The RX Factor Page 9

  Senator Nichols shook his head in disagreement. Lean and angular and sporting wire-rimmed glasses, he was in every way Dorn's opposite and strung together his sentences with quick precision. "My constituents will hang me out to dry if I co-sponsor a bill that has no cap on the Social Security wage base. I'm afraid that we are going to need to put a reasonable cap into the bill. I am open to a step-up raise in the minimum age requirements, and I agree with Senator Dorn that this bill is already bipartisan. There is no need to offer any carrots."

  McNally was quick to counter. "Allen, ninety-five percent of the people who voted for you don't even earn enough to receive any relief from the current Social Security wage base cap. They'll applaud any initiative you make to protect their future Social Security that passes a larger proportion of the bill on to the wealthy. And Jim, if we don't begin to raise the minimum eligibility age, any gains made by raising the earnings cap will be offset—and then some—by an ever-growing population of people eligible for Social Security. You know this. I know this. Hell, anyone who has studied the problem to any degree knows this. So let's stop fucking around and put out a bill that makes at least a little bit of sense."

  "Ed," Senator Dorn said, "you know I agree with you in principal, but even if we all get behind these initiatives, the other side is going to shoot it down."

  Senator Nichols removed his glasses and searched them for dust and debris. "I agree. The other side is going to shoot it down if we go all the way on both of these provisions."

  McNally scratched his head. "So you both agree with these provisions, yet it wasn't a minute ago you were both on your high horses saying the bill is what is needed to save Social Security, that it's already structured as a bipartisan bill, and that we'll hang the other side out to dry if they try to shoot it down. Now I agree that the other side will shoot it down as is. That's why we need to offer them a big carrot to accept the bill with these provisions."

  Dorn rubbed his paunch. "And what are you suggesting that big carrot should be?"

  "Gentlemen, as you know, the inheritance tax relief provision is set to expire soon. Their proposal to have it made permanent has been killed on the floor of Congress. Their big supporters are the ultra-wealthy, and this reinstatement of the inheritance tax will harm them the most; these constituents are pissing and moaning louder than anyone else to find a way to get inheritance relief reinstated. If we offer to include this in the bill, I assure you we can get our Social Security bill passed. And Allen, before you complain that your constituents will go berserk if you vote to extend inheritance tax relief, we know that this will never affect the majority of the people who voted for you. While they may not jump for joy about this provision, in the end they'll gladly accept the bill as progress."

  "That may be, Ed," Senator Nichols said, "but providing tax relief to the wealthy is everything this party is against."

  "This is Congress, Allen. Sometimes we have to compromise our principles for the greater good. Besides, the additional tax revenue we receive from reinstatement of the inheritance tax would just be squandered on some worthless social program or used to fund another war that doesn't need fighting. The economic fight is on our turf, and if Social Security reform is not passed now, it may be too late to fix it in a few years."

  Senator Nichols laughed amicably. "You're a hard person to disagree with, Ed, especially when I agree with everything you say. Maybe with this additional provision, the bill could work."

  "It has to work, or our country is going to be in big trouble. A trouble I'm afraid we will not be able to recover from."

  Senator Dorn sighed. Like Nichols, he looked ready to give in. "I think we need to take a shot at this. Ed, if you'll fill in the fine points and send me a copy, I'll certainly review it with an open mind."

  "I'll have a final draft of the bill to each of you by the end of the day. You can review it over the weekend, and if we're all in agreement, we'll move forward next week."

  Marge stopped Senator McNally before he could sneak by her on the way back to his office. "How did the meeting go?"

  "Good," he said. "I think I finally got them to sign on."

  Although she relished keeping Senator McNally in line, at the moment his secretary was beaming with pride. "That's great news, sir. Congratulations."

  "Thanks," the senator replied. "But even if we get the bill passed, it will only buy us another five years or so, unless . . ."

  Marge cocked her head. "Unless what?"

  It was tempting to fill her in, to unload on someone outside the bubble. But he could never share what he knew. "Never mind," he said, and retired to his office. Once inside, he locked the door. If Marge tried the door and found it locked, she'd know not to disturb him. She had always respected his boundaries, even during those moments when she no doubt felt he deserved another scolding.

  He walked to his credenza and picked up a photo of two smiling elderly gentlemen, one of them wrapping his arm around the other's shoulder, standing on the deck of a beautiful luxury yacht. The gentleman on the right bore a striking resemblance to Senator McNally, albeit thirty years into the future. McNally set the photo down on his credenza and wiped away a tear that was trickling down his cheek.

  Chapter 13

  William Craven answered his cell phone on the second ring.

  "Good afternoon," the man on the other end of the line said. "What do you have for me?"

  Craven sighed as he gazed out the window of his taxi. He hated giving his boss anything but successful reports. "Good news and bad," he finally answered. "Bad news first. Our friend is on the move, so we're still awaiting resolution. Good news is, we've hired someone local to finish the job. He knows the territory and assures me success is imminent."

  "Good. No more screw-ups. In the meantime, I've got something else I need you to take care of."

  Craven loosened his tie. "Hit me."

  "Witherspoon is reporting positive results in Nigeria—one hundred percent positive. I've instructed the investment bankers to put together a deal to acquire GenClone. I want you to start preparing background reports on all key personnel."

  "Done," Craven said. "Anything else?"

  "No. I think you have more than enough to keep you busy."

  Chapter 14

  The news from Crawford was discouraging. By the time their pizza arrived, Ryan and Jordan had lost their appetites. None of the fun and good cheer of the previous evening at Cafe Ba-Ba-Reeba lingered. Thoughts of the Loukas dead end weighed on both of them. Ryan couldn't think of anything to offer but more speculation.

  "Isn't there a chance that the Haitians were after your aunt and uncle for their own reasons?"

  Jordan didn't answer. Moving her fork back and forth across her pizza, she seemed lost in thought.

  With little enthusiasm, Ryan said, "Maybe the Haitians only went after you because they had messed things up and wanted to tie up the loose end."

  Jordan continued her listless motions with her fork. "I don't know. That doesn't make sense," she muttered under her breath.

  Ryan reached over and patted the back of her hand. She gave him a weak smile.

  "Will you be going back to Exuma?" Jordan asked.

  "If you don't mind, I'll stick around for a few days. I'm still concerned about your safety. Hell, I could have called Crawford from Exuma and faxed him the Interpol report. Even though Loukas seems to be a dead end, there is someone with deep pockets and a lot of power who may want you out of the picture and I've got nothing better to do right now. You can rely on Jim Crawford, but he is not authorized to arrange protection unless they can pinpoint a viable threat."

  "I appreciate this, Ryan. You are welcome to stay as long as you want." She looked up from her plate. "I love having you around, but hate the thought of having you risk your neck for me."

  "I know, but we already had that conversation. Case closed."

  The waiter appeared with a take-out container. Jordan placed the uneaten half of the deep-dish pizza into the box
and turned to Ryan, her eyes dull. "I'm not feeling too well. Would you mind taking this pizza while I use the ladies' room? We can eat it at home tonight."

  Ryan stood, concerned. "Okay. I'll have the valet get the car. I'll meet you outside."

  Stepping into the bitter cold outside the restaurant, Ryan presented the ticket to a young man with dark skin and a maroon smock just as a tall young white man with long hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing a similar smock snapped it away from him. "I'll get it."

  When the valet wheeled up with the jet-black BMW X5, Ryan smiled. The car was an exact match for Jordan: sleek, sexy, and sassy.

  The pony-tailed kid hopped out of the car and hurried away to the next customer before Ryan could give him his tip. Standing by the SUV with the driver's side door ajar, Ryan spotted Jordan strolling toward him down the covered entryway. He admired her fabulous figure as she approached. Mesmerized, Ryan tossed the pizza box over to the passenger seat.

  The explosion stopped Jordan mid-stride, the flash of light searing her retinas. When reality hit her, she moaned, "Oh my god!" Louder and in a panic, she wailed, "Ryan! Where are you?"

  A shower of flaming debris from the BMW rained down around her. Her eyes darted back and forth as she searched for Ryan through the smoke. Then she spotted what looked like a twisted bundle of rags huddled on the pavement about ten feet from the mangled car.

  She threw both hands to her mouth, the screams of a nearby woman reverberating in her head. Everything was moving at a tortured, dragging pace.

  She turned, almost as if in a trance, to discover the source of the shrieking: the sounds were her own. She screamed Ryan's name, unable to move, her eyes riveted to the still form on the street.

  Chapter 15

  Shaking her head as she slowly emerged from the haze of shock, Jordan finally gathered her courage and dashed over to peer down into Ryan's blackened face. A brave bystander from the other side of the street had grabbed him by the arms and dragged him away from the burning debris. She took a deep, ragged breath and placed her finger against his neck, searching for a pulse. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she released her finger. She had detected a weak flutter—a hopeful, yet frightening indication of Ryan's precarious condition.

  When the paramedics arrived, she explained that she was a doctor and close friend of the victim, and they let her ride along to the hospital. She averted her eyes as the paramedics ripped his clothes off, revealing more charred skin. As a doctor, her first impulse was to jump right into the fray and administer first aid, but she knew they would not allow it. In fact, the uncontrollable trembling of her entire body rendered her useless to assist.

  At the hospital, Ryan was rushed into the emergency room. Jordan was ordered to wait outside. Within fifteen minutes, two uniformed Chicago cops came in searching for the woman whom they had seen ride away with the ambulance. Though both looked to be in their early forties, the officers were a study in contrasts. One was short, nearly bald, and sported a pencil-thin mustache. The other was tall and thin with unkempt hair and great bushy eyebrows that hovered over his pale eyes like storefront awnings.

  Jordan had little to offer them, as she knew no more about the explosion than any of the other bystanders. Still, they plowed dutifully onward with their mundane questions that, given Ryan's condition, increased her ire with every passing word.

  "What's your relationship with the victim?" the short one asked.

  She glared at her inquisitor. "Friend," she said.

  "Whose car was it?"

  "Mine," she said through tight teeth.

  "Why did the car explode? Was it a bomb?"

  "Look," she snapped, "what's the use of all these questions? My concern right now is with his status. I don't want to focus on anything else, especially answering a bunch of nonsense."

  The tall cop did not take well to her outburst. "Look, lady. This is serious business and our ques tions are anything but nonsense. These days a bomb goes off and people want to know if terrorists are involved. Trust me, you'd rather deal with us than the FBI on this one. If you evade our questions, you're gonna wind up a prime suspect."

  "I'm not evading anything. But you're asking me things I don't know. I already told you that I was walking out of the restaurant when I saw my car explode. That is all I know." She emphasized the last three words as though the cops were schoolchildren, all the while staring at the ER door.

  "You know they're not gonna let you go in there," the taller officer said. "When they're ready, they'll come out and tell you what's going on. In the meantime, why don't you just cooperate and answer our questions, dumb as they may sound."

  Jordan sighed and bowed her head. "Okay," she said, her voice lowered, "ask away."

  The shorter cop licked his thumb and turned a page in his notebook. "Okay now, any idea who might want to see your friend Mr. Matthews hurt?"

  "It's Dr. Ryan Matthews, and the answer is no—at least not to my knowledge."

  "Where does he live?"

  "Exuma."

  "Where's that? Someplace up north?"

  "No. It's an island in the Bahamas."

  The cop gave a nod and wrote it down. "So, who do you think might have reason to do something like this?"

  "Oh, for Christ's sake." She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. "This isn't the first time I've been through this sort of thing."

  The tall cop raised his impressive brows.

  "I'm not sure, but I think they were after me, not him."

  "Who are 'they'?"

  Exasperated, Jordan spit out, "The drug lords, okay? The goddamned drug lords."

  The cop looked confused. "So there's some kind of gang connection?"

  Jordan was gritting her teeth and about to answer when Dr. Sidkey appeared. She dashed over to him.

  "Is he okay?" she asked.

  The doctor took her by the shoulders. "Relax. He's going to be all right. He's got a concussion and some second-degree burns to the arms and chest, but he's conscious and alert."

  She felt her knees weaken and realized that the doctor was supporting her as she leaned against him.

  Leading her to a nearby chair, the doctor made certain that she was stable before continuing. "He was lucky. Apparently, he was on the opposite side of the car from the explosion, and partially protected by the door"

  "How long is he going to have to stay here?"

  "Oh, I'd say about a week. Burns can be tricky. There's always the possibility of infection.

  We're hopeful that they will heal up without the need for skin grafts."

  After gathering enough detail to satisfy her medical background, she left Dr. Sidkey and found herself confronted by the tedious presence of the two police officers, who were by no means done questioning her. "Look," said the taller of the Mutt and Jeff duo, "you left us with a real provocative statement. You said the 'drug lords' did it. Is that some new gang?"

  Jordan sighed and asked to sit down. The cops flanked her on the bench and she explained the whole story for them from Exuma up until the present. The shorter one wrote every detail in his notebook, asking once for the spelling of pharmaceutical. At the end of the interview, all they told her was that they would turn the information over to the Detective Bureau. If they knew anything more than that, they weren't about to share it. They said they would be in touch and then departed, leaving her alone on the hard bench in the fluorescent-lit hallway.

  Jordan steeped for a moment in the realization that this was all really happening as tears welled in her eyes. After a few moments, she got up and went to the bathroom to freshen her makeup and attempted to pull herself back together.

  When she came back out, she found Jim Crawford waiting for her in the corridor. She updated him on Ryan's condition before proceeding to explain everything that had happened. Crawford told her that he would follow up with the police to see if they had come up with any suspects. He cautioned her that, at present, this crime was not in the FBI's jurisdiction. That would only hap
pen if the police suspected out-of-state or terrorist connections. Since the police weren't too fond of calling in the Feds, he would have to dig around on his own time.

  Seeing her concern, Crawford gripped her arm. "Try not to worry. From what you tell me, ol' Ryan is gonna be fine. Meantime, I'll see what I can find out and arrange for your protection. Whatever you do, don't leave the hospital until I've made those arrangements."

  ***

  Jordan awoke to the sound of laughing nurses down the hallway. She was huddled under her coat on a long wooden bench. Some kind soul had dropped a hospital blanket over her. She looked around, blinking under the fluorescent light. White-clad staff began to appear in the corridor as the day shift clocked in. In the distance, the clatter of trays and utensils suggested breakfast was being prepared. Wiping the sleep from her eyes and stretching out the painful kinks caused by her hard bed, Jordan got herself ready to tackle the day.

  Now that the panic was over, she remembered why she hated hospitals. For one, she loathed the antiseptic smell that always had a way of clinging to you, even after you left. What really bothered her, though, was the inevitable insensitivity that accompanies the impossible task of taking care of such a large number of ailing people. She knew it was an odd opinion for a doctor to hold, but she hated the idea of doctors and nurses kidding with each other, gossiping, and chatting about their weekend plans or last night's date, when in every room, people were suffering. Some were near death, and none of them were laughing.

  She went into the ladies' room, washed her face, and reapplied some lipstick. Taking the elevator to the cafeteria on the third floor, she had a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.

  As Jordan was finishing her second cup of the watery hospital brew, Dr. Sidkey entered the cafeteria. Sure enough, he was chatting lightly with a nurse, and both were laughing. He spotted her and walked over.