Two minutes later, he was inside the utility room.
He pocketed the tools, flipped on the light, and shut the door behind him.
Quickly, he scanned the walls of the cavernous room for the main electrical box, the one that distributed power throughout the Hope Institute. There. A large gray panel with a red Danger, High Voltage sticker affixed to the front cover. Next to it was a smaller panel connected to the main box. A conduit ran from the smaller panel to a diesel generator situated in the corner of the room. Excellent. Just as he'd expected—and prayed. The Hope Institute had a backup generator that powered a special set of electrical circuits for life-support equipment. Now he could implement his plan without jeopardizing the lives of those patients who were critically ill.
Okay, first he needed some basic tools, those typically found in utility rooms. He scanned the room until he saw a workbench, beside which was a large tool chest, a supply cabinet, and a ladder. He went to the tool chest and tugged at the lid. Locked. Again he reached for his lock-picking implements. In less than a minute he was greeted with a click as the padlock sprang free. He raised the lid, found what he needed: two screwdrivers, a pair of electrician's pliers, a crowbar, a hammer, and some nails.
He took a long nail and, placing it in a machinist's vise located on the workbench, he twisted off the head. Using the pliers, he bent it into a U-shape. That done, he rummaged through the supply cabinet until he found some old cord.
Clutching his materials, he grabbed the ladder and returned to the electrical box. He climbed the ladder, then proceeded to drive the nail into a ceiling beam directly above the box, leaving enough space for the cord to slide freely through his makeshift U-bolt. He threaded one end of the cord through, leaving ample length at the opposite end so he could manipulate it. Climbing back down, he seized the pliers. He snipped off a separate, shorter piece of cord, tying the center of it to the longer cord where it hovered just above the electrical box. Then he tied each end of the shorter piece to the respective ends of the crowbar, rigging it so that it was parallel to the ground and perfectly balanced above the box.
He'd only get one chance.
Meticulously, he practiced lowering the crowbar with the cord. Satisfied with the crudely crafted mechanism, he tied his end of the cord to a rung on the ladder and moved the ladder away from the box, raising the crowbar so it hung at the precise spot he wanted it—just above the top of the electrical box.
He returned to the heavy tool chest and wheeled it toward the electrical box, positioning it between the box and the door. It would provide a sheltering barrier from what could be an explosion. Plucking out a pair of safety goggles from the tool tray, he donned them. He reached for a screwdriver and turned to remove the screws securing the protective cover of the electrical box. That accomplished, he found the two bus bars that supplied all the power to the box.
One small mistake and he'd be barbecued in an instant.
With that thought in mind, he groped in his pocket, this time yanking out the rubber gloves he'd stolen earlier from the janitor's cart near his room. He tugged them on. Preparation complete.
He grabbed the two screwdrivers, wedding them into the left and right copper bus bars respectively, carefully ensuring they were perfectly aligned with each other. He cocked his head, double-checking their alignment with the crowbar. Perfect.
It was show time.
With a steadying breath, Zach untied the cord from the ladder. Grasping it in his hand, he walked behind the tool chest and squatted. Slowly he manipulated the cord, lowering the crowbar, inching it closer to the two screwdrivers and the impending short circuit.
The crowbar made contact.
The room exploded in a fury of light and sparks. Zach dropped down behind the chest. Whipping around so his back was to the spewing electrical box, he scrambled toward the door and flung it open.
The utility room and hallway were now bathed in the eerie glow of emergency lights.
The last thing Zach heard as he closed the door behind him was the sound of the diesel generator starting up..
* * *
Victoria bolted to attention the instant the power died.
Zach, she realized, grinning in spite of the tension gripping her every muscle. What a brilliant maneuver. Shorting out the electrical system would shut down the crematorium, the computers, anything Ian needed for destroying evidence. The only move still available to him would be flushing drugs down the toilet by the glow of emergency lights.
Perfect.
Pandemonium broke loose in the halls, nurses and attendants darting back and forth, checking on patients and calming them down, while they themselves were trying to determine what had happened.
Audrey sat up in bed. "Is that our cue?"
"No." Victoria stood up, headed for the door. "Zach is our cue. We don't budge till he gets here."
A spark of realization lit Audrey's eyes. "He did this, didn't he? I remember he had a lot of degrees. Electrical engineering was one of them."
"Yup." Victoria pressed a warning forefinger to her lips. "Remember, not a word." She yanked open the door and stepped outside. "What's going on?" she demanded of Harper. "Is there a blackout?"
He was tight as a drum, looking torn between manning his post and bolting to help resolve the problem. "I don't know," he snapped. "I'm here, guarding you, remember?"
"What about the patients on life support?" Victoria pressed. "Will they be okay?"
"They'll be fine. We've got a backup generator for that." Harper's head whipped around, and he gave Victoria a blistering look. "Get back inside. I've got more to worry about than answering your stupid questions."
"Really? Then why are you still standing here?"
She'd pushed him too far. She saw the furious sparks glint in his eyes just as he reached out and grabbed her, his fingers biting into her arms. "Listen, you annoying bitch. Either get back into that room or I'm going to beat the—"
"Mr. Harper!"
It was Beatrice who interrupted him. She rushed down the hall, waving her arm and calling his name. "Mr. Block wants you in the basement right away," she said breathlessly. "The entire power system is gone. You've got to get to the utility room and see what you can do. He told me to stay with Audrey Kensington and her sister."
"Done." It was all Harper needed. He released Victoria and took off without a backward glance.
"Nice job, Beatrice." Zach appeared out of nowhere. "Take Audrey's things," he instructed. "I'll carry her." He paused to caress Victoria's cheek and give her a crooked grin. "Hi."
"Hi, yourself. You're a genius."
"And you're lousy at choosing targets to bulldoze. Stick with me. I'm safer." He strode into the room and went straight to Audrey's bed.
Audrey stared at him and blinked. "Either you've aged really badly or that's a disguise."
He chuckled, scooped her into his arms. "Both. Now hold on. We're getting you out of here."
He led the way, Victoria and Beatrice following close behind. The hall was virtually deserted as, by this time, the entire staff was either dealing with patients or relegated to the basement for repairs. The one or two orderlies they passed looked either dazed or frantic, and didn't spare them a second glance.
They took the stairs, hurrying down the three floors quickly but cautiously, pausing at each landing to listen for voices or footsteps—anything that would indicate they weren't alone.
The stairwell was silent.
Finally, they emerged on the main level.
Zach turned his head as they neared the front of the Institute, and called over his shoulder to Victoria and Beatrice. "I'll be able to open the heavy glass doors manually. That'll take us to the reception area. If, for any reason, Miss Evans is still at her desk, just ignore her. Don't stop, no matter what she says or threatens. We'll be outside in a minute. I ordered a taxi. It should be double-parked at the corner. The driver will pull up when he sees us."
God bless Zach. He'd thought of everything.
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They reached the doors. Sheltering Audrey from the impact, Zach slammed his weight against the electronically operated door, applying pressure until it swung open.
They exploded into the reception area.
Miss Evans was at her desk, frantically trying to resuscitate her computer. She started when they rushed by, and did a double take as she recognized the unlikely foursome.
"Where are you going?" she demanded. "Mr. Karr, why are you carrying Miss Kensington? Why is her sister with you? Beatrice! My God, Beatrice, has Mr. Karr snapped? Does he have a weapon? What's happening? Are you being kidnapped?" Reflexively, she pressed a panic button on her desk, but, thanks to the power failure, no one from inside the Institute responded.
With a frustrated oath, she ran forward, but the small group ignored her, sprinting toward the door as fast as they could. "Stop! Stop right now!" she commanded.
Zach shoved the front door open, blowing by the doorman and dashing down the steps to the street.
Close behind, Victoria shaded her eyes, peered toward the corner, and spotted the cab. She raised her arm and waved.
The taxi surged forward, stopping in front of the Institute.
Zach yanked open the door, depositing Audrey on the seat behind the driver as Victoria and Beatrice hurried around and climbed in on the other side.
Slamming the door shut, Zach zipped around and opened the front door on the passenger side.
He was about to jump in when three unmarked cars pulled up behind them and a team of FBI agents leaped out.
Meyer's gaze met Zach's. He paused long enough to wave the warrants in the air and give him a thumbs-up. Then he darted toward the Institute to shut down this tributary of the drug-smuggling syndicate—a tributary that would, hopefully, lead them to the source they'd been seeking for fifteen years.
* * *
36
FBI Field Office, 26 Federal Plaza
Friday, May 5
10:00 a.m.
"So where do things stand?" Zach asked Meyer, crossing one leg over the other.
The special agent skimmed his notes, then looked up, gazing from Zach to Victoria and back again. "We've got everything we need and then some," he assured them. "We've got the medical containers, the vials of drugs, the tapes, even an urn or two from that steel cabinet still filled with the ashes of supposedly living patients. Believe me, we're not missing anything. We've also got all the pertinent incriminating data we pulled off the computer, and Dr. Kensington's private medical journal, which she kept locked in the file cabinet in her private office where she and Block used to meet for their romps on the couch." Abruptly realizing what he'd said, he cleared his throat self-consciously and shot Victoria an apologetic look. "Sorry, Ms. Kensington."
"Don't be," Victoria replied quietly. "I know my aunt was sleeping with Ian Block. It paled in comparison to the rest of her offenses. By the way, I appreciate the sensitive way you handled things, letting Clarissa talk to my uncle alone before you did what you had to. She had a lot to confess, and he had a lot to absorb. It was very decent of you to give him the privacy he needed."
A terse nod. "I met your uncle when we went over and checked out the apartment. He seems like a decent guy. How's he holding up?"
"Fine." Victoria swallowed, remembering her uncle's stunned, lost expression when she'd first seen him, minutes after Clarissa had been taken away. He'd been positively gray, his normal composure shattered to bits. She'd sat with him for an hour, just talking, sharing a glass of wine, trying to sort things out, to understand how they'd both missed whatever vibes Clarissa might have given off—anything to hint at what she was involved in, or with whom. There were no answers, only questions. Questions, shock, and betrayal.
Later, Victoria had fixed her uncle something to eat and watered Clarissa's plants, making a mental note to move them to her apartment first thing the next day. Her uncle needed no reminders of his wife's passion for sustaining life. Besides, it would give Victoria a good excuse to come back and check on him.
She'd hung around until she sensed he needed time to himself. Then, she'd lightly mentioned her plan to come by tomorrow and collect the plants, gotten his promise to call her as soon as he woke up the next morning, and left.
It felt good to return a little of the strength and support he'd offered her for so many years.
Uncle Jim would be okay. He was already showing signs of improvement—agreeing, without hesitation and with sincere pleasure, to be Zach's best man, returning to his practice and patients, easing Audrey back into counseling with Dr. Osborne. Yes, Uncle Jim would be fine. With a little time and perspective, he'd get his life in order. Victoria would make sure of it.
She felt Zach reach over, enfold her hand in his, and squeeze it
She smiled. "My uncle's a survivor. All the Kensingtons are. He'll come through this with flying colors." She inclined her head quizzically at Meyer. "You said you found my aunt's private journal. What did it say?"
"A lot of what we already knew—her goals for the Hope Institute, the lives she wanted to save and how. It also provided us with a nice list of her inner circle, a group she referred to as the 'disinfection team.' We've rounded them up, gotten statements from them all."
"Who are they?"
"No surprises, just the concrete proof we needed to haul the appropriate asses in." Meyer counted off on his fingers. "Dr. Kensington herself, Ian Block, Gloria Rivers, Leaman—who, incidentally, not only followed you around, but checked your mail on a daily basis—and a few key technicians: the one who operated the crematorium, the one who did the electronics work, and a computer hacker who tapped into your PCs and laptop. Oh, and Frank Harper, You were right about him. Block hired him to run you off the road."
"That part was in my aunt's notes?" Victoria breathed painfully.
"No. Actually, that was one venture Block took upon himself and kept from your aunt. He didn't think she'd go along with it. I got it straight from the horse's mouth. Harper spilled his guts in exchange for a lighter sentence. He wasn't supposed to kill you, just scare you away. He was pissed as hell that it didn't work." A slight grin. "He doesn't like you much."
"The feeling's mutual," Victoria retorted, feeling an inexplicable sense of relief that her aunt hadn't been part of that plan. It was just as Ian had said. Clarissa hadn't wanted to hurt her, or Audrey, either. She'd just wanted to preserve life, despite her inexcusable methods for doing so. In some odd way, that was comforting. It didn't lessen the gravity of her crimes but, after eight years of family closeness, it did wonders for Victoria's psyche.
"A few other fascinating tidbits we got from your aunt's journal," Meyer continued. "Remember those mandatory outpatient visits specified in the legal documents you found? The visits provided for all those lucky patients well enough to go home, and which were required to take place solely at the Hope Institute? Well, according to Dr. Kensington's notes, they consisted of injections of the 'non-FDA-approved drugs,' as she calls them, and a take-home regimen of follow-up pills. Guess what those pills were? Placebos. No more life-sustaining than M and M's. But an excellent source of capital for the Hope Institute and, according to your aunt, a mental balm for the patients. Another of her twisted blend of crime and compassion. Inject the patients with the periodic doses of medicine they need, and send them home with sugar pills they believe in and pay for, but that don't do anything. And that can't incriminate the Institute if someone else happens to find them. Remember, inside the Institute's walls, the drugs are accounted for and cautiously dispensed. Dr. Kensington couldn't have her outpatients walking around with illegal drugs in their pockets." Meyer shook his head. "Either she, or Block, or both of them, are geniuses."
Victoria was beginning to feel sick again. "Anything else?" Meyer glanced down at the file. "Only one other thing I think you'll find interesting. You know those photos in the reception area showing the happy patients recuperating at the Hope Institute? All actors. Not that the patients weren't happy. The ones we've inte
rviewed these past few days had been more than satisfied—until now. But to protect everyone's privacy, Clarissa Kensington hired actors to pose for those shots. That way, no patients, past or present, could be recognized. I tell you, she thought of everything."
He turned over the last page of the file. "Anyway, the Hope Institute's now officially shut down. The assets will be liquidated, and the funds set aside. That cash pool will be used to pay off the millions of dollars in lawsuits they're sure to face. There are a lot of angry families out there who were defrauded and lied to. The remaining patients have already been transferred to the hospitals of their choice. That didn't take much arm-twisting; they weren't too eager to stay in a place that was using them as human guinea pigs."
"No, I'd imagine not." Victoria was relieved that Meyer had completed his Hope Institute report. The list of her aunt's crimes was already appalling enough. She wasn't sure she could stomach any more,
"What about the syndicate?" Zach demanded, changing gears to address the bigger picture.
Triumph glittered in Meyer's eyes. "We've got names and places now—Colombia, Mexico, and a few other key locations. Interpol has already been brought in and is mobilizing as we speak: Give us a week, two at the most. The whole damn syndicate will be blown apart."
"I want you to keep me posted," Zach informed him. "I want to know when the arrests are made. I want progress reports on extradition proceedings. And I want to know when the scum running this syndicate go on trial in the U.S. I plan to be there to watch them pay for what they did."
Meyer didn't hesitate. "You've got it. It's the least I can do." He gazed steadily at Zach. "And then, it'll finally be over."
"Yeah," Zach agreed roughly, letting it sink in that the retribution he'd craved for his father's murder was finally at hand. "Thank God."
Victoria looked at him, sensing his emotions and experiencing an acute surge of relief. At last, Zach would have his closure. His parents could rest in peace. He could let go of the past. And the nightmare would finally, finally, be at an end.