Terminal

“Not if we don’t do the autopsy,” Dr. Stasin said. “If we did, the tissues removed would be available at our discretion. But since we’re not posting the patient, property rights rest with the family. Besides, the body has already been picked up by the Emerson Funeral Home. It’s on its way to Boston sometime tomorrow.”

Sean thanked Dr. Stasin for his time.

“Not at all,” he said. “We’re here every day. Give a call if we can help.”

Sean and Janet retraced the route to the car. The sun was setting; rush hour was in full swing.

“Surprisingly helpful individual,” Janet said.

Sean only shrugged. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel.

“This is depressing,” he said. “Nothing seems to be going our way.”

“If anyone should be melancholy it should be me,” Janet reminded him, noting how glum he’d suddenly become.

“It’s an Irish trait to be melancholy,” Sean said. “So don’t deny me. Maybe these difficulties we’re having are trying to tell me something, like I should be heading back to Boston to do some real work. I never should have come down here.”

“Let’s go get something to eat,” Janet said. She wanted to change the subject. “We could go back to that Cuban restaurant on the beach.”

“I don’t think I’m hungry,” Sean said.

“A little arroz con pollo will make all the difference in the world,” Janet said. “Trust me.”

TOM WIDDICOMB had every light on in the house despite the fact that it wasn’t even dark outside. But he knew it would be dark soon, and the idea terrified him. He did not like the dark. Even though it was hours after the terrible episode in the Miami General morgue he was still shaking. His mother had done something similar to him once when he was about six. He’d gotten irritated at her when she said he couldn’t have any more ice cream, and he’d threatened to tell the teacher at school that they slept together unless she gave him more. Her response had been to shut him in a closet overnight. It had been Tom’s worst experience. He’d been afraid of both the dark and closets ever since.

Tom had no idea how the lights had gone off in the morgue except that when he had finally found the door and pushed it open, he’d practically collided with a man dressed in a suit and tie. Since Tom had still had the gun in his hand, the man had backed away, giving Tom the opportunity to bolt down the corridor. The man had given chase, but Tom had lost him easily in the network of tunnels, corridors, and connecting rooms he knew so well. By the time Tom exited from an isolated basement door with outside steps leading to the parking area, the man was nowhere in sight.

Still panicked, Tom had run to his car, started it, and had headed toward the parking area exit. Fearing that whoever had chased him in the basement might have somehow gotten out faster than he, Tom had been watchful as he drove, and since the parking lot was not busy at that time, he’d seen the green Mercedes almost immediately.

Passing his intended exit, Tom had gone to another one that was seldom used. When the green Mercedes had followed suit, Tom was convinced he was being followed. Consequently, he concentrated on losing the car in the afternoon rush hour. Thanks to a traffic light and a few cars that had come between them, Tom had been able to speed away. He had driven aimlessly for half an hour just to make sure he was no longer being followed. Only then did he return home.

“You never should have gone into Miami General,” Tom said, lambasting himself for his mother’s benefit. “You should have stayed outside, waited, and followed her home.”

Tom still had no idea where Janet lived.

“Alice, talk to me!” he shouted. But Alice wasn’t saying a word.

All Tom could think to do was wait until Janet got off work on Saturday. Then he’d follow her. He’d be more careful. Then he’d shoot her.

“You’ll see, Mom,” Tom said to the freezer. “You’ll see.”

_______

JANET HAD been right, although Sean wasn’t about to admit it. What had especially perked him up were the tiny cups of Cuban coffee. He’d even tried what the people at the neighboring table had done. He’d drunk them like shots of alcohol, letting the mouthful of strong, thick, sweet fluid fall into his stomach in a bolus. The taste had been intense and the mild euphoria almost immediate.

The other thing that had helped Sean out of his dejected mood was Janet’s positive attitude. Despite her difficult day and the episode at Miami General, she’d found the stamina to remain upbeat. She reminded Sean that they were doing rather well for only two days’ effort. They had the thirty-three charts of the previous medulloblastoma patients and she’d managed to get two vials of the secret medicine. “I think that’s pretty good progress,” Janet said. “At this rate we’re sure to get to the bottom of the Forbes success in treating these people. Come on, cheer up! We can do it!”

Janet’s enthusiasm and the caffeine finally combined to win Sean over.

“Let’s find out where this Emerson Funeral Home is located,” he said.