The Cure. Part 7

Got to call the police. Even without a name, they'll find him. His fingerprints were all over.

As she was reaching for the phone, she caught a glimpse of the writing on the invitation.

Fancy, calligraphy-style script spelled out Marsh Enterprises.

What the h.e.l.l? Why would one of the largest companies in the world send a criminal to deliver an invitation to a small-town veterinarian? One that involved a lot of money?

Oh no. There was only one thing she could think of.

There's no way. How could they have found out? She knew the last thing she should be doing was touching the envelope, but she had to see what was inside. Holding it between her fingernails to avoid smudging any fingerprints that might be on the paper, she carefully tore the embossed seal keeping the flap closed.

She slid the folded piece of paper out and read the handwritten note.

Dear Doctor DeGarmo: It has come to my attention that you may be able to help me with a special problem that has come up. I would be willing to pay you most handsomely for your one-time services. I'd like to have the opportunity to discuss this business venture with you in person. Please contact me at any time of the day or night with your answer.

At the risk of being melodramatic, this is a matter of life and death, and there is very little time to spare.

Kindest regards, Leonard Marsh Beneath Marsh's signature was a telephone number.

s.h.i.+t! She crumpled the note and threw it onto the table. He'd found out somehow. That meant other people knew as well, the ones who'd told him. And the ones he'd told.

How many people knew about her now?

For a brief instant John's face appeared, but she dismissed him as Marsh's source. He didn't seem the type to break a promise.

That meant someone else had seen her use her Power, either at the clinic or during the robbery at McDonald's.

She thought about calling John, but what could he do? He couldn't investigate on his own, and if she got the police involved, sooner or later her secret would be revealed and she'd have a lot more to worry about than Leonard Marsh.

What do I do?

She went into the kitchen and poured a gla.s.s of wine, downed it in three gulps. The sweet-sour flavor of the white Zinfandel made her mouth pucker, and it immediately started a war in her stomach with the mellow Chianti, hearty sauce and rich tiramisu she'd had at dinner.

Thoughts of dinner led to John Carrera again. He was a cop. Surely he'd have some advice.

Yeah. He'll tell me to call the police. Or a lawyer. The very things I can't do.

She slammed the gla.s.s down on the counter and went back into the living room. Unfolding the note, she read it again.

Calling him would be stupid. But then, not calling might be just as bad. The man owns several newspapers. He could expose me to the world. On the other hand, just because he wants something doesn't mean I have to say yes. If I don't want to get involved, I can always call John afterwards.

As she dialed the number with a shaking finger, she tried to rationalize that she was only being logical and protecting herself from public exposure.

Leonard Marsh closed his cell phone and leaned his forehead against the cool gla.s.s of his office window.

Tal had done it again. Somehow he'd convinced the DeGarmo woman to agree to a meeting, without any threat of violence and without bringing up her abilities.

Now it was a matter of waiting. She'd said her first available night was Wednesday. He'd offered to come into town and meet with her before that, but she insisted her schedule at the clinic wouldn't allow it.

"Four more days," he whispered to his reflection.

The corpse-like face in the gla.s.s stared back, a deadly reminder of how important this woman was to him.

He couldn't take any chances. Opening the phone again, he punched in Tal's number.

"She's agreed to meet," he said as soon as the other man answered. "Wednesday. You'll pick her up in one of the company cars. Make sure everything looks aboveboard. But in the meantime, I want a twenty-four hour surveillance on her."

He hung up before Tal could respond.

Four more days. Then he could live again.

Chapter Twelve.

The next four days pa.s.sed by in agonizingly slow fas.h.i.+on for Leah. She tried to keep busy at work, but all she could think about was what Leonard Marsh wanted her to do.

That she'd have to Cure something, or someone, was a given. The question was, could she trust him to keep her secret safe, or was he planning to blackmail her? Worse, what if it was all just a trick and he intended to kidnap her so he could turn her into some kind of human guinea pig?

More than once she nearly broke down and called John, but each time she talked herself out of it. There was no point in getting him involved unless she had proof Marsh was up to no good.

Then again, she kept telling herself, maybe it was a point in Marsh's favor that he seemed to be going out of his way to not leave any clues as to her ability. Nothing was in writing, and the giant black man who'd snuck into her home had never said a word. It showed he knew how to keep a secret.

Of course, it also showed he was a criminal.

So she kept quiet, and did her best to act like nothing was wrong. On Tuesday, Chast.i.ty did ask if anything was bothering her, but Leah brushed off her concern.

"I'm fine, really," she said. "I've had a headache the past couple of days, that's all. Maybe I need a vacation."

"h.e.l.l, I've been telling you that for over a year." The bubbly vet tech laughed. "You need to get away for a few days, forget this place."

Leah did her best to smile. "We'll see. Easier said than done."

Chast.i.ty flashed a naughty grin. "If I were you, I'd pick up that phone, get myself a hotel in Atlantic City for a few days and invite Mr. Hunky Policeman to join me."

"Enough about John! I should never have told you he took me out."

"Leah, it was your first date in, like, two years. Now it's time for the next step. You and him, alone in a room. Some wine, some music, some-"

"Oh c.r.a.p." Leah nearly dropped the clipboard she was holding.

"What? I didn't mean-"

"No, not that. I just remembered something. I have to make a phone call." She rushed out of the reception area and into her office.

In her confusion about whether or not to tell John about Marsh, she'd forgotten to call him and cancel for Wednesday. Now she'd be canceling only a day before, something she hated to do because it bothered her so much when people did it to her.

What if he asked why she was canceling? She had no excuse ready.

And I know I'm a d.a.m.n poor liar.

She decided the best thing would be to leave a message on his machine at home. She dialed his number, praying he was at work.

After four rings she got the hoped-for sound of his voice mail picking up. "h.e.l.lo, you've reached John Carrera. I'm not available right now, so please leave your name and number, and I'll get back to you as soon as I get your message. Have a nice day."

Leah chewed a nail as she waited for the beep.

"John? It's Leah. Listen, something's come up for tomorrow. I have to go into Manhattan for the evening, so I'm afraid we'll have to postpone dinner. How about over the weekend? I'm really sorry. I'll call you on Thursday. Bye!"

She hung up and then leaned back in her chair, staring at the phone. Did I sound normal? Was I too chatty? Maybe I should've let him know where I was going, in case something happens.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to quell the voices in her head. Nothing's going to happen. Marsh may know your secret, he might even try to blackmail you, but he's not going to hurt you. After all, if he did that, how could you work a Cure for him?

Still, the anxious feeling wouldn't go away.

The long, black limousine pulled up in front of her house at exactly 5:30 p.m., just as Marsh had told her it would. A large man stepped out, and Leah realized it was the same person who'd been waiting inside her home. Before he could take more than a few steps she hurried out of the house and down to the car.

The last thing she wanted was for the man to go inside and see the note she'd left on the counter for John. Just a little insurance in case Marsh didn't let her go. At least John and the police would know what was going on when they went to the house to investigate her disappearance.

"Good afternoon, Dr. DeGarmo. My name is Tal Nova," the black man said, holding the limo door for her. "Please make yourself comfortable. It will take us about an hour to get to Mr. Marsh's office at this time of day."

Leah ducked and entered the car, which was filled with the spicy scent of cinnamon gum. She slid across the soft leather seat, keeping as much distance as she could from Nova. He seemed to sense her nervousness, and he sat down across and at an angle from her.

"Would you care for a drink?" His rich baritone and cultured words filled the confines of the vehicle, even though he hadn't raised his voice. When he spoke, it reminded her of James Earl Jones reading a commercial.

"No, thank you," she said, figuring she might as well remain polite, as long as he did. "What can you-"

Nova held up one finger. "I'm sorry, but I'm not allowed to discuss anything with you. Please don't bother to ask me any questions."

"But I just-"

He leaned forward, and any traces of pleasantness disappeared from his face, leaving behind a cold, hard expression devoid of warmth. "I said no questions."

The man leaned back and turned his head away, staring out the window at the scenery pa.s.sing by as the limousine glided down the Palisades Parkway toward Manhattan. His only movements were to occasionally open a stick of Big Red gum and pop it into his mouth. As each new piece went in, he'd take out the old, chewed piece and add it to the small pile growing in the ashtray next to him.

Leah copied him, looking out her window and hoping it wasn't the last time she'd be able to do so. After a while she closed her eyes, focusing on breathing deeply and staying calm.

"Hey, Dr. DeGarmo."

Someone touched her. She opened her eyes and realized she'd dozed off. Glancing out the window, she could see they were just getting off the George Was.h.i.+ngton Bridge. A quick look at her watch told her she'd been asleep for over half an hour.

"We'll be there in a few minutes. Sure you don't want that drink?"

She started to say no, but the dry, sticky feeling in her mouth changed her mind. "Do you have water?"

"Certainly." Nova removed a bottle of spring water from a small cooler built into the bottom of the seat. "Here you go. I'll let you open it. That way you know it's safe." He smiled, but there was no humor in it.

"Thank you." She took a long swallow, letting the cold water wash away the cotton mouth caused by her anxiety.

"You're welcome."

After that he was silent again until the car pulled into the underground parking garage at Marsh Enterprises' worldwide headquarters on Riverside and Seventy-Seventh. The afternoon sunlight turned the reflective steel-and-gla.s.s tower into gold, while its modernistic design of interlocking towers set it apart from the older, mostly brick-and-stone buildings around it.

The car stopped in front of a private elevator. Nova exited and then held his hand out to help Leah from the car. "I'll take to you Mr. Marsh," he said, swiping a plastic card to open the elevator doors.

Leah moved to the back wall as Nova pressed the Up b.u.t.ton. Even in her apprehensive state she was able to wonder at the opulence of the elevator's interior. Thick carpet covered the floor, and the walls were all real-wood paneling, varnished until they s.h.i.+ned like a dining-room table. Soft, wordless music trickled down from a hidden speaker, and it took her a moment to recognize the tune as Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark".

What's the world coming to, she wondered, when the Boss becomes elevator music?

The elevator came to a smooth stop. The doors parted and Leah found herself staring at the largest office she'd ever seen. Just as the building itself was a monument to pretentiousness, the inside was apparently just as overdone.

From the floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched the entire length of one wall, to the entertainment center and wet bar opposite the extra-large desk in front of the windows, and the paintings and sculptures decorating the office, the entire room screamed "excess" to someone who'd grown up in a middle-cla.s.s, suburban neighborhood where vacations were taken at the Jersey Sh.o.r.e rather than on islands in the Caribbean, and "making it" meant purchasing a new car instead of a secondhand vehicle.

She'd seen Marsh's name in countless newspaper articles and television stories, had understood he was wealthy, but until now she'd never realized he was Donald Trump wealthy. Maybe Bill Gates wealthy.

John was right, she told herself. I've had my head in the sand for too long. And look what that's led to.

"h.e.l.lo, Dr. DeGarmo."

Behind the desk the tall, black leather chair swiveled around and she had her first look at Leonard Marsh.

He's seriously ill.

It was obvious from his pale color and gaunt features, and the stiff, slow movements of his hands, arms and neck as he rolled his chair up to the desk.

"h.e.l.lo." She tried to keep her voice neutral.

"Please have a seat." He waved a hand at the chairs placed in front of his desk.

As she moved closer, she saw that his flesh had a distinct yellowish tint to it. A quick glance at her own hands as she sat down told her it wasn't from the room's fluorescent lighting.

He's jaundiced. Some kind of liver disease, perhaps?

"I won't beat around the bush, Dr. DeGarmo. I'm dying. Hepatocellular carcinoma."

Liver cancer. "I'm sorry to hear that." She waited, knowing what was coming next.

He leaned forward, his gaunt face corpse-like. When he spoke again, a faint foul odor reached her.

Sick breath, we used to call it in school. It doesn't matter if it's an animal or a person, you can smell the death in them.

"It's come to my attention that you have certain...abilities that might be able to accomplish what chemotherapy has not."