Black Lightning Part 4

"Put it up to three hundred joules and hit him again," the paramedic who was struggling to revive Glen ordered. The driver adjusted the controls on the defibrillator, and a second later Glen's body jerked involuntarily as the flash of electricity shot through him. His heart stopped for a moment, then started up again. "That's the way," the medic murmured under his breath as he studied the display on the monitor. But a second later he saw his patient's heart run wild again, the first fluttering pulse turning into a useless vibration.

"Try again at three-sixty," he commanded, pressing the paddles against Glen's naked chest.

Once again the defibrillator fired. The paramedic held his breath as he watched the monitor, then ordered a milligram of epinephrine, and resumed applying CPR. As the seconds ticked by and Alan Cline unconsciously held his breath as he prayed helplessly for his partner to live, Glen's heart began to beat again, and a moment later he was once more breathing on his own.

Scrambling into the driver's seat, the second paramedic jammed the ambulance into gear and pressed on the accelerator.

The siren wailed its mournful plea, clearing the streets ahead.

The back doors of the ambulance were thrown open. Even before Alan Cline could scramble out, two orderlies pulled the stretcher bearing Glen Jeffers onto a gurney and wheeled it through the doors to the Group Health emergency entrance on Thomas Street. His mind only starting to recover from the shock of what had happened at the top of the skysc.r.a.per, Alan followed the stretcher inside, but as it turned left through another set of double doors, Alan went to the right, toward a counter behind which several people were struggling to cope with the barely controlled chaos of the emergency room.

On a worn Naugahyde sofa a large woman sat with her arm curled protectively around the shoulders of a sobbing child; in a chair nearby, a teenage girl with stringy blond hair and a vacant expression was attempting to nurse a baby whose screams made it sound as if it was in excruciating pain.

A man with eyes that smoldered with fury clutched at the makes.h.i.+ft bandage that had been wrapped around his upper right arm. When a woman with an already purpling bruise on her cheek tried to help him, he shoved her roughly away. "Ain't you already done enough, b.i.t.c.h?" he growled, and the woman instantly recoiled as if he'd struck her. A second later, as a policeman appeared, the injured man turned away from the woman, who immediately began insisting to the officer that nothing worthy of a police report had brought them to the emergency room.

The whole scene struck Alan Cline as coming from some alien planet he knew nothing about, and for a moment he felt completely disoriented. Then he remembered Glen, still unconscious-perhaps even dying-being rushed into the opposite wing.

"The man they just brought in," he said, injecting himself into the midst of a conversation one of the staff behind the counter was carrying on with a distraught woman. "Where is he?"

"Can't you wait your turn like everyone else?" the woman demanded, fixing Alan with a glare from her drug-dilated eyes. "You're not the only person here, you know."

"Just tell me where they took him," Alan demanded of the woman behind the counter, who had already moved closer to him, as though she welcomed even a momentary distraction from the angry patient's siege.

"The cardiac case?" the receiving nurse asked.

Alan Cline nodded, and the nurse immediately handed him a clipboard. "If you could just fill out as much of this as possible, I'll find out where your..." She paused expectantly, waiting for Alan to identify himself as either a relative, a friend, or perhaps even the lover of the patient.

"I'm his partner," Alan offered, then, remembering Seattle's domestic partners.h.i.+p ordinance, whose pa.s.sage had been a cause for celebration among at least half a dozen of his employees, he spoke again. "His business business partner." partner."

"Whatever," the nurse said. "All I really need is his name, if he's a member of Group Health. I can pull the rest of it out of the computer."

"Then why can't you pull my prescription prescription out of the d.a.m.n computer," the woman next to Alan complained as he wrote Glen's name down for the nurse. When the nurse simply ignored her, the addict swore under her breath, seemed to consider the odds of convincing the nurse to give her whatever it was she wanted, then shambled out, after mumbling that she would report the nurse to the co-op's board. out of the d.a.m.n computer," the woman next to Alan complained as he wrote Glen's name down for the nurse. When the nurse simply ignored her, the addict swore under her breath, seemed to consider the odds of convincing the nurse to give her whatever it was she wanted, then shambled out, after mumbling that she would report the nurse to the co-op's board.

"Do that," the nurse sighed, not even looking up from the computer screen she was studying. "See you tomorrow." As the woman disappeared out onto the street, the nurse finally glanced up, shaking her head sadly. "She thinks we're a methadone clinic," she explained. "Comes in practically every day, asking for-Ah, here it is!" She studied the computer screen, then smiled at Alan Cline. "Mr. Jeffers is just being admitted to the cardiac care unit." Just then, Jim Dover burst through the doors, spotted Alan and joined him at the counter.

"Where's Glen?" he asked. "Is he okay?"

Alan shrugged. "He's in cardiac care," he said. "Find out where it is while I call the office."

Leaving Dover to get the information from the nurse, Alan crossed to the pay phones that lined one wall of the emergency room, found one that wasn't broken and dialed the number that would bypa.s.s the switchboard and ring directly at the desk of Rita Alvarez, Glen's secretary. As briefly as he could, he told her what had happened.

Sitting at Glen's desk, where she had answered Alan Cline's call, Rita Alvarez glanced at the small television her boss had told her to set up in the office that morning in case his wife showed up on CNN. Now, as she listened to Alan's disjointed account of Glen's heart attack, she found herself gazing at Anne, who, along with the warden and the rest of the witnesses to the execution, had just entered a room filled with reporters, cameras, and lights. "Go find out what's happening," she said. "Just stay with Glen, and let me know what's going on. I'll take care of everything else." Hanging up the phone, Rita Alvarez went to work, first making a list of the people who had to be notified immediately, starting with Anne and progressing quickly through clients who had appointments with Glen that day, the firm's attorney, and some of his closest friends. Less than a minute later she was speaking to the operator at the prison where Anne had just witnessed Richard Kraven's execution.

"It's an emergency," she explained. "I need to talk to Anne Jeffers right away. She's there at the prison. She was one of the witnesses-"

"Everyone wants to talk to everyone who witnessed the execution," the operator interjected. "And everyone says it's an emergency. If you'd like me to add your name to the list-"

"I'm secretary to Mrs. Jeffers's husband," Rita interrupted. "He's just had a very bad heart attack. He may be dying."

Anne hung up the phone but lingered over it, her hand unconsciously resting on the receiver as if maintaining physical contact with the instrument could somehow keep her connected to Seattle and whatever was happening there. A heart attack? Glen? But how was that possible? He wasn't even forty-five yet! And he jogged every day, watched his weight-both of them were the quintessential Seattleites, spending as much time as they could out-of-doors, skiing at Crystal Mountain and Snoqualmie in the winter, rowing on the lake and exploring the San Juan Islands in sea kayaks in the summer. People like Glen didn't have heart attacks!

Then she remembered the day almost ten years ago when she'd heard that Danny Branson had dropped dead while jogging, and Danny, only thirty-two at the time, had always been a major jock, running track all through their high school years. So what was life, anyway? Just a big lottery? Even if you did everything right, did you just drop dead?

The terrible feeling of fear and helplessness that had come over her as she listened to Rita Alvarez's report of Glen's heart attack began to transform into a calm determination: what had happened to Danny Branson would not happen to Glen. He would recover; together, they would learn everything there was to know about heart attacks, and they would see to it that he didn't have another one. As the last of the terror faded from her mind, her fingers finally left the phone and she turned around to find Mark Blakemoor watching her, his eyes betraying a concern he rarely allowed to be exposed, either on the job or off.

"Has something happened, Anne?" the detective asked.

"It's my husband," she replied. "He's had a heart attack. I have to get home right away. My flight's not till tomorrow." She felt panic rise. "I have have to get home!" to get home!"

Mark Blakemoor reached into the inside pocket of his rumpled gabardine jacket and handed her an envelope. "My flight leaves in a couple of hours," he told her. "If there isn't room for both of us, you fly, and I'll go home on your ticket tomorrow."

Anne's brows rose a fraction of an inch. "And in return?" she asked. There had to be a catch: in all her years of dealing with cops, Mark Blakemoor had been the single individual who refused to divulge anything unless he was promised a future favor as the price. Now, to her surprise, he shook his head.

"This isn't work," he said. "This is personal. With personal, everything's a freebie. Okay?"

"Let's go," Anne replied, instinctively knowing that he didn't want to be thanked for the offer.

Five minutes later they were out of the prison, being driven through the crowd of demonstrators and reporters in a car the warden had supplied.

At least, Anne reflected as she heard the m.u.f.fled questions the press was shouting after the closed vehicle, I don't have to keep talking about the execution. One more article for the Herald Herald and then, perhaps, she would take a leave of absence, and concentrate on Glen's recovery. and then, perhaps, she would take a leave of absence, and concentrate on Glen's recovery.

As the car sped away from the prison, the thought lingered in her mind, and the more she thought about it, the more it appealed to her.

After all, soon it would be summer, and school would be out, and the whole family would be together. Then her mood darkened: how much of the family would there still be?

What if Glen didn't make it? What would she do? How would she cope? How could she live without Glen?

CHAPTER 7.

Total silence hung over the tenth grade journalism cla.s.s at Maples School, named for the grove of trees within which it had been constructed back in 1923. Heather Jeffers and her cla.s.smates gazed fixedly at the television set that had been brought into the room so they could watch and discuss the coverage of Richard Kraven's execution; the set had been on since eight-thirty, and until the stroke of nine-noon in Connecticut, where the execution was taking place-several of the students had been speculating on how close to the deadline it would get before the execution was stayed. Maude Brink, who had been leading the discussion of both the media coverage of the execution and capital punishment itself for the last week, had warned them that this time a stay was unlikely, but some of the kids clung to their hopes right up until the end. What struck Mrs. Brink as most interesting was that those students most strongly opposed to capital punishment were the most certain that the execution would inevitably be delayed, while those who were the execution's strongest supporters were convinced it would take place as scheduled.

Obviously, each faction believed that in the end the system would validate his or her own view.

Yet when the execution had taken place and the first word had come out of the prison that Richard Kraven was dead, the entire cla.s.s had finally experienced the reality of it. This was not a television show, or a movie, or a book, in which the execution affected only a man who was the invention of a writer's mind. This time it was real, and a man who had only a few seconds ago been as much alive as each of them was now dead. As they all watched numbly, the news anchor on the screen began cutting to correspondents around the country, each of them interviewing someone whose life would be directly affected by the execution.

First there was Edna Kraven, being interviewed in her small home in the south end of Seattle, not far from Boeing Field.

As the camera's relentless eye zoomed in on the tear-stained face of Richard Kraven's mother, Heather and her friends squirmed uncomfortably, watching the woman's most private emotions exposed for all the world to watch.

"He was always a good boy," Edna whispered, her fingers twisting a crumpled handkerchief with which she blotted at red-rimmed eyes every few seconds. "Smarter than all the other kids, always interested in everything, and always helping everyone. Everybody liked my Richard. How could they do this to him? Why did they want to? He never hurt anyone-never! It isn't right! It just isn't!" The camera held steady on the distraught woman as a fit of sobbing overcame her; then, in what seemed an almost reluctant retreat from her, so she could grieve in private, it cut away to Richard's brother Rory, who sat across a worn coffee table from his mother.

"It must be almost as hard for you as for your mother," the pretty blond correspondent said, her face carefully composed into an expression designed to tell the viewers that this job was not easy for her. "Tell us, what went through your mind as the clock at the prison struck noon?"

Rory Kraven, visibly nervous in front of the camera, glanced at his mother, then shrugged. "I-I guess I didn't really think anything," he stammered. "I mean, I know what my brother did, and-" But before he could continue, his mother cut him off.

"Nothing!" she flared. "My Richard did nothing, and you know it! How dare you speak ill of your brother? If you were half the man he was-"

As some invisible director at the network decided that Edna Kraven's furious outburst was less compelling than her grief, the image on the screen abruptly switched to an elegantly dressed and perfectly coiffed woman of perhaps sixty, who was being interviewed by another attractive young network correspondent.

"I'm with Arla Talmadge in Atlanta. Mrs. Talmadge, how do you feel today?"

Arla Talmadge touched the corner of one eye with a perfectly pressed handkerchief, then sighed and shook her head. "I'm not sure what I feel anymore. Ever since Richard Kraven killed my son, I-well, there's just an emptiness inside me. Did he say anything before they-well, before they did what they did?"

"Early indications are that he didn't," the reporter replied.

"Then we'll never know why he did it, will we?" Mrs. Talmadge asked. "And I can't help wondering, what was really accomplished today? After all, killing that man won't bring my son or any of the others back, will it? I keep wondering if maybe he wouldn't have-I don't know-explained it all someday, I suppose. But now..." She drew in a shaky breath, let it out, then shook her head again. "I just don't know," she went on. "I suppose there's nothing to do now except try to go on living." it all someday, I suppose. But now..." She drew in a shaky breath, let it out, then shook her head again. "I just don't know," she went on. "I suppose there's nothing to do now except try to go on living."

For almost fifteen minutes it went on, the images on the screen s.h.i.+fting as the families and friends of the victims were interviewed, some of them expressing relief that at last this grim chapter in their lives was over; others barely able to contain their rage that Richard Kraven hadn't been tortured before he died; still others echoing Arla Talmadge's sad sense of resignation in the face of the inevitable.

It was in the midst of one of those interviews that the network anchor cut in to announce that the warden was ready to speak to the press, and the scene dissolved to a room painted in a sickly green in which lights had been set up and several microphones placed on the s.h.i.+ny surface of a gray metal table.

The cla.s.sroom buzzed with antic.i.p.ation, and then the students began nudging each other as they recognized Heather Jeffers's mother in the group of witnesses who followed Warden Wendell Rustin into the room. Her face pale, her expression strained, she hovered near the wall just inside the door.

"It's really her her, Heather," someone said from the back of the room. "It's your mom! Cool!"

As the warden started to speak, Heather ignored her cla.s.smate's comment, her eyes fixing on the screen.

"At noon today, Richard Kraven was executed," Wendell Rustin began. "He entered the chamber at 11:55, and was strapped into the chair. The electrodes were applied, and at exactly noon he was exposed to a charge of two thousand volts. At two minutes past noon he was p.r.o.nounced dead." The warden fell silent for a moment, then appeared to look directly into the camera. "Are there any questions?"

Instantly, a babble of voices emerged from the television speakers, but then Rustin pointed to someone, and the rest of the crowd subsided into a restless silence. "Did he say anything? Did he confess?"

The warden glanced toward Anne Jeffers, who shook her head and seemed about to speak when suddenly a door opened and a uniformed guard stepped inside and whispered into Anne's ear. A look of surprise crossed her face and she rushed from the room.

In the cla.s.sroom, Heather Jeffers's schoolmates all turned to gaze curiously at her, as if by dint of being Anne Jeffers's daughter, she should be able to explain her mother's sudden departure. Maude Brink, seeing the look of worry that had now come over Heather's face, switched off the television. "All right," she began as she moved briskly to the front of the room and faced the cla.s.s. "What do we think? Was the coverage fair? Was it justified? Was it responsible reporting of news, or was it sensationalism? Who wants to start?"

Three hands instantly went up, and Mrs. Brink nodded to Adam Steiner, who sat in the back row and rarely spoke in cla.s.s.

"How come they always have to talk to the families?" he asked. "I mean, Mrs. Kraven didn't do anything-why couldn't they just leave her alone?"

"How do you know she didn't do anything?" someone else asked. "She must have done something to have raised a nut-case like Richard Kraven!"

"Maybe he had something wrong with his genes," a third voice suggested. "n.o.body knows what causes people to do things like that."

"I heard he was a Satanist," someone else called out, and Mrs. Brink finally raised her hand to bring some order back into the discussion.

"For now, let's stick to the coverage, and not speculate on Richard Kraven's motives, all right? This is a cla.s.s in current events and journalism, not criminology-" The teacher fell silent as the door to her cla.s.sroom opened. One of the princ.i.p.al's secretaries came in, nodded curtly to her, and without any apology for disrupting the cla.s.s, spoke directly to one of the students.

"Heather? Could you come with me, please? Mrs. Garrett would like to speak with you for a moment."

Maude Brink was about to object that whatever it might be could surely wait until her cla.s.s was over, but then she remembered Heather's mother's mysterious disappearance from the press conference, and gave the teenager an encouraging smile as she left the cla.s.sroom. Something, obviously, had gone very wrong.

As Heather entered Olivia Garrett's office, the princ.i.p.al gestured her onto the sofa, then sat in the wing-backed chair instead of returning to her desk.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," she said, approaching the subject with the directness for which she was famous throughout the school. "Your father's secretary just called."

"Rita?" Heather breathed. "Rita Alvarez?"

Mrs. Garrett nodded. "Your father has apparently had a heart attack. He's been taken to the hospital, and your mother wants you to go there right away. Mrs. Alvarez is picking your brother up at his school, then she'll come-"

But Heather Jeffers was no longer listening to Olivia Garrett. Instead she was trying to absorb what she had just been told. Her father? In the hospital?

A heart attack?

If her mother wanted her to go to the hospital-and Kevin, too-it must be serious! But just this morning he'd been fine! He'd gone out jogging, and when he'd come back, he hadn't even been out of breath. So how could he have a heart attack?

Suddenly fifteen-year-old Heather felt far younger than she was, and far more vulnerable.

Was her father going to die?

CHAPTER 8.

They'd been in the air almost two hours, and if the uncomfortable silence between Anne Jeffers and him was going to go on for another three, Mark Blakemoor decided, he'd have a couple of drinks and then try to get some sleep.

He'd done far too much drinking lately, though, especially in the ten months since Patsy had left. Eighteen years and then the marriage had simply been over. All she'd said was that she couldn't take it anymore, that she couldn't deal with being a cop's wife any longer. But what else could he do? He couldn't change careers-didn't even want to. On the other hand, Patsy had complained about his drinking, too, and if he wanted to be really honest about it, she was right-he had had been drinking too much. Besides, even one drink on an airplane always left him with a hangover. Better to spend the time finding out what, if anything, Richard Kraven had told Anne Jeffers before he'd died. been drinking too much. Besides, even one drink on an airplane always left him with a hangover. Better to spend the time finding out what, if anything, Richard Kraven had told Anne Jeffers before he'd died.

"Anything you want to talk about?" he asked, s.h.i.+fting his muscular six-foot-two, 210-pound frame a fraction of an inch in a futile effort to make himself more comfortable in the cramped seat.

Anne had been staring out the window at the endless expanse of clouds that lay in an unbroken blanket a few thousand feet below the plane, and at first the detective's words didn't register. Then she sighed, rubbed at her stiffening neck and glanced over at him. "About Glen?" she asked, deliberately pretending she couldn't read Blakemoor like a book. From what she'd gathered about his recent divorce, the man had barely paid any attention to his own wife when he'd been married to her; so why on earth would he now be interested in her husband, whom he didn't even know? Then she relented: after all, Blakemoor had been willing to give up his seat on this flight, even though it hadn't come to that. "Or is it Richard Kraven you want to talk about?"

"Either way," Blakemoor replied. "But I guess I'm not real good with the sympathy thing. Patsy always used to say-" He cut his own words short, reddening slightly. "Oh, the h.e.l.l with what Patsy used to say, right? So come on, give. What did Kraven say? I've got a lot of open cases back home. If you can close even one of them for me, it'd sure help."

Anne shook her head. "Believe me, Mark, if he'd said anything relevant, I'd tell you. Even if I didn't use it in a story, I'd still tell you. You've put too much effort into this for too many years. But it was the same old thing: he didn't have anything to do with anything, he was framed, there's a conspiracy, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera."

The detective's eyes narrowed darkly. "You'd think a man'd want to go to his grave with a clean conscience, wouldn't you? But not Kraven. Coldest son of a b.i.t.c.h I ever saw." Silence fell between them again as each retreated to his own thoughts. With Blakemoor's next question, though, Anne knew at once that his mullings hadn't been terribly different from her own. "What do you think? Any chance at all that we were wrong?"

"Who are you asking?" Anne countered, a thin smile curling the corners of her mouth. "Anne Jeffers, ace journalist, or Anne Jeffers, private citizen?"

"How about we start with the private citizen?"

"He's guilty," Anne stated with no hesitation at all. "Guilty, guilty, guilty, as charged. And guilty of all the others he was never charged with, too."

"Okay," Blakemoor said. "Now, what about Anne Jeffers, ace reporter? What does she think?"