“Gimme that back!” the man yelled.
Another of the men had advanced behind Jeffrey. Jeffrey reached into his pocket and pulled out more coins. “There’s some for everybody,” he said as he tossed them on the ground. They clinked against the broken brick. There was a rush as everyone but Jeffrey dropped to his hands and knees in the darkness. Jeffrey took advantage of the diversion to turn and run as quickly as he dared across the rubble-strewn lot toward the street.
Back in his hotel room, he propped the license up on the edge of the sink and compared his image to that of the photo on the license. The nose was completely different. Nothing could be done about that. Yet if he darkened his hair and combed it
straight back with some gel the way he’d thought he would, and if he added some black-framed glasses, maybe it would work. But at the very least, he had a valid social security number associated with a real name and address: Frank Amendola, of 1617 Sparrow Lane, Framingham, Massachusetts.
WEDNESDAY,
MAY 17, 1989
6:15 A.M.
Trent Harding wasn’t due to start work until seven, but at sixfifteen he was already pulling off his street clothes in the locker room off the surgical lounge of St. Joseph’s Hospital. From where he was standing, he had a straight shot to the sinks and he could see himself in the over-the-basin mirrors. He flexed his arm and neck muscles so that they bulged. He hunched over slightly to check their definition. Trent liked what he saw.
Trent went to his health club at least four times a week to use the
Nautilus equipment to the point of exhaustion. His body was like a piece of sculpture. People noticed and admired it, Trent was sure. Yet he wasn’t satisfied. He thought he could stand to beef up his biceps a bit more. On his legs, his quads could use tightening. He planned to concentrate on both in the coming weeks.
Trent was in the habit of arriving early, but on this particular morning, he was earlier than usual. In his excitement he’d awakened before his alarm and could not go back to sleep, so he’d decided to get to work early.
Besides, he liked to take his time. There was something unbelievably exhilarating about placing one of his doctored Marcaine ampules in the
Marcaine supply. It gave him shivers of pleasure-like planting a time bomb.
He was the only one who knew about the imminent danger. He was the one who controlled it.
After he’d gotten into his scrub outfit, Trent glanced around him. A few people who were going off shift had come into the locker room. One was in the shower singing a Stevie Wonder tune; another was in one of the toilet stalls; and a third was at his locker well out of sight.
Trent reached into the pocket of his white hospital jacket and pulled out the doctored ampule of Marcaine. Palming it in case
someone unexpectedly appeared, Trent slipped it into his briefs. It felt cold and uncomfortable at first; he grimaced as he adjusted it. Then he closed his locker and started walking toward the lounge area.
In the surgical lounge, fresh coffee was softly perking, filling the room with its pleasant aroma. Nurses, nurse anesthetists, a few doctors, and orderlies were gathered there. Soon they’d be going off shift. There were no emergency cases in progress, and all the preparations for the day’s schedule for which the night shift was responsible were complete. The room rang with happy conversation.
No one acknowledged Trent, nor did he try to say hello to anyone. Most of the staff didn’t recognize him since he was not a member of the night shift. Trent passed through the lounge and entered the OR area itself. No one was at the main scheduling desk. The huge blackboard was already chalked with the upcoming day’s schedule. Trent paused briefly, scanning the big board for two things: to see which room he was assigned to for the day and to see if there were any spinal or epidural cases scheduled. To his delight there was a handful. Another shiver of excitement went down his spine. Having a number of such cases meant there was a good chance his