Tail Spin
Page 85
A Secret Service agent opened the doors and paramedics rushed in carrying medical bags and a gurney. Savich listened to Sherlock tell them his symptoms as they worked over him. He heard an older man say abruptly, “Would you look at all that blood!”
They had him on the gurney quickly, white cloths draped over all the bloody clothes.
Two FBI agents accompanied the group. “Keep me informed,” Savich said, then turned back, saw the vice president looking over the heads of the crowd at him, and nodded.
Another three minutes and all the senators had turned to face Rachael once again at the podium.
The vice president nodded to Rachael. “As you all know by now, ladies and gentlemen, someone has fallen ill. I’m told it was Greg Nichols, the former senior staffer for Senator Abbott. He is being seen to, and we certainly hope he will be all right. Ms. Abbott, after all this excitement, do you feel like continuing?”
She nodded, stepped again to the podium, adjusted the microphone. Greg, what happened?
FIFTY-FOUR
She looked out over the group, met Laurel’s cold, malicious eyes, and nearly recoiled. Then Laurel smirked, no other way to describe that small, self-satisfied smile. Her father’s sister—how could that be possible?
She looked around at the group, cleared her throat, and said, “I’m very sorry my father’s chief of staff, Greg Nichols, has taken ill. I hope he will be all right. I will keep this brief.
“My father loved our nation’s capital, and it disturbed him that alongside the beautiful granite buildings, the stretches of perfectly maintained parklands, just beside the towering monuments, there is squalor and poverty, their roots dug deep for more years than anyone can remember. It both angered and embarrassed him.
“Therefore, in his honor, I will be creating and endowing the John James Abbott Foundation, which will address first and foremost our local citizens’ problems. You are our nation’s lawmakers, our movers and shakers. I would appreciate any and all expertise you can throw my way. Together, we can make a difference in his name, I’m sure we can.”
She picked up her glass of water, raised it high. “I would like to toast Senator John James Abbott, a compassionate man, and an excellent father.” She raised her glass, and the rest of the room quickly followed suit. “To making a difference!”
There was a moment of silence while people drank, then, slowly, the members of the Senate stood, clapping, their eyes on her, nodding.
When she returned to the table, Jack said, “I didn’t know what you were going to say, but a foundation—that’s an excellent idea, Rachael.”
She took his hand and said, in a low voice, “I couldn’t do it. I thought hard about it, Jack. I finally decided you were right. What my father would or would not have done became moot the moment he died. It was his decision and only his, no one else’s. It would be wrong of me to change how history will judge him. I don’t have that right or that responsibility. Only he did.”
FIFTY-FIVE
Washington Memorial Hospital
Monday night
One of the emergency room doctors, Frederick Bentley, turned tired eyes to the clock on the waiting room wall. His green shirt was still covered with blood. He said, more to himself than to the people standing around him, “Isn’t that strange? It’s ten o’clock, straight up. It always seems to be ten o’clock straight up when the freight train hits. You’d think midnight, the witching hour, would bring that choo-choo, but no. All right, I can tell you Greg Nichols is still alive, but I doubt he will be for long.
“We poured blood, plasma, and fluids into him to resuscitate him. His PT—that means prothrombin time—measured off the charts, meaning his blood wasn’t clotting, and his hematocrit just wasn’t compatible with life.
“He has remained unconscious. We’ve intubated him, meaning we put a tube into his trachea through his nose to allow him to be hooked up to a respirator. We’ll be moving him to the ICU in a minute.
“We’re not yet certain why his blood isn’t clotting, but I’m thinking poison or an overdose. Most commonly it’s coumarin, or something chemically related to it like a superwarfarin, which is used as rat poison. It must have been a massive dose.
“We took stomach and blood samples, which will show us what was in his system, and maybe how long ago he ingested it. It will take a while for the results, though.
“To be blunt, I’m surprised he’s still alive. Even if he regains consciousness, he may not be able to talk. I strongly doubt his brain survived the anoxia, the lack of oxygen. Would one of you like to see him?”
Savich followed Dr. Bentley into a screened-off section of the emergency room.
“You’re the boss, right?”
“Yeah, I get all the perks.”
“Good luck.”
Nichols lay alone and still, his face white as a plaster saint’s. Dried blood and vomit caked the side of his mouth. His eyes were closed; his lids looked bruised, like someone had punched him. There were two IV lines tethered to his wrists. The obscene wheezing of the respirator was the only sound in the room.
Savich leaned close. “Mr. Nichols.”
Savich heard Dr. Bentley suck in a breath behind him when Nichols opened his eyes. Savich saw the death film beginning to creep into them. No, Greg Nichols wasn’t going to live through this.
“Do you know who poisoned you, Mr. Nichols?”
Savich was losing him. His eyes were darkening, the film covering them, like a veil. His voice was urgent. “Who, Mr. Nichols?”
He was struggling for breath to speak but couldn’t.
His eyes froze. He was gone.
Nichols was dead and Savich wanted to howl. There were alarms, the heart machine flatlined.
Two nurses joined Dr. Bentley in the cubicle. Savich stepped out and returned to the small waiting room. There was an older black couple there now, their faces blank with shock, holding each other.
“Come with me,” Savich said to Jack and Rachael. He took Sherlock’s hand and led them into a long empty hallway, away from the emergency room and the soul-deadening silence of that waiting room.
“He’s dead. He regained consciousness, but it was only for a moment.”
“They killed him, Dillon.”
“Yes, Rachael, I think they did. And they did it dramatically, something I think pleased their vanity.”
“But why?”
They had him on the gurney quickly, white cloths draped over all the bloody clothes.
Two FBI agents accompanied the group. “Keep me informed,” Savich said, then turned back, saw the vice president looking over the heads of the crowd at him, and nodded.
Another three minutes and all the senators had turned to face Rachael once again at the podium.
The vice president nodded to Rachael. “As you all know by now, ladies and gentlemen, someone has fallen ill. I’m told it was Greg Nichols, the former senior staffer for Senator Abbott. He is being seen to, and we certainly hope he will be all right. Ms. Abbott, after all this excitement, do you feel like continuing?”
She nodded, stepped again to the podium, adjusted the microphone. Greg, what happened?
FIFTY-FOUR
She looked out over the group, met Laurel’s cold, malicious eyes, and nearly recoiled. Then Laurel smirked, no other way to describe that small, self-satisfied smile. Her father’s sister—how could that be possible?
She looked around at the group, cleared her throat, and said, “I’m very sorry my father’s chief of staff, Greg Nichols, has taken ill. I hope he will be all right. I will keep this brief.
“My father loved our nation’s capital, and it disturbed him that alongside the beautiful granite buildings, the stretches of perfectly maintained parklands, just beside the towering monuments, there is squalor and poverty, their roots dug deep for more years than anyone can remember. It both angered and embarrassed him.
“Therefore, in his honor, I will be creating and endowing the John James Abbott Foundation, which will address first and foremost our local citizens’ problems. You are our nation’s lawmakers, our movers and shakers. I would appreciate any and all expertise you can throw my way. Together, we can make a difference in his name, I’m sure we can.”
She picked up her glass of water, raised it high. “I would like to toast Senator John James Abbott, a compassionate man, and an excellent father.” She raised her glass, and the rest of the room quickly followed suit. “To making a difference!”
There was a moment of silence while people drank, then, slowly, the members of the Senate stood, clapping, their eyes on her, nodding.
When she returned to the table, Jack said, “I didn’t know what you were going to say, but a foundation—that’s an excellent idea, Rachael.”
She took his hand and said, in a low voice, “I couldn’t do it. I thought hard about it, Jack. I finally decided you were right. What my father would or would not have done became moot the moment he died. It was his decision and only his, no one else’s. It would be wrong of me to change how history will judge him. I don’t have that right or that responsibility. Only he did.”
FIFTY-FIVE
Washington Memorial Hospital
Monday night
One of the emergency room doctors, Frederick Bentley, turned tired eyes to the clock on the waiting room wall. His green shirt was still covered with blood. He said, more to himself than to the people standing around him, “Isn’t that strange? It’s ten o’clock, straight up. It always seems to be ten o’clock straight up when the freight train hits. You’d think midnight, the witching hour, would bring that choo-choo, but no. All right, I can tell you Greg Nichols is still alive, but I doubt he will be for long.
“We poured blood, plasma, and fluids into him to resuscitate him. His PT—that means prothrombin time—measured off the charts, meaning his blood wasn’t clotting, and his hematocrit just wasn’t compatible with life.
“He has remained unconscious. We’ve intubated him, meaning we put a tube into his trachea through his nose to allow him to be hooked up to a respirator. We’ll be moving him to the ICU in a minute.
“We’re not yet certain why his blood isn’t clotting, but I’m thinking poison or an overdose. Most commonly it’s coumarin, or something chemically related to it like a superwarfarin, which is used as rat poison. It must have been a massive dose.
“We took stomach and blood samples, which will show us what was in his system, and maybe how long ago he ingested it. It will take a while for the results, though.
“To be blunt, I’m surprised he’s still alive. Even if he regains consciousness, he may not be able to talk. I strongly doubt his brain survived the anoxia, the lack of oxygen. Would one of you like to see him?”
Savich followed Dr. Bentley into a screened-off section of the emergency room.
“You’re the boss, right?”
“Yeah, I get all the perks.”
“Good luck.”
Nichols lay alone and still, his face white as a plaster saint’s. Dried blood and vomit caked the side of his mouth. His eyes were closed; his lids looked bruised, like someone had punched him. There were two IV lines tethered to his wrists. The obscene wheezing of the respirator was the only sound in the room.
Savich leaned close. “Mr. Nichols.”
Savich heard Dr. Bentley suck in a breath behind him when Nichols opened his eyes. Savich saw the death film beginning to creep into them. No, Greg Nichols wasn’t going to live through this.
“Do you know who poisoned you, Mr. Nichols?”
Savich was losing him. His eyes were darkening, the film covering them, like a veil. His voice was urgent. “Who, Mr. Nichols?”
He was struggling for breath to speak but couldn’t.
His eyes froze. He was gone.
Nichols was dead and Savich wanted to howl. There were alarms, the heart machine flatlined.
Two nurses joined Dr. Bentley in the cubicle. Savich stepped out and returned to the small waiting room. There was an older black couple there now, their faces blank with shock, holding each other.
“Come with me,” Savich said to Jack and Rachael. He took Sherlock’s hand and led them into a long empty hallway, away from the emergency room and the soul-deadening silence of that waiting room.
“He’s dead. He regained consciousness, but it was only for a moment.”
“They killed him, Dillon.”
“Yes, Rachael, I think they did. And they did it dramatically, something I think pleased their vanity.”
“But why?”
