Snakes and Ladders Page 5

  “Okay,” said Lizzy, climbing out of the car.

  “We can go to lunch at that airport place with the good burgers,” said Owen, perking up.

  By the time Owen returned an hour later, Lizzy had been waiting on the bench outside the office building for forty-five minutes.

  “How did it go?” Owen asked cheerfully, then noticed Lizzy’s scowl. “Uh-oh. Not helpful?”

  “I need a burger,” Lizzy grumbled.

  When they had gotten settled in the restaurant, Owen asked, “So?”

  “I told her I wanted to be more in control, that I needed to keep from getting angry at people because when I do, bad things happen. She asked what kind of bad things, and I said they get hurt. Then she asked if I meant their feelings got hurt, and I didn’t know what to say, so I said yes.” Lizzy took a sip of her prickly pear soda. “Then she gave me this big pep talk about how it’s possible to be too concerned about other people’s feelings, about how I seemed like such a ‘polite and considerate young lady,’ and how maybe I needed to get more comfortable with my effect on other people. Evidently I’m just being a ‘normal teenage girl’ to be worried about this, and if I were a normal teenage boy, I wouldn’t care what effect I had on other people. I think she probably has a teenage boy. Anyhow, I was just about fed up with the whole situation so I told her I had changed my mind and didn’t want to finish the session. I gave her the money and got up to leave and she got all huffy about it, so I said that I was getting more comfortable with my effect on other people. Then I left.”

  Owen laughed. “You did?”

  Lizzy looked embarrassed. “Yeah.”

  He shook his head. “Well, she can hardly complain about you following her own advice.”

  Lizzy smiled. “Yeah, I guess so. Sorry I wasted your money for the session.”

  He waved his hand. “It’s not wasted. I think the therapist idea is a good one. We just need to find a competent one.” He took out his phone and tapped. “I know someone at the University of Arizona who can give us a good recommendation. I should have thought of that earlier.”

  “But it’s always going to be the same problem, isn’t it?” said Lizzy. “I’m not going to be able to tell them what the real problem is, so any advice they give me is going to be based on a lie.”

  Owen set aside his phone with a sigh. “Yes, that is a problem.”

  “Although maybe in a place like Sedona,” she continued, “there would be people who would believe something that sounded pretty crazy.”

  “How much do you plan to tell them?” asked Owen, sounding alarmed.

  “Not the whole story,” said Lizzy, “but something a little closer to the truth. Enough so they could actually give me some good advice.”

  “There are a lot of charlatans out there,” he said. “Especially around here—a lot of people preying on tourists. Just let me talk to my friend at Arizona and see what she says.”

  Their burgers arrived, and they watched the planes taking off from the Sedona Airport runway for a bit, Googling the planes’ tail numbers to find out what kind they were. But Lizzy’s mind was still stewing on her situation.

  “Maybe I should be on some kind of medication.”

  “Don’t think we didn’t consider it,” said Owen. “I don’t know if you remember, but we tried a couple of drugs when you were little. They just made you sad or dopey, and I’m not sure a sad, dopey person is less dangerous than a happy, alert one. Maybe more so.”

  “Maybe I should try pot.”

  “What?” said Owen, glancing nervously at the occupants of the nearby tables. “I don’t think that’s wise—the chemical compound—”

  Lizzy laughed. “Don’t have a coronary. I was just kidding.”

  “Jeez, don’t do that to me,” said Owen. “I pictured that I was going to have to hit the mean streets of Sedona looking for a source.”

  Owen’s phone pinged. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at it. “Andy,” he said. He read the text. “Says he took our mom to Longwood Gardens.”

  “Oh, yeah? Did she like it?”

  Owen tapped, waited for the response, then smiled. “Yeah, he says she liked it.”

  Owen tapped out another response, then set his phone aside. “There’s a botanical garden in Phoenix,” he said. “We should go down there. Maybe stay over a couple of days and check things out down there.”

  Owen pulled up a couple of photos from the garden and showed them to Lizzy, then put his napkin next to his plate and pushed back his chair. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” He levered himself up and made his ponderous way through the tables toward the restrooms.

  Lizzy was slurping up the last of her soda—something that would have earned her a raised eyebrow from Owen if he were still at the table—when she heard the ping of his phone. She lifted his napkin, which had been covering it, and picked up the phone.

  mom loved the orchids

  Lizzy was keying in hi it’s lizzy when another text came through.

  she’s doing better today

  She hesitated, then deleted her message and put the phone back on the table where Owen had left it.

  When he returned, he glanced at the message and, his face clouding, slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  “I saw the message,” said Lizzy.

  “Oh?”

  “I’m sorry, I was typing a message to him that it was me but he sent that message before I finished it. Is your mom okay?”

  “Yup. Did you leave room for dessert?”

  She knit her brows. “Uncle Owen.”

  “She’s fine.”

  “But if she’s ‘doing better today,’ she must have been doing worse yesterday.”

  He looked down at his plate for a long moment, then back at Lizzy. “She’s showing some signs of dementia. And my dad’s having a hard time dealing with it. She’s been gradually getting hazier the last couple of years, but she took a turn for the worse this past fall.”

  “Right when you were having to deal with me.”

  “Well … yes. These things do seem to happen in clumps.”

  “Things like your goddaughter killing someone and having to be hustled to a different part of the country,” said Lizzy softly, her voice laced with tears.

  Owen covered her hand with his, then glanced around, checking that no one had heard her. “You didn’t know about my mother, and you couldn’t have done anything about it even if you had known.”

  Lizzy extracted her hand to wipe her nose with her napkin. “Do you need to go home?”

  “Andy’s on top of things.”

  “But you probably want to be there for your mom and dad, right? I would if I were you.”

  “I’ll give her a call this evening. We can FaceTime—with technology these days, it’s practically like being there, right?”

  She examined him for a moment, then said, “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” But she could see from his expression that he knew it wasn’t the same.

  13

  Mitchell sat in one of the art deco chairs in the hotel room Louise had taken just off Independence Mall. She stood at the window, looking in the direction of the US Courthouse, her phone in her hand.

  “I don’t understand why we have to do it at a news conference,” said Mitchell.

  “We’re doing it at a news conference,” said Louise, “because it will give us a dozen in-person witnesses, and thousands of witnesses to the event on television, who can swear that no one did anything to Brashear that would cause his death.” After a pause, she added, “If I had known he was going to make the investigation public this fast, I might have been able to come up with other options, but this is the one that presented itself.”

  Her phone buzzed. “Yes?” she answered. After a moment, she said, “All right,” then dropped the phone into her handbag and removed the case containing the syringe and vial. “George says they’re almost ready.” She filled the syringe and looked expectantly at Mitchell.

  He rose relu
ctantly from the chair. “Maybe I don’t need the drug. Maybe I can take care of him without it.”

  “Mitchell, this is our best opportunity to put an end to the investigation before it goes too far. Once the process is underway, once there’s any kind of momentum behind the investigation, it will be much harder for us to stop it. We can’t afford to take chances.”

  “What if they don’t drop it, even after he’s dead? What if someone else picks it up?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when—and if—we come to it.”

  He hesitated, looking at the syringe. “It’s pretty unpleasant.”

  “I’ve adjusted the dosage based on the earlier test, and I’ve found something to make the aftereffects more manageable.”

  It wasn’t only the aftereffects that he dreaded—the pain that set in after the effect peaked, and the lethargy and aches that took days to fade. Almost as bad was the descent into helplessness that required Millard to come to his aid, and the fact that Louise was witness to his helplessness. It wasn’t how he wanted her to see him.

  But it was true that without the drug he couldn’t guarantee that he could have any effect on Brashear in the few minutes the plan called for Mitchell to be in his vicinity, other than the possibility of inflicting a minor headache. He pulled up the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  Louise injected him. “Remember,” she said, “we don’t need an effect as dramatic as the one at Logan Square. Even if he’s only incapacitated, it will likely meet our needs. But,” she added, “dead would be better.” She replaced the syringe and the vial in the case and dropped it into her purse. “Don’t do anything until I’m inside the building. Afterwards, George will get you out of there and back to Pocopson.”

  “When will you get home?”

  “I’m not sure.” She glanced at her watch. “Mitchell, please get dressed, we don’t have a lot of time.”

  Mitchell tucked in his T-shirt and put on the starched white shirt that was hanging in the closet. He moved to the mirror to knot a burgundy silk tie.

  “I have every reason to believe that this investigation was driven largely by Russell Brashear’s personal connections to one of Vivantem’s clients,” said Louise. “The attorney general’s office has too many believable-sounding crimes to investigate to worry about Vivantem once Brashear is out of the way.” As Mitchell made some final adjustments to his tie, Louise pulled his suit jacket out of the closet and held it up for him. He slipped his arms into the sleeves and turned toward her. She straightened the jacket lapels slightly and stepped back. “Russell Brashear may have a personal connection to a Vivantem client, but as you and I have discussed, he also had a personal vendetta against my husband. I’m counting on you to even the score.”

  A flush was beginning to suffuse Mitchell’s body—not the boiling frenzy of his encounter at the Basilica, but a steady, glowing heat.

  “I can do that,” he said.

  She nodded and stepped to the door.

  “You’re ready?” she asked.

  “I’m ready,” he replied. He crossed to the door, opened it, and stood aside. “After you, Louise.”

  14

  Millard had staked out the site of the news conference early. The sun was bright and the weather warm for February, and Brashear was holding the event outside. Millard appreciated that as an unexpected bonus—not only had he not been looking forward to getting Pieda out of the courthouse after Brashear was taken care of, but he wasn’t enthusiastic about having to go through security to get in. The more off-the-radar he could stay, the better he liked it.

  The pleasant weather encouraged passersby to linger, and a small crowd had gathered even before Brashear appeared. They held coffee cups and chatted among themselves as they watched the news crews set up. Millard bought a coffee of his own and joined them.

  There was a stir in the crowd as Pennsylvania Attorney General Russell Brashear appeared from the courthouse. The crowd might not have known who Brashear was, but it was clear not only from the small entourage hurrying to keep up with his long strides but also by his military stance and air of determination that he was the man in charge. He walked to a young Hispanic man in a suit who was directing the setup of the podium and microphones. Millard strolled toward them under the pretense of examining the broadcasting equipment.

  “It’ll be just a couple more minutes, sir,” said the young man.

  Brashear nodded. “Thank you, Marco.”

  Millard got his phone out and hit a speed dial. After a moment he said, “Looks like they’re almost ready,” then, “Okay,” and dropped his phone back into his pocket.

  “Nice we could do it outside,” said Marco.

  Brashear looked skyward, as if he hadn’t previously noticed the fine weather.

  “Yes. Nice day.” His voice was gravelly. He smiled slightly. “Brianna has a field trip to the Franklin Institute today. Can you just imagine trying to herd a couple dozen seven-year-olds through that place?”

  “No, sir, I can’t,” said Marco with a smile.

  “If I take both my own kids out, I make sure Donella’s with me so we can have a man-to-man defense.”

  Marco laughed. “How is your wife, sir?”

  “She’s one of the chaperones for today’s outing—I’ll let you know how she is after I see her tonight. Speaking of man-to-man defense—” And they were off on a discussion of the Sixers’ latest indignity.

  After a few minutes, Brashear glanced at his watch. “Let’s get started,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” Marco checked in with the news crews, then stepped to the podium.

  “Good afternoon, and thank you for joining us this afternoon. Attorney General Russell Brashear has called this news conference to announce an investigation that his office is launching. Attorney General?”

  Marco stepped back and Brashear stepped up to the microphones, resting his hands on the sides of the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, as some of you are aware, my office has launched an investigation of the Vivantem fertility clinic. We planned to announce that investigation at the end of last year, but then Gerard Bonnay, the CEO of Vivantem, was killed in an apparent break-in at their Center City offices. At that time, we put the investigation on hold as a courtesy to Mr. Bonnay’s wife, Vivantem’s medical director and new CEO, Dr. Louise Mortensen. But now it is time to pick up that investigation again, and we have asked Dr. Mortensen to come to the courthouse later today to answer some questions.” He flipped over a page of his notes, but didn’t glance down. “When I first heard the accusations against Vivantem, I have to admit that I was skeptical. But as we looked into the accusations, my skepticism was challenged. The Vivantem clients who came to us were quite certain that they had been subjected to something beyond standard, approved fertility treatments. Our investigation has uncovered some troubling facts, facts that suggest that the claims made by some of Vivantem’s clients are not as outlandish as they might seem on the surface. There is evidence that Vivantem may have manipulated the treatments of the women who came to them for help, and that these treatments are now producing disturbing symptoms in the children born to those women.”

  Millard had been watching for Mortensen and Pieda’s arrival, so he was among the first of the crowd to notice when they appeared from around the corner of the building opposite and crossed Market Street, headed toward the courthouse. Mortensen, of course, looked cool as a cucumber, and Pieda appeared to be holding it together pretty well, too. It always helped to be walking down the street with a beautiful woman, whatever her age.

  In a moment, others in the crowd had noticed them as well, and a murmur arose. The man standing next to Millard said, “Hey, it’s her!” Then he leaned toward a woman standing at his side. “Who’s the guy with her?”

  The woman shrugged. “Got me.”

  Mortensen and Pieda stopped near the podium, the crowd shuffling back to make room for them.

  “Dr. Mortensen—a little early for your hearing, aren’t you?” asked Brashear, clearly anno
yed at the interruption.

  “On the contrary, Attorney General, I believe it is you who are late.” She nodded to Pieda and disappeared into the courthouse.

  “Very theatrical,” said Brashear, “but theatrics won’t distract my office from—”

  He winced slightly and put a hand to his head.

  Millard’s eyes were on Pieda, whose fists were clenched and whose eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the AG.

  Brashear shook his head and continued, “—won’t distract my office from the investigation into claims that were ignored for too long by my predecessors. Claims that, although, as I have said, may seem outlandish at first glance—”

  He winced again, this time clamping his eyes shut and dropping his head.

  “... on first glance ...”

  He stepped back from the microphones just as Marco stepped forward and took his arm. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes, yes, I just—”

  Then Brashear sagged, Marco grabbing him as he fell. Millard heard Brashear’s groan—“Jesus Christ!”

  The surge of Brashear’s entourage and the small crowd toward the podium masked Pieda’s advance on the stricken AG. He leaned over Brashear, the knuckles of his clenched hands now white. In a quarter of a minute, the attorney general lay unmoving.

  Millard slipped through the crowd to where Pieda stood steadying himself on the side of the podium. Marco was loosening Brashear’s tie and collar, and a young woman was trying to wave the crowd back with cries of “Give him some air!” Cell phones were appearing in the hands of the bystanders, and a woman beside Millard said into hers, “Send an ambulance to the federal courthouse—the attorney general just collapsed!”

  Millard had been planning to grab Pieda’s elbow to lead him away, but thought better of it—he didn’t want to alarm or piss off the guy who had just done that to Brashear. Millard shifted position until he was in Pieda’s line of sight, and didn’t approach until he had caught his eye. By the time he got back to Pieda’s side, the young man was swaying.