right.” On that droll note, he paused for breath.

“The samples are time-sensitive, and the testing is intricate because there’s no margin for error. Meanwhile, the patient’s time is running short. A donor must be found, and the necessary steps preceding a transplant begun. Soon.

“This should explain to you the immediacy of the situation, as well as Dr. O’Neal’s efforts to preserve the integrity of the blood samples, and to protect the patient’s identity, dignity, and privacy. Any more questions?”

Wilson dragged his hand down his tired-looking face, over his mouth and chin, then said, “Thank you, Dr. Lambert.” He reached over and closed the lid on the box.

Lambert didn’t acknowledge the thanks. He said, “Brynn, to prevent contamination or compromise—and let’s hope to God none has occurred—please reseal the box and get it here with all due speed. Since your car is out of commission, how do you plan to get back to Atlanta?”

She picked up the phone, switched it off speaker, and said, “Finding transportation is the next order of business.” For several moments, she held Rye’s stare, then turned her head aside.