Chapter 28

A week had passed since Zach's rendezvous with Bob. Amelia had invited him to her place for lunch, and as he drove, he pondered over the best way of enticing Rachel into the fold. Dr. Morgan would follow her lead. He suspected that Amelia might hold the answer, so he was anxious to see her. One thing was certain: the way to the surgeon was through the cardiologist. Maybe the way to Rachel was through Amelia. A young, beautiful female doctor with a rewarding career, who had sworn to comply with the Hippocratic Oath, would likely balk. Would she remain committed to the plan's final conclusion, which was John's heart beating inside Amelia's body? Dr. Morgan would have to be very creative if John showed up in the hospital severely injured, but not braindead. Would Rachel rise to the occasion and assist Dr. Morgan in performing the coup d'état? Or was all this just wishful thinking?

Are we so desperate that we actually believe that two intelligent, ethical doctors will assist in murdering John? Zach wondered. For that matter, I'm a lawyer bound to the law, so how can I consider premeditated, cold-blooded murder? These questions gnawed at Zach, forcing him to confront Amelia directly.

"Amelia, I have some questions concerning Rachel," he began as they dug into their sandwiches. "You two are as close as sisters, so I think you can provide the answers."

Amelia studied Zach's troubled expression before answering. "Why isn't Rachel married? That's one of the questions, isn't it?"

"Well, now that you mention it, yes, but it's not really germane."

"Her not being married is germane. There's a very good reason why."

"My main concern is would she commit a criminal act to help you?"

Amelia thought for a moment, struggling for the right answer. "If you're referring to John, and I assume you are, this is definitely an abnormal situation. However, I don't view it as a criminal act."

"It's not how you view it that matters, but how a jury would rule if we end up in court. What would be your defense?"

"I see it as a simple case of self-preservation," Amelia answered, crossing her arms. "I have been attacked, and I have the right to defend myself."

"The people may be sympathetic, but an aggressive, experienced lawyer would overcome all that."

"Actually, I have no choice. It's impossible for me to survive alone and without a heart. John's the criminal. But to answer your question, you must first hear my story."

Amelia told Zach of Rachel's being raped by Omar and the ride back to Bancroft, Iowa, and how this tragedy had ultimately led to Amelia meeting Zach.

Zach's eyebrows rose. "What did Rachel have to do with me?"

"We had planned to spend the summer together in Europe, where I was going to compete in a triathlon. The rape soured the deal. Rachel went into her shell and spent the summer with her parents, which was the smart thing to do. They convinced her to return to college. I quickly changed my plans and went to Coronado Cays to visit my aunt."

"Aha! That's when the white knight in shining armor showed up."

"So there you have it." Amelia gave a deep sigh. "It's tragic, isn't it? Many good men have longed for her, even lusted for her. But she remains distant for self-protection. She's an extremely strong and intelligent person, so it's hard to comprehend why she can't overcome the trauma. Others have, so why not Rachel?"

"The burnt child fears the fire," Zach answered solemnly. "And this type of attack on a person does not play favorites. It's an emotional, physical wound. How quickly a person heals is an individual matter. Ironically, the more a person has deep, passionate love for things, the longer he or she usually takes to pull out of this."

Amelia put her hand over his and smiled sadly.

"It's almost as though a chip is missing," he continued, "like a computer programmed to do a certain thing. She's very fond of Dr. Morgan, and he is of her. He's been very patient. He confided in me. Rachel is frigid, but he believes with proper treatment and time, it can be overcome."

"I believe it will happen when Rachel decides to make it happen," Amelia said.

"When will that be?"

"When she falls in love."

Zach nodded. "She's capable of love. She demonstrates it every day in dealing with her patients. It flows true and pure, like a fast-moving mountain stream. And her love for you is enormous."

"And I love her very much," Amelia said. "She feels indebted to me for protecting her from Omar. She's convinced that had I not been there, much worse could have happened. That's possible, and she worried about him constantly. When I revealed the film to his father, his lawyer, and the U.S. government, Omar was deported in a matter of days. I can't tell you how relieved Rachel was. She was able to continue her studies and graduate magna cum laude."

"Did you go to court?"

"Rachel didn't want to, so having him declared persona non grata was the best solution. There was no publicity, and it was over quickly."

"So if you needed a favor from Rachel-no matter what-she would do it?"

"There's no doubt."

"And if it involved an abusive husband?"

Amelia met his gaze steadily. "All the better."

Chapter 29

Rachel, Bob, and Dick arrived at Zach's small, furnished apartment on Protreo Street near Franklin Square, less than five minutes from Pleasant Valley Hospital. He invited them into a small, square, sparsely furnished living room. "My landlord told me that the furniture was Early American," Zach said, smiling, "but I think it's Early Neanderthal."

A maple-wood couch with stuffed cushions and one matching chair sat around a throw rug with a coffee table in its center. A TV, potted silk plant, captain's chair, and floor lamp occupied the four corners. "It actually comes with a kitchen, bedroom, and bath," Zach said. "Fortunately, I have a six-month lease."

Everyone laughed. Zach motioned for them to have a seat. All three sat on the couch, leaving the single chair for Zach.

Rachel said, "You were lucky to find a place so close to the hospital."

Zach nodded. "I had to pay a premium, but it's worth it. Before I forget my manners, please help yourself to the snacks on the coffee table."

Bob immediately grabbed a bottle of beer and a handful of pretzels. Rachel and Dick declined.

"I know we're all missing Amelia right now." Zach eyed Rachel and Dick. "I'm not offering the beer and wine to have a party. Everyone's in a somber mood and so uptight that I thought a little alcohol would relax us a bit."

"Yeah, you're right. I could sure use a drink," Dick said, reaching for the bottle of wine. "This is one of the rare times we've been together without her, and it really hurts."

Zach shoved two wine glasses toward Dick, taking the single chair. "It's Chardonnay, Rachel, your favorite."

Rachel nodded.

"The question is . . ." Zach paused, looking at them all in turn, "what can we do to help Amelia?"

Bob jumped up from his chair. "Speaking of helping Amelia, where in the hell is Senator John Hart? Do you think the public has noticed how much time he spends in Washington? Isn't it obvious to everyone that he doesn't give a hoot about his own wife? Why hasn't Amelia divorced him?"

Zach shook his head. "Right now, divorcing him would be a mistake. The public doesn't know what we know. Right now, our main concern is finding a donor."

"What are her chances of getting a donor?" Bob asked.

"Not very good," Rachel answered. "I would guess there are close to twenty thousand seriously ill people nationwide in need of transplants. We have roughly eighty-five in the San Francisco area on the waiting list."

"Organ donations fall far short of the need," Dick said. "It's a pathetic situation."

"Rachel, what are the chances for the eighty-five?" Bob said, using the back of his hand to wipe beer from his chin.

"Fifteen percent will probably die within the next two weeks. One organ donor can help save the lives of more than twenty-five people."

"There has to be a way we can guarantee a heart for Amelia," Bob said.

Zachary put a finger to his lips, shaking his head, but Bob ignored him.

"Let's make an appeal on national television and radio," Dick suggested. "Or place an ad in the Wall Street Journal, pleading for a donor."

"Hey, I know a way." Bob pretended to strike Dick in the head with an imaginary ax.

"Let's talk legalities," Dick said, clearly annoyed at Bob's crudeness.

"Great suggestion," Zach said, ignoring Bob. "My idea may sound sadistic, but suppose we offered a monetary reward for whoever provides a heart for Amelia? Money talks, and people are dying every day. If it takes money to save lives, why not do it?"

Dick threw a pretzel into his mouth and washed it down with a sip of wine. "We could even agree to pay burial expenses for the donor's family. Maybe that's the reason people are afraid to be donors. They think it's going to cost them money."

"Too late, guys," said Rachel. "They've already passed a law making it a felony to buy or sell organs."

"What qualifies someone to be a donor?" Bob asked.

"A casualty must be declared braindead," Rachel said. "And they're produced through suicides, murders, strokes, and accidents, but mostly accidents."

Bob's right hand flew up. "You mean if a bus crashed and there were several head injuries, Amelia could have any heart?"

"No," Dick answered. "There must be a match of blood type."

"What determines blood type?" Bob asked. "Mine is type O positive, just like Amelia's."

Rachel answered, "A person's blood type is determined by what kind of antigen he has on the surface of his red blood cells. An antigen is a kind of protein. Most common is O, such as yours."

"How long do heart transplant patients live?" Bob asked.

"Survival rate past the first year is eighty percent," Rachel said. "Seventy-six percent live beyond five years. It's getting better every year."

Bob rose, clenching his fists and flexing his biceps like a bodybuilder. "Before this Hart assassin came into the picture, Amelia was stronger than I am. Wouldn't physical condition and age have a bearing? What's the longest a heart transplant patient has lived?"

"Youth and condition do matter," Zachary said. "I researched it today. Dirk van Zyl from South Africa received a new heart in 1971 at age forty-five, and he's still alive and well today. Right now it looks like he's going to have a normal lifespan."

"And so will my sister," Bob said.

Zachary nodded his head. "Let's discuss more immediate concerns. Dick, what's the recovery time after the transplant?"

"Average stay in the hospital is twenty days, and then she'll go home under the care of a full-time nurse. It's an extremely difficult time period. She'll experience one crisis after another, fighting rejection, infections, depressions-a whole gamut of setbacks and successes-but with her zest for life and fighting spirit, she'll make it."

"You'd better believe it," Zach said. "How long before she can run and exercise?"

"I'll help her with a fitness program," Rachel interjected. "It should take about six months to a year, and she'll be back at the club playing racquetball and teaching water aerobics."

Dick nodded his approval. "We'll both be working real close with her throughout, administering chemicals to fight rejection and helping her with her diet."

"Isn't there a new rejection drug on the market?" Zach asked.

"Yes, there is," said Rachel. "Amelia is lucky in that respect. They've just approved cyclosporine, which suppresses the immune system to keep it from rejecting the transplanted heart. The success rate has increased dramatically."

Bob sighed, shaking his head. "The way I see it, our hands are tied, as far as helping Amelia legally. Are we going to sit around waiting for some poor fool to get his head fractured and be declared braindead? His blood has to match and even then someone higher on the waiting list gets the heart. Those odds are lousy. I think we should make it happen."

Rachel turned, staring at Bob, stunned by his bold declaration. Bob looked back in defiance.

"Do you realize what you're suggesting?" Rachel asked, forgetting her glass of wine just inches from her lips. She slowly lowered the glass to the table.

"Damn right, I do," Bob answered.

"And who's the lucky donor?" Zach asked, pretending ignorance.

"John Hart," Bob said, showing no emotion. "A car accident would be a piece of cake."

Rachel jumped to her feet, spilling her wine, stunned by Bob's shocking recommendation. "God knows, he certainly deserves to be the donor, after what he's done to Amelia, but you can't be serious, Bob. Do you realize that to pursue this conversation any further could be interpreted by a court of law as a conspiracy to commit murder? Isn't that right, Zach?"

"Yes, that's true. Following the normal logic of criminal law, someone who desires, seeks, and arranges a crime is guilty of the crime." Zach rose from his chair. "It's damn risky, but let's talk about it."

"I don't believe this!" Rachel exclaimed, overwhelmed by the calm with which they were discussing John Hart's fate. "If you commit murder, there are professional people with computers, laboratories, listening devices, communications, and who knows what, all assigned to help them catch you and incarcerate you." She stared at Bob. "They'll throw you in the slammer, Bob! They're trained for that. Every day of their lives is spent tracking and arresting novice criminals." Rachel looked toward Dick for support. "Are you in agreement with these two?"

"Let's hear what Zachary has to say," Dick answered.

"But this is morally wrong!" Rachel insisted.

"Why do you always have to do what's morally right?" Bob asked.

Rachel turned and glared at Bob. "Because it feels good," Rachel answered. "Besides, blood, size, and tissue all become factors. It's improbable."

"We've checked John out," Zach said. "We have a match. Isn't that right, Dick?" he added, suggesting to Rachel that Dick was part of the team.

Rachel brushed the spilled wine from her lap. "I won't be part of this killing-for-organs discussion." She turned to Dick. "Dick, please take me home now. I'm going to try to forget I ever heard this preposterous conversation." She started for the door.

Zachary moved quickly, blocking her path. "Rachel, please listen to us. This is a desperate situation for Amelia." He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked squarely into her eyes. "So you want to run. What if Amelia had run while Omar raped you?"

Rachel froze. Zach knew his question was grossly unfair and cut Rachel deeply, but he wanted her commitment now. Bob sat quietly, waiting for her response. Rachel looked at Dick, tears forming in her eyes. Dick immediately rushed to her, putting his arm around her.

"Honey, it's all right," Dick said, finally knowing why Rachel had resisted his advances.

"Amelia told you . . . about that?" Rachel said in disbelief.

"Yes," Zach said. "Sorry to unload on you like this, but we need your help." He lowered his head, eyes closed, and spoke softly. "As they say, life isn't fair, and I know that, but I'm not going to lose Amelia. We've lost twelve years of our lives. I'm forty years old. Half of my life is behind me." Zach looked up, establishing eye contact with Rachel. "I'm not going to let her die."

Rachel bristled, angry that Amelia had shared their secret. "Omar could have killed me!"

"Damn right! And why didn't he?" Zachary paused, watching Rachel's reaction, eager to play his trump card.

Rachel covered her eyes with her hand and rubbed her temples, bewildered by Zach's sudden aggression. She could not answer.

"Because Amelia saved your life," he finished.

"Take it easy, Zach," Dick said, grabbing his arm. "You're crossing the line."

"John has killed Amelia," continued Zach, pushing Dick away, ignoring his admonishment. "You, Rachel Van Doren, have the power to restore her life. It's the right thing to do, the morally right thing to do."

Rachel raised her head, her eyes shifting from man to man, searching for understanding. "My life is dedicated to healing the sick. I've been blessed with medical skills. This is my calling. I can't abuse it."

"Maybe this is your calling-maybe this is the reason. Unfortunately, the world of heart transplants always involves two human beings, one dying so the other may live. I considered John Hart braindead the moment he conceived the notion to destroy Amelia. Is there a tough choice here?"

"I'm sorry." Rachel sat down, her hands folded in her lap. The three men exchanged glances. "I'm totally overwhelmed by all of this." Rachel took a deep breath, looking at Zach. "What do you want me to do?"

Zach sat next to Rachel. "Maintain your silence. Don't divulge your knowledge of John Hart's drugging of Amelia. He would be arrested and unavailable as a donor. When the donor is found, make sure Amelia is the recipient, without delay."

"This means that you intend to bypass the national donors list," Rachel said.

"Amelia is number one. We don't want John lying in a coma for months, inviting a marathon debate between lawyers and doctors. Your task is to expedite getting the heart to Dick quickly for the transplant. Amelia could die waiting."

Rachel slowly scanned the faces of her three male friends, closed her eyes, and whispered, "I can't turn my back on Amelia. She needs me, but not like this. I should report this to the police."

"But you won't, will you?" Zach pleaded.

Rachel glared at Zach. "You know what we're all becoming, don't you?

"What have you got in mind?"

"Enablers." Rachel slowly panned her curious friends. "An enabler is a person who makes it easier for people to continue their bad behavior by rescuing them."

"True," Zach said, "but we have an unusual situation here."

"You just proved my point. They make excuses for the other person's destructive behavior."

Everyone remained silent.

Head bowed, Rachel placed her folded hands to her lips. "I can't believe you're doing this to me."

"I thought you knew I was a lawyer," Zachary said, and then was immediately sorry for his inappropriate remark. "I'm sorry, Rachel. That really wasn't funny."

Only Bob laughed.

Rachel said, "I'll sleep on it."

Zachary caught Bob's thumbs-up sign as they both turned toward Dick.

"I'm with Rachel," Dick said, unable to resist supporting her. "What's expected of me?"

"Just be yourself."

"You're sure that's all?" asked Dick, suspicion in his voice.

Zachary grinned. "Perform the heart transplant."

Chapter 30

The Boeing 727 banked left. Geranium looked down from his first-class seat, enjoying a bird's-eye view of the Grand Canyon, just as the captain had promised. He recalled the pilot's story of John Wesley Powell's rafting expedition through the dangerous canyon. Earlier, the captain had pointed out Lake Powell, named after the one-handed explorer. It was hard to believe that the Colorado River could cut such a huge swath through all that brown, barren rock. No geraniums down there, Mother, he thought. Nature's biggest pothole. But if the geologists say it happened, then I believe it.

He smiled, remembering his conversation with the plane's captain as he entered the aircraft. On the outside of the fuselage, to the right of the open door, was a name printed in large black letters: Dedicated to Captain Hal Cessney. Today's captain had stood at the entrance to the cockpit to the left of the flight attendant, helping her greet the boarding passengers.

"Did Captain Cessney save a planeload of screaming passengers from a fiery death?" Gerry had asked.

The captain grinned. "Not exactly. He was a damned fine pilot, though, with a great flying safety record."

"What happened to him?"

"Unfortunately, he couldn't handle a bicycle very well. He was returning from a short trip to the local convenience store on his son's bike when he slid on sand as he attempted to enter his driveway. He fell from the bike, hitting his head on the curb, and died soon afterwards. It was an unfortunate accident."

Thinking of his next hit, Gerry responded, "We never know, do we?"

Two hours later, the pilot leveled the swept wings of the sleek tri-jet. Geranium sensed that the nose of the aircraft had dropped slightly and the engines were quieter now. The Fasten Seatbelt sign came on, followed by the familiar click of the P.A. system. "This is the captain speaking. We've begun our descent to land at McCarran Field in Las Vegas. Check to make sure your seatbelts are comfortably fastened. The local temperature is ninety-eight degrees. We'll be on the ground shortly. Thank you for flying Frontier Airlines."

Geranium didn't mind the numerous P.A. announcements the pilots made, but he had flown from Denver to Las Vegas at least once per month over the last year and knew the in-flight orations verbatim. Three more scenic sights before touchdown, he thought. There was Lake Mead, the largest artificial lake in the world; Hoover Dam, which was once Boulder Dam; and, of course, Wayne Newton's horse ranch off to the left, just before touchdown. And that was exactly the way it happened.

He checked his watch as the Avis shuttle pulled up in front of the terminal. It would be one hour before meeting the DeSalvo goon and getting the lowdown on his new hit.

As he departed the car rental parking lot, Geranium's thoughts returned to the unfortunate pilot, Captain Cessney. Gerry had placed the captain on a pedestal, imagining a daring pilot of incredible accomplishments, like John Glenn or Chuck Yeager. A uniform, a name, a quick glimpse, and suddenly we reach a false conclusion, he thought. Do we think the best or worst of people? The best, I hope. My God, look at me, a flower salesman, the Geranium King of Denver. He laughed.

Arriving at Exceptional's building, Geranium placed his suitcase at the base of the check-in counter.

"May I help you, sir?" asked the desk clerk.

"Would you tell Exceptional that his flowers are ready?"

"Yes, sir, and who may I say is calling?"

"Geranium."

The clerk reached under the desk for a phone, a hotline to the top floor. "Sir, Geranium is here. He says the flowers are ready." The clerk hung up the phone, opened a drawer below the phone, took out an unmarked key, and handed it to Geranium. "Sir, this key-"

"I know," Geranium said. "It's the lonesome keyhole in the upper right hand corner of the freight elevator. I'll return it to you when I leave."

As Geranium waited for the elevator to arrive at the top floor, he chuckled, wondering how many people had noticed that there were no windows on the top floor of this beautiful hotel. The elevator opened automatically as it came to a stop. He stepped out into a long hallway elaborately adorned with fine paintings in ornate frames, small statues on marble pedestals, and the finest Persian rug, all monitored by hidden cameras. There was only one door at the far end. As he approached the door, it slowly opened, as if by magic. But he knew better. That door only opened if Two-Ton Tony wanted it to open. At the same time, all the lights went dark except for a solitary lamp directing its light down onto Exceptional's desk. Geranium had concocted the name Two-Ton Tony because of his huge shadow, Italian accent, and rough voice, reminiscent of the onetime heavyweight fighter Two-Ton Tony Galento.

"Sit down," Exceptional said in his husky voice.

His vocal chords must be encrusted with barnacles, thought Geranium.

The big man would not deal in small talk and never revealed his real name or identity. All Geranium could see were his massive hands bathed in light as they collaborated. Each hand had a Super Bowl ring sparkling with diamonds. At their first meeting, Geranium had asked, "Did you win those rings playing professional football?"

Exceptional simply answered, "No. Gambling debts."

Spread out on the desktop were several photographs of John Hart at various ages, dressed in baseball uniforms, a tux, swim trunks, and blue jeans. There were newspaper clippings and pictures of his home and several cars, even an old yellow Volkswagen bug.

Exceptional placed a finger on the face of John Hart. "Thispungere has got to go. I have threatened his life over the phone several times over the last year, and all he can say is bull. I'll show him merda del toro. The boss won't tolerate one palooka refusing to pay his debt. If one does it, the next thing you know, nobody will pay. Not good business. Of course, if he pays, you get a bonus." The big man looked at Geranium for confirmation.

Geranium nodded.

"He has no mom or pop, no brothers or sisters to squeeze." He lifted the massive finger from the photo and shook it in the air. "But he's got a bride now. Maybe you can play with that."

Exceptional collected all the documents, placed them in a manila envelope, and handed it to Geranium. "Deal?" he asked.

"Deal."

Exceptional opened his desk, took out another envelope, and handed it to Geranium. "Half now, half later."

Chapter 31

March 1977

While walking between the Presidio and Fort Mason, Zach came across a closed travel agency with a For Rent sign in the window. Furniture Included, Immediately Available, and a phone number. It had two small rooms and a bathroom nicely situated between two grocery stores on Chestnut Street in the Marina District. The previous renters appeared to have left in a hurry, leaving papers on the desks and business documents in the file cabinets.

He rented the temporary office, cleaned out all the drawers and cabinets, and hired a secretary from Kelly Girls Employment Agency. Doubling as a receptionist, she got the room off the street, and Zach got the back room near the bathroom.

~~~

"Mr. King," Linda said, over the intercom, "Bob Savage is here to see you."

"Send him in."

Bob ambled in, looking back over his shoulder to check out the well-endowed secretary. He wore the standard blue jumpsuit with the auto shop name patch.

"Just a second, Bob," Zach said, pressing his intercom button. "No calls for thirty minutes, Linda." Not waiting for a response, he turned the intercom off. "Bob, stop ogling my secretary and close the door."

With a sheepish grin on his face, Bob closed the door.

"Have a seat," Zach said, eager to hear Bob's report. "What have you got?"

"I tracked John for a while, and Amelia filled me in on some of his daily activities," Bob began, sitting down on an old office chair on five wheels. He referred to his notes scribbled on a legal pad. "He spends a lot of time on a daily routine of workouts. When he's in town, he plays racquetball or basketball at the athletic club, usually from 11:30 a.m. to 1:30 p.m."

"Amelia told me that he's a jogger," Zach said.

"Big time, but that's inconsistent." Bob flipped a couple of pages. "In the mornings he prefers Fisherman's Park, but in the evenings he runs the streets."

Zach sat up in his chair. "Now why would he do that?"

"It's a parking thing. The park isn't as crowded in the morning, and even if it is, he can usually find a parking spot with the smaller VW."

Zach nodded. "Makes sense."

"Besides, he just loves driving his yellow '67 Volkswagen and always takes the same route."

"That makes it easier," Zach said.

"The road approaching the park is very steep, requiring an enormous amount of braking, especially the last turn before parking."

"Doesn't he have to run into something?" Zach asked.

Bob held up a hand. "I'm coming to that. The street once continued through the park, but has been blocked with several concrete pillars, requiring a left turn onto the one-way street. John drives too fast, and his brakes willfail on that steep hill. He'll never make the turn. That's the spot. A head-on collision into the pillars guarantees a head injury, at bare minimum." Bob made a cutting motion across his neck. " Finito!"

Zach smiled. Bob was so different from Amelia. "Does the car have seat belts?"

"No," Bob replied. "John doesn't believe in them, and he doesn't want to spoil the original theme of his classic carriage."

"What about the mechanical failure of the brakes? Can tampering be traced?"

"The car will be impounded after the accident and checked for the cause of the crash. When the investigators learn that 1967 Volkswagens are notorious for bad brakes, they're not likely to dig too deep."

"That's good," Zach said.

"In case they decide to probe deeper, any evidence of sabotage will be erased." Bob paused, waiting for questions.

"That's your department," Zach said. "Go on."

"I will be stationed near the accident in a tow vehicle, moving it to the impoundment area after the accident, destroying the evidence."

Bob had improved his trade in the Army. While stationed in Germany, he had supplemented his income by moonlighting at a local auto repair garage. He could field-strip a Beetle as easily as his M-16 rifle. He had separated from the Army as a master sergeant, returning to San Francisco, where he had invested his earnings, along with a generous gift from his sister, in a foreign car repair and auto tow business.

"Well, it seems as though most bases are covered, except for one." Zachary looked directly at Bob. "Are you absolutely certain that you want to carry through with this?"

"Damn right!" he bellowed. "But for everyone's sake, I'm hoping that a legal donor will show up. She's high on the list, but she only has a few months to live. If we have to choose between John and Amelia, John's out of here. That meatball started this mess."

"Unfortunately, that's true," Zach said. "Damn, this hurts."

"I guess you know that Rachel and Dr. Morgan told my sister that she should be under constant supervision, and they were making arrangements to move her to the hospital."

Zach nodded. "Yes, I knew that it was coming. She can't take care of herself, and that day nurse isn't hacking it."

"Our request for a private room at Pleasant Valley Hospital was approved. Amelia is being admitted tomorrow. Everything is confirmed."

"That's good work. At least we'll have Amelia in place. Now let's confirm D-Day."

"How's Friday, the twenty-first, one week from today?"

Zach studied his calendar, nodded, and extended his hand to Bob. They shook hands.

"One more thing," said Zachary. "When you get the call from John requesting brake service, repair the brakes as planned, but do not let him have the car until the afternoon of the twenty-first."

Bob folded his papers and stuffed them into his jumpsuit. "I'll call Amelia again and brief her. This morning she told me that John was coming to see her." Bob slapped his thigh. "Johnny will take the bait. All we have to do is set the hook."

Zach smiled. "We need to limit his driving prior to the time of the accident to avoid a chance of premature failure."

"What if he wants the car sooner?" Bob asked.

"Tell him you're waiting for parts, and they'll definitely be in by the twenty-first."

"Right, the waiting for parts excuse. Used it many times."

"Yeah, I know. I've heard it many times, too." Both laughed. "After he picks up the Beetle, you be damn sure you're driving your tow vehicle, monitoring the radio, and close to the park. You must arrive at the scene first."

"There's no place I'd rather be."

Chapter 32

After John's arrival at San Francisco International Airport from Washington, he immediately left for Pleasant Valley Hospital. The unexpected call from Dr. Van Doren notifying him of Amelia's admittance to the hospital required a change of plans. Two San Francisco Examiner reporters who were following her tragic story had written damning editorials about Senator John Hart. One headline read, Where's John? questioned his loyalty, faithfulness, and devotion to his wife.

John now realized that he deserved their reporting. He had used every excuse in the book to stay away. Suffering remorse for what he had done, he felt extremely uncomfortable in Amelia's presence and had chosen to hide. But now his actions were drawing attention to him, and he had to go to Amelia's side and play the loving, devoted husband. He wondered if the doctors knew what had caused her heart to fail. Did the police know? Were they keeping it from the public?

Driving to the hospital, he recalled his latest trip with Marilyn to the Bahamas. The romance had become quite torrid, and he had presented his new love with a diamond ring. With Amelia out of the way, "M" could move in with him. Marriage was out of the question. He vowed never to marry again. After his first with Amelia, he had learned that his calling was to be a bachelor. Besides, he knew he didn't want children, so what was the point? He wanted to have an out if things didn't go to his liking.

Life is like any athletic game, he thought. You have to plan your shots, be in shape for the tough events, and you certainly have to rely on yourself and nobody else. That was one reason he liked baseball, especially as a pitcher. Not only did he control the swing of his bat, but the game as well. Because of his toughness, he always made it home. Too many players died on third. Trouble is, I've got this monkey on my back called the Mafia. He had used every excuse in the book, including ignoring them. That wasn't smart. Now they were threatening his life. And if the police found out about his poisoning of Amelia, he would have to elude them as well.

I've got to silence her before she blabs to the world about my secret life. Amelia's life insurance would cover most of that, and the athletic clubs would allow him to continue gambling.

~~~

John's increasingly frequent travel had become a nagging worry to Amelia. The call from Bob had come just in time. As soon as she hung up, in walked John. Aware of his many trips, she had to get a commitment from him not to travel over the week of the twenty-first.

"John, my situation isn't getting any better. The doctors have told me my heart continues to fail, and I need a donor desperately. Promise me you won't go anywhere until I'm past this crisis." She took a deep breath before telling the next lie. "I feel so much better now that you're here."

Amelia felt sick after breathing the last sentence. What an incomprehensible situation! Slowly dying because of her husband, forced to scheme and lie. Those misfortunes confounded her, making solutions seem impossible. Her coping mechanisms were fading fast.

Dear God, she prayed while waiting for John's answer, please give me a sign. Something, anything, to help this make sense. Give me the strength to endure. Help me do what is right.

John looked at her with a practiced expression of concern. "Amelia, I know we don't get along well, but I do feel comfortable about being your best friend. I promise to stay nearby." His face flushed, and she hoped it was because of the shame of lying to his dying wife.

Amelia continued on with her ploy. "I know it's silly, but I miss the wind blowing in my face while riding in that cute little convertible."

"Ah, the yellow Beetle. It needs a good tune-up and all-around servicing. I guess I've really slipped in my maintenance duties. Of course, given all that's gone on, I find it hard to focus. I do worry about you, and I'm really busy with the club."

Ha! Amelia thought. Liar. You've been everywhere but at the club. I'm lucky to have a good manager.

She ignored the lie. "I remember now . . . The last time we took it for a spin, you complained about the brakes and muffler needing work."

"Did I say that? I'm surprised you remembered. I should have that taken care of, I guess."

The perfect answer, thought Amelia. She knew her next question. "Do you think you could get it repaired right away? Maybe my doctor would approve a pass so I could take a spin with you. Being outdoors, riding together in a fun car, might calm me down."

"Well, I'll certainly try."

The anguished feeling was bubbling up again. "If you'll hand me my purse, I have the business card of an excellent foreign car mechanic."

"How did you find this guy?"

"I met him through my brother. I've been carrying his card around for quite some time, meaning to tell you about him, but I forgot. His specialty is Volkswagens."

Brinson had been Bob's main competitor for years, so Bob had bought him out and hired Brinson as his manager and chief mechanic. Amelia and Bob thought it best if John thought someone other than Bob was working on his car.

John handed Amelia her purse.

"Mr. Brinson is very busy," she added. "He works by appointment only." The anguish was mounting to a rolling boil now. Lying made her uncomfortable, and she suddenly felt warmer as her heartbeat quickened.

John winked at Amelia. "How thoughtful of you to be thinking of my car. If this guy could fit me in, that would be great."

Amelia handed John the card. "Probably need to call him right away." She turned away and pretended to be fixing her blankets as he headed for the door. I'm glad he's leaving. Ithink I'm going to be sick.