Blind-sided

====================== Blind-Sided by Monette Michaels and Janet Ferran ====================== Copyright (c)2004 by Draper-Ferran, LLC First published by Atlantic Bridge Publishing, May, 2004 Atlantic Bridge www.atlanticbridge.net Suspense/Thriller

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Published by Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2004, Draper-Ferran, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the authors. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. -------From the corrupt streets of New Orleans to the steamy plains and jungles of Brazil, _Blind-Sided_ twists and turns as torturously as the snakes that swim the bayous of Louisiana. **** _Jeanette saw the man, his presence first reflected in the store windows. He

was following her and had been now for three blocks. Instinct told her to lead him away from her apartment and seek help._ _Jeanette stepped up her pace, hoping against hope he hadn't figured her game plan. She was so close to her goal._ _Too late. Running feet approached her. She wasn't going to make it..._ **** "I realize the cliche 'page turner' has been overused, but this fast-paced, well-written thriller certainly deserves this classification ... although this is certainly a work of fiction, the clever weaving of the scientific background of the 'epi' project along with its New Orleans setting struck, at times, a familiar note." -- Miles H. Friedlander, MD, Corneal Specialist and Professor of Ophthalmology, Tulane Medical School. **** "It has the suspense and drama of a Grisham novel. Exposes the seedy side of health care with the greed and cover-up." -- Donald Rowan, Esq., Assistant District Attorney for Jefferson Parrish. **** "Here is a medical and legal thriller combination that, in my opinion, is right up there with novels written by author John Grisham! I simply can not describe how much I enjoyed this story. It kept me on the edge of my seat the entire time. It is very well written, fast paced, and the characters seem very realistic."-Detra Fitch for _Huntress Reviews._ **** "Monette Michaels and Janet Ferran have invested a tremendous talent and well researched knowledge in their suspenseful novel, Blind-Sided. Invest your time as a reader and you will not waste a single minute." -- Stewart Thomas, author of Apology for the Devil. DEDICATION This book is dedicated to the memory of Dennis K. Bee. A portion of the proceeds of this book will be donated in his name to the Guide Dog Foundation for the Blind, Inc. in Smithtown, New York. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Thanks to all my loved ones for their support and belief in me. It was only with the help of my daughter Tina, son-in-law Matthew, grandson Austin, friends Dee, Charles, Al, Rick, Tina, Bruce, Lynn, Walter, Henry and Elaine that an unfortunate set of circumstances became a fictional novel. I thank God

for guiding me to my talented co-author Moni, who made Blind-Sided a reality. Finally, thanks to my favorite legal eagles Raymond Landry and Lennie Berins for believing in my real-life case enough to take on the big boys. -- Janet Ferran **** I thank my husband, Tom, whose medical background made writing Blind-Sided a breeze, and my son, Michael, who is just a really neat kid. I would also like to thank the Mystery Writers of America for helping Janet and I find one another. In the writing of this book, I made a new friend. And, finally, thanks to Linda, Mike, April and Jim for helping me make the trade edition a reality. -- Monette Michaels -------PROLOGUE _New Orleans Parish Courthouse -- Present Day_ "Forget everything you know, and maybe you -- and your daughter will live." Jeanette LaFleur stopped in the middle of the courthouse lobby. Her heart pounding in her ears, she turned slowly in an attempt to locate the source of the voice. The trial had already started, and the lobby was almost deserted. The only other visible presence was a bored security guard at the entryway metal detector almost thirty feet away. _Swish, swish._ The sound, like fabric rubbing against itself, had come from above and behind her. Whirling around, she looked up and caught a glimpse of a hand protruding from beneath the edge of a dark sleeve, then it vanished from the second-floor railing. For a second, she wondered if she might have imagined it. But she knew she hadn't, anymore than she had imagined the voice. The voice had been unfamiliar, but there could be no doubt who the owner of the voice worked for. Jeanette's testimony was due today, and her words could seal the downfall of the defendant. The perceived danger gone as quickly as it had come, she turned and headed

toward the relative safety of the courtroom and the mass of people gathered inside. With a hand more shaky than she would have liked, she pushed the door inward and entered. The evil in the room was so thick Jeanette could almost touch it. She knew its source. The man in the defendant's chair. As if by some foul telepathy, he sensed her presence and turned his head toward her. His thin lips stretched into a humorless smile. His dark cold eyes reflected the truth of his depraved soul. And for the first time since this whole mess began, Jeanette wondered if she had the fortitude to end this man's reign of evil. Swallowing the ever-present fear that threatened to choke her, she prayed for her legs to move. As she walked, head held high, toward the front of the courtroom, his dead eyes followed. She could have sworn she heard his taunting laughter in her mind. -------PART ONE By the glare of false science betray'd, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind. -- The Hermit, James Beattie (1735-1803) -------CHAPTER ONE _New Orleans, a year and a half earlier._ The essence of scrambled eggs, bacon and other indefinable breakfast smells mingled with the lemony odors of antiseptic cleaning solution and of something else Jeanette was sure she'd rather not know the identity. She leaned against the wall next to the door of the Charity Hospital morgue and waited for the arrival of Walter Monnier, the Eye Bank technician. He was going to show her how donor tissue was harvested for Dr. Byron Rutherford's Epi Study, more commonly known as the Living Lens Project.. It was her first day on the job, and she was excited -- nervous -- and still unbelieving of her good luck to snag such a jewel of a job straight out of college.

It had been four months ago, though it seemed like only yesterday, she'd met the charismatic head of the research project, Dr. Byron Rutherford. She'd attended the annual National Ophthalmic Convention, representing her professor and mentor, Dr. Austin Shriver's, contact lens project on which she'd been a research assistant. Rutherford was the conference's keynote speaker, and according to Dr. Shriver, the only reason the convention was held in New Orleans. Dr. Shriver introduced her to his residency classmate, Rutherford, who in turn charmed, then invited her to apply for a job with his project after her graduation. And, here she was. As she waited for the Eye Bank technician, the hospital awakened. Food service techs moved large carts filled with breakfast trays in and out of the kitchen, located right across the hall from the morgue. If the patients knew where their food had been prepared, Jeanette was sure they would think twice about eating it. She'd already made a mental note not to eat in the cafeteria. Down the hallway, the morning shift janitors checked in, joking with the night shift as they punched out. The Tower of Babel had nothing on the mix of languages Jeanette overheard. Spanish phrases intermingled with Cajun patois, African-American hobnobbed with Vietnamese, southern twangs socialized with Texas drawls, and all of it punctuated with laughter -- lots of laughter. She smiled. The unaffected joy of the hard-working men and women was infectious and brightened the gloomy lower level corridor. Further up the hall, blue-suited security personnel also started their day. No infectious good spirits in that crowd. They could have been cloned from the same set of genes -- tall, stern-faced men with crew cuts, thick necks and eternally suspicious eyes. Women's lib had somehow managed to miss this corner of the employment world. She'd caught several of the men eyeing her, probably assessing her potential for danger. Now, if they were looking for someone dangerous, the man just entering the hallway would head the top of the list. It wasn't his size, since he was only average in height and build, but his demeanor that threatened. His body language was that of a street thug, reflected in the way he looked from side to side, as if he suspected someone might jump him. He looked like the kind of guy who carried a knife and knew how to use it. He stopped at the end of the hall and scanned the area slowly. His gaze swept over the janitors and the security personnel, then fixed on her. Smiling slightly, he headed her way. A sudden chill swept through Jeanette, the instinctive fear of a female being stalked by the dominant male in a primeval age. She fought the urge to check the other end of the hall for an escape route. She was overreacting, and she knew it. After all, this was a busy hospital and dozens of

people, including the security men, were within calling distance. She was being silly, probably a result of her anxiety in starting a new job. However, preferring to err on the side of caution, she decided to keep her eyes and options open. As the man passed the phalanx of men in blue, one of them called out. The man stopped to speak to the security men. One even punched the man lightly on the arm in a teasing manner. So he must be okay. Jeanette sighed, letting out the breath she'd been holding -- so much for judging people by their looks. Still, the man gave her the creeps. One of the security men motioned toward her and laughed. The man followed the gesture. He nodded at the others, joining them in the joke. They were talking about her! Jeanette's face burned. With anger? Embarrassment at being the brunt of some men's off-color jokes? Probably a bit of both. She hadn't been intimate with too many men since her husband, Paul, died on the burning sands of Iraq during Desert Storm. Before her marriage, her experience had been nil. Her current male friends, Charles Carter, a recent law graduate, and Dr. Scott Fontenot, Paul's boyhood friend, always treated her like a lady. The man clapped several of the security personnel on the shoulders, then left, continuing with a slow, steady stride toward her position. His manner was that of a predator who knew his quarry had no place to go. His face showed satisfaction in having reached his goal. Jeanette shivered and fought the urge to run. All she had to do was ignore him. He'd get the idea she wasn't interested. She had a job to do and couldn't afford to be late on her first day. Then it dawned. Oh no, please God, don't let _him_ be Walter Monnier. God wasn't listening. "Hey. You Ms. LaFleur?" He wasn't from New Orleans. In fact, he wasn't from the south at all. The broad vowels and nasal intonation suggested east coast. New York? New Jersey? Jeanette mentally groaned, hoping her expression didn't reflect her innate dislike -- all right, she admitted it -- her fear of the man standing in front of her, unlocking the door to the morgue. "Walter Monnier?" _Stupid question._ "That would be me." He grinned at her while his black-eyed gaze traveled up

and down her body at an insolent pace. His smile did nothing to lessen her unease. It reminded her of the look her grandmother's cat got when it grew tired of tormenting a mouse and went in for the kill. Walter opened the morgue door, then motioned for her to enter. Okay, so he had nice manners, but most predators lured their victims into a false sense of security with inviting ways. Fighting her gut, Jeanette preceded him into the morgue. Whoa! Now, she knew the origin of the indefinable odor she had smelled earlier. The room reeked of something sickeningly sweet, although a lemony cleaning solution fought hard for supremacy. "Formalin," Walter said. "What?" "The smell. In the morgue." Walter stepped into the room after her, then closed the door. Jeanette jumped. The thunderous click of the door lock vibrated throughout her body. If Walter noticed her reaction, he didn't give any indication. He just continued talking. "It's Formalin. Pathologists use it to preserve and fix body parts. The odor's hard to get rid of. I smell it for hours after I leave work. Gets in your clothes something fierce. Hell, sometimes I even taste it." "Uh huh." Well, what was she supposed to say? She could find no coherent response. She needed to get a grip here. She had to work with this man, though, hopefully, not on a daily basis. "Not much for talking, are ya?" Walter looked her up and down -- twice -slowly, lingeringly. "You're a tiny thing, ain't ya? Got a boyfriend or something?" "Yes!" _No flies on that answer, Bootsie,_ as Paul would have teased her. No way did she want this guy to get the idea she might be available. She'd have answered "yes" even if it weren't true. That's what they made confession for -those necessary white lies. "Too bad." Walter eyed her once more in a total body sweep. "I've heard you New Orleans' gals are hot." Definitely New Jersey or New York. _New Orleenz_, indeed. "Mr. Monnier, this really isn't appropriate. Even if I were available, I wouldn't date a co-worker." Her statement had sounded stuffy and she'd meant it to be. She only hoped that would be the end of the personal discussion.

"Rutherford know that?" "Of course." What did he mean by that? Dr. Rutherford was attentive and charming to her, kissing her hand and looking her deeply in the eyes when she spoke. But he couldn't be interested in her that way, could he? And if he was, she would make it crystal clear, she was his employee -- and only that. "If you say so," smirked Walter. "Okay, guess we'd better get the eyes and get them processed so you can get back to the Med Center. Wouldn't want to keep the boss waiting for his _co-worker_, now would we?" Jeanette ignored the implication in Walter's statement. The way he said "co-worker" created an urgent desire for a long, hot shower. Walter checked the chart on the wall by the refrigerated drawers containing the corpses awaiting autopsy, harvesting, or pickup by a mortuary. "Well, let's see what we got behind door number five, why don't we?" He unlatched the door, then pulled over a gurney on which to slide the body. The body shifted smoothly. After slamming the door shut, he pushed the cart toward the stainless steel sinks on the longest wall in the morgue. "Aren't you going to place the body on the autopsy table?" Jeanette asked as Walter removed several stainless steel instruments from a drawer under the sinks. "Nah. It takes too much time. 'Sides, not much mess in taking out eyes. Don't need the drains and such." He uncovered the body of an elderly black man. The dead man had an emaciated appearance as if he'd been sick for a long time or maybe suffering from malnutrition. "Get me one of those small plastic containers over there. And a lid." Walter nodded his head toward the opposite wall. Jeanette moved over to the indicated shelves holding numerous empty containers of all sizes. "How small?" she asked. "Urine cup size." He laughed. "Oh, excuse me, guess I should say two eyeballs size, huh?" Jeanette cringed at Walter's cavalier and unprofessional demeanor. The shelves were clearly marked with metric measurements. But, instead, Monnier had chosen to be juvenile. "Where did you get your med tech training?" _McDonalds?_ She set the empty jar near the corpse's head. Walter had opened one eye lid and was extracting the first eye. "Not a tech." Walter put the eye into the container, released the lid over the empty socket and proceeded to the next eye. "I'm 'monkey-see, monkey-do' trained." He chuckled.

"Oh." Well he certainly was fast and efficient. He almost had the second eye out. "Then where did you apprentice?" "Prison." Prison? Jeanette gulped, not even caring if he heard her or not. No wonder he was fast with a knife. Visions of knife fights and other images too horrid to put a name to flashed through her head. Speechless, Jeanette focused on the eyes lying in the translucent plastic container. While Walter re-covered the corpse and placed him back into the refrigerated drawer, Jeanette stood shivering. All her first impressions came back. This guy was a predator. Why had Dr. Rutherford hired someone like that? And more importantly, why hadn't he warned her? "You okay?" Walter's question, laced with suppressed laughter, shook her out of her shock. "Yes. Sure." She wasn't going to ask what he'd been in prison for. Nope. She wasn't going to go there. Dr. Rutherford wouldn't have hired him unless he trusted the man. Walter was probably completely rehabilitated. _Yeah, Bootsie, and Attila the Hun was a pacifist._ "Come on, then, move your cute little butt. We need to get these eyes to the lab and harvest the tissue." Walter picked up a cooler filled with ice into which he set the smaller container holding the eyes. "The transportation guys didn't get the stiff down to the refrigerator very fast. Cellular degeneration speeds up at room temp. I need to get the corneas off while the eyes are still half way fresh." Jeanette struggled to keep up with him as he strode away from the morgue. "Doesn't Silver River provide Dr. Rutherford with most of his tissue?" She was sure she'd heard a SRP sales representative say so at the convention. She recalled wandering around the convention exhibits, her goal to obtain an abstract from the Epi Study Booth, when a booming voice had captured her attention, side-tracking her. _"Yes sir, doctor. Silver River Pharmaceutical provides all sorts of tissue for research -- in fact, we provide all the corneas for Dr. Rutherford's research on the living lens."_ She could hear Stu Thomas's voice as if it were only yesterday. Yes, he had definitely said all the corneas. "Nah." Walter started down the stairs at the end of the hall. "We've got a deal with the Eye Bank. We get fifty percent of the donated corneas during the course of the Epi study. Doc pays them monthly for the use of the lab and my services."

"Oh." More vivid images of the convention flashed through her mind. She recalled a persistent doctor in the crowd, asking questions. Questions that had made Stu Thomas, a consummate salesman, uncomfortable. So uncomfortable he avoided the side of the crowd where the overly inquisitive doctor stood. _Behind her a man had snickered and whispered loudly to someone, "Guess old Stu wants to change the subject. Wonder why?"_ _Another man replied in a deep monotone, "One of Rutherford's clinic partners told me they had to throw out one whole shipment of SRP corneas, because..." The reasons were lost in the noise of the crowd._ _A third voice chimed. "Yeah. I heard that. I also heard Rutherford may be stuck using SRP tissue. He and the Eye Bank have been flaming each other over donor corneas. What's up with that? You're on the Eye Bank Board, Fred. You going to clue us in?"_ _"Not here." The deep monotone presumably belonging to Fred murmured, "Later, over drinks at Chez Paul's. I'll tell you all about..."_ Confused, Jeanette blurted, "I heard the Eye Bank and Doctor Rutherford don't always see eye-to-eye." "Funny lady." Walter stopped on the landing and looked at her. "The Eye Bank and the Doc get along just fine. Don't worry your pretty little head about it. It's all politics and ole Doc knows how to play the game in this town. Now come on, we ain't got all day." "Why are we going this way?" Jeanette stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A long, very dimly lit and fetid hallway stretched out in front of her. This had to be the sub-basement. "Isn't the Eye Bank lab in the Clinical Building on the first floor?" "Yeah, but the first floors in the two buildings don't connect," Walter threw over his shoulder as he started down the hall. "It's faster to take the tunnel. Are you going to stand around and ask questions all day or are you going to move?" "I'm coming." Jeanette followed Walter into the Stygian darkness. The smell of sewer gas and the sound of steam hissing from the pipes overhead added to the hellish atmosphere. Puddles of water dotted the cement walkway -- whether from dripping pipes or leaks in the walls of the tunnel, Jeanette didn't know, and if the truth be told, didn't want to find out. Just the idea that she was underground in a city whose water table was above her head gave her the willies.

The tunnel seemed to go on forever. At several points, other hallways fed into it. Walter seemed to know exactly where he was going, so she stayed close enough to follow, but not so close to be within grabbing distance. She still didn't trust the man -- especially alone in a dark tunnel. Finally, at one of the tunnel junctures, other people started to appear. She and Walter must be getting close to the Clinical Building. This part of the tunnel was brighter with flourescent lighting and white walls. The steam pipes, used to power the generators providing electricity to the hospital complex, were now hidden away in a false ceiling. Civilization was near. Jeanette sighed. Walter snickered at her audible relief, but she didn't care. The tension of the last few minutes had to escape or she'd burst. "Don't like tunnels?" Walter pushed open the door to the Clinical Building and allowed her to pass in front of him. "I'll remember that -- for the next time." Like hell there would be a next time. She'd walk outside in a hurricane before she would go into that hole in the ground again. "It was fine." Another white lie to confess. At this rate, she would have lots of "Hail Marys" come Saturday evening mass. "Sure, whatever you say." Walter led the way once more to the service elevator. "We've got to take this one. The administrators don't like us to carry body parts through the public areas. Sort of upsets the visitors and such. Once, one of the pathology assistants dropped a leg in the lobby. That's when the rule was created." As Jeanette stepped onto the elevator, she wondered about Dr. Rutherford's connections to the Eye Bank. The conference had been four months ago. Obviously, Dr. Rutherford had smoothed things over with them. According to Walter, all tissue came from the Eye Bank. As it should. The patients participating in the research project paid nothing but a processing fee for the corneas. If Dr. Rutherford had to purchase corneas from SRP, the cost would be prohibitive for the project budget, since they could not pass the cost of the lenses to the patient. In fact, the project would have to shut down. Research was always woefully under-funded. "You awake there, Flower?" Walter snapped his fingers in front of her face. "My name isn't Flower." Jeanette pushed past him and left the elevator. She stood and waited for Walter to follow. "You can call me Jeanette, not Jean and not Jeannie." Only Scott was allowed to call her Jeannie, and she barely tolerated Jean. "Well, _Jeanette_, the lab is to your left." Walter thrust the cooler with the eyes into her hands. "Take this and go on in. I need to take a leak."

"Uncouth jerk," she muttered. She opened the door, then entered the well-lit, sparkling clean lab. Begrudgingly, her opinion of Walter rose a notch. At least he was professional in how he kept his work space. Other than that and his efficiency in harvesting eyes, he was too rough, too uncivilized. Which is why he probably worked in this area of medicine and not in patient contact. Jeanette shuddered. Imagining Walter dealing with the public was a gruesome picture. Setting the cooler on a work bench, Jeanette moved around the lab and checked out the equipment. All of it was familiar from her training days. Seeing extra lab coats hanging on the wall, Jeanette found a fairly small one and put it on. She swam in it and had to roll the sleeves up several times. She wanted to be ready to assist if Walter ever decided to return. Glancing around the efficient lab, she pinched herself. She still couldn't believe she was part of one of the most prestigious eye research projects in the country, maybe even the world. Dr. Rutherford's Epikeratophakia procedure, known generically as the "living lens" procedure or Epi study, had been the sole reason the national organization had chosen to come to New Orleans. The rumors were this study would revolutionize the treatment of myopia, substituting a living lens made from donor corneal tissue for that of the plastic lenses traditionally used. Her former research project concerning the efficacy of contact lens wetting solutions would be moot. The living lens needed nothing to help it float since it became part of the eye. This project was the focus of the entire profession, an awesome responsibility for Dr. Rutherford and his staff. "I'm back." Walter's words startled Jeanette. How had he entered the room without her hearing him? The man moved like a large cat. "You ready?" Walter took the lid off the cooler, then removed the container. "There's a pad over there if you want to take notes." "Why would I want to do that?" Jeanette followed him to a work bench, upon which he spread a sterile drape. "You're here to learn, ain't ya?" Walter sighed at the look she threw him. "In case you ever have to do this part of the job." Walter picked one of the eyes out of the container and laid it on the clean cloth. "Doc likes his people to be multi-taskers." "Oh." What could she say? Nothing had ever been said to her about this aspect of her job. Not that she minded, she was always willing to learn new things. But the fact that she had to hear it from Walter made Jeanette feel -stupid.

"The S.O.B. didn't tell ya, did he?" Walter chuckled. "Well, besides coordinating the patient studies and doing follow-up, you'll be assisting in surgery, too. Yep, he likes to get the most bang for his buck out of the help." Walter winked. "I could tell you all the stuff he's had me do since he borrowed me, so-to-speak, from the Eye Bank, but it might gross you out. My advice, just take it as it comes." Jeanette picked up the pad of paper and found a pen in the pocket of the lab coat. Assuming a calm expression, and resolutely suppressing wild speculations about what other tasks Walter might have done for the Epi Study, she said, "I'm ready when you are." "Oh, Flower, I'm always ready." Walter cleanly removed the cornea from the first eye. As in the eye harvesting, he was deft with the scalpel, removing the cornea with a minimum of effort. He discarded the eyeball in a red-bagged container next to the workbench. Setting the removed cornea in a small glass dish, he proceeded to the next eye and again quickly removed the cornea, placing it next to the other. "Okay, listen up." Walter picked up a small stainless steel instrument that looked like a minuscule cookie cutter. "This is a trephine." "I know that." Walter shrugged. "Well, you never know these days. Some of the people coming through here can't tell a scalpel from a suture." Jeanette didn't believe that, but she nodded. The sooner he explained the procedure, the sooner she could get away from him. "Anyhow -- I'll use this to remove a central portion of the cornea." Forceps held one of the corneas in place as Walter placed the trephine in the center of the small piece of tissue and applied a small amount of pressure. In a movement almost too fast for Jeanette to see, he flicked the excess cornea into the red bag, then used a second trephine to cut the other. "We now have two corneal disks called buttons, the size of most gas permeable contact lenses." Walter swung around to the microscope at the work station. "Now, I'll remove the top layer and bottom layer of the cornea using an alcohol wipe. We do this..." "You remove the epithelial and endothelial layers to lower the antigen reaction and to allow for new growth on the recipient eye." Jeanette was tired of Walter's condescending tone. She knew what the top and bottom layers were called, after all she had a degree, dammit. And she'd read Dr. Rutherford's research papers thoroughly before reporting for work, so she knew the basic

whys and wherefores. "Well, go to the head of the class, Flower." Walter smirked, unfazed by the heat in her response. "You'd be surprised at some of the bimbos the Doc has hired in the past." Again, Jeanette resisted comment. She refused to believe that an esteemed physician like Dr. Rutherford hired any less than the best technicians. "Okie-dokie, then. You probably know this, but I'll explain it for the record." Walter took the two small corneal disks and placed them in a small wire basket. "We next place the buttons in liquid nitrogen to make them rigid, so we can lathe the lens to mimic the curve and lens power of a basic contact lens." After removing the basket from the container of liquid nitrogen, he placed one of the disks on the cryolathe and added small amounts of liquid nitrogen during the process to keep the disk rigid until the exact measurements he desired were reached. "There!" Walter removed the lathed lens. "We have the Living Lens. Now, all I have to do is vacuum the moisture out of the lens to return it back to its original supple state..." "Lyophilization." "Yeah, what you said." Walter pulled a small oddly shaped jar from the cupboard and filled it with a blue-tinged solution. "After we suck out the moisture, we place it in this blue stuff and store it until the surgery. If we don't use it within three to four weeks, we throw it out." "Do you store them here? What keeps the Eye Bank from using them for other hospitals?" "Nah, we ship them over to the Doc's lab at the med center, but it wouldn't make any difference if we did store them here." Walter held up the container. "See, these containers are for the Epi Study and only the Doc uses this blue solution. He patented it for this project. So, no one else uses either of these. No way are they gonna make a mistake and take the wrong corneas." Jeanette nodded. She'd never seen containers like these before, so it made sense. "Well, that's it. Any questions?" Walter quickly cleaned up his area. "No." Jeanette gathered up the instruments, cleaned them with alcohol rinsing with sterile water, then placing them in the autoclave for complete sterilization. "Okay, Flower. You're free to go. Doc is expecting you for lunch, I believe."

Walter smiled the sly smile Jeanette was beginning to associate with him. "Going to learn the rest of your _duties_." "Yes, that's what he told me." "Well, good luck, little Flower." Walter winked at her. "You ever dump that boyfriend, let me know. I could show you a real good time, if you know what I mean." _Pig! Only when New Orleans rises to above sea level._ Jeanette stalked from the room, followed by the sound of Walter's laughter. -------CHAPTER TWO Sounds of jazz and happy tourists wended their way from the public French Quarter to the darkened streets of the residential section. Jeanette swore the warm, moist, evening air contained scents of spicy "takee-outee" gumbo and jambalaya and chicory coffee. Logically, she knew the smells couldn't make it all the way to her balcony overlooking the courtyard of her Chartres Street apartment building, but she wasn't thinking rationally tonight. Elation competed with unease after her first day on the job, yet she'd gone ahead and celebrated with Charles and Scott and her eight-year-old daughter, Brigitte. If she could avoid the disturbing Walter Monnier, she was sure the Clinical Coordinator position would be perfect for her. After the project ended, as they all did, it would look good on her resume, and the salary allowed her to stop dipping into the money she'd inherited from her parents and Paul's grandmother. "Jean?" Charles Carter's New York accent jarred her from her reverie. "You with us? Brigitte is yawning. Isn't it her bedtime?" "Mommy, do I have to go to bed?" Brigitte climbed onto her lap. After a couple more years and a lot more growth, her dainty daughter wouldn't be caught dead climbing on her mother's lap. But for now she did, and Jeanette savored the blatant showing of love. "_Cher_, you have school tomorrow." She kissed her daughter's dark curls, so like her deceased husband's that a stab of pain sliced through her heart. "Off with you now. Brush your teeth, then I'll read you a story." "Okay, mama." Brigitte kissed her mother's lips loudly and giggled when Jeanette tickled her ribs -- a nightly routine. "You spoil the child, Jean."

Charles looked at her sternly, his voice filled with displeasure. She hated being called "Jean," but never had the nerve to tell him. Charles didn't take criticism well. Though, he had no problem taking her to task. "She's eight going on nine," Charles continued. "She's not a baby any longer." "She's _my_ baby..." Jeanette took a breath and stopped the defensive, harsh words before they took life. "She'll always be my baby, Charles. Trust me. She's not spoiled. All children need to know love and security." "You're a good mother, Jeannie," said Scott Fontenot. Warmth and bittersweet memories washed over her at his use of her dead husband's favorite pet name for her. Always the mediator, Scott, her husband's best friend and constant companion, even to the end in Desert Storm, had always been there for her and Brigitte. Just as he was now, helping her to celebrate her new job and smoothing Charles's ruffled feathers. "Charles just isn't used to the way Southerners raise their children," she said. "He'll learn." She turned all her attention toward Charles, her first "boyfriend" since Paul died. She smiled at the handsome and aristocratic fair-haired Easterner, who'd chosen Tulane as his law school and decided to stay and practice in the city after graduation. Again, she wondered why he'd picked her from all the females who'd set their sights on him. They had met in the Eye Clinic when he'd come in to get new contact lenses fitted. Area residents could volunteer for Dr. Shriver's project and get free eye care. Something about the brash, outspoken New Yorker attracted her. Maybe it was because he didn't remind her of dark-haired, dark-eyed Paul. Maybe it was the hint of neediness underneath the strong exterior which appealed to her mothering instincts. Whatever it was, she and Charles had dated steadily ever since, but had managed to avoid talking seriously about a future, agreeing to take the relationship one day at a time. "Mama, I'm ready for my story." Brigitte's clear childish tones carried out to the adults from her bedroom off the far end of the balcony. Charles started to say something, then stopped and blew a breath audibly through pursed lips. Something was going on here; he wasn't usually so ... so ... rude. Jeanette wanted to get to the bottom of it. From past experience, if she allowed it to fester, she'd hear about it later in a burst of pent up anger and resentment. Charles tended to stew. "Scott?" Jeanette pleaded with her eyes and voice. Scott uncurled his lean body from the sofa. "Old Uncle Scott will read to Little Bits. Y'all stay here and enjoy the night air."

Scott winked as he passed by on his way to Brigitte's bedroom. Thank God for Scott. So dependable and unflappable in awkward situations. When the French doors on her daughter's room closed with a solid click, Jeanette glanced over at Charles, who sat rigidly in a wicker chair and stared out over the gas-lit courtyard. "Okay, what's wrong?" Jeanette's voice sounded strained, even to her own ears. Charles turned. "Where do you see our relationship heading?" "What do you mean?" "Will you ever cut yourself loose long enough from your studies, your child, your dead husband, and your dead husband's friend to concentrate on our relationship?" "Charles?" _No, don't whimper, Bootsie. Try again._ Clearing her throat, concentrating on relaxing the tight muscles that threatened to strangle her, she tried again. "I wasn't aware that I ignored you, Charles. Is that how you feel?" "Damn. Answering a question with a question. You'd make an excellent lawyer." He stood up, turned, then leaned against the balcony. Studying his shoes, he said, "Let me put my cards on the table. I want us to move in together, soon. I want to take our relationship to a more intimate one, make it 24/7 rather than when you can fit me in between all the other demands on your time. Brigitte is going to be a major obstacle. She hasn't warmed up to me the way you said she would -- not like she is with Scott." Lonely little boy hurt colored Charles's voice. Jeanette had heard enough about his family life to know he'd been trotted out on special occasions when his wealthy family entertained. Poor little rich boy. No wonder he didn't understand about real family life, he'd never had one. Brigitte and she could change that. It would take time -- and patience. "Ah, Charles." She moved toward him, arms open. "Brigitte is a little girl who lost a Daddy she barely even remembers. Scott and I are all she has known. Just give her time." She put her arms around him. He hesitated, then enclosed her in his, his chin resting on her dark curls. "You could try to be more playful with her. Read to her. Attend her sporting activities. You know -- family things." "You think that would help?" Charles tightened his hold on her. He kissed her ear; an answering tingle traveled down her spine. "Yes, absolutely." Charles's body relaxed against hers. She sighed. One crisis averted. She

wasn't sure where the relationship with Charles was heading, but she definitely wasn't ready to deal with ultimatums. And, honestly, she couldn't answer his question, because she didn't know the answer herself. All she did know was that Charles was different, exciting, and touched a place in her that had been encased in ice since Paul. For now that would have to be enough. **** "Uncle Scott?" Brigitte's serious little face looked trustingly into his. Her mouth twisted as if she'd eaten a sour apple. "Is my momma gonna marry Charles?" "Um, I don't know, Little Bits." Scott looked at a spot over the head of one of the two loves of his life, the other being her mother. "Do you want her to?" Scott held his breath, preparing himself for the hurt which might come with his little angel's next words. "Nope." A mulish look came over the now not-so-angelic face. "He's not daddy material." Scott raised his eyebrow as he looked into brown eyes so like his dead friend's that he had to keep from howling out loud at the loss he felt. "And just what is 'daddy material?'" "You are, Uncle Scott." Then the angel yawned. As she drifted to sleep, sheltered by his arms, she mumbled, "I want you to be my daddy." "And I want that too, Little Bits." Scott spoke quietly so as not to wake the tired little girl. "I want that so very much." He sat by the bed as Brigitte slept. He couldn't remember a time since Paul's death when he hadn't wanted to take the burdens off the petite shoulders of his best friend's widow. She was easy to love, her delicate beauty only complemented by her kind and giving nature. When had he fallen in love? He couldn't pin it down exactly -- but he felt as if he'd loved her forever, maybe even as far back as when Paul had first introduced them. He just knew he wanted to make Jeanette LaFleur his wife and Brigitte his little girl. Unfortunately, he hadn't counted on the depths of Jeanette's grief. There'd been times when he thought she'd never want another man again. But he'd waited. One thing he and Paul had been good at was waiting. But then, Charles Carter swept into her life. The prestigious New Orleans lawyer was the complete opposite of everything she'd ever loved in Paul

LaFleur. But deep down, Scott knew she wouldn't marry a guy like Charles. The rich easterner was too stuck on himself, too concerned with what people thought of him, and too materialistic. Too critical. Too cold. Tonight was a perfect example. Charles was in the other room, monopolizing Jeanette's time and attention, while Scott read bedtime stories, but Scott knew the woman better than Charles ever would. She needed a man who would be a supportive partner, a passionate lover and a selfless friend. Charles didn't have it in him to be all those things. Scott did. When Jeanette woke up and realized it, Scott intended to be there -- waiting. -------CHAPTER THREE _Three weeks later._ Jeanette glanced around her and sighed. Lots of hard work had gone into this "living lens" training session for ophthalmologists -- most of it Jeanette's. As Walter Monnier had intimated that first day, her predecessors in the Clinical Coordinator job had been lacking in either brain power or work ethic. Nothing had been organized at all. She'd been thrust into a situation where, simultaneously, she had to learn her new duties and arrange this special training program -- promised almost five months ago at the annual convention. Needless to say, her other duties had gotten the short shrift. After this evening's final reception for the attendees, she could get back to mastering her real job. From what she'd managed to glean, the patient records were in as much of a mess as the plans for this event. Jeanette had a long hard row to hoe to get the clinic running efficiently. The fact that Walter had been right about the "bimbos" as he called her predecessors didn't pan out with his other prediction. Dr. Rutherford had never even intimated a personal interest. He continued to be charming, courtly almost, and truly grateful for her intelligence and hard work. She glowed, remembering his words after the continental breakfast and before his opening remarks. "Jeanette, my dear." Rutherford had leaned over the hand he held in his, kissing the tips of her fingers. "Without your diligence and enthusiasm, this program would never have come off. Thank you." She'd been walking on air ever since. She checked her watch -- 11:45 a.m. It would soon be time for lunch. She rose from her seat at the registration table, collected the name tags of the no-shows, packed them up, then placed the box in the closet that the Medical

Center conference facility had provided for supplies. Walking briskly, she entered the Conference banquet area. Unlike most meeting facilities, the dining area of the New Orleans' Medical Conference Center was laid out like a buffet. The attendees of any conference being held that day could go through the buffet line and choose from assorted salads, hot food, and desserts. There was also a grill and a deli for the finicky eaters. After obtaining their food, the attendees went to assigned rooms off to the side of the buffet line. There, waiters and waitresses brought drink orders and whisked away plates. Jeanette loved the concept; it allowed people to choose what they ate and probably saved a lot of banquet rubber chicken _du jour_ from being tossed out. Peeking into their assigned dining room, Jeanette spied some familiar faces. She had been so busy when Drs. Shriver, Warren and Payton checked in that morning that she hadn't gotten a chance to speak with them. "Ah, Jeanette," Dr. Shriver called out. "You caught us. We sneaked out to get a head start on the food. Grab something and join us." "I think I will." Jeanette hurried to the salad line. She prepared a quick Caesar salad and grabbed a breadstick. The desserts were tempting, but she'd wait. Her stomach was tight from anxiety. She looked forward to sitting and relaxing with her former professors from the Med Center. Maybe, she'd feel like a dessert once she calmed down. As she walked back to the dining area, other conference attendees started to stream toward the food. "I see why y'all got a jump on the others," Jeanette gasped, as she sat at the table and observed the swarm of ravenous doctors buzzing around the food. "That crowd acts like they haven't eaten for a week." "It's boredom." Dr. Payton waved her fork in the general direction of her peers chattering in line at the food stations. "Most of those guys over there have forgotten more than Rutherford knows." "Now, Maggie, behave," admonished Dr. Warren. "Don't let your dislike of Rutherford color your objectivity. You've got to admit his Epi study stats look very impressive." "I don't have to admit anything." Maggie Payton bit down on her breadstick and tore off a chunk. "How you can stand by while that low-class charlatan takes the credit for a concept you created, I'll never understand."

Dr. Warren turned red as he concentrated on his beef tips. From past experience with the two, Jeanette knew he wouldn't defend himself. Margaret Payton wore the pants in that relationship. "Maggie, you know I went through residency with Byron," said Dr. Shriver. "Yes, we _know_ that Austin," she said. "You're like a broken record about it. It makes no difference if you went through training with him or not. Everything I said is true." Ticking off on her fingers, she continued, "One, he is low class. He rose from the slums of Desire." Desire was a housing project. Even during Rutherford's youth, it still wasn't what Jeanette's momma would've called a "good" neighborhood. "He's come a long way from there," Jeanette said. "My point exactly." Dr. Shriver beamed at Jeanette and patted her arm. "He's brilliant, you know." Maggie Payton snorted, then recited in a sing-song voice, "Went to Emory on scholarship. Top of his medical school class. Awarded more research grants than any other medical resident in the history of Emory. Yadda, yadda, yadda." She sniffed loudly. "Now where was I? Oh, yeah. Two, Rutherford is a leech. He got his suckers into Larry, here, pumped him for all he was worth, then took the idea for the living lens to the grant committee before old gullible Larry could say 'boo'." "That's enough, Maggie." Larry Warren's face burned. "I never would've taken the project to the grant people, and you know it. I'm not sure how he's getting these stats, because I'm seeing some of his people in our clinics with failed grafts. The procedure is inherently risky. You know it. As do most of the other doctors here." "Then why are they here, if they don't believe it works?" Jeanette asked, filing away the info Dr. Warren just related on Epi study patients visiting the other Med Center clinics. It was the first she'd heard of that and couldn't believe it. "Because they want to see how he's doing it," Dr. Shriver said. "Maybe there is an outside chance that he has perfected the procedure. His patent depends solely on his _unique_ preservative measures and the lessening of the antigenic reaction of the recipients to the donor corneal button. If he _has_ beaten the odds, they don't want to be left behind when patients start demanding it." Dr. Shriver smiled at his own patently cynical take on his peers' motivations. "Oh." Jeanette's gut tightened. The salad looked a lot less appetizing. Dessert was a dim memory. "Jeanette, don't tell me that you haven't seen failed grafts in the surgical

follow-ups. I won't believe it." Dr. Payton leaned across the table. "I've been so busy with organizing this training program and trying to put together patient records that I haven't seen that many patients. My job duties are to schedule the surgeries, which I have managed to do. Keep the records, which are quite frankly in a mess -- my predecessors figured that throwing the paperwork in a file drawer sufficed for medical records administration. And, schedule follow-up and troubleshoot, which I haven't been able to do at all." Jeanette shrugged. "The other techs see the patients. Really, I'm just a glorified paper pusher." However, now she vowed to get more involved in seeing follow-up patients, that is, once she got the records in some order so she could figure out just which patients should be seen. "Interesting." Dr. Payton looked around the table. "Then where in the hell is good ole Byron getting his stats if the paperwork is in such a holy mess?" No one answered. **** Dr. Payton's question haunted Jeanette the rest of the day. Obviously, Dr. Rutherford had been keeping his own records. Or, maybe the follow-up records were more organized than the presurgical histories and work-ups. After her third day of work, when she'd begun to realize what a mess the medical records were in, Jeanette had started to set up a new patient records system. Then she had to drop it to work on this program. Well, it would be the first thing on her "to-do" list. Accurate patient records were not only necessary, but prudent. What if someone sued the doctor for alleged malpractice? Inaccurate and sloppily kept records wouldn't help the defense. Standing in the room set aside for the post-program cocktail hour, she shifted from foot to foot. Her shoes were killing her. She'd be glad to go home and put her feet up. Between her mental and physical distress, she felt exhausted. Thank God she only had a couple of hours to go. "Ah, Jeanette, my dear." Dr. Rutherford's smooth bass tones came from behind her. She turned to see him approaching. "There's someone I'd like you to meet." Accompanying the doctor was a man she'd caught glimpses of several times during the day. He hadn't checked in at her table and seemed to be a special guest of Dr. Rutherford's. "Jeanette, allow me to introduce you to Dr. Manuel Lopez of the One World medical relief organization. Manuel, this beautiful young lady is my very important right hand and the chief organizer of today's highly successful

program, Jeanette LaFleur. Now, you two get acquainted. I need to speak to someone before he leaves." Dr. Rutherford moved off into the crowd, leaving Jeanette to deal with a total stranger, one who for some reason made her uncomfortable. "_Buenas tarde_, Senora LaFleur." Dr. Lopez's eyes glanced toward her left hand. "Senor LaFleur is a very lucky man to have such a beautiful and talented wife." Dr. Lopez bent over her hand, then placed a wet kiss on her ring finger, still prominently displaying the LaFleur family heirloom ring. Rejecting the urge to wipe her hand on her skirt, Jeanette pasted a smile on her face, reminding herself that this man was her boss's guest. "Pleased to meet you, Dr. Lopez. I've heard of One World. Sister Mary Cecille at my old parish school speaks highly of the work you've done in Mexico. How do you know Dr. Rutherford?" "We met when he worked on one of One World's projects in Puerto Rico. We found we shared many of the same ideals and goals. We've been friends ever since." Lopez' hungry gaze swept her body. "Is Senor LaFleur not here this evening? Maybe you'd like to sit with us two old foxes." "I'm a widow, Doctor, and I really need to mingle, but thank you." _Bootsie, chalk up a couple of more "Hail Marys" this week at mass. Father George is going to wonder what this job has done to your morals, if you don't watch out._ Jeanette turned then walked away, leaving Dr. Lopez to stare after her. She'd been rude, but he made her skin crawl. Her destination was anywhere away from Dr. Lopez. She couldn't understand how Dr. Rutherford could leave her to that, that... _Lecher, Bootsie, the word is lecher as in reprobate, wolf, libertine._ "Hit on you, did he?" Dr. Alex Randolph's sneering voice halted Jeanette's flight. "Old Manuel has a thing for dark-eyed ladies. Must be his Latin blood." "Dr. Randolph, enjoying the reception?" Pasting her much-abused social smile back on her face, Jeanette turned to meet Alex Randolph head on. Jeanette avoided Alex, one of a series of surgical residents assigned to the Epi Study, almost as much as she avoided Walter Monnier, but for different reasons. At least, Monnier was open and up front about what he wanted from Jeanette. As for Randolph, she hadn't quite figured out what his goal was. All she knew was he had the "sly and hungry look" of a Cassius. She didn't want to end up like Caesar. She'd discovered one thing during the time she'd known him -- Randolph

thought Rutherford had made a mistake in hiring her. It wasn't a guess on her part. She'd actually overheard him tell Walter Monnier when the two men hadn't realized she was around. She still hadn't figured out why, though. "Yes, I am enjoying myself." Randolph gestured, the glass he held in his hand sloshing liquid on the floor. "Quite a spread. Only the best for old Byron. You'd better run along before Manuel catches up to you, little girl. In fact, you should run and never look back. You're in way over your head in this..." "Ah, Alex, monopolizing Jeanette?" Dr. Rutherford's silky dark voice cut into whatever his drunken resident had been about to say. "Jeanette, come along, my dear. Manuel didn't get to explain about his new One World project in Brazil. I'm sure you will find it utterly fascinating." The looks exchanged between Randolph and Rutherford set Jeanette's nerves on edge. What had the inebriated Randolph been about to say when he'd been interrupted? How was she in over her head? Her inexperience? Or, was he warning her against the obviously on-the-prowl Lopez? Her already aching head now throbbed. She needed to find a quiet place to sort this out. "Excuse me, Dr. Rutherford." Jeanette lifted a weary hand to her forehead, then massaged her pulsing temples. "I need to go to the ladies' lounge and rest. I'll join you in a bit." "Of course, my dear. Excuse this old fool. You've had a very stressful day, making my little program a roaring success. Take all the time you need. Manuel and I will be in the alcove over there." Dr. Rutherford indicated a settee in the windows overlooking the Medical Center mall. "Why don't you just let her go home, Byron?" Randolph slurred over the words. "She isn't interested in old Manuel's stupid DC-10 clinic planes. In fact, she looks dead on her feet. Isn't that right, Flower?" Jeanette ignored the use of the hated nickname Walter Monnier must have shared with Randolph. Whatever his reason, she was thankful for his intervention. "Would you mind, Doctor?" Jeanette didn't have to attempt to sound weak and shaky. "I really am feeling awful." Dr. Rutherford looked her over. "You do look peaked. Can't have my Clinical Coordinator driven to her sick bed. I need you at work tomorrow." Taking his words as assent, she said, "Thank you." She looked from one to the other. In all fairness, she should include Dr. Randolph for rescuing her from Lopez. "Both of you." Randolph nodded, then muttered to her as she passed, "Remember, pay back is a bitch, Flower."

-------CHAPTER FOUR Byron Rutherford blew a cloud of smoke from a fine Havana cigar into the sultry evening air of the French Quarter. He and Manuel Lopez had left the reception to journey to their favorite Quarter restaurant, Chez Paul. After a sumptuous dinner, they enjoyed their after-dinner drinks and smokes on the balcony overlooking Royal Street. A street away, he could hear the faint tones of a jazz band playing at an open air bar overlaid occasionally with the shouts of bar-hoppers as they drank their way from one end of Bourbon Street to the other. In the shadowy corners of the alleys intersecting Royal, he could barely discern the sounds of amorous couples unable to wait until they reached the privacy of their rooms, or perhaps they were some homeless people bedding down for the night. A typical evening for the Quarter. "Byron, would you tell me why you insist on continuing this research project? Our other ventures have made you a millionaire many times over." Manuel took a sip of the hundred-year old cognac as if the answer didn't matter to him. But Rutherford knew it did. Something was bothering his old friend and business partner. "What's wrong, Manuel? You have a problem with my attempt to gain something more than money?" "Exactly what is it that you are seeking? Fame?" "Yes. What's wrong with that?" Manuel set his drink down on the table and leaned forward. "I know you. Like all our other projects this one isn't one hundred percent on the up-and-up. It also has the greatest potential of upsetting the fine line we've been walking. The people you see in your clinic are U.S. citizens, some of them important people. They have lawyers. You could lose your license at the minimum and at the worst ... well, let's just say I don't think you'd do well in prison." Manuel sat back, picked up his drink, gulped the cognac down as if it was water, then immediately poured himself another from the bottle on the table. "Manuel. You abuse the Courvoisier. It is made to be sipped." Rutherford demonstrated the proper way to drink the expensive cognac. Manuel glared at him. "_Merde."_ He gulped the remainder of his drink in one swallow. "Better you worry about your freedom rather than my drinking habits." "You alarm yourself unnecessarily. This isn't any riskier than the transplant

sales we're handling through Silver River or the actions you've got going on in Brazil." Taking a puff of the cigar, he blew the smoke to the side. "Besides, the project is going well." Manuel snorted. "So you say. As long as you can cook the results." "Don't worry about my results. Just make sure I keep getting the corneas I need." His companion stiffened. "Have you ever lacked in tissue?" "No," said Rutherford. "However, I may need more. It looks like the Eye Bank is going to cut me off completely." He waved the cigar languidly. "By the way, did that little problem get taken care of at Silver River?" "You mean our friend, Stu Thomas? Yes, he is out of the picture -permanently. Matthews took care of it." Rutherford smiled thinly. Making Eric Matthews head of Silver River security had been a wise move. A former Special Forces operative, he did all the dirty work in the United States, while Lopez had other security people in Central and South America. Rutherford nodded his satisfaction. "Yeah, that's the problem I meant. Thomas popped his mouth off all over the convention. I had the Eye Bank people and several local docs calling me about his remarks. It was because of him I was called in front of the Eye Bank Board again." He stubbed out his cigar, then threw the butt into a potted palm near the table. "Someone has it in for me. Can you imagine? They challenged my stats. Called me on the carpet like some coon-ass redneck. Said they heard I was using twice the tissue they were providing. They asked me where it was going and why didn't the stats reflect the number of patients receiving all that tissue?" "Damn, I told you someone would figure this out." Manuel downed the cognac. "What did you tell them?" "That the tissue had spoiled, that my preservative was bad. What else could I tell them?" "Not the truth, that's for damn sure." Manual reached for the bottle again. At the rate he was drinking, Rutherford would have to carry his partner back to his hotel room. He couldn't stand drunks. "They can't prove anything." Rutherford lit another cigar. "Are you willing to bet your future on that?" Rutherford stabbed the cigar toward Manuel, punctuating his words with ash

and smoke. "My future is my business. No one knows we're partners. You're safe. Besides, I own enough people in this town, nothing's going to happen." Bringing the Cuban back to his lips, he sucked in a calming toke. "Next subject. How is our friend, Ambassador MacNeil?" Rutherford could tell his partner wasn't happy with the change of subject, but damn, he wasn't giving up his project. It was his chance at immortality -besides making him money that Manuel knew nothing about and didn't share in. He was sure he could keep the lid on the project statistics; he'd been doing it successfully for two years, why should things change now? Anyway, one more year should see him named to the College of Ophthalmology, then he could quit, move to the Caymans, and enjoy all the lovely money he'd made. Manuel shrugged off the change in topic, finally mellowing under the influence of the alcohol and Rutherford's reassurances. "Whitman is doing fine. He loves the money I pay him under the table to smooth things over with the U. S. Customs people." Manuel laughed. "In fact, he will be speaking on One World's behalf in front of the United Nations. He is asking them to fund some more surgery planes and permanent clinics in the Third World countries we cover." "More bodies for parts." Rutherford lifted his drink in salute. "And more money for us." Manuel tapped Rutherford's glass with his own. They drank together, finally enjoying the balmy evening. -------CHAPTER FIVE _Two weeks later._ Jeanette checked her lists against each other. Sighing, she shook her head, aggravating the headache which she'd been living with since the training program. There were huge gaps in most of the Epi Study's patient records, gaps that even a so-so lawyer could drive a tank through. Once her conference duties ended, she'd concentrated on straightening out the mess in patient records. To her shock and dismay, almost every file was missing something -- patient's history/physical sheets, consents, work-ups, follow-up office visit records, doctor's notes, and so on. Even the ones with fairly complete records were deficient in other ways, more troubling ways -- most of the consents she'd found were improperly filled out, some were even unsigned by the patient. In fact, the consent itself seemed defective, a general surgical consent which had not been adapted for the risks peculiar to the Epi procedure. Although not a lawyer, Jeanette felt that this was a serious error.

Throwing her checklists on her desk, she leaned back in her chair and stared at the picture of Paul holding Brigitte in his arms. God, she missed him at times like these. She wondered what he would make of the bits and pieces of information she had garnered. Snippets of Maggie Payton's conversation flashed through her mind. Most disturbing were Maggie's statements on patients being followed up by other doctors and the question of where the stats had come from. The fact that Drs. Shriver and Warren had agreed with her didn't make Jeanette feel any better. Ethically, she knew what she had to do. She would have to approach Dr. Rutherford about all these problems soon. If they had a visit from the Institutional Review Board, the project would be shut down faster than a lay person could say Epikeratophakia. Maybe the missing and incomplete records were somewhere else in the Clinic, some place only Dr. Rutherford had access. Jeanette had looked in all the business office files, and the lists in front of her documented those finds thoroughly. Other than the mess with the files, Jeanette loved her job. Walter and Randolph never crossed her path. The office staff was cheerful and wonderful to work with. She'd yet to work with any patients, but that was her next goal -getting out into the Clinic and working on patient presurgical education and post-operative follow-ups. But first, she had to find the missing paperwork and get the records in order. The potential legal complications were just too horrible to envision. "Ms. LaFleur?" The Clinic secretary, Sally Parker, stood at her door. Her voice sounded tight with some emotion Jeanette couldn't pin down. "Come in, Sally. Sit down." Jeanette waved her hand at the chair to the side of her desk. "You're shaking? Are you ill? Is something bothering you?" Jeanette liked to forget that one of her duties as Clinical Coordinator was to supervise the staff. She still didn't feel comfortable advising and directing employees. Sally, a statuesque blonde who always managed to make Jeanette feel like a midget, came into the room, shutting the door behind her. After she sat down, she sighed, a low, shuddering sound. "No, ma'am. I'm really sorry to bother you, but Dr. Randolph called over from surgery and told me to tell you ... well, he said you were needed in surgery ASAP." Sally never looked up, concentrating instead on her perfectly manicured nails as she clenched and unclenched her fingers in her lap. "What did he say that upset you so much?" Just the thought of Alex Randolph and his perpetually sneering countenance and condescending attitude upset her, but why would he pick on the Clinic clerical staff? He had no power over them.

"Nothing. Me and Alex ... uh, I mean, Dr. Randolph and I used to see one another, and well ... let's just say, there's bad blood between us, ma'am. That's all." Sally's face was now ghostly white, her make-up always so perfect looked clown-like against a white mask. "Do you want me to say something to him?" "No, no, don't say anything to him. That would make it worse. He really needs you over there now. The surgical tech, Missy, went home ill. One of the other techs can't get here until the procedure after next, and they're prepping a patient right now. He wants you to assist." "Thank you, Sally. I won't say anything to Dr. Randolph. But my offer to mediate remains open." Jeanette stood up, then grabbed her lab coat. Following the secretary out the door, she flashed back to Walter Monnier's sneering words on her first day of work -- about Dr. Rutherford wanting to get the most "bang out of his buck" from his employees. Walter had called it multi-tasking. As Jeanette hurried toward the surgery suite, she wondered if giving relationship advice and counseling to staff was included in Walter's definition of multi-tasking? God, she hoped not. With her own intimate relationship blowing hot and cold, she was the last person to give out personal advice. Things were bordering on sub-zero this week. After a week or two of family-type outings, Brigitte had become more receptive toward Charles, but he'd gotten even more uncomfortable, if that was possible, with her daughter. Just last night he'd complained about Jeanette's refusal to go away with him over the weekend. She'd already committed to driving her daughter's travel team to a volleyball match in Iberia, and he knew that. She'd made it clear that these years with her daughter were too precious to miss and Charles was always welcome to come along. In the end, she and Scott had driven the team to the match. Good old Scott, so easy and dependable. She didn't know what she would do without him. Eventually, she'd have to sit down and discuss things with Charles. Coward that she was, she'd put it off, hoping Charles could overcome his sterile childhood and warm up to family life. Jeanette, never a quitter, had invited him to Brigitte's volleyball match that evening, then back to her place for dinner. He'd accepted. She crossed her fingers that this was a positive sign. Jeanette hit the door opener on the wall leading to the double doors into the surgical suite set aside for the Epi Study. After they swung open, Jeanette proceeded to the adjacent dressing room where she changed into aqua scrubs. Entering the surgery scrub area, she washed her hands and forearms, then put on latex gloves.

"Ah, Flower," Alex Randolph's mocking tones lingered over the hated nickname. "Glad to see Sally finally got around to telling you I required your assistance. The patient has been under twilight anesthesia for twenty minutes already. Shake a leg, girl." "Yes, doctor." Jeanette bit her tongue. No way was she going to chide him for his attitude about Sally. She was sure Sally had brought the message right away, but was also sure that Randolph would deride any excuses she might make for the secretary. She'd promised to stay out of it, and she would -- until Sally specifically asked her to assist. Jeanette followed him through the automatic doors into the surgery. The patient, a man in his thirties, lay on the table, jabbering away. She smiled. The mixture of Valium and Versed, which made up the twilight anesthesia, usually made patients very talkative. This man was discussing stock options and his picks for winners in the bear market. "Hi, Jeanette, thanks for filling in. Could you guess this guy's a stockbroker? Hey Alex, think we should be taking notes for our portfolios?" The anesthesiologist, Dr. Columbo, chuckled as he winked at Jeanette. "No problem, Dr. Columbo." Looking at Dr. Randolph, Jeanette stood at the head of the patient. "What do you want me to do?" "Get his chart." Randolph nodded his head toward the side counter. "And check out his right eye measurements. Want to be sure I use the correct button now, don't I?" He snickered. "Of course, doctor." Finding the chart, Jeanette flipped to the notes on the patient's eye exam and read off the numbers. "Thanks. Looks like we've got the correct lens here. Let's get this puppy done and on his way." Dr. Randolph hit the lights over the table, using the pedal mounted on the floor. He positioned the ceiling-mounted microscope over the patient. After adjusting the oculars to get the proper depth perception, he said, "Shake a leg, Columbo. I need the topical anesthetic." Throwing Randolph an irritated look, Columbo hastened to administer the drops in the target eye, then stepped away. As Dr. Randolph propped open the patient's right eye, Jeanette flipped back through the chart to the Legal tab. As she suspected, the Informed Consent wasn't signed. She wasn't even going to address the fact that it was a general consent rather than an Epi-specific consent -- that was a matter for Dr. Rutherford and his lawyer to correct. "Dr. Randolph? Sir? He hasn't signed the Consent."

"Bring it over here. Let's get him to sign it then." Dr. Randolph waved her over. "But sir, he's under the effects of anesthesia. It wouldn't be legal." "Give me the paperwork." Dr. Randolph stripped off his gloves while walking toward her. She backed away until she bumped into a counter and could go no further. His lips curled into a sneer at her retreat. When he stood in front of her so close she could smell his breath mints, he demanded once more. "Give it to me." "But..." As Randolph ripped the chart from her hands, Jeanette stood frozen, heart pounding. Her emotions were too complex to identify, although shock seemed to be winning. Ignoring her gasp, Randolph walked back to the patient, then held the chart in front of the still talkative man and handed him a pen. The patient signed the Consent while addressing the advantages of covered calls. Taking the pen and chart away, Randolph nodded at a puzzled Dr. Columbo. "That takes care of that." He carried the chart back to Jeanette. Shoving it into her hands, he said, "There, it's signed. Any other problems you'd like me to address?" Numb with disbelief, Jeanette could only shake her head. "Good. Then get some clean gloves on and be ready to hand me instruments. Think you can do that, Ms. LaFleur?" "Yes, doctor." Weak-kneed, Jeanette walked to the box of surgical gloves and put on a clean pair. "Good." After regloving, Dr. Randolph stalked back toward the operating table and took his position. An uncomfortable silence hung over the room until he started issuing instructions to her and asking patient status of Dr. Columbo. He prepared the patient's cornea to receive the living lens by using an alcohol wipe to remove the epithelial layer, just as Walter had done on the donor tissue. Then after cutting tiny grooves into the patient's cornea, he placed the living lens on top of the recipient's cornea, gently positioning it into the cuts, then sutured it to the patient's cornea. After several days, the patient's cornea would reepithelialize over the living lens. Jeanette moved about the room like an automaton. She must have made the right moves, because both doctors thanked her for her excellent work, though Dr. Randolph's thanks were underlaid with his perpetual sarcasm.

Finding comfort in the mind-numbing routine cleanup after the operation, she set about quickly to put the room back in order. As she picked up the bottle in which the corneal lens had been stored, she noted a Silver River Pharmaceutical label on the bottle -- the distinctively shaped bottle which Walter had said only the Epi Study used. The bottle also contained the blue preservative for which Dr. Rutherford had claimed a patent. Hadn't Walter told her the Eye Bank didn't use the bottles or solution so as not to confuse the Epi Study tissue with Eye Bank tissue designated for other hospitals? How had SRP's label come to be on the tissue? How had they gotten the preservative? The Study patients were to get free donor tissue -- the only cost being an Eye Bank processing charge. So why were they using a commercial lens? Capping the bottle, she pocketed it, solution and all. She'd lock the bottle up in her office for safekeeping until she could ask Dr. Rutherford about this. She also needed to address the scene which had occurred earlier with Dr. Randolph, and while doing so, ask him about the other missing, incomplete -and inaccurate consents. Could Dr. Randolph be responsible for all the missing patient records? She hadn't checked to see if the missing records were largely from one doctor over another. Several residents had gone through the Epi Study on rotations. It was common knowledge that not all doctors were good at paperwork. Dr. Rutherford needed to be apprised of these problems. He had to be made to recognize the importance of accurate and complete records, for legal reasons as well as medical research protocol requirements. His whole project could be shut down over one missed consent, let alone all the holes she'd found in patient records. "Ah, Jeanette, good you're still here. Alex said I would find you cleaning up. He told me you did an excellent job, by the way." Dr. Rutherford entered the surgery. "I need you to schedule the patient Alex just operated on for the graft on his other eye. Let's make it as soon as possible. He's going on vacation next week. See if you can get him in day after tomorrow." Rutherford turned to leave. "Doctor? Is that wise? The protocol says to wait until the first eye is healed and the patient shows signs of a good healing before operating on the other eye." "I know what the protocol says. I wrote it." Dr. Rutherford glared at her. "Are you questioning my orders?" "Well, yes sir, I guess I am." Jeanette straightened to her full five feet, two inches and stared back at him. "I also have a concern about the legality of the consent on this patient. Dr. Randolph had the man sign it under the influence

of anesthesia. If the patient has a bad result, he would have excellent grounds for a medical malpractice suit. In fact, he could probably get the whole project shut down." Jeanette couldn't label all the emotions crossing Dr. Rutherford's face. "Listen here," he said. "I'm sure this is all a simple misunderstanding. I explained the procedure to this patient myself, while Alex was present, so the consent was a mere written formality. As for the scheduling, let's just say I've more experience in these matters than you. I'll get with Alex and explain that it might be better to have the patient sign the consent before he's under. I'm sure Alex just forgot with all the last minute changes because Missy went home ill. Okay?" "Yes, sir." What else could she say? After all, he was the doctor. She would reschedule the patient, but as far out as she could get away with. She'd consult with the man himself and work out something. She'd also get a new consent signed after he was out from under the effects of anesthesia. Someone had to protect Dr. Rutherford from careless mistakes by his staff. As for the other holes in medical records, she'd document them more fully. Find out exactly who was not filing the correct paperwork on patients and failing to get complete and accurate Surgical Consents, then she would take it all in an organized fashion to Dr. Rutherford with a plan of action to avoid the mistakes in the future, including a new more specific consent. The Review Board might cut them some slack if she had a plan in place to correct past errors. Even with all her new-made resolutions, her gut told her that the Epi Study was in serious jeopardy. She'd ask Charles about the legalities of what she'd found. Maybe he could consult with some of the lawyers at his firm about consequences of the lack of properly executed consents. -------CHAPTER SIX "Charles, I'm serious about this." Jeanette pushed away the bread pudding she hadn't wanted, but Charles had insisted she order. In fact, she hadn't felt like eating out at all, but had allowed Charles to override her desire to stay at home and eat the shrimp jambalaya she'd cooked. She envied Brigitte and the sitter happily ensconced in front of the television, sharing the comfort food she'd prepared. Instead of that homey picture, she was here, in a crowded French Quarter restaurant, biding her time for a

chance to unburden her concerns about the surgery she'd witnessed earlier that day. Worse, after she explained everything to Charles, he seemed more interested in his fruit tart than her distress. "Jean, don't you think you're over-reacting?" Charles waved his fork at her, a kiwi precariously hanging onto the edge. "After all, research projects like this are monitored closely by all sorts of agencies. Who are you to question procedures that have probably been scrutinized by people with far more experience than you?" Charles rescued the kiwi, then stabbed at a strawberry. "And as for the missing paperwork, you're new there. Maybe Dr. Rutherford wanted you to get your feet wet before he dumped the bulk of the work on you. My advice? Just sit back and wait. I'm sure the files are there somewhere. They'd have to be, wouldn't they? If they weren't, the project would have been shut down already. Right?" "Don't you think I've gone over all those arguments already?" Jeanette fought back the urge to ask him how stupid he thought she was. He hadn't heard her at all. An icy breeze of realization swept over her, clearing clouds of self-delusion from her mind -- Charles never listened to her, now or in the past. Like all narcissists, he only heard the things that pertained to his comfort and care. God, how could she have been so stupid? How could she have allowed her hormones to choose a man who only needed a woman as a mirror for his own self-esteem? Until now, she'd overlooked all the other times he'd negated her concerns, her needs, while using her for companionship and the mothering he never had when he was a child. Between his jealousy of her daughter and now this complete disregard of her intelligence -- well, she wasn't holding back any longer. This was it. Either he took her seriously, started really listening to her, or she would tell him how she felt -- about everything. Taking a deep breath, she let it out. She needed to present her arguments logically, not emotionally. "Putting aside the missing documents in the patient records and the hasty rescheduling of a patient against medical protocol, let's look at just the incident with the surgical consent. Dr. Randolph had a patient under the influence of mind-altering anesthesia sign a legal consent. Trust me, Charles, that patient could have signed away his fortune under that combination of drugs and never remembered it later. If Dr. Randolph had instructed the man to sit up and bark like a dog, he would've. You have to admit that was totally unethical if not illegal." "Okay, you got me there." Charles's face turned pink.

Uh oh, Jeanette recognized the altered tone. It was his little boy whine he reverted to when caught out in the wrong. Now, he would get all defensive. Jeanette's loss of her husband, her helpmate in all things, hit her harder than it had in years. Paul would have listened, would have offered constructive advice -- like a mature partner should. "But you fixed that by going to the patient after he'd recovered and had him sign a new consent with a waiver, right? So, what's the problem?" The underlying "aha, I got you" came through loud and clear. With Charles, everything was a debate, point-counterpoint. There always had to be a winner and a loser; it was never about working together toward a common goal. So be it. "Charles, you're missing the point!" Red flashed before her eyes. She swore the heat was attempting to escape through her skin. Struggling to regain control, Jeanette ran her fingers through her hair, proud that she resisted the urge to throw the unwanted pudding at the thick-headed male across from her. "Yeah, I took care of it _after the fact_. But what if the patient had refused? Then where would the project be if his graft failed?" "Okay, okay. You're right, okay?" Charles threw his fork on the table, then leaned back in his chair, arms across his chest. "If it disturbs you so much, quit!" Jeanette placed both hands on the table, then leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them. "No. I'm not a quitter. If I were, I wouldn't be sitting here across from you." Jeanette covered her mouth with her hand, then allowed it to drop back to the table top. "Oh, Charles, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded." "Yeah, right. I think you meant it exactly as it sounded." Charles's mouth thinned, his face white with anger. "That's what this is _really_ about, isn't it? Your job concerns were just an excuse to talk about us. Go ahead, tell me what you really think about our relationship. I'm man enough to take it." _Careful Bootsie, minefields ahead._ "Oh, Charles." Jeanette reached across the table, seeking contact with him, but finding only tablecloth as Charles leaned further away from her beseeching fingers. "I care for you, but it seems like I'm making all the accommodations in the relationship." "Really? Like what for instance?" Charles was in full retreat now. She'd already gone this far, might as well get it

all out. "Okay, take this evening, for example. I wanted the three of us to stay at home after Brigitte's volleyball game and have a family dinner, but you insisted, as you have the last several times I suggested such an evening, that we hire a sitter and have dinner, just the two of us. Is this your way of getting closer to my daughter?" "Jean, you..." "No, let me finish." She held her hand up. "Let's really clear the air. I've told you many times I prefer Jeanette, but you insist on calling me Jean. You may hear me, but you aren't listening. You say you want a more intimate relationship, but without communication, real communication, it can never be that." "Are you through?" "No, I'm not. This evening is a perfect example of why I'm not ready to commit to a long term relationship with you." She paused to marshal her arguments. "I just unburdened myself about a serious problem at my job, and your response insulted my intelligence and understanding. It also indicated to me a lack of concern in general for ethics, the law and your fellow man. I'm not sure I can become serious about a man who shows such a lack of ... well ... morals." Jeanette couldn't imagine Charles's lips narrowing anymore than they already had, but they did, to the point that all she could see was a crease in his face where his lips met. Damn, she'd pushed him too far, but it had to be said. Had needed to be said for a long, long time. Charles pushed away from the table. Standing up, he turned, then left without looking back. Instead of being cleared, the air was filled with the smoke of imaginary mines. Ignoring the shocked and interested glances from the surrounding diners, Jeanette fought back tears as she called for the check. Well, that was the end of that. What a perfectly horrible day. **** Jeanette paid the sitter. After checking on her sleeping daughter, she sat on the couch and stared into the cold fireplace, a glass of wine untouched at her hand. The phone rang. She didn't have the energy to speak to anyone. Let the machine answer it.

Charles's voice came over the machine. She thought she'd turned it down before she left this evening. Obviously, Brigitte had been playing with the volume control again. Tears formed in her eyes, but she was so exhausted she couldn't even move to turn it off. So, she just sat, trying not to listen. "...Jean, uh damn, Jeanette! Pick up, I know you're there. Please?" Silence reigned for a few seconds. "Okay, I guess you must have the sound turned down. I, uh, well, I'm sorry. I'm such an ass. I never realized how you felt. Can you blame it on me being male?" A nervous chuckle. "Give me another chance. If you can, call me -- please? I'll try harder. I promise. Love you." Tears streaming down her face, Jeanette sat unmoving. She wanted to believe him, and knew she would give him another chance. As she so boldly told him, she wasn't a quitter. Yes, Charles was an overgrown, spoiled boy, but she saw good stuff in him -- he was hardworking, educated, and, most of the time, fun-loving. His excellent manners and interest, at least at the beginning of their relationship, in her and her career had chiseled away at the icy encasement around her grief-stricken heart. Yet, he'd disappointed her tonight. She'd thought his principles were of a higher and tougher fiber. For God's sake, he was a lawyer, a person who was supposed to uphold the law. Before she made any decisions about her long-term relationship, he would have to prove to her that he met her standards. Not perfection. After all, he was human. Yes, she'd give him one more chance, but only one. After today, she knew she needed a strong shoulder to lean on in troubled times. Whether or not Charles could be that shoulder, well ... if he couldn't, then she needed to move on and find the man that could give her what she needed -- a full and loving partnership, where sharing of burdens went both ways. She deserved that kind of relationship, and so did her daughter. -------CHAPTER SEVEN The Bourbon street watering hole which Alex Randolph chose for their meeting wasn't exactly in Byron Rutherford's style. It was loud, crowded, and its idea of a premium imported beer was Dos Equus, forget the lime. However, it did provide them the privacy they needed for this impromptu bull session. And, the small jazz band wasn't so bad. Carrying two draft beers, Alex wended his way through the bodies lined two-to-three deep at the bar, then edged around the small dance floor crowded with young couples glued to one another, swaying to the bluesy notes of an alto saxophone. Setting the dripping glasses down, he plopped into the chair next to Rutherford, so they both faced the dance floor. Both sat in silence for a few moments. Rutherford checked out the female population,

knew that Alex did also. They had that in common -- a love of varied and frequent female companionship. Who knew? They might both get lucky. After a few sips, Alex gulped down a third of his beer in one swallow, then sighed. "God, I needed that. What a day!" "Is that why you called this meeting? To editorialize your day?" Rutherford sipped his beer and made a face. He hated domestics, but the alternatives were worse. He thought longingly of Chez Paul's wine list, then braved another sip of the slightly warm, flat beer. "I called this meeting, because I want you to explain to me again why you hired Jeanette LaFleur." Alex's eyes followed a leggy blonde, his lips pursed in a silent whistle. Examining the girl whom Alex undressed with his eyes, Rutherford could see the upside to the establishment, bad beer notwithstanding, and vowed to make this place a regular trolling spot. He liked a nice young piece of ass as well as the next man. Which was one of the reasons he had hired Jeanette, but he wasn't going to share that info with Alex. He didn't want Alex looking at Jeanette with a less-jaundiced eye and deciding he liked what he saw. In general, Alex was still at an age when any maturity in a woman was off-putting. Rutherford, on the other hand, liked his women experienced, but not overly so. Jeanette fell into that category. He would bet his Swiss bank account, she'd only had one lover -- her husband. He was biding his time. So, what to tell Alex? "The Institutional Review Board team told me to get my paperwork up to par or they would advise the hospital and get our grant money pulled. The facts that all the other Clinical Coordinators were barely out of high school and not trained technicians were also black marks against the project. Hiring Jeanette took care of both problems." "Okay, okay, I know all that, but still, she's too ethical. I thought she would shit a brick today when I had the patient sign the consent while under anesthesia." "Sometimes you're an idiot." Rutherford resisted the urge to slap the man. "She was one hundred percent correct on that one. With our graft failure rate, we could get sued. Graft failure happens. It can be justified. But a legal misstep like an improperly signed consent could get me -- or you -- a one-way trip to a suspended or revoked license. Don't make that mistake again. Follow the rules. We'll be in enough trouble if little Jeanette ever figures out we cook the stats and decides to report us." "My point exactly. So once again, why are we keeping her around? She isn't stupid, damn her cute little Cajun tush. Eventually, she's got to realize that patient follow-up records don't match actual patients seen in the clinic. Plus,

Payton and Warren are seeing some of our failures -- and letting everyone know it. Hell, I'm sure they said something to her at the training session. I saw Payton fuming clear across the room, and your little Jeanette looked flustered. It's just a matter of time until she adds two and two." "Then I guess it's up to both of us to see that she doesn't get four." "How? What slight of hand do we use to keep little Miss Nosey from stumbling onto the fact that over sixty percent of the grafts are failing?" Alex's sneering voice grew louder, drawing the attention of those sitting near them. A vein in Rutherford's neck pulsed as he gritted his teeth to keep from shouting. "Keep your voice down, you idiot. Why don't you just take an ad out in the _Times-Picayune_?" He gulped the remainder of his beer, then waited as it made its way through his anger-constricted esophagus. Why he ever took this cretin into his operation, he'd never know. In the beginning, Rutherford had sensed that Alex was like him. Both came from humble backgrounds, both had found their way out of the slums to a better life while ignoring the finer points of law and ethics. Yet, there was one big difference between them. Rutherford knew how to survive in the long term, would fight through all odds and win, while Alex deserted the ship as soon as it sprung a leak. To Rutherford, Jeanette was a tiny leak -- one easily plugged. "Byron! What are you going to do?" Alex snapped his fingers in front of Rutherford's face. Pulling his attention away from a flame-haired girl walking by the table, he grabbed the offensive digits and squeezed them as hard as he could. "Don't ever do that again." Alex winced and bit his lip so that only a slight hiss escaped. Rutherford smiled, then released Alex's fingers. "_We_ are going to go about business as usual. _We_ will follow the medical protocols to the letter up to and through the follow-up doctor's notes, but we will only do so on the successful and moderately successful grafts. The failed grafts -- those records will be shredded. She doesn't handle the follow-up scheduling, Sally does. Keeping Sally sweet is your job. There's no reason why Jeanette should ever connect the number of patients seen with the number of records kept." Alex rubbed his sore fingers. "Okay, but what about the past patient records? The ones she's trying to organize? She's got to realize that we've seen and operated on more patients than there are records." "Easy. We pass the blame to her predecessors. After all, Walter told me he said they were all bimbos. When she comes to me again, and she will, I'll just

shake my head and play the poor doctor who is totally ignorant about business and office management. Then I'll commend her on her work, tell her she is saving the project. She'll eat it up, trust me. She's smart, but she's naive and trusting. She'll believe anything I tell her." Rutherford's eyes followed a petite red-head with large breasts and tight round ass as she walked by the two men for the umpteenth time. Pro, he thought, but still fresh-faced. His loins stirred in interest. He gestured to the Titian-haired whore, his cock telling him it was time to go -- and he didn't intend to leave alone. "And if she doesn't buy into this fairy tale -- what then?" Alex reached across to tug on Rutherford's arm, but stopped at the last minute, obviously recalling the earlier warning. "What if she persists in digging up the truth?" As he stood up to meet his bed mate for the evening, Rutherford stopped, turned, then leaned down to whisper in Alex's ear, "Well, then, she'll become a problem. And you know what we do with problems, don't you?" -------CHAPTER EIGHT _One week later._ Jeanette stretched her neck from side-to-side to lessen the kinks that were threatening to develop into a full-blown tension headache. It was the fifth night in a row that she hadn't left her office on time. Thank God for Scott and the babysitter, or she wouldn't be able to do her job. Her need to get the files in some semblance of order kept driving her to work on them until she was satisfied she'd done all she could. Tonight, finally, she could see a light at the end of the tunnel as far as the file organization was concerned. But, there were still serious problems. Problems that she hadn't fully disclosed to anyone, not even Dr. Rutherford. Thanks to Dr. Rutherford's intervention, all the surgical consents since the altercation with Dr. Randolph a week ago had been properly filled out and signed before surgery. In fact, to her relief, language had been added about specific potential side effects. Just that morning, Jeanette had thanked Dr. Rutherford for attending to the matter. His response had been immediate and complimentary. "No, no, thank you, Jeanette, for keeping us on the up-and-up." He'd smiled and patted her shoulder in a disturbingly caressing manner. "I'm just a doctor and often forget about the need for all the legal and administrative hoopla. That's exactly why I hired you. Austin assured me you were bright and organized. You've

already proven him right two-fold." Sweeping his hand over her shoulder, then down her arm, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips for a light kiss. "Keep up the good work, my dear." Heartened by her boss's response, Jeanette worked like a fiend for the remainder of the week to get the files in order. As she worked, she had Sally keep track of patients scheduled for follow-up and enter them onto the database Jeanette had created from the partial patient files. Once the database was as complete as she could make it, she'd run it to find any other missing documents, compare patients who were seen, operated on and followed-up with, and the surgical outcomes. She should be able to run the database tomorrow. Then she would see how much more work she had to do to get things up to snuff. Besides the records and database, Jeanette had taken to checking surgery trash at the end of each day. She wanted to pin down the exact source of corneal tissue the project was using. So far, the results were disturbing. Most of the tissue came from the Eye Bank, designated as donor tissue on the accompanying paperwork but labeled as SRP tissue on the containers. All of it was in the blue preservative Dr. Rutherford used. In his special little bottles. As a precaution, she'd locked several bottles and the accompanying paperwork in a file drawer. She wasn't sure yet for what purpose, but just in case. Jeanette's next step -- and the reason she'd stayed extra late tonight -- was to go through the Patient Billing records to see how the tissue was being charged. Locking up her desk, she backed up the database on a CD-ROM, then shut down her computer. Removing the CD, she slipped it into a sleeve and put it in her purse. She knew it was crazy, but she'd gotten the sense that someone was getting on her computer and checking her work. Even though she'd been changing her password every day. To be safe, she took all her work home on a CD-ROM disk every night. She'd worked too hard to lose it. Leaving her office, she turned out the lights, then made her way to Sally's office, which she shared with Patient Billing. Looking around, Jeanette saw no one, heard nothing except her own anxious breaths. Satisfied she was alone, she entered the office and shut the door before she turned on the light. It was an inner office, so there was no way anyone passing by the building would see the light. She placed her purse on Sally's desk, then walked over to the filing cabinets where the patient billing records were kept. Opening up the drawer for the current year, she pulled out the first ten folders, then carried them to Sally's desk. She skimmed the files. It didn't take long to find discrepancies. No one had taken the least precautions to disguise the breach of the research protocol

in billing patients. "Oh, my God." She flipped through all ten folders again, confirming what she'd seen, then sat back. Running her fingers through her hair, she rocked nervously in the desk chair. Out of ten patients, eight had been charged exorbitantly large amounts of money for the corneal tissue, exorbitant when compared to the two patients who had received donor tissue and paid a small processing fee. Jeanette pushed herself away from the desk, then refiled the patient folders. Pulling out ten more, she checked them while standing at the filing cabinets. She repeated the process for the better part of an hour. After completing the current year drawer, she slammed it shut, then flopped into Sally's chair. "What am I going to do?" Her muttered question echoed loudly in the empty office. She'd found more than fifty percent of the patients in the current year had paid for commercial corneal tissue, miscoded as donor. Almost all of the commercial tissue had been billed prior to her hiring, starting with the month before the annual convention six months ago. The same convention where she'd heard the Silver River Pharmaceutical salesmen brag about his company's sales to the Epi Study. The skepticism she'd felt at the time was a distant memory now. Stu Thomas had been right. SRP was supplying a large part of the tissue for the project, and had been for quite a while. That meant from her first day on the job, both Walter and Dr. Rutherford had lied to her about the source of the tissue. What else had they lied about? Had they lied about the Eye Bank's ongoing relationship to the Epi Study? On the day of the convention, Jeanette hadn't caught the whole conversation between Fred and the other men, but she'd seen enough to know they were doctors. She knew she would be able to recognize all three of them if she saw them again. "Okay, Bootsie," Jeanette muttered to herself. "What do you do now?" _Document what you've found out. Then, confirm Stu Thomas's assertions and those of the doctors you overheard._ Tracking Stu Thomas and the doctors would be a piece of cake. She had the loquacious salesman's card, and the doctors she would find through the Medical Center photo directory. Documenting all those patient billing records she'd just skimmed was another story. It would take hours and hours to copy all the files. There had to be an easier way. Spying the Billing clerk's computer, she smiled. "Of course, a printout of patients' billings!" Technology at its greatest. Sitting down, she powered up the computer. First hurdle passed. The clerk

had no password, something she would change -- tomorrow. Tonight it suited her purposes. The familiar Windows screen appeared carrying with it a surprise, a loud surprise. Darth Vadar's voice boomed, "What is your bidding, my Master?" Startled, Jeanette looked around. Had anyone heard? She held her breath and listened. No sound from the outer office. Satisfied she was alone, she entered the program files and clicked on QuickBooks Pro. It opened into the patient billing database. Clicking once more on Records, she found the Accounts Receivables and double-clicked. Yes, that's what she needed. Customizing it, she set it up for the last twelve months. It took mere seconds, but it seemed like hours. The empty clinic and her sole occupancy of it were getting to her. After backing up the report, she exited the program and pulled the CD out of the computer. Before shutting down the system, she lowered the volume just in case her billing clerk had anymore little surprises built into her Windows program. Her nerves couldn't take another shock. Breathing more easily now, she stood up. She'd done all she could for the evening. Tomorrow, she'd come in early and merge the data to her database. As she left the darkened clinic, Jeanette looked for any signs that someone had entered while she'd been in the billing office. No one had come in, not even the cleaning crew. Just like the past five nights, no one had bothered her or even commented on her late evenings. Yet she had a right to be cautious. Purposefully, she hadn't shared what she was doing with the staff -- not even the doctors. Maybe it was because even early on in her review of the patient files, she had instinctively known that something was terribly wrong. Yes, Dr. Rutherford had admitted he hadn't a clue about the office. And Jeanette had wanted to believe him -- until tonight when she'd found that he had lied to her about the origin of the corneal tissue, found that too many patients had been billed for commercial tissue. Damn, she couldn't believe that a doctor of his stature would willingly commit a fraud on the patients in his care. Point of fact, she only had circumstantial evidence. As far as she knew, Dr. Rutherford didn't order tissue. He didn't do the billing. So, she would give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was only telling her what others had told him. Maybe Walter Monnier and Alex Randolph, two men she believed capable of much fouler deeds than fraud, had lied to him and had given orders behind Rutherford's back. She could easily imagine them sharing in any profits of an illegal scheme. So, she would continue to investigate until she knew for a certainty who the miscreants were.

She had the patient billing data. The next step would be to track down Stu Thomas and the Eye Bank Board Member and his friends, whom she'd overheard at the annual conference. If they connected Dr. Rutherford to the knowing usage of the commercial tissue, then she would have absolute proof that Dr. Rutherford lied, that the project was violating its charter and medical protocol by over-charging project patients. If they didn't, then she would take it to Dr. Rutherford and let him find the culprits harming his project. _And if Rutherford's lying, Bootsie -- what you gonna do?_ She didn't have a clue. -------CHAPTER NINE "Momma, do I have to go to school?" Jeanette closed her eyes and mouthed a silent prayer for patience before turning to her daughter. "Yes. Sister Mary Cecille and the other nuns would miss you terribly if you didn't show up. Not to mention your team mates. You don't want to miss the volleyball match, do you?" Brigitte shot her a look that only could originate with an eight-year-old feeling for her independence. Jeanette couldn't recall if she'd given her dear departed mother this kind of grief, but vowed to confess such a sin to the priest, just as a precautionary matter. Although the look on Brigitte's face strongly reminded her more of Paul in one of his digging-in-his-heels moods. "Mother." The emphasis in drawing out the syllables warned Jeanette that her daughter was getting ready to step over the fairly flexible line of parental tolerance she'd created since Paul had died. Being both a mom and a dad was hard work. "Yes?" Jeanette hoped the tone and the lifted eyebrow would be enough warning. "I don't see why I have to go to school so that I can play volleyball. After all, it's a travel team and isn't even a part of the school. Besides, Angie stayed home last week and she still played volleyball that day." The unuttered _so there_, conveyed by an abrupt nod, caused dark curls to fly about her daughter's shoulders. Biting her lips so she wouldn't laugh, Jeanette trotted out one of her mother's favorite comebacks. "Well, you aren't Angie, and I'm not Angie's mom." _Thank the Lord_. "In this household, in order to play in after-school sports, we go to school." Sensing imminent whining on the horizon, Jeanette held up

her finger. "And, if I keep getting this kind of grief from you, you will still go to school, have to confess to Sister Mary Cecille about your behavior, and tell the coach you are grounded for the next week. Is that understood, young lady?" Sniffing loudly, Brigitte whimpered a "Yes, Momma," and turned to pick up her backpack from the floor where she had thrown it just prior to her minor rebellion. God, why did she feel so mean? Being both good and bad cop was the pits. **** A chagrined Brigitte got out of the car in front of the school. "Honey, look at me," Jeanette called out before her daughter could scurry away. The little girl turned around, her face carefully blank, her eyes looking at a point past Jeanette's shoulder. "I love you, Little Bits. I'll be here at 4:30 to drive you and the other girls to the match. Okay?" A loud sniff and a short nod was all the answer she got before one of Brigitte's classmates yelled at her, "Hurry up Brigitte! Sister Florence is handing out warm cinnamon rolls." Brigitte brightened up, then turned to run after the others. Hesitating, she turned back and yelled, "Love you, too, Momma. See you later, alligator." Then she was off. "After a while, crocodile," whispered Jeanette. Suddenly, it wasn't so bad being a parent. **** Sally Parker wasn't having a good day. First, her car broke down on the causeway. She had to leave it on a narrow layby and accept a ride from someone who recognized her from the hospital. At least, she wasn't late. The cost of getting the car towed and fixed would mean macaroni and cheese out of a box for weeks. The second omen of a bad day getting worse was running into Alex Randolph. He ignored her completely, as if it was all her fault that she carried his child. She didn't break the condom. Heck, she hadn't even bought the condoms -- he had. She also seemed to remember him participating quite enthusiastically in the sexual act that had created the life within her. He could deny it all he liked. He was the father and she would make him support the

child. She didn't make enough money to take care of herself, let alone a baby. And the abortion he offered to pay for was out. She was a good Catholic girl. She may have gotten pregnant out of wedlock, but she wasn't going to compound it by killing her unborn child. And finally, the _piece de resistance_ of an arguably all-around corker of a day was the fact that she'd been lying to her supervisor, Jeanette, ever since the lady started. Sally moaned under her breath. Even confession after Saturday evening mass hadn't made her feel better. Father Xavier advised her to wrestle with her conscience and ask God for guidance in correcting the problem. All weekend Sally had wrestled and prayed. Which was why she stood outside her supervisor's door. "Shit." Sally was sure God would forgive her one little swear word; after all it wasn't blasphemous. Knocking on the door, she waited, hoping Jeanette was busy, or better yet not even there. "Come in." Sally pulled open the door, then entered, closing the door quietly behind her. "Sally. Good morning." Jeanette's face lit up, which made Sally feel lower than a cottonmouth, if that was possible. "Mrs. LaFleur, I..." Well heck, where should she start? The beginning? Or since her supervisor came on board? She hadn't lied to anybody prior to that. The others didn't have a clue about what was going on, but Sally had known and kept her mouth shut. She needed the job. Silly fool that she was, she thought Alex Randolph was going to marry her and take her away from all this. By keeping quiet, she was helping him make more money. Greed, one of the worst sins. "Sally, please sit down -- and call me Jeanette." Sally sat on the edge of the chair in front of the desk. Concentrating on her hands, she noted chips in her fingernail polish. Damn, she'd let herself go to wrack and ruin over this. Curling the offending tips into her hands, she blurted out the first thing that came into her head, "The patient files we've been organizing -- they're not all there." "What's not all there?" "The patient records are not all there." _Well, that was clear as delta dirt, Sally. Be specific._ "Drs Rutherford and Randolph told me to shred certain patient files after..." This was lots harder than she thought it would be. Sally was certain there was a law she'd violated somewhere, but wasn't certain what it could be. Would she go to jail? What about her baby? She touched her still flat abdomen. She

wanted to bawl out loud. What had she done? "After what, Sally? After the grafts failed, maybe?" Sally heard no surprise in Jeanette's voice at all. "You knew?" "I figured it out this morning." Jeanette held out a printout. Sally reached for it and saw two highlighted columns: one for patients billed and one for patients who had follow-up records -- the numbers didn't match. Tears running down her cheeks, Sally laid the printout on the desk. "I'm sorry. I know it doesn't make it right, but I was just following orders. I..." "It's not your fault. Now what are we going to do about it?" "Uh, I, uh, well, I don't know, ma'am. What do you think we should do? I mean, this could shut down the project, and I need this job. I'm pregnant." "Randolph's?" Sally winced at the acid in Jeanette's voice. She hadn't thought the highly educated and totally nice woman sitting across the desk had that kind of vitriol in her. "Yes." "Bastard," hissed Jeanette. "Does he know?" "Uh-huh." "Is he going to do right by you?" "No. He offered to pay for an abortion." A look of horror crossed the other woman's face. Sally hurried to reassure. "I told him absolutely not. I'm having this baby. And he will support it, if I have to take him to court." "Good." "Jeanette? Ma'am? What are we going to do?" "_We_ aren't going to do anything. You are going to go about your business as usual with one exception. You will make sure that from now on I get all patient records on every single patient who undergoes the Epi procedure. I will gather the evidence needed to prove that things are rotten in the Epi Study." "Yes, ma'am." Sally shivered, then crossed herself. Something walked across

her grave. "Be careful, really careful. There's a lot of money involved. One night in a bar, I overheard Alex tell one of his old medical school buddies about the deal he had with Dr. Rutherford." "Don't worry about me. I'm tougher than I look. Just take care of yourself and that baby, you hear? I'm not doubting you, Sally. But I need to get it clear in my mind. Are you positive Dr. Rutherford knows what's going on with the missing files?" "Yes, ma'am." Sally sat up straighter in the chair and held the other woman's eyes. "I swear on my unborn baby's life and that of Jesus Christ, our Lord, Dr. Rutherford knows all about this. I heard Dr. Randolph tell several of his friends all about the money they are making. They all laughed about it." "Thank you, Sally. I was afraid of this. I didn't want to believe it and made all sorts of excuses for why Dr. Rutherford didn't seem to know about the irregularities in his research project. Your coming here today has helped me immensely. I know what I have to do." Sally thought a few prayers for her boss's safety at this evening's mass might not be out of place. **** Jeanette locked the printout and the CD in her briefcase. No way was she leaving this evidence at the office for anybody to stumble across. With all her fine words to Sally, Jeanette still wasn't sure how she was going to bring the irregularities in the Epi Study out into the harsh light of justice. _Irregularities, Bootsie? Try fraud. What they are doing is illegal. It could and probably has caused harm -- and not just financial harm, either._ Rubbing her fingers through her hair, she massaged her aching head. Tension. Sally's words proved that Rutherford was dirty. Jeanette was a mass of nerves. After all, this was a well-respected physician with connections she was taking on. It would be her word -- and Sally's -- against his and Dr. Randolph's. She needed more evidence, physical evidence, not just numbers and speculation. _Remember? You were going to call that sales rep and the Eye Bank. So, do it!_ Jeanette found the business card for Stu Thomas. "Silver River Pharmaceuticals, how may I direct your call?" "Stu Thomas in Sales, please." Silence reigned for a few seconds. "Hold please."

Then elevator music, the orchestrated version of the Beatles greatest hits, played for what seemed like minutes. Half way through "All You Need Is Love," a deep voice said, "This is Eric Matthews, Vice-President of SRP. To whom am I speaking, please?" A Vice-President of SRP? A tiny voice in her head, aided and abetted by her gut, told her to lie. "This is Angela McCormick. I need to speak to Stu Thomas about some tissue." "McCormick? What hospital are you with?" "A private clinic. Why can't I speak to Stu?" "Mr. Thomas is no longer with our company." Jeanette thanked the intuitive organs which had told her to lie. Something wasn't right. She felt it. Heard it in Matthews' voice. "When did he leave? Where did he go?" "Who is this?" Matthews rasped. "Why do you want to know about Stu Thomas's whereabouts? What private clinic did you say you were with?" Jeanette hung up. Her gut didn't like this at all. Okay, so she had struck out with Stu Thomas. She still had her Eye Bank trail. Flipping through her Rolodex, she found the number of the Eye Bank's administrative offices, then dialed. Several minutes later she hung up. The Executive Director of the Eye Bank was going to e-mail her a copy of the Eye Bank Board. She would track down the Board member she'd overheard -- Dr. Fred somebody. He seemed to know what Stu was talking about as far as supplying tissue to the Epi Study. He even seemed to know other medical center gossip about the study. He would definitely know Eye Bank policy concerning tissue coming into the program. He might even know how to find Stu Thomas. And after she spoke to Dr. Fred whoever, she would go see Maggie Payton and get the names of the patients with failed grafts who were being seen in the Medical School clinic, instead of the Epi Clinic. Jeanette would bet her last dollar that the names would be on the billing list, but their files wouldn't be in her system, nor their data in the stats given out by Dr. Rutherford. She didn't expect to be on the dole anytime soon. She only bet on sure things. -------CHAPTER TEN "Jeannie! What are you doing here?"

She turned around to see Scott hailing her from across the small deli restaurant located in the Medical Professional Building attached to Charity Hospital. Not seeing her luncheon appointment, she moved toward Scott and his companions. "Hi, Scott." "Jim, Pete, and Andy, this is Jeanette LaFleur. Jeannie, meet the guys." "Hi, guys." A mumbled chorus of greetings came from the residents rapidly shoving food into their bodies. They ate as if they hadn't eaten for a week. "Busy day?" Scott answered for the table. "Bad accident on I-10. We've been patching and stitching since 6:30 this morning. What are you doing in our neck of the woods?" "I'm meeting one of the Eye Bank Board members here, Dr. Fred Beaton. Know him?" "I do." Either Pete or Andy raised his fork. "Nice guy. In fact, he just walked in." Pete-Andy pointed his fork toward the doorway. "Big guy with the lab coat." Jeanette turned and waved at Dr. Beaton. He nodded and pointed to a booth near the salad bar, then headed that way. "Guess he reserved a table." Jeanette turned back to Scott and his colleagues. "That's his regular table," Pete-Andy said. "He eats here everyday." "Why are you meeting him?" Scott asked. "Dumping Charles?" "For God's sake, Scott. I'm not dumping Charles. Why would you think such a thing?" Jeanette cringed at her knee jerk reaction to Scott's question. Why was she so defensive? Scott shrugged. "Not sure. I guess it's because Dr. Beaton has a rep as a ladies' man and Little Bits tells me that Charles hasn't been around for a while." "Not that it's any of your business, but Charles is taking me out to dinner tonight." Jeanette turned to go, then paused. "And my meeting with Dr. Beaton is work-related." Before she could leave, Scott grabbed her hand and pulled her back. "What's wrong, Jeannie?" "Wrong? There's nothing wrong. Why would you think so?"

"I know you, Jeannie. You're tense." Scott pulled her down next to him in the booth and whispered in her ear. "Little Bits has been giving me updates. She says you aren't sleeping, are barely eating, and she's caught you crying. What is it, _cher_? Is it Paul?" She blinked the moisture from her eyes. "No. It's not Paul, although I do miss him terribly. It's not Charles, either. There are some things I need to work out -- about my job. Once I get all the facts, I'll tell you. I promise." Scott's arm went around her shoulders. He gave her a quick squeeze and a light kiss on the cheek. "Okay. I'll give you some time and space, but not much. Little Bits is worried -- and honey, so am I. You look so pale. Now, get on over there. Do your business. And eat!" Jeanette forced a smile and nodded. "Yes, doctor." "That's my girl." **** "Friends of yours?" Dr. Beaton angled his head toward Scott and his companions as they passed the corner booth on their way out of the restaurant. "One of them is. Dr. Fontenot." "Good man from what I hear." Dr. Beaton applied his attention to his Caesar salad. "He didn't rotate through my area as an intern. Surgery resident, right?" "Yes. He's interested in trauma surgery." "Ah, an intensivist." Dr. Beaton had a way of talking and eating at the same time, probably a holdover from residency. Jeanette knew she couldn't do both, so she sat with her hands in her lap while her seafood gumbo rapidly cooled. Not that she wanted it, but she'd gotten it so Scott wouldn't make a scene before he left the room. "Mrs. LaFleur?" "What?" Jeanette shook her head. _Wake up, Bootsie. The sooner you ask the questions the sooner you can get ahead to the next step._ "I'm sorry, doctor. I was woolgathering." Dr. Beaton laughed. The warm, rumbly sound made Jeanette feel better, invited her to laugh with him. She saw why a woman might be attracted to Fred Beaton. From his casually tousled hair, to the starched and crisply pressed lab coat, and down to his Gucci loafers, the man could be an advertisement for the medical version of Gentleman's Quarterly. But it was

more than grooming that attracted her to Fred Beaton. His eyes were warm, little wrinkles around them evidence that he smiled a lot. A man who enjoyed life and wanted to share it with others. He had charisma. "Guess that puts me in my place." Dr. Beaton pushed his plate aside. "I'm used to being the focus of my dining companion's attention." He winked at her, then laughed at his own conceit. "It's obvious you aren't hunting, so exactly what can I do to help you? You were rather vague on the phone." Her face burned. "You mean ... you thought ... oh my God!" Jeanette couldn't believe he thought she was chasing him. Well, she knew that some women in hospitals pursued doctors. And if one wanted to pursue a doctor, then this one would be a Grade A choice. "Doctor, I assure you I have no personal interest in you ... not that you aren't attractive. You are. It's just that..." She moaned and covered her face with her hands. "It's okay, Jeanette." Dr. Beaton reached over and pulled one of her hands away from her face, then gently squeezed it. "No need to blush. My colossal ego totally misread the situation. Can you forgive me for jumping to conclusions?" "Yes. Thank you." Jeanette pulled her hand away while dropping the other one from her face to her lap. "I needed some information and thought you might be able to help me." "I'll try. What kind of information?" "About the Eye Bank donor tissue program." "What about it?" Jeanette wasn't sure where to start. Her confusion must have been obvious, because the doctor once more leaned forward. "It's okay, Jeanette," he said. "I don't bite. Really." "No, no, it's not that. It's just that I don't know where to start." "The beginning might be nice." The beginning. And that's where she started -- back at the convention. She brought him forward in time, leaving out her suspicions about the fraud, but laying out her concerns over a possible mix-up in the tissue coming to the Epi Study and how it was invoiced. Basically, she lied through her teeth. "So, you see. I'm not sure what kind of tissue we are using in the program. Is it donor tissue or is it tissue supplied to the Eye Bank from Silver River?" Jeanette paused. He wasn't buying it. "I mean I'm not sure what to tell my

billing clerk. If it's donor tissue, then it should be billed at a processing fee. If it's commercial tissue, then the Study has to write it off, since we can't pass the costs to..." "You lie charmingly." Dr. Beaton's smile took the sting out of the accusation. "But you don't have to protect Dr. Rutherford. I've known Byron a long time. Lots of us at the Eye Bank have his number, my dear. So why don't you tell me what the real problem is?" "I don't know what you mean." Jeanette winced. Sister Mary Cecille had always said she couldn't lie. Her eyes always gave her away. "Let me tell you how it works, then. Byron has told you -- or maybe his paid lackey, Walter, whom he planted in the Eye Bank, has told you -- that the Eye Bank supplied the tissue for the Epi Study. In the beginning that was true, but as of the time of the convention it was not. What you heard Stu Thomas tell the crowd was the truth. SRP has been supplying one hundred percent of the tissue for a long while. Ah, ah , ah..." Dr. Beaton wagged his finger. "Don't interrupt, let me finish. There could be an occasional donor cornea slip through the Eye Bank to your clinic, but that would only happen if Walter was on duty. He is under strict instructions _not_ to send donor tissue to Byron. But we aren't able to police him 24/7." Beaton grimaced, then shrugged. "The politics of the situation are such that we can't fire Walter. His salary is paid by Dr. Rutherford and tied to a grant made by the Medical Center to the Eye Bank. The grant runs out at the end of the year, then it will be bye-bye Walter. Until then, we tolerate him. Ethics and manners aside, he's an excellent technician." "But why hasn't anybody heard about this? If they knew Dr. Rutherford was misrepresenting the tissue used, then why did they allow it to continue?" Beaton chuckled. "You are naive, aren't you? The aforementioned politics, my dear. Dr. Rutherford carries a lot of weight at the Medical Center. His project is high profile. The Eye Bank is dependent on the kindness of strangers, to paraphrase the lovely Stella in _A Streetcar Named Desire_. We can't afford to tick off the donating public -- money or eyes." "But it's fraud." "What is? The tissue is tissue. The donor doesn't know the difference. Is there something you aren't telling me? Something you might have glossed over? I thought you were only worried about the origins of the tissue." "Well, it's the billing." Jeanette couldn't tell him all her suspicions -- not about the failed grafts and the stats. "A majority of the tissue over the past year, and especially since the convention, has been billed at more than a processing fee for donor tissue."

Beaton smiled tightly. "So, old Byron is making money at the expense of research patients, huh?" "I think so." "What are you going to do about it?" "I'm going to get all the evidence I can and turn it over to the Institutional Review Board." "Good. Let me know how I or the Eye Bank can help. We can document all the information I just told you. In fact, I can go one better. I'll let it out to the press that the Eye Bank has cut donor tissue off to Byron. That'll start the gossip machine. Maybe the IRB will come calling, huh?" Jeanette sighed. "Thank you." She hesitated before asking her next question, but she needed to know. "Did you know that Stu Thomas was no longer at Silver River?" "Yes. He was killed in a hit-and-run accident right outside the convention hotel. You didn't know?" Jeanette shook her head. "Did they find who did it?" "No, they never found the driver as far as I know." Beaton's face turned dark. "Coincidental, wouldn't you say?" "Coincidence?" Jeanette didn't know what to think. Beaton couldn't mean what she thought he did. "It had to be, right?" Please, she thought, say I'm right. Beaton must have heard the pleading in her voice, because he smiled. "Stu was an irritating horse's ass, but that's no reason to kill him. My dear, it was a hit-and-run. Happens all the time in the Quarter. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time." "A coincidence." Jeanette found a shaky smile somewhere from inside her. "Yes, it had to be." Of course, neither one of them believed it was truly coincidence, but the alternative was too horrible to imagine, let alone say out loud. As long as it was kept quiet, not allowed to live through the spoken word, it could be ignored as untrue. A polite fiction. Jeanette threw off the dark lethargy threatening to smother her. "But his death leaves me in a bind," she said. "I can't prove what he said." "How so? A dozen others heard Stu bragging about the sales to the Epi Study, so he definitely said it."

"But I need to get the sales invoices or shipping records to prove it." Jeanette leaned forward. "If I don't have those -- and I haven't found anything like them yet -- then it will be hard to prove that the tissue actually came from SRP." "The amount of tissue used will prove your theory. The Eye Bank could never have supplied the Epi Study with all that tissue. To assert that it did would be fallacious. Our records would back you up. So, _ipso facto,_ we didn't supply it. Someone else had to. Besides, you told me earlier about the SRP labels on Dr. Rutherford's bottles." "Yes, but they're gone now." "Gone?" "I had them locked in my office. I checked this morning, and they're gone. And now the bottles are coming with just refraction data on them." "Jeanette." Beaton grabbed her hand and squeezed gently. "Be careful." **** "So you believe me now." Maggie Payton smiled a superior sort of smile. "Poor little Jeanette. Her idol has feet of clay." "Yes." What else could she say? Dr. Payton was right. Dr. Byron Rutherford wasn't what he seemed to be. "But I'm not the only one he's fooled." "No, you're right." Maggie laughed. "How can I help you?" "You mentioned seeing some failed grafts in your clinic." Maggie nodded. "I need to compare the names to the billing statements." "Why?" Maggie was blunt as always. "If the failed grafts are ours, then Dr. Rutherford probably billed them for the surgery ancillary costs." It was one of the things that was one hundred percent documented. The Epi Study had full and comprehensive billing records; they were just coded in a way to mislead the patient and the IRB about the origination of the costs. Maggie laughed. She laughed so hard that she started to gag. Tears streaming down her face, she excused herself and walked to a small refrigerator in her office. Pulling out a can of soda, she said, "Want one?" "Yes. Thank you." Jeanette hadn't eaten her lunch. The sugar might help the spots floating through her field of vision. Maggie handed her a cola, then resumed her seat behind the desk. Taking a

few sips, she eyed Jeanette through slitted eyes, like a cat trying to figure out what the prey actually was and whether it was worth moving to catch it. "So," Maggie said, "Byron is bilking his patients?" "I didn't say that." "Jeanette, sweetie. Let old Dr. Maggie tell you something." She set her can down on the desk and leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. "Byron Rutherford may look like a civilized and highly educated man, but underneath all that sophistication and good grooming lies the heart and soul of a con man -- and maybe even worse. I used to date dear old Byron. I know the man better than he knows himself. That's why he stays away from me. He knows I'm not fooled by his bullshit." "So, you'll help me?" The satisfied smile on Maggie's face fled. "Sorry, no can do. I'd love to help you nail the bastard's ass to the wall, just to prove I've been right all these years, but my patients have a right to their privacy. I can't break the rules without their consents." "Would you ... could you ask the ones with the failed grafts if they would mind coming forward?" Maggie's eyebrow lifted. "Yes, I could do that." She slammed her hand on the desk, causing the can to jump. "Yes, hell yes. I will. Even if only one or two of them agree, it would open the door for the IRB to investigate. When do you need the info?" "As soon as you can get it." Jeanette sighed. "I don't think I can keep this quiet too much longer. My secretary and I have been collecting and organizing data, and people in the office are starting to talk. I took a Board member of the Eye Bank into my confidence and he is also helping." "Who at the Eye Bank?" "Dr. Beaton." "Good man. He's got almost as much political juice in this city as Byron. No love lost there. What's he gonna do?" "He's going to leak to the press that the Eye Bank stopped supplying tissue to the Epi Study months ago." "Holy shit! That'll open a can of worms. The IRB will want to know where the tissue came from, then they'll audit your records." Jeanette nodded. "I hope so. The records were in a mess, but I've got them in fairly good shape now. At least enough to show that something isn't right."

"You mean it will show that Byron has operated on more patients than he is reporting statistics on. Yes!" Maggie pumped her arm in the air. "Serves the bastard right. I knew his stats were too good to be true. I know some private docs who are seeing some failed graft patients. I'll put the word out on the sly that we need those patients to come forward." Jeanette nodded her thanks. There had to be quite a few out there, and she had no clue about how to find them all. Maggie was saving her a lot of legwork. "Jeanette." The urgency in Maggie's voice sent a chill through her body. "What's wrong?" "Be careful." Maggie's voice was low, her face serious. "Byron is a demon when someone crosses him. Maybe you'd better call in sick after that article comes out in the newspaper." Jeanette laughed nervously. "You aren't serious, are you?" "Very. Make sure your evidence is away from the clinic. You got a boyfriend?" At Jeanette's nod, Maggie said, "Maybe you should move in with him for awhile, if you aren't already living together." "What could Dr. Rutherford do? This is civil fraud. At the worst, they'll shut down the program and slap his hand." Maggie pulled her collar away from her neck. Jeanette gasped. The pale white skin near Maggie's collar bone was marred by an ugly scar. "See this?" Maggie asked. "This is what I got when I told Byron I was leaving him. I know him, Jeanette. You be careful, ya hear me?" Staring at the horrible evidence of Rutherford's anger, recalling Stu Thomas's coincidental death, Jeanette nodded and whispered through icy lips, "I hear you." -------CHAPTER ELEVEN _Friday night._ Locking the door to her office, Jeanette took one last glance around. The clinic seemed to be empty. The cleaning crew had been and gone. No one should be here on a Friday night, but she was going to make sure anyway. Walking from room-to-room, she turned on lights, checked offices, then closed doors after she assured herself the rooms were empty.

She was acting paranoid. For the last few days, she'd jumped at every little noise and movement, certain that someone was watching her. Nerves, just nerves. Funny how skittish they made a person. No one was in the clinic. Feeling for the key Sally had slipped her at lunch, Jeanette moved to Dr. Rutherford's private office. Inserting the key, she opened the door, closed it, then relocked it. Later, after dinner, when she came back to go through the doctor's private files, hopefully, Charles would be with her. She patted the briefcase with the statements of Dr. Beaton and his colleagues, the affidavits from Maggie Payton's patients with failed grafts, and the printouts she'd made from patient files, including the billing data. If all this didn't raise questions in Charles's mind, then nothing would. She'd done all she could; now, she needed legal advice and Charles was the only person she could trust other than Scott. A surgery resident wouldn't be much help; a lawyer with connections would. Charles had to listen to her this time. He had to. **** "Okay, Jean, uh, sorry, Jeanette." Charles blushed with embarrassment; he still had trouble remembering to use her full name. Their relationship since the blow-up had been tentative on both their parts: Charles afraid to set her off once more and she afraid that he would set her off. Smiling, she said, "That's okay. I appreciate you trying. Go on, what were you going to say?" "Well, you seemed so secretive on the phone. Why did you want to meet near the Medical Center on a Friday night? We were supposed to take Brigitte to a pizza place and then to the mall or something. What's going on? Are you still worrying about that problem with Dr. Randolph and Dr. Rutherford?" Jeanette leaned closer to Charles in the leather banquette. "I've got some papers I want you to read, then we'll talk. Okay?" Charles looked puzzled, but nodded. "Okay, hand them over." He held out his hand. Jeanette pulled the files from her briefcase, then shoved them across. Charles whistled. "This may take awhile." "That's okay. I'll order dessert and coffee for us while you read." Jeanette signaled the waiter lurking in the shadow of a large Ficus tree. After ordering, Jeanette avoided watching Charles read by studying the room and the Friday night crowd. The restaurant was a neighborhood favorite with hospital personnel. Many of the patrons were on-call staff meeting spouses and significant others for a leisurely dinner before going back on duty. Several

of the people knew her and nodded. Charles hummed and murmured in the background, but she refused to watch him. She couldn't bear to see the expressions cross his face as he read. Would he be shocked? Puzzled? Condescending? Mostly, she was afraid he would belittle her concerns. No matter what he said, she would check out Dr. Rutherford's files. She hoped to find the SRP invoices which would prove the Study bought their tissue from a commercial company and marked up the prices under the cover of Eye Bank processing charges. She hoped Charles would go with her. He might notice things in Dr. Rutherford's files that she would overlook. "Jeanette. I want to apologize." Shocked at his words, she turned toward him. The look on his face was one of concern -- a look she didn't see too often. Damn. She'd convinced him. "It looks like you're correct about Dr. Rutherford." Charles removed his reading glasses. Taking a sip of the coffee she'd ordered, she imagined him marshaling his next words, just as he would do in a court room someday for the jury. "At the very least, he's committing a civil fraud by misrepresenting the source and price of the corneas used. You say the medical protocol for the project states that only donor tissue should be used and these documents indicate he is using tissue from somewhere else, allegedly this Silver River. Could you find any invoices for those sales?" "No. That's what I want to do tonight. Search Dr. Rutherford's private files." "Jean! That's breaking and entering. That's illegal." "I have a key, given to me by his secretary, and I need the files for my records. How can that be breaking and entering? I have a right to monitor the program's billings and receipts." "Okay, semantics aside. Let's say you have the right to get into the doctor's files. Why are you doing it at night on a Friday? That smacks of paranoia." "I am paranoid. Everybody I've spoken with while gathering the information you just read told me to be careful. Dr. Byron Rutherford is not what he seems, which is why I want you to go with me. Maybe you'll see something in his files that will show what he really is up to." "What do you mean 'Really is up to?'" "You say he's committing civil fraud." Jeanette moved closer until she was speaking into Charles's ear. Anyone watching them would think she was

whispering sweet nothings and kissing his ear. "I say he's making lots of money illegally, committing medical malpractice on a large scale, and might, just might, mind you, be responsible for the death of a sales representative named Stu Thomas from Silver River, who was talking too much about his company's sales to the Epi Study." Charles lowered his voice to match hers. "Are you saying he killed somebody? Over this? Why? This is white collar stuff." "That's my point. If -- and I'm stressing the if -- he ordered Stu Thomas killed, then what is really going on? There has to be more." Charles muttered. Jeanette thought she heard the words: RICO, kickbacks, criminal fraud. Then, he swore vilely. "What's RICO?" she hissed in his ear. "A criminal conspiracy to commit crimes, normally called racketeering. The Feds use it to pull in everyone involved in large scale criminal operations, usually mob- or gang-related activities in smuggling, money laundering, selling drugs and the like. But they can use it for almost any kind of crime, including fraud and official misconduct, if there is enough money involved and the collateral damages are widespread. The states have similar laws." "Could Dr. Rutherford be charged with something like that?" "If you're right and this is just the tip of the iceberg, maybe." "Are you gonna help me look?" Jeanette held her breath. She'd do it alone if she had to, but having Charles there, having Charles apply his legal brain to the problem would be such a relief. She didn't think she could handle this alone any longer. "Yes." The smile he gave her was grim, giving her a peek at the stuff in him which had attracted her many months ago. "Let's finish up here and get going. The sooner we do it, the sooner we'll know if you're correct or sniffing at the wrong hydrant." **** "Jesus H. Christ." Charles dropped the file he'd been reading on the desk, then ran his hands over his thick blonde hair, causing it to stand straight up. He stopped the nervous motions, then turned toward Jeanette. "I think you may be right about this being more than violating some medical protocol and civil fraud. There's millions and millions of dollars here." He waved a hand at the discarded folder. "Millions? Where?" Jeanette looked up from the files she skimmed.

"In Rutherford's bank accounts. Several of them to be exact, one in the Cayman Islands, one in Luxembourg, and one in Switzerland. Thirty million dollars, give or take a few hundred thousand." "But how could that be? There isn't enough money going through the project to account for that kind of money." Jeanette had a sick feeling in her stomach. What had they found? Stu Thomas's death looked more like the murder her gut kept insisting it was and less like the coincidence her brain wanted it to be. "I can't tell who transferred the money into his account because the names are coded. But the amounts are large enough that the Federal government would want to know about it. Hell, anything over $10,000 sets off all sorts of Treasury alerts. The Feds might be able to get the identification of the source of the money. Maybe he's running drugs. Laundering money. Or something like that." "Do we have enough to go to the Federal government with this?" "Maybe. I want to check a few more things first before we take them anything." Charles started copying down information from the documents in front of him. "I have an idea that Silver River Pharmaceuticals and Dr. Rutherford have a closer relationship than buyer and seller." "Why would you think that?" Jeanette crinkled her forehead, then rubbed the lines away. Her head pounded. She couldn't think. Charles put the folders back where he found them. "Because there is a lot of correspondence in some of the files that are in the nature of updates about the company. Why would Dr. Rutherford need that information as a mere purchaser of goods? At the very least, he owns stock in the company, or he's getting kickbacks. At the most, he owns the company which is a violation of federal law itself." "Yes, that's right. A physician can't own a controlling interest in a supplier of medical goods or devices. We learned that in one of my classes. That could get the project stopped. He could lose his license." Jeanette followed Charles who stood up to leave. "He would lose everything, his profession, his standing in the community..." "And all that lovely ill-gotten lucre sitting in those accounts." Charles held the door for Jeanette to pass through, then turned out the light. "Yeah, that's enough to kill for." -------CHAPTER TWELVE _Following Monday, New Orleans Medical center, 7:00 a.m.._

Sally entered the dimly lit clinic. It was seven o'clock, too early for the clinic staff. Locking the outer door behind her, she used the security lights to find her way to Jeanette's office. Letting herself in with the master key, she moved swiftly to her boss's desk and laid the envelope addressed to Jeanette on top of the desk pad. She didn't imagine her resignation would surprise her boss. After all, she'd said several times that she couldn't handle the pressure -- or the fear -- any longer. Her first mission accomplished, she turned and left Jeanette's office, then relocked it. Only a few more minutes and she would be safe -- free of the job, the clinic and the danger she knew lurked in her future, if she didn't vanish. A loud noise startled her into freezing by the reception desk. Forcing her accelerated breathing to a slower, less noisy rhythm, she listened. Nothing. There was nothing but the rattling sound of the fan on the air conditioning unit kicking on. Giggling nervously, she shook her head. Just a few more minutes, she reminded herself. All she had to do was clean out her desk, then she could leave. As she inserted the key into the lock of her shared office, the stealthy approach of footsteps alerted her that she really wasn't alone. Swinging around, she stifled an instinctive shriek just in time. Dr. Randolph stood there, radiating evil. He muscled her into the closed door, caging her with his arms. "A little early, aren't you, Sally, my love?" He smiled grimly, as he used his lower body in a grotesque parody of the sex act to thrust her more tightly against the door. Lifting a hand, he stroked the right side of her face from chin to ear with his finger. "You haven't been returning my calls, sweetheart." Sally shivered. The menacing look in his flat black eyes and the ice in his voice belied the lover-like words and gestures. Praying hard, she struggled to find the words to somehow survive this altercation with Randolph. She half-closed her eyes and whispered, "I meant to ... but I've been helping a sick friend. Besides I haven't, umm, been well myself. I'm sorry." She chanced a glance from under her lids. If anything, his eyes were darker, more sinister than before. Randolph shook his head. "Tsk, tsk, my deceitful love. You'll have to lie better than that." The formerly gentle fingers now gripped her chin and tilted her head up, forcing her to meet his cold, dark eyes. "You've been helping that nosey little bitch of a clinical coordinator find all our secrets. Naughty girl. You know what happens to naughty girls, don't you?" "No, please don't! Alex, if you've ever had any feelings for me..."

Her words fell on deaf ears. His smile turned even more sinister. Stepping back, he released her chin. For the moment, he wasn't touching her. It was now or never. She reached down deep and found the strength to break for freedom. Shoving Randolph aside, she pushed him into the desk chair. For the moment, she was free. She ran for the outer clinic door, screaming bloody murder, hoping that someone in the building would hear her. Randolph caught her at the door. "Nope," he said. "It isn't going to be that easy, sweetheart. Besides the door is locked." Sally shrieked her outrage and once more dug for energy reserves, adrenalin, rage, or whatever primeval instinct to survive she could find. Breaking away once more, she ran to the side door, where she struggled with the knob. It was locked! This door was never locked from the inside. He must have done something to jam it. She dared a look over her shoulder. Randolph approached, stalking her like a predator assured of an easy kill. He wasn't in a hurry. His taunting smile told her that he knew he had her. Frantic, she turned back to the door, trying the knob once more. It had to open. It had to -- but it didn't. She whimpered, then shouted, as she beat the door with her fists. After a few seconds, her energy spent, she placed her forehead against the door and sobbed silently. Randolph stood behind her, so close she could feel the angry heat coming off him in waves. Then, he closed in. A prick of a needle in her upper arm signaled the end. Grabbing her, he hefted her over his shoulder and walked toward the back of the clinic. Her vision grew fuzzy around the edges. She grew nauseated. Vaguely, she realized he was taking her to the doctor's private entrance. At this time of the morning the lot would be empty. No one would see him carrying her off. At the door, he spoke, his voice filled with gloating. "That shot should keep you very relaxed for a while, until we get to my little weekend get-away. Then, well, then, you know the drill. Some women just never learn." "Alex ... please, don't ... hurt me." She hated the weakness in her voice, but was helpless to suppress it. The drug had taken over her body, yet she could still recall in vivid detail past lessons at Randolph's hands. She bore the scars, both physically and emotionally. He'd

always stopped at the point of no return. This time she knew he'd cross the line. Damn. She should have just abandoned the items in her office. Now, it was too late. Randolph stroked her bare leg, high up between her relaxed legs. "Don't worry, my love. It won't hurt -- long." -------CHAPTER THIRTEEN _Monday, 9:00 a.m._ Jeanette sat in Café Du Monde. The sticky sweet beignet and the chicory latte were just what she needed to get her biorhythms jump-started for the week ahead. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she scanned the café. Her neck itched and her skin had goose bumps. She could swear that someone was taking more than a casual interest in her. Yet she saw no one. Instinctively, she felt once more for the briefcase with its potentially explosive contents. It was still safely between her feet, right where it had been the last nine times she'd checked for it. She'd been almost manic the entire weekend, checking and double-checking the safety of the case and its content. Both Brigitte and Scott had noticed her behavior and commented on it. She'd even taken the case on the travel volleyball trip, using the excuse that she had work to do. But she never opened it, and Scott asked her what was wrong. She had just shaken her head, afraid if she opened her mouth, it would all come pouring out, thus involving another innocent person in ... in what? She still wasn't sure exactly what she'd gotten herself into. But whatever it was, it didn't feel safe. Hopefully, Charles would have some information for her soon. If it was just simple fraud, medical malpractice -- if Stu Thomas was indeed a victim of a mere hit-and-run and not some plot -- then she had nothing to worry about. _But it doesn't feel like that, does it, Bootsie? The last time your gut felt this-a-ways was right before you heard about Paul's death. Trust yo' gut, gal._ Jeanette trembled in the cool dampness of the early morning; her all-knowing gut cramped with anxiety, sugar and caffeine. After licking the sticky sugar off her fingers, she pushed away from the table. She couldn't put it off any longer. She needed to go to work. If anyone commented on her lateness, she'd make up a story. All she knew was that she'd needed this time alone to compose herself. It was harder and harder to

act normally in the clinic. She'd been avoiding all the doctors and Walter ever since she'd spoken to Maggie. She was sure her open face would give her away. If not that, the fact she jumped every time someone approached her would cause comment and uncomfortable questions. Questions she couldn't, or wouldn't, answer. The only clinic employee in her complete confidence was Sally -- and she, too, was on edge. Jeanette wouldn't be surprised if Sally quit. The secretary had mentioned it a couple of times; the last time was Friday afternoon, after she'd given Jeanette several files of patients with failed grafts -- files she admitted she normally would have destroyed per Drs. Randolph's and Rutherford's instructions. "Jeanette," Sally hesitated, checking around to make sure no one was listening. "I need to quit. I can't take this any longer. The sneaking around." Shocked by the number of files indicating failed grafts, Jeanette forced herself to turn her complete attention to her secretary whose voice trumpeted her fear with every word. Sally's usual good grooming was history. Her hair looked as if she hadn't washed it for days. Her normally perfect make-up was smeared. Her nails broken and the cuticles bitten. Her clothes wrinkled. This was more than discomfort in being found out; this was the result of sheer terror. "Honey, what's wrong? You look like you slept in your clothes." "I did -- at a motel. I was afraid to go home." Sally gulped, then started to sob quietly, her mascara running down her face in rivulets. "There's ... there's been messages on my machine." "What kind of messages?" Jeanette placed the files on her desk, then came around to pull the distraught woman to the sofa in her office. Keeping her arm around the overwrought woman's shoulders, she asked, "Who left them?" "I ... uh, I..." Sally blew her nose on the tissue Jeanette handed her. Taking a deep breath, she started again. "I don't know. At first the messages were just someone breathing. The next ones had a weird voice, distorted, threatening me, telling me to stop helping you -- they know. Somehow they know." There was no question that both women knew who "they" were. Jeanette's stomach clenched. "How? How could they? We've been so careful." Yeah, she thought, but what about the bottles that were removed from her locked desk drawer? She had the impression several times in the past week that someone had been in her office, searching her computer, which was why the hard copies and a CD-ROM backup always went home with her. Could they have gotten into her password protected files? She shivered. Anything was possible. "I don't know; they just do." Sally hesitated, then said, "Some of the other

gals in the office have noticed us going through files and such. They may have mentioned it to one of the doctors, just in passing. I've told anyone who asked that because of the previous coordinators' sloppiness, you and I were redoing the filing system. I thought they'd bought it, but..." Jeanette patted Sally's knee. "It's not your fault, sweetie. If you feel the need to leave, well, I'm not gonna stop you. You've got that precious little life to protect. Just you watch your back. Do you want to stay at my place? Brigitte and I have lots of room." "No, no. It wouldn't be safe. Not to say that he would start to harass you, but..." "He? You do think it's Dr. Randolph, don't you?" Jeanette nudged. "You want me to talk to that bastard?" "Yes, I think it's him. He would love to use something like this to scare me. I think Missy, one of the surgical techs, is sleeping with him now, and she probably mentioned the activity in the files. He thinks he has me cowed so I won't say anything, probably wants to keep me running scared. Well, it's too late. You have enough to get him and Rutherford on something." Jeanette was glad to see anger chase away the scared look in Sally's eyes. Sally hastened to add, "Don't say anything to him. Keep him in the dark. They can't really know anything, can they?" The last words had sounded so plaintive. Sally's anger had been short-lived, once again replaced by fear. Jeanette hadn't answered Sally's question last Friday -- still had no answer this morning. Her own ever-increasing paranoia underlined Sally's very real fear. No matter how careful they were, eventually someone would figure out what they were doing. The sooner she and Charles had something concrete, rather than all this circumstantial evidence, she'd take it to whomever she had to. Then, she'd deal with the consequences. Jeanette picked up her briefcase, left a generous tip for the over-worked waitress, then left the café. The tourists were out in force this foggy morning. The sun struggled to burn through the heavy mist shrouding the awakening Quarter. Walking down the narrow side streets back to her apartment to get her car, she kept checking all around her, using the windows across the street to reflect the street behind her. She wasn't normally a secretive person, preferring to treat everyone openly and honestly, but this situation called for cloak-and-dagger mentality, something that was way outside her normal milieu. She couldn't wait for it to be finished.

**** Jeanette saw the man, his presence first reflected in the store windows. He was following her and had been now for three blocks. Instinct told her to lead him away from her apartment and seek help. She turned on Chartres and set a course for the fire station only six or so blocks away. Firemen were big and strong -- and helpful. A woman alone in the Quarter, fearing a mugging, wouldn't seem foolish in asking for help. Keeping to her normal quick pace, she jaywalked across Chartres and headed toward the cross street. She monitored the windows of the buildings across the narrow street. The man still followed her, crossing the street after her, then making up half of a block. She increased her pace accordingly. She continued to glance around like women do when they are trying to stay aware of their surroundings. Maybe he would realize she was on to him. Maybe he'd leave. In the quick glances she took, she tried to garner his features. Above average height. Medium build. Long dark hair. Dark-skinned, so dark that the prominent scar on his face looked white. Yeah, she'd recognize the bastard again. She even recalled seeing him at the café as he paid for a coffee to-go. She would definitely report this man to the police. Adrenalin, sugar and caffeine kept her heart pumping so hard she felt it pulse in her neck. Her breathing increased. If she didn't get to safety soon, she'd probably hyperventilate. She was made of sterner stuff than that. Recalling the self-defense class Paul and Scott had insisted she take, she manipulated her keys to a position in her hand, then made a fist with one of the keys pointing out from her knuckles like a small knife. If she had to, she'd use it to gouge the man's eyes. Her briefcase weighed a lot. And there was always her knee. Any one or all of those defensive weapons could give her the time to run to the fire house -- and safety. Checking her location, she almost shouted with relief. The firehouse was less than a football field away. Then icy fear gripped her. If he was going to attack, he would do it soon. He had to realize by now she was heading for safety -safety in numbers as her self-defense instructor had taught her. Jeanette stepped up her pace, hoping against hope he hadn't figured her game plan. She was so close to her goal. Too late. Running feet approached her. She wasn't going to make it. Screaming for help, she whipped around to face the mugger. She almost laughed at his look of shock when she dashed forward, keys at ready. He

didn't even try to stop her. Just yelled, "You fucking bitch," and grabbed for the briefcase. He missed. She attacked his eyes, then swung the case along a wide arc to his head. The trick with the keys worked. He forgot the case, forgot her, and covered his eyes. He screamed profanities. The briefcase hit the side of his head with a thunk she felt all the way to her shoulders. For good measure, her knee found its target soon thereafter. Then, she turned and ran like hell the last few yards to the fire station. Her screams had already drawn attention. A fireman caught her in his burly arms, then swung her up close to his chest. "I've got you, ma'am," he said. Then, and only then, did Jeanette relax, still clutching the briefcase and her now-bloody keys. -------CHAPTER FOURTEEN _Monday, 10:00 a.m._ "Talk to me. It's safe," Rutherford barked into the phone. He double-checked the phone system to make sure the do-not-disturb button was lit so that no one could accidentally break into his call. His door was shut and locked. No one would dare disturb him. "It's done," Alex said. Rutherford felt nary a twinge at the satisfaction he heard in Alex's voice. Both he and Alex understood one another. They were cut from the same cloth. Both men knew what needed to be done to protect themselves. Besides, Alex had personal reasons for getting rid of little Sally. He'd make a terrible daddy and hadn't relished the thought of a long, drawn-out paternity suit. "Are you sure it can't be traced back to us?" "Positive." Alex chuckled. "She's gator food. Even if they found her bones, there wouldn't be enough forensic evidence left to point the finger at anyone, let alone me -- or you." "Good." "What about the other problem?" "She isn't here yet." Rutherford compartmented the part of him that regretted he hadn't gotten a taste of little Jeanette. Lucky for Alex and him, the waiter at the local watering hole had overheard her and some lawyer talking about his business.

"By the way, Sally thoughtfully left us a letter of resignation." Rutherford chuckled. "So, we can honestly say we were left in the lurch and haven't the slightest idea where she is." "Byron, you didn't really answer my question. Once we heard little Flower was consulting a lawyer to check into your business activities, we agreed to eliminate both problems. Today. So, how did you handle it? No, excuse me. You wouldn't dirty your hands, not the great and eminent Dr. Rutherford. Who did you get to handle her?" "You shitty little bastard. I said I would handle it, and I did. Just because I draw the line at killing a woman with my own hands doesn't mean I couldn't kill if I had to. And, unlike you, I don't enjoy torturing women." "Listen, you sanctimonious son of a bitch. You keep dancing around my question." Alex blew out an angry breath. "Is she dead or isn't she?" "She should be. The guy I had Monnier hire has a rep of mugging women and not leaving any witnesses. The cops have been after him for years, and he's still free. Satisfied?" "Sure. Let's just hope he's as good as his rep." "He is." "I'll be in after I get cleaned up." Alex hung up. Rutherford stood up slowly, then walked over to the bar built into the entertainment unit in his office. Opening a bottle of Jack Daniels, he poured himself a shot, neat, then drank it in one gulp. After pouring himself another, he went back to his desk and sat down. Leaning back in his chair, he thought about loose ends, profit-sharing, and ways to reconcile the two. Smiling, he set down the drink and hit the intercom to the lab. "Walter?" "Yes, doctor?" Someone was in the lab with Walter. He always called him boss, not doctor, when he was alone. Good man, Walter. "Please come to my office. We need to go over the schedule for tomorrow." "Right away, doctor." Rutherford shut off the intercom, then sipped his drink, this time savoring the smooth bite of the whiskey as it warmed his throat. Soon, all his loose ends would be tied up.

**** _Monday, 10:00 a.m., Vieux Carre police station on Royal Street._ Scott ran into the police station. His heart raced. It had been racing since he got the call from Jeanette to come get her. After hanging up, he'd torn out of bed and thrown on the scrubs he'd just tossed on the floor not twenty minutes ago. He'd been exhausted and looked forward to a good eight hours of sleep. Well, he was wide awake now. Adrenalin would do that to a person. He'd been running on it since he heard her teary voice. Now to find her in this mess called a police station. Walking up to the first man in uniform he saw, he asked, "Could you tell me where to find Jeanette LaFleur?" "She a victim or a perp, doc? What kind of crime?" "A victim. Mugging." "That'd be Captain Person." The uniform pointed to a row of offices along the front wall. "Go all the way down this hall, last office on the left." Scott yelled his thanks as he ran. Moving down the hall, he couldn't help noticing that the station was buzzing with activity, most of it near the office to which he'd been directed. Just like a hospital, he'd bet this place was busy 24/7. As he approached the last office, he dodged a phalanx of officers surrounding a large, shifty-looking man with a vicious gash across the bridge of his nose into his left eye. The man needed an eye surgeon. Looked as if someone had tried to take his eye out. Then Scott knew. "Wait, officers." Scott stood in front of the V-formation the policemen's bodies made to contain their prisoner. "No need to patch him up here, doc," the officer at the point of the V said. "We're transferring him to Charity to the lock-up ward." "Is this the guy who tried to mug Jeanette LaFleur?" Scott couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. The point officer pushed the damaged mugger away from Scott, his hand moving to hover over his weapon.. "Yes, sir. But you let the justice system handle him. Ya hear me?" The officer

looked down at Scott's hands, then back up to his eyes. "Come on, doc. You don't want to do this. The little lady took care of him good enough." Scott clenched and unclenched his fists. His breaths came fast and furiously. Hippocratic Oath be damned. He wanted to put his fist in the bastard's damaged eye and finish the job Jeannie had started. Then it struck him. She'd saved herself. His petite little Jeannie, one of the most feminine, gentle woman God had ever put on this earth, had taken this hulking bastard out. He closed his eyes, unclenched his fists, and let out a slow calming breath. Thank God, he and Paul had insisted she take those self-defense courses. He remembered her telling them she would never be able to blind someone. But she had. She had done what needed to be done. How he could be bursting with feelings of pride and revenge at the same time, he didn't know. He only knew that he didn't need to exact the vengeance he was feeling. Jeannie had taken care of it. "Sorry, officers." Scott held up his hands and smiled. "Just keep him healthy so he can go to jail. I'm sure he'll never live down the fact that a five-foot, two-inch, dainty little bit of a gal bested him." The policemen laughed. One of the men shouted, "Ya got that right, doc. Ole One-Eye here will be somebody's best girlfriend." The officers roared with laughter as they escorted the sullen mugger down the hall. Scott turned to stare at the closed door to Person's office. Before entering, he needed to clear his mind. He didn't want Jeannie to see any remnants of the ugly feelings that had coursed through him at the sight of her attacker. She'd had enough ugliness today. He knocked on the door and heard a muffled "Come in." After entering the room, he saw only Jeannie. He picked her up and hugged her. Her hair smelled of wisteria -- and sweat. He shuddered. He could only imagine her terror. Once more he silently thanked God for her safety. He rubbed her trembling back as she cried silently into the front of his scrubs. "It's okay, _cher_. I'm here." _And I'm never going away. No more waiting on you to make up your mind, little one. From here on out, I'm fighting for my right to be the only man in your life. Charles can go ... wait a minute, she hadn't called Charles. She'd called him!_ Scott almost shouted his joy to the skies. She'd called him, not Charles. Subconsciously, she knew who her man was. Now, all he had to do was convince her conscious mind. "Scott, thanks for coming." Jeannie looked up at him, tears clouding her big

blue eyes. "I didn't know who else to call." "You called the right man. You know you can always count on me." "Did you hear? I stopped him. I never thought I could, but those lessons you and Paul made me take. And all that practice." Jeannie threw her head back and smiled. "They worked." Scott picked up the proud woman in his arms and twirled her within the limited confines of the office. "Ya done good, sweetheart. Paul would have been proud of you. I know I'm damned proud of you." Setting her down, her back against him, he held her close to his chest. Then, he pressed a kiss on the top of her head. "Ahem." A large African-American man sitting behind the desk coughed. In his all-consuming concern for Jeannie, Scott hadn't noticed the man. The man who had to be Captain Person said, "Well, I'm damn proud of her, too. She got that slimy, murdering, thieving bastard off my streets. I'm thinking of recommending her for a goddamn medal." Scott's blood ran cold. "Murdering?" He placed Jeannie at his side, put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her closer to his body. "That son of a bitch mugged and murdered people?" "Not people, just women," said Person. "I have a stack of case files the height of my desk on this bastard, covering the last five years. Your woman just closed about twenty murder cases for me." Startlingly white teeth flashed in the captain's dark face. He looked thrilled at the collar. Scott was less than thrilled. In fact, he was so horrified that he forgot to breathe. His pulse threatened to pound out of the side of his neck. He wanted to kill someone, but had no victim. His petite woman had handled it all herself. "She could've been killed!" Scott turned Jeannie back around to face his chest, then tried to absorb her into his body. He'd promised Paul on his death bed that he'd guard this woman with his life. And he'd failed to be there when she'd needed him most. He could have lost her today. And he'd never told her how much he loved her. No more messing around. "I'm okay, Scott." Jeannie stroked his chest. "Could you loosen up some? I like breathing."

The small smile on her face reassured him. She was teasing. He slackened his hold. "Sorry, _cher_. May I take her home?" he asked Captain Person. "Yep. We know where she lives. The Prosecutor will call her when he needs her for the trial." Scott nodded, then gently guided Jeannie from the room. After they'd left the building, Scott pulled her close against him. His eyes scanned from side-to-side, scouting out potential danger in the immediate vicinity. Just because they were outside a police station didn't mean they were safe. Tourism aside, the Quarter was just another inner city neighborhood with inner city problems. "Scott?" Jeannie spoke as they reached his car. "Yes, _cher_?" "Something's bothering me about the mugging." Jeannie hesitated, worrying her lower lip with her teeth, a habit which meant she was upset. "You'll probably think I'm imagining things, but..." "Tell me." Scott turned to her, lifting her chin so she could see the seriousness in his eyes. "I'll believe you." He wanted her to confide in him. He needed her to trust him to take care of whatever was bothering her. In that way, he'd be one step closer to binding her to him. "The mugger. Well, he wasn't going after my purse." Jeannie's eyes reflected her confusion. "He called me a fucking bitch, then he reached for the briefcase. Isn't that strange?" Scott closed his eyes. The foul-mouthed bastard. If he were there, Scott would be hard-pressed not to kill the slime for bad-mouthing his Jeannie. Wiping thoughts of murder and mayhem from his mind, he opened his eyes, then looked into the bewildered depths of his love's eyes. "Did you mention this to the police?" "I tried, but they treated me as if I was a hysterical woman." "The captain did say the man mugged then killed other women, _cher_. Once he had your briefcase, he'd have killed you and gotten your purse easily." Scott rubbed Jeannie's arms gently. "Maybe, he went for the larger bag first, since he knew it could be used as a weapon. Make sense?"

"Uh huh. Since you put it that way, yes, it does. I did use the heavier bag against him. Guess muggers read up on those self-defense classes, too." Sighing, Jeannie leaned her forehead against his chest. "Take me home, Scott. I'm dirty, hungry, and so tired I can't think straight." Placing a light kiss on the top of her head, he helped her into the car. "Okay, darlin'. Bath, food and bed, in that order." Jeannie settled into the leather seat. With a moan, she laid her head back against the head rest and closed her eyes. She made no move to fasten her seat belt. "Darlin', you need to buckle up." No answer. She was asleep. Poor baby. She was exhausted. The stress of the morning had taken it all out of her. Careful not to disturb her rest, Scott reached in to fasten the seatbelt. Damn. The briefcase was in the way. Jeannie had fallen asleep, but still maintained a death grip on the bag. He'd try to wiggle it out of the clinch she had on it. Carefully, he moved it back and forth, hoping she'd let go. Instead, she moaned louder and held on more tightly than ever. Suddenly, Jeannie started. Her eyes flew open and she cried out, "No!" Her unseeing eyes dilated with fear; her breathing was accelerated and choppy. She clutched the bag even tighter to her chest. She was reliving the attack. Shocked by her rapid descent into terror, Scott hurried to reassure her. "It's just me, _cher_. Scott. Hush now." He moved slowly so as not to spook her further. Jeannie shook her head from side-to-side, moaning. Yet still, she protected the bag, sheltering it against her breasts like she would a child. "Jeannie. It's Scott. I just want to fasten your belt. The case is in the way." "Scott?" Her eyes started to clear. She looked down at the case in her arms. Dazed, she shook her head and sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me. I mean, it's all over. I'm safe." Scott wasn't sure if the last words were a statement or a question. Maybe she wasn't sure either. All he knew was she needed rest, and she wouldn't get any sitting in a car in the police station parking lot. "Yes, darlin', you're safe." He smoothed a lock of hair off her forehead, shaken loose in her fright. "Your conscious brain may know it's over, but your subconscious isn't quite convinced yet." Scott smiled his reassurance.

"You've got a tad bit too much adrenalin flowing through you right now. It'll pass. I promise." Scott held out a hand. "Now, why don't you pass me that briefcase you're cradling so we can get you all buckled up." Jeannie's grasp tightened on the bag in question, then as if she realized how paranoid her actions were, she let go. "Here. But keep it in the back seat, please. It's got important stuff in it." Taking the case, he asked, "What kind of important stuff? You've been guarding that thing since Friday." "I'll explain it all once we get to my place." At least she trusted him with the case. Her relinquishment of it was just another small demonstration of her faith in him. Walking around to the driver's side, he placed the case on the floor behind his seat, so Jeannie could see it. Locking the doors, he started the car. "We'll be home in less than five minutes. Hang in there, sweetheart." Jeannie's eyes were shut, her breathing slow and shallow. She'd fallen asleep, again. Her skin was so pale and drawn that he knew she'd used all her reserves of energy and then some. Probably a post-adrenalin crash. Explanations might have to wait until she'd gotten some rest. As he pulled into the traffic on Royal, she jerked awake, then looked wildly about the car. Glancing in the back seat, she relaxed. Then, she sighed and lay back against the head rest once more. "Don't leave me alone after we get there. Please?" Scott could've cried at the fear coloring her voice. What in the hell was going on here? Well, he'd damn well have to find out. Whatever concerned Jeannie, concerned him. "I promise I won't leave you alone." _Ever._ -------CHAPTER FIFTEEN Explanations weren't forthcoming once they reached Jeannie's apartment. She was out for the count, so deeply asleep that she hadn't even roused when he'd carried her upstairs and tucked her in bed. After watching her sleep for several minutes, he remembered the brief case, which he'd managed to carry along with Jeannie. God knew how she would've reacted, if she'd awakened and the case had been absent. Scott hadn't wanted

to chance her flying into another cycle of adrenalin overload, then crashing again. She'd had enough of that for one day. Tip-toeing out of her bedroom, he left the door slightly open so he could hear her if she cried out. He feared the trauma of the morning attack would be a large part of her subconscious for a while. Her dreams morphing into nightmares. Before he opened Pandora's bag, he needed to call and make sure Jeannie's employer knew she wasn't malingering. He didn't imagine she'd phoned Dr. Rutherford from the police station. Calling the New Orleans Hospital operator he asked for Dr. Rutherford. "Dr. Rutherford." "Doctor, this is Dr. Fontenot. I'm a close friend of Jeanette LaFleur. She won't be coming into work today, maybe not tomorrow either." His listener's sharp intake of breath caused Scott to pause. The noise sounded more like a gasp of shock rather than concern or even anger. "She's all right?" Wrong question, doctor, thought Scott. You should've asked "What's wrong?" or "What's happened?" It was as if he hadn't expected to hear from Jeanette at all. Scott waited to see what the doctor would do. He didn't have long to wonder. "Fontenot, is it? Answer me. What in the hell happened? Was it an accident? Where is she?" Rutherford's voice came over the phone like a sledge hammer. Each question striking harder than the last, the last sounding harsh with some emotion Scott could have sworn was fear. "She's fine. She's with me." Chomp on that, doctor. "I'll have her call you when she feels up to it. Just wanted you to know she wasn't goofing off or anything. Good-bye." Scott heard Rutherford's frantic "But wait..." as he disconnected the phone. Looking in that briefcase was more important than ever. His shit-detector told him that whatever threatened Jeannie had to do with her job -- and the information was in that bag she'd been guarding like a mother hen. After picking up the case, he sat in the large over-stuffed chair near the fireplace. From here he could see the front door, the French doors to the balcony, and Jeannie's door. No one was getting in or out of this apartment without him noticing it. Satisfied that he was in the best place to protect Jeannie, he relaxed enough to open the bag.

Pulling out papers, he started to read. Two hours later, he put the last piece of paper onto the pile lying on the end table. "Shit," he said under his breath, adding a few more colorful phrases he learned in the Marines. From his careful reading, he found that Jeannie had documented a very complete and detailed case of medical malpractice, fraud, and God knew what else. It stunk. "Why haven't you gone to the cops, Jeannie?" he whispered. "Because Charles and I didn't figure we had enough to prove it." She stood in the doorway of her room. "Dr. Rutherford is an important man. He'd say someone set him up. He'd blame it on me, the staff, the people before me, anybody but himself. And he could get off. You know how corrupt New Orleans' police and politicians are. I'd be fired with mud on my name ... well, that's what we figured anyway." Shuffling into the room, she collapsed onto the couch, an arm's length away from Scott and the pile of papers. Then, waving her hand at the stack, she said, "I've been bringing the hard copies and CD home every night. Someone has been searching my office, my computer. The only person who knows besides Charles and you is Sally, the clinic secretary, and she's scared stiff of both of the doctors." "Both of the doctors?" "Yes. Besides Dr. Rutherford, there's Dr. Randolph..." "But he's just a resident." "Well, he's in it up to his eyeballs." Jeannie coughed. Scott handed her his lemonade, and she took a sip. "He dated Sally. She overheard some things she wasn't supposed to. She kept it quiet because she thought the bastard was gonna marry her, and he was making a lot of money off the deal. But, instead, he dumped her." She paused to take another sip. Scott thought the action was more to collect her thoughts and rein in her emotions, rather than thirst. "Sally is pregnant -- and it's Randolph's. He threatened her before I came on board, but now he's stalking her, because ... because she's been helping me put all that together." "Ahh, the woman scorned." Jeannie sat the drink on the table. Leaning across, she put her hand on Scott's where it lay on the chair arm. She gripped him, her nails digging into his skin.

"Yeah, she's been scorned, but she's scared, Scott. No, more than that, terrified. She wants to quit, to go away and hide, and I don't blame her. I think, ... um ... he's abused her. And I can believe it." Jeannie shivered. "Randolph is damn scary." "What's the son-of-a-bitch done to you?" "Nothing really. It's more ... more how he looks at me and ... talks to me. He and Walter Monnier, you know, the eye tech I told you about..." "The little creep who calls you Flower. Took you on the tour of the tunnels on your first day. That Walter?" "Yes, that's the one." Jeannie shivered. "Well, Randolph started to call me Flower, too. When Walter's around, they exchange a look, you know, like certain men do when they're viewing women as sex objects. Like the guys who hang around Bourbon Street harassing women out on the town." Scott knew exactly what kind of men hung around the bars on Bourbon -pimps, panderers and perverts, plus just plain ole randy and drunk men looking to score. Bourbon Street had more than its share of men who acted as she described. It was sort of a male bonding ritual to comment on curvy rear ends and big breasts and to speculate whether a woman would swallow. "Darlin, lots of men do that. It's the nature of the beast." "But not within the hearing of the woman in question. Not at work. You don't. Paul never did. Charles doesn't either. Admiring a woman's body is one thing, but how Randolph and Monnier do it, say it ... is totally something else. More nasty ... violent ... like verbal rape." Scott wasn't going to argue with Jeannie. Not being a woman, he couldn't imagine what it felt like. He'd have to take her word for it. Just the fact that they scared the bejesus out of her gave him enough justification to seek the two men out and explain the facts of life to them. They'd treat Jeannie with respect -- or they'd have to deal with him. Really, it was all his fault. Allowing Jeannie to grieve so long had opened her up to all sorts of importunities. If he'd marked her as _taken_, most men would leave her alone. Well, all that was going to change. He'd stake his claim, mark his territory, and make sure the men she worked with knew she was off-limits. Hell, he'd even caught Rutherford eyeing her up-and-down a couple of times when he'd dropped into the clinic to take her to lunch. The old fart. Shit. Then there was Charles. He'd like to forget about the ever-present lawyer. He was still in the picture. And she'd confided in Charles before him. _But when she was hurt and scared, she called you. Your favor, Scott._

Yeah, she'd called him. "Scott?" "I'll take care of Monnier and Randolph." He smiled. "I'll make sure that Randolph leaves Sally alone, also. Okay?" "Scott," Jeannie whispered. "You read those papers. Something is going on here. Something really bad." Jeannie caught his eye. The look on her face was identical to one he'd seen on soldiers when they'd come face-to-face with war's death and destruction. It was a look of horror, unspeakable horror. "Charles and I think that a man has been killed because of what is going on," she said. "That means Randolph and Monnier are involved in more than just harassing me." Chills raced down Scott's spine. "Who got killed?" "A man named Stu Thomas." "I know him. He's the sales rep for Silver River." Scott pictured the slick salesman. "I met him on one of my transplant rotations." "Was the sales rep for SRP." Jeannie turned even more white, if possible. "He's dead. He died the day after I overheard him telling a group of doctors that SRP supplied all the corneas to the Epi Study." "I saw that in the papers you've collected." Scott ran his hands through his hair. "Besides lying about the failure rates of the procedures, which is enough to get their licenses suspended and them sued, you think Rutherford, Randolph and Monnier are running some sort of scam with SRP?" "I knew we were billing out more procedures than we were following up. I found out that patients with failed procedures were going elsewhere for treatment and that their files were destroyed. The data was made to look as if we had a high rate of success. Then I remembered overhearing Stu Thomas and some Eye Bank docs at the convention. I started checking into where we were getting corneas. I actually assisted one day when an SRP lens was used. I saved the bottle, put it in my desk drawer. Now it's missing." "So you began to think things were rotten?" "Like oyster shells at low tide on a July day. It gets worse. Sally then came to me and confessed that she'd been destroying patient files on Randolph's and Rutherford's orders." "You're sure she included Rutherford?"

"Uh-huh. I wanted to rationalize that he was a dupe. Blame it all on Randolph and Monnier, but she was positive about it. She'd overheard Randolph bragging about their deal." "Okay. Go on." "I didn't know what to do. I needed legal advice, so I took my preliminary findings to Charles to get his opinion." Scott sighed. She went to Charles for legal advice -- and to him for safety and comfort. He could live with that. "I could prove through the patient billings and the study's budget that Dr. Rutherford was misrepresenting what he was doing. Instead of donor corneas and a small processing fee, the patients were billed for a large fee labeled as processing, but in reality is the cost of the commercial corneas. He's also charging against the project budget for the commercial corneas." "And getting a clear one hundred percent profit which he pockets, since the patient pays for the lenses." "Yeah. But it's more than that. From what I can see, he'd been billing out the donor lenses the same way." Jeannie stood up and started to pace in front of the couch. "I spoke to Dr. Beaton from the Eye Bank." "The day you saw me in the deli." "Exactly. He told me Walter Monnier was forced on them by Rutherford because of the project." Jeannie paused and stared into the empty fireplace. "Dr. Beaton thinks, but can't prove, that Walter skims donor corneas from the Eye Bank and sends them to the Epi Study. You see, Rutherford makes the same money off the donor corneas with the added advantage that he doesn't have to hit the budget, which is way more risky." "Illegal profit aside, isn't harvesting corneas and sending them to the Study what Monnier's supposed to do?" "Yeah, but the Eye Bank cut Rutherford off cold turkey, right before the annual convention, which was when Stu Thomas told everyone SRP was supplying all the corneas." Scott rubbed the impending headache localizing itself over his eyes. "Okay, I'll play devil's advocate here." Scott held up a finger. "One, all corneas whether commercial or donor have been billed at the same rate to the patients. The doctors and Monnier have been raking in a profit from day one of the Epi Study." Jeannie nodded.

Scott added a finger. "Two, the Eye Bank cut off the donor corneas before the annual convention, but no one knew that, so when Stu Thomas popped off his mouth, the culprits heard about it and were afraid someone might look at the books to see what was going on." Jeannie nodded again. A third finger went up. "And three, for that injudicious bit of salesmanship, you and Charles think they had Stu Thomas killed? Honey, it just doesn't make sense to kill someone over what is basically garden variety fraud." "That's what Charles and I told ourselves, but it just doesn't ... you know, feel right. Especially in light of the large amounts of money we found going into numbered bank accounts. Charles and I went to Rutherford's office late one night and went through his things." "You broke into the man's office?" "No, Sally gave me the key." "Semantics, Jeannie." Scott sighed. "Go on." "We found the SRP invoices you saw in the papers -- and something else." "What? A confession?" "Don't be nasty. Charles found bank accounts. Numbered bank accounts with millions and millions of dollars. Lots more money than I found going through the falsified project billings." Scott groaned. "Enough money to kill to protect?" "Exactly." Jeannie sat on the arm of Scott's chair and looked him in the eyes. "Today, the mugger wanted that case, not because it was heavy and he was afraid I would hit him with it, but because he was told to get that case at all costs. I don't think he'd have killed me -- hurt me maybe -- as a warning, like they've been warning Sally. They couldn't find the stuff in my office. They aren't worried about the computer. That can be erased, the hard drives trashed so nothing can be found. But I had hard copies and back-ups. They had to get those before they scared me into shutting up and going away." "We've got to go to the cops, Jeannie." Scott pulled her onto his lap, then took her face between his hands. "I don't want you involved in this any longer. Quit your job, take what you have, and go to the cops. Let them handle it." "The local cops can't be trusted. You know that. Neither can the politicians, judges and prosecutors. Rutherford can buy the whole damn town off and make us look like fools." "The feds then." Scott stroked her hair, then cradled her head in the palms of

his hands. "Go to the FBI. That much money -- it could be money laundering." "Yes, that's what Charles thinks. He's looking for connections between Rutherford and SRP. We found some indications that Rutherford has more than a buyer-seller relationship." "Why is Charles stringing this out? What's in it for him?" "Scott!" Jeannie pulled away, scrambling off his lap. "There's nothing in it for him. He's doing me a favor. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "No. He should have taken this to the feds as soon as he found the money angle." Scott stood up and stalked over to Jeannie and grabbed her arms. "You are in danger. Little Bits could be, also. He ignored that." "Scott, let go. You're hurting me." Scott blew out a disgusted breath. "Sorry, darlin'. You know I'd never hurt you. Ever." "I know. You're just worried. So am I." Jeannie sighed. Reaching for Scott's hands she squeezed them as if to reassure him. "In fact, I was going to call Charles today and tell him we have to take what he's found out so far and go to the government. If not the government, maybe the news media. Sally and I can't go on much longer. I don't want this touching me or my child any longer. I can't sleep, eat, and can barely stomach going into work each day." "Call Charles. Arrange a meeting. I'll go with you. I'm not letting you out of my sight until this is out of your hands and into the authorities'. "What do you mean by not letting me out of your sight?" "Just what it sounds like. Day and night for as long as it takes, I'm staying here." Scott looked around. "I can sleep on the couch or bring a sleeping bag and sack out on the floor. Doesn't matter to me. All that counts is your and Little Bits' safety." "Charles might have something to say about that." Scott glanced at Jeannie's face. She was teasing him. The little minx. "Charles won't say nothin'." Scott pulled her into his arms. He bent his head until his lips were mere inches away. "You know what I learned today?" "No." Jeannie's answer was a mere whisper of sound across his lips. "I learned that it doesn't pay to give the woman you'd die for too much grieving space." Scott brushed a light kiss over her trembling lips. "I can't wait any longer for you, Jeannie. You could've died today, and I would've died

right along with you." "Scott? What are you saying? I don't understand." "Of course, you don't. I never told you. You were too busy grieving for Paul and then trying your wings with city-boy Charles." "Scott, uh, I..." Jeannie shook her head slightly. "Shhh, darlin'. You don't have to say anything. Just give yourself a chance to get used to the idea." Scott feathered another kiss across her lips. "Let me court you. Let me protect you and Little Bits. I _need_ to do that." Scott held his breath. Hoping he'd not gone too far, too fast. "You want to court me?" He nodded. She touched her lips with trembling fingers. "I, uh, never knew you felt this way. Never dreamed ... What about Charles?" She looked up -- her eyes confused, seeking answers. "What do I say to him?" "Were you planning on marrying him?" Scott held his breath. Afraid of her answer. Afraid the answer would kill his dreams. "Well, no." Jeannie looked away, her cheeks tinged pink. Scott remembered to breathe as he closed his eyes in relief. Thank God, she wasn't serious about the man. Brushing her cheek with the back of his finger, he thought at least the conversation was putting some color back into her cheeks. Was she embarrassed? Upset? Mad? She was silent waiting for an answer. He gave the only one he could. "Then, tell him whatever you want. But I'm letting him know he has competition. It's only fair." "Right. It's only fair." She gazed up at him, her eyes reflecting -- relief. Maybe she wanted to ease Charles out of her life and hadn't known how to do it. Well, he'd take whatever edge he could get. By the time Charles was history, he'd be firmly entrenched. After all he had two things on his side -- he'd been her husband's best friend and Little Bits wanted him as a daddy. Scott smiled. "Thank you, darlin'. We'll get through this. And, I know how to protect my own." Then he took her lips in a deep and satisfying kiss.

_I'll keep her safe, Paul. I promise._ -------CHAPTER SIXTEEN Byron Rutherford was pissed. The man whom he blamed for his state of mind sat across from him -- making excuses. "Gee, doc. You said to get the bag with the papers and to deal with Flower." Walter squirmed in the leather chair, his leather pants making squeaking noises with each movement. "Roth just did what came naturally." "Except he got caught." Rutherford enunciated each word slowly. "You can't blame me for that. He'd never been caught before. Damn, the man had a string of successful kills. Who knew Flower could take out a stone cold killer that way?" Walter glared across the desk. "Besides, there's always the back-up plan." "Back-up plan?" Rutherford sat up. His angry eyes sought and held Walter's. "What back-up plan?" "Roth always has a back-up." Walter sat back and smiled. "She'll never testify against him. No testimony. No conviction. Maybe he'll get a little assault and battery thrown at him, but he didn't have a weapon. So, light time. And the kicker is they can't hang those other cases on him either -- they'd use her to show a modus operandi -- no Flower, no connection to the other crimes. Roth thinks of everything." "You didn't answer my question, you cretin! What exactly is this back-up plan?" "Well, he didn't tell me specifics, mind you. Just that she would die some time soon if he failed. It would be like fate, Roth said." "Great." Rutherford threw his hands up in the air and looked to the ceiling. "She's still out there digging up evidence on our operation, and we have to depend on some low-life, murdering thug's idea of fate as a back-up plan." Rutherford lowered his head to glare at Walter, then slammed his fist on the desk. He'd have liked to put it in Walter's face, but he needed the man to do the dirty work. "This operation is worth millions of dollars, Walter. I've made you a wealthy man. Fate is too vague for me at this point in time. Go talk to this Roth and find out what in the hell the back-up plan is. Got me?" "Sure, doc." Walter stood and backed out of the room. "I know just how to do it. Be back in a few."

Before Walter could make his escape, Rutherford called out, "And after you find out what the back-up plan is, see about getting rid of Alex -- permanently. He's become greedy and careless. A loose end, and you know how I hate those." "Yeah, doc. I know." Walter tipped his hand to his head in a mockery of a salute and left. **** Walter left the New Orleans Police Department lock-up. The sweltering afternoon heat and humidity blasted him in the face. He shrugged off the blazer, then tore off the tie he'd put on to support his role as Roth's attorney. He'd been lucky that Roth had refused a public defender and insisted on his own lawyer. Walter had passed out a few business cards, authenticated them with a fake driver's license, and he was in. Wouldn't the jailers be amazed when the real legal eagle showed up? He chuckled. Roth's back-up plan was a doozy. Rutherford would shit a brick. But Walter thought it had a great chance of working -- and no one would be the wiser. Hemlock. In her allergy capsules. Genius, sheer genius. Roth had followed Flower for a week, peeping in her windows, going to volleyball games and the like. Then one day he broke into her apartment, in order to doctor something in her place with one of the poisons he carried. He found the capsules in a prescription bottle on her kitchen counter. He dumped them out and injected a few of them with some hemlock. It was Russian roulette with pills. Walter laughed out loud, drawing the attention of several cops going into the jail. Waving at them, he yelled, "Just got the joke." Then he laughed some more. The cops smiled at him and waved back. Flower's death would mimic a respiratory attack of some sort. One minute breathing, the next dead. Perfect. **** Rutherford steepled his fingers, resting his chin on top of them. "Hemlock. Good choice. I take back all the nasty things I said about your Mr. Roth. He is a genius. An easy, quick and natural-looking death. No way to diagnose it without running a tox screen, and coroners don't normally unless they suspect alcohol or drugs. In this case, they wouldn't." Walter blew out a breath and visibly relaxed. "I thought so."

"I want you to plan something similar for Alex." Rutherford closed his eyes and rubbed them. "Instead of hemlock, I've got an experimental drug that SRP has nixed because it always causes heart failure when mixed with alcohol." Rutherford opened a locked drawer and pulled out a small bottle of capsules. He handed them to Monnier. "They knew the FDA wouldn't allow human testing on it. Can't count on some idiot not to take his meds with booze. Let's use Alex as a test case, huh?" "Sounds good. But when and where do you want it done? In a public place? At home? Should I make it look like a sudden death? Or suicide?" Rutherford hesitated. "Suicide -- definitely. Remorse over murdering Sally. I'll type up and print out a note on the office printer for you to leave with the body." He rocked back in his chair. "And let's make it public. Why don't you take Alex out for a nice dinner -- on me, of course. Then, propose a visit to a local sex club. I believe Alex likes Lady Marmalade's particular style of entertainment. After he has one last night of debauchery, you can slip the stuff into his drink. He always has a drink afterwards." Rutherford's lips twisted into a smile of remembrance. "Swears it ends the evening on a proper note. Chivas with a twist." "I've seen him do it, boss. I'd say that would be a right nice send off." Walter stood up to leave. "I'll set it up for tonight. No use wasting time." -------CHAPTER SEVENTEEN _Monday evening, Rock 'N Bowl, South Carrollton Avenue._ The bowling alley cum jazz club was busy for a Monday. Most of the alleys were filled with happy and, truth-be-told, slight tipsy bowlers jumping up and down at every roll of the ball, no matter if it were a gutter ball or a strike. Amateur night, Jeanette figured. League bowlers would be more serious about their games. Charles had arranged to meet her and Scott here, because his jazz group had scheduled to play a gig this week in order to warm up for the Jazz Fest. Charles was almost as intense about his music as he was his law practice. Jeanette sipped white wine. The warm tones of Charles's alto sax solo washed over her, giving her an excuse to close her eyes and relax. She shut out the background noise of balls striking pins, triumphant shouts, and less happy moans. She attempted to shut out thoughts of Scott, whom she thought she knew and now realized she didn't. Ever since the kiss, she'd reexamined every aspect of her life before and after Paul's death to discover if there had been any clues about Scott's professed

feelings for her. She'd found none, or at least nothing she could specifically put her finger on. Simply put, he'd always been there. First, as Paul's best friend. Later, during the aftermath of Paul's death, as her sole support, a rock of strength and advice. And lately, as her good friend, helping her to deal with life's ups and downs -providing a daddy figure for Brigitte. He was someone who'd known Brigitte's daddy and could tell her the childhood stories that had died with Paul. "Jeannie?" Scott's low, rough tones cut through the babble in the club. "Stop worrying it." She opened her eyes. Scott stared at her, his eyes reflecting understanding and warmth. "Worrying what? I'm just enjoying the music, and wondering what Charles has to tell us." "Little liar." Scott caressed her face with an intimate look which caused her to blush. "I meant what I said. I won't rush you -- much. It's just that..." "I know ... it's just that you could've lost me today, and you've been patient long enough." Staring into the wine glass, she blew out a breath, causing little waves to ripple over the surface of the wine. "It's so sudden. I never even thought ... had a glimmer of what you've been feeling. How..." "How long have I known I loved you? Wanted to make you mine?" Scott took a sip of his beer, then sighed. "From the day Paul and I first met you." Shocked, Jeanette didn't know what to think, what to say. So long ago -- and he'd never said one thing; never acted out of line at any time. Even during the funeral, he'd touched her, held her, with what she'd interpreted to be friendly compassion. And in the years of grief which followed, he was always there with a strong shoulder to cry on and a compassionate ear. There'd never been one iota of sexual passion in his touch, his eyes. Or had she missed it? So centered on herself that she'd just plumb missed it. "Darlin', stop it." Scott leaned across the table and stroked the hands clutching the wine glass in a bone-crunching grip. "You won't find anything in the past." How had he known what she was thinking? Was he that in tune with her? In the years since Paul's death, she'd never once asked him what he wanted, felt or needed. She'd just used him for her own comfort, her own needs. Shame spread through her. She'd taken him for granted -- and he loved her.

"Jeannie, listen to me. Stop beating yourself up." Scott took the wine glass out of her hands, then grasped them gently. She looked at him. "I never let on, because when Paul was alive you were his wife -- and I loved Paul too much to hurt him in any way. Then afterwards, well, you weren't ready." "And you think I'm ready now?" "That's for you to say." Scott's smile vanished. "For my sake, I hope so." "Hey, you two." Charles's East-coast tones shattered the intimacy of their conversation. "What's so serious here? Something I need to know about besides Jeanette almost getting killed this afternoon?" Numb, Jeanette sat and stared at the mural of historic New Orleans which covered the wall behind the stage. "Everything's fine," Scott said. "You play a mighty mean sax." "Thanks." Charles sat, then signaled the club's owner, John Blancher, who worked the bar this evening. "Heineken for me, John." Jeanette envied Scott's ability to switch emotional wave-lengths at will. She was still trying to process that the passion he displayed this afternoon was not recent, but had lain dormant for years. If the attack on her hadn't occurred, he might never have told her. And, yes, she had to admit that she was still wondering about her body's immediate and wholly passionate response to his declaration of love -- and that kiss. For God's sake, what kind of person was she? She was supposed to be falling in love with Charles. Now, she didn't know what she felt. _Oh, Paul, why did you have to die? I don't know what to do. How to deal with this._ Scott and Charles covered her awkward silence and idly chatted about jazz, the group Charles played with and the various clubs they both enjoyed. Jeanette allowed the normalcy of the men's conversation to lull her into a false sense that things could be sane again. But she kept coming back to the fact that circumstances were anything but normal -- and it didn't look like she would be returning to a regular routine anytime soon. John's delivery of Charles's beer signaled an end to her escape from reality. Pitching his voice so only the three of them could hear, Scott asked, "What have you found out about Rutherford and his holdings?"

Charles glanced around the area near the corner booth in which they sat. The relative seclusion must have satisfied him. Or, maybe he realized no one could hear them above the music, the dozens of conversations, and the bowling alley noise. Taking his cue from Scott, Charles lowered his voice. "Rutherford is Silver River Pharmaceuticals. He owns over fifty percent of the company." His eyes teemed with emotion. It was an expression Jeanette had never seen on his face before, not even when he'd professed to love her and wanted to live with her. It was passion. Passion for the hunt. In that moment, she knew Charles would never fully be there for any woman. Knew that Scott had been right this afternoon when he'd intimated that Charles had other interests in this case besides her welfare. He wanted to get ahead in his career. He would use any situation, any person he could to do so. Being a lawyer would always be number one in his life. The challenge of it, the gamesmanship, fed him, kept him alive. Somehow she'd always sensed that. It might have been what had attracted her at first, this passion for his chosen career. So different than Paul, whose passion had been for her, and then their daughter. So different than Scott. Charles brought her out of her epiphany. "Who did you say owned stock besides Rutherford?" Charles stopped, not replying right away, as if he had to replay his last statements mentally to find out where he'd lost her. "I said, most of the other stock is in the hands of a Dr. Manual Lopez. He's the creator of..." "One World. I met him at the training seminar." Chills ran through her body at the memory of the swarthy man who'd attempted to corner her at the conference. "You didn't like him," concluded Scott in harsh tones. "Did the bastard come on to you? What did he do, Jeannie?" He read her too easily. Why hadn't she ever realized this before? "How did you know?" Jeanette strained to hear him, hoped that Charles hadn't sensed the vibrations flowing between her and Scott. She couldn't deal with one of Charles's tantrums at this moment. He might value his occupation more, but he was still male enough to be possessive of someone he considered his. "I know all your moods," whispered Scott.

"Jeanette, is Scott right? Did the Latino bastard bother you?" Charles's face darkened. His bluster proved her point. But she knew he wasn't the type to act on his emotion. Charles's chief weapons were words, whereas Scott's were deeds. The resolve to teach Lopez a lesson blazed from Scott's dark eyes as the muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched. "Dr. Rutherford was with us most of the evening," she said, attempting to control her revulsion at the memory of Lopez's clammy hands. She must have failed, because Scott swore vilely, shocking both her and Charles. "Scott, please. Nothing happened, really." Oddly enough, Alex Randolph had saved her from more serious groping by the South American. Alex's interruption, even though he later used the situation to needle her, had ended Lopez's attempts. "I left as soon as I could." Jeanette shuddered. "I didn't like the man at all. He gave me the creeps." Charles nodded. "As well he should." He pulled out a folder from a brief case. Jeanette, distracted by Scott's feelings for her, hadn't even noted the case. God, she must be really out of it not to notice something that big and bulky. "The good doctor, a Mexican by birth, looks clean on the surface," Charles said. "He founded One World, a third-world, medical relief charitable organization, which ostensibly provides both preventive medical care and needed surgical procedures to the needy people of countries in South and Central America." "Doesn't he ask for volunteer doctors and nurses? I thought I saw something on the house staff bulletin board about helping out for a month during residency." Scott reached for the documents. "Yeah, that's one way he gets his clinics and surgeries staffed." Charles snorted. "It just saves him that much more money by not paying for the health care professionals." Taking a deep pull of his beer, he leaned back against the booth and sighed. "Good ole Manuel is making money off One World right and left. Would it surprise you to know that Dr. Rutherford is on the Board of Directors of his good friend Manuel's organization? And, besides owning stock, that Manuel is on the Board of SRP?" Confused, Jeanette shook her head. "How is he making money off a charitable organization that helps people? I mean, those kinds of groups always need

more money than they can get." Charles set his beer down. Opening another folder, he pulled out a thick sheaf of papers stapled along the side like a book. As he leafed through the pages, he talked. "I had a friend who has some talent with computers do some research on Silver River, its products, its research projects and its customer base." "You had him hack into the corporate files." Scott grinned. Charles smiled back. "Well, uh, yeah." Turning back to the papers, he said, "Ah, here is what I found extremely interesting." He put his finger in the page to hold the place, then looked at them. "It would seem that the majority of Silver River's products are not pharmaceuticals like pills, vaccines, and the like. Most of their profits come from commercial sales of body parts." "Like the corneas Rutherford got for the Epi Study," Jeanette blurted. "Not just corneas, right, Charles?" Scott stared at the place Charles marked with his finger. Jeanette couldn't read the page, but realized whatever was on it had Scott incandescent with anger, so much so he shook. What would make him that furious? He growled, slamming his hand on the table, causing the glasses to shift and Jeanette to jump. "It's all sorts of body parts. A regular warehouse of human tissue." He swore under his breath, foul, vulgar Cajun swear words. Charles nodded his agreement even though Jeanette knew he couldn't have known what the words meant. "But what's upsetting you both?" she asked. "It wasn't a secret that SRP sold body parts. Stu Thomas said as much at the annual convention. There were even brochures. It isn't illegal to harvest and resell body parts. There are guidelines set out by the AMA. So what's the problem? And what has that to do with One World?" Scott looked at Charles, who said, "You've figured it out, haven't you, Scott? You tell her." "There are not enough volunteer donors to supply all the needed organs. Plus, a business couldn't make money on donated organs, which are considered gifts, because protocols only allow a minimal processing and possibly shipping and handling fee. That means these body parts are gotten through illegal means, _cher_. They kill or maim people to get the organs. One World is SRP's source for donor tissue. There's a large market for this sort of thing. The United Nations commissioned a study. The anthropologist writing the report called it the commodification of the body. And as with anything that

can make money, ruthless men get involved and take it to extremes." Jeanette couldn't speak, couldn't breath. The concept was so depraved that she couldn't even begin to imagine any person could do such a thing. She especially couldn't imagine Dr. Rutherford involved in something so criminal. _Come on, Bootsie. You thought he had Stu Thomas killed, didn't ya? This is just more of the same thing. Don't be so naive._ "Okay, let's say Silver River is part of this, this..." Jeanette didn't know what to call it. "Body mafia," Charles said. "They call it the body mafia." Jeanette cringed at the images the words conjured. She'd closed her eyes during the scenes of violence in movies like _The Godfather_. Paul and Scott had teased her about being squeamish, especially considering she wanted to go into a health profession. "If SRP and One World are a part of this criminal activity," she said, "then Dr. Rutherford doesn't have to be aware of it, does he? Maybe this Lopez is the one who does all that, and Rutherford only sees the money." "No. I thought of that, so I checked." Charles pulled out another bunch of papers. "In the SRP's annual report and in the statement of purpose for One World, I found several references to Lopez and Rutherford meeting in the jungles of Central America. They worked together as young doctors. Later, Lopez, with Rutherford's help, formed One World, then they formed Silver River." "They needed a way to market the products they found in the jungles," Scott said. Charles nodded. "Yes, exactly. Together, they came up with the idea of taking body parts and selling them. So, I surmised, they created a legitimate-looking front to cover up the dirty work, then created the company to sell the products. They've done some half-assed research into medicinal rain forest plants to make SRP look like a regular pharmaceutical company. All in all, a very efficient use of marketplace theory." "In reality, SRP is a body-part clearing house," Scott said, his voice rough with banked anger. "Yeah. A clearing house," agreed Charles. "I took a chance, called my brother's friend at the CIA and had him look into the backgrounds of old Manuel and Byron. My thinking was because of the large amount of drugs coming in from Central and South America, the CIA would keep tabs on all Americans who spend a great deal of time down there and who also ship people and products in and out of our neighboring countries. I hoped we'd

get lucky." "Good move, Charles. Smart, really smart. I assume they found a drug connection. You've been bouncing with energy ever since you sat down." Charles beamed at Scott's compliment. Jeanette just felt out of her depth. "Dr. Lopez has a rep with the CIA, DEA and Interpol. Not only do they suspect -- but haven't been able to prove -- One World of running drugs, but they also have some knowledge of the killing and maiming of people for spare parts. Of course, they are more interested in the drug aspect, since the other crimes occur within sovereign countries and they can't prove that people were actually murdered. _Habeas corpus_ rears its ugly head." "So they are using SRP as a front for drug smuggling." Scott nodded. "That makes sense. I mean, they've set up a shipping routine. Why not use it to make more money? It's efficient and cost-effective." "But how does that prove Dr. Rutherford is involved? So, they were friends." Jeanette shrugged, still trying to find excuses for her mentor. "Scott and I are friends, and I wouldn't know if he were running drugs." Charles smiled. "Better watch it, Fontenot. She's on to you now." "Can it, Charles." Turning to Jeanette, Scott covered her fisted hands lying on the table. "Rutherford is making lots of money. You saw the bank reports, right?" "Yes, the night Charles and I looked in his office." "You told me there were tens of millions of dollars -- more than could be accounted for in the Epi Study budget and the scam _you_ concluded he was running." Rubbing her frigid hands between his warms ones, he asked, "Where is the money coming from?" "From the sale of the body parts?" Scott glanced at Charles. "What does the annual report say about those sales?" "Looks like they charted expenses on donated organs of four million on sales of said body parts for five million, leaving a net profit of around a million." "How about the sale of legitimate drugs?" "Net profit is a negative half a million dollars. Looks like they wrote off two or three research projects as totally useless."

"So, _cher_, where is all the money in the off-shore accounts coming from?" Scott placed the question gently. "The company netted only a half million or so dollars last year. Even if they lied about the expenses of donated organs -and I bet they did -- the company would only have made around four and a half million, most of which they would plow back into the overhead of the company. Drug companies eat cash." "I need to go to the ladies' room." Jeanette pulled her hands from Scott's and immediately felt bereft at the loss of the gentle touch. But she had to get away. She needed to think. To berate herself for her stupid naivete. She'd trusted an evil man, admired him even. How could she have been so blind? How could she trust her feelings for anyone ever again? When Charles started to get up and follow Jeannie, Scott said, "Leave her alone." Charles sat back down with a thud. "What's going on here, Fontenot? Are you horning in on my girl?" "Your girl?" Scott raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that? You haven't even gotten to second base. And you never will, you know." Charles sputtered, leaned forward, then pushed back away from the table and sputtered some more. Finally, face blazing red, he ground out between thinned lips, "She told you that?" "Nah, she didn't have to." Little Bits had been feeding him enough information. He'd deduced it. Charles had confirmed it. "I know her better than you ever will. I saw her with Paul. I know what she looks like when she's in love, and when she's been made love to." Scott shrugged. "Hell, boy, you aren't even a blip on the radar screen. You're just a temporary port." _I'm the home port_. Scott smiled. Charles wiped his hand over his eyes. "Damn, I knew she was losing interest in me when she wouldn't move in with me." Scott could see the legal mind at work. Charles needed a cause for the effect, a way to rationalize the outcome. He knew he was right when Charles said, "It was the kid, wasn't it?" "The kid?" The ignoramus blamed Little Bits for his failure? What a jerk. "Yeah, I told Jeanette that she paid more attention to her kid and her job than

me." "You didn't!" Scott shook his head. He couldn't believe Charles had been so stupid. He almost felt sorry for the bastard -- almost. Curious, he asked, "What did Jeannie do?" "She told me we wouldn't suit. So I stalked out of the restaurant. I called later -- apologized -- and asked for a second chance. Figured I blew it, even though she kept seeing me." "Yeah, well, Brigitte is her child, man. What did you expect her to do? Throw the kid away?" "Hell, I don't know. I'm not ready to be a daddy, especially to another man's kid. I have a career to get established." "Then, it's a good thing I am, because that's what Jeannie needs -- a man who will take care of her and her child." Charles nodded. "Okay, I can see that -- now." Hesitantly, he asked, "Is it okay with you if I still see Jeanette, so I can work on this case? It could make my law career to nail an asshole like Rutherford." Scott managed to hide his dislike for Charles's expressed self-interest in maintaining a relationship with Jeannie. His mama always told him not to count his shrimp before the net was fully in the boat. "Sure. We can use all the help we can get. You dig up the legal dirt. I'll protect Jeannie and Little Bits, and work the medical angle." "It's a deal." Charles offered his hand. Scott took it and shook. "Deal." -------CHAPTER EIGHTEEN _Monday night -- Lady Marmalade's in the Quarter_ Walter sat back and allowed the Flower look-alike to work on resurrecting his spent member. He wanted to get his money's worth. For what he was paying, the whore should get him off at least two more times. God knows, he could have picked up some little secretary or tourist looking for a good time in a Bourbon street bar and gotten basic sex acts for free -- except Lady Marmalade's was one of the few houses in New Orleans that catered to kink. And kinky sex was the only thing he and Alex Randolph had in common.

His dick hardened under the combined stimulation of his whore's unique talents and the sight of Randolph putting the restrained submissive he'd hired for the evening through her paces. By Walter's count, Randolph had come twice already in two different orifices and was going for the sexual version of a tri-fecta. Randolph's stamina was legendary in this part of town, and he was nowhere near done. He hadn't used all the implements laid out on the bed, yet. Walter could almost feel sorry for the sub, but she hadn't complained and actually seemed to enjoy it. Randolph's third roar of completion echoed throughout the crimson-walled room. "Clean me up, Kitten," he growled, as he pulled her to him by grabbing her pony tail. He urged her on with four-letter words and promises of painful retribution if she failed to clean him properly. Control and punishment were Randolph's thing. Walter imagined Sally's last hours had been hell on earth. Walter's own completion took him by surprise. He shivered in orgasmic release. Licking her lips, his lady-for-the-evening peered at him through slitted eyelids. To Walter, she looked more dim-witted than sexy. "What do you want next, stud?" she cooed. "Don't call me that," growled Walter. The bitch had spoiled his fantasy. Flower would never have called him "stud." He took the whore's chin in a firm grip and squeezed. "Call me -- _darling Master_." A small squeak was the only acknowledgment of his bruising grip as the whore attempted to smile through tightened lips. "Okay. What would you like me to do next, _darling Master_?" He didn't like her tone. Impudent bitch. Reining in his first impulse to strike her, Walter leaned down and whispered his wants in her ear. She looked up quickly, then back at the floor. He'd shocked her -- he could tell. He waited. After a few seconds, she nodded her agreement, signaling the extra amount by holding up four fingers. Greedy slut. She must need the money badly to agree to his terms. Her harsh breathing signaled her fear. Good. He needed her to fear him.

"Four hundred more it is, my little Flower, but you'd better be convincing." The unspoken "or else" hung in the air between them. Even with the delights to come and the obvious fright of the woman kneeling before him, it wasn't enough. He wanted the real Flower. But no -- he couldn't touch her. That would queer the accidental death theory Rutherford wanted. He couldn't chance it. Roth's fuck-up could have blown the whole game. Walter had enough control not to mess up a good gig. Just a few more paychecks and he could retire to the South Seas and live like a king on a small island he'd bought. Still, having Flower to play with would have been so much better than this pale imitation. Flower was a lady -- a petite, dainty morsel. The kind of sex he desired would terrify her. The imitation-Flower had seen and done it all. She would attempt to put on a good show, but in the end it wouldn't be the same -- unless the "or else" came into play. "Little Flower, go clean up. You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet. Try for a more feminine look. Got anything lady-like to put on?" The whore nodded rapidly, her eyes downcast. "Get out of here. I'll meet you in the dungeon in a few." The woman got up and left the room without asking permission, without crawling like a good slave should. Bingo. The "or else" factor had just come into play. He laughed harshly, then turned back to the scene on the other side of the room. It was safe to leave Randolph alone for awhile. He had at least another hour of playtime with Kitten. To err on the safe side, Walter had already doctored Randolph's scotch, now sitting on the table. If Randolph ran true to form, he'd only drink it after he was done disciplining the sub. Walter wanted to watch him die -- one, because Randolph had always treated him as a underling and not an equal; two, because Rutherford would want a report on the drug's effects; and three, because he needed to set up the suicide scene before the cops showed up. "Alex." Randolph turned toward him. "You leaving, Walter?" "Nah. Just going to the next room. Little Flower and I are going to play some games in the dungeon." Randolph laughed as he slapped the leather-coated metal ruler on the mattress,

testing its tensile strength. "Little Flower, huh? LaFleur would die from fright at half the stuff you've done to her namesake tonight. I'd love to see you _do_ the real thing." He walked over to his sub and tested the ruler on her spread thighs. The gag muffled her moans of pain. "Good flex on this. Have to get me one for my own collection." Randolph waved to Walter. "See you later. Have fun. Kitten here hasn't met her limits yet. Don't rush your playtime on my account." "I won't. Knock yourself out, Alex." **** Walter paid off the Flower-look-alike. He opened the door to signal one of the dungeon attendants to help carry the woman out of the room. She hadn't taken her punishment well. Pulling on a black velvet robe provided by the management, he strolled the dimly lit hallway, past doors closed on all sorts of depravity, until he reached the bedroom where Randolph had just finished his scene. Kitten was made of sterner stuff than his imitation Flower, because she walked out of the room under her own power, pausing only to blow Randolph a kiss from the doorway. "See ya, Alex. Don't stay away so long. You're the best dom I've ever had the pleasure to serve." Randolph laughed, then returned the kissing gesture. "I know." Walter entered the room and shut the door. He ambled to the bar and picked up an unopened beer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Randolph pick up the doctored Scotch. Randolph squeezed a lemon rind then dropped it into the drink. He stirred the pale golden liquid with a swizzle stick topped off with a pair of boobs. The penis-shaped ice cubes clinked loudly against the sides of the glass. Walter's stomach cramped with anticipation. He didn't know what to expect of the drug. He took a large swig of beer. It barely made it past a constriction in his esophagus. Nerves. He needed to calm down or he'd choke. He stifled a laugh, wondering what the police would think about finding two men's bodies, dead in a whorehouse, after a night of S&M ? He breathed deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he took a sip of beer and found that it went down smoothly. Much better. Randolph turned toward Walter as he took a sip of the scotch. "Ahh, that is so good. Being a master is hard work. Right?" Walter held up his beer in a toast and said, "Yep."

Randolph sat on the edge of the bed. "Want to get a massage while we're here? I pulled a muscle when I used the flogger on Kitten." Walter sat in a leather chair still reeking of his seed from his earlier pleasure and stared at the bottle in his hands. How long would it take for the damn stuff to work? Rutherford said the alcohol would speed it up. He'd put two capsules worth of powder in the drink to be on the safe side -- he wanted Alex dead, not revivable. The sound of a glass hitting the floor shook Walter. Less than thirty seconds. Damn, that was fast. "Alex?" Walter called out in what he hoped was a concerned tone. "You okay, buddy?" Randolph slid off the edge of the bed, settling hard on the floor with his back against the frame. "I feel ... uh, strange. Like the flu ... or..." His words ended, replaced by an unearthly, garbled scream. The sound-proofed walls would keep the curious out, although screams in Lady Marmalade's didn't often attract attention. Randolph clutched his chest as his respiration turned choppy and harsh. He looked toward Walter and attempted to form words, but nothing intelligible came out, only inhuman sounds of pain. His eyes filled with fear for what was happening to him. He reached out with a hand, trying to seek help in the only way left to him. "Like the drug, Alex?" Walter asked in a conversational tone. "Rutherford sent it with his compliments. By the way, he's picking up the tab for the evening -felt your last night on earth should be a memorable one. You're committing suicide, you know. Guilt over killing Sally." Randolph's eyes reflected the knowledge that he was dying. As he fell to the floor, he managed to gasp, "W-why?" "You're too greedy and careless, a loose end." Walter got up, then sauntered over to stand over Randolph's trembling, and increasingly weakened, body. "The boss doesn't like loose ends." No response. A few last gasps of breath, then silence. Walter checked first for a pulse -- none -- then glanced at his watch. From drink to death, less than three minutes. The boss would be pleased. Quickly, he retrieved the latex gloves he'd put in his jacket pocket. After putting them on, he took the bottle of pills and Alex's suicide note out of another pocket. He placed the opened bottle on the bedside table. The note he arranged on the bed. A whip anchored it in place. God, the press would eat this up.

After scanning the room once more to confirm the scene was complete, he walked to the door. It was show time. He jerked the door open and yelled for help. -------CHAPTER NINETEEN _Tuesday morning._ "This isn't a good idea." "You've mentioned that several times already." Jeanette turned in the passenger seat. Scott's jaw was clenched and his hands gripped the steering wheel so hard she was afraid he would crack it -- or damage his hands. She had to give him credit. He hadn't yelled -- yet. But, he had explained in laborious detail why he felt she should quit her job. He'd started last night, after they'd put Brigitte to bed, and he hadn't budged one iota off his position this morning. At least he was smart enough not to order her around. She was sure Paul had probably mentioned to him how stubborn she was. As for quitting, she was afraid he was probably right. It wasn't smart to go back, but she had obligations. To Sally. To the patients. Someone had to try to keep things running in an ethical manner until the proof was laid in front of the proper authorities and someone else took over the study. Scott didn't speak again until he pulled the car into the parking lot outside the Clinical Building at the Medical Center. "If you aren't going to think about your own safety, why don't you think about Little Bits?" _Uh-oh, he's pulling out the big guns now, Bootsie._ "What will happen to your daughter if Rutherford or whomever manages to kill you?" "Scott, I..." Jeanette sniffed, trying to avoid tears. "Don't you think I thought about that? But I can't imagine it will be much longer, and besides what can he -- or they -- do to me at work in broad daylight with all the patients and staff around? That's probably where I'm the safest. And, I have you and Charles to get me there and back home." Jeanette pleaded with her eyes. "It's just for a few more days. Okay? Please? I have a moral responsibility to back up Sally. It really worries me that she hasn't answered her phone. I want to make sure she's okay. Plus there are the

patients. I need to make sure no more are endangered.." "Shit. Shit. Shit." Scott pounded the much-abused steering wheel with the heel of his hand. "My head tells me you're probably right about your safety at work. And I love you even more than ever because of your moral values. But, my heart and gut want you the hell out of there." Jeanette reached over and took Scott's hand, caressing the area reddened by the pounding. "I know. I appreciate that you're scared. I'm scared, too. I know I couldn't do this without you." Bringing his hand to her lips, she brushed a kiss on the palm. "Besides I trust you to keep me and Brigitte safe. And ... and ... I, uh, promise never to be alone with Monnier, Randolph or Rutherford." "Okay. I give." Scott leaned over and cupped her face. "I love you, Jeannie. I will do anything necessary to get this threat out of your life." Then, he kissed her, gently at first, then passionately. After ending the kiss, he brushed some hair off her hot face. "I'm walking you in. Remember to wait for me after work. I'll come in to get you. Charles is picking up Little Bits, right?" Jeanette nodded. She was afraid to speak, because she knew she would stammer. Scott's kisses were too new and had a way of disconcerting her. The clinic reception area was abnormally quiet. Usually by this time of the morning, there would be a waiting room full of patients scheduled for surgical procedures along with their families. Today, there was no one. Hurrying to the desk, she found no hint of activity. Leaning over the counter, she checked the phone system. All calls were being forwarded. She turned to Scott who was right on her heels. "Something's wrong." Scott looked around. His body posture stiff, like that of a hunting dog, indicated he was ready to deal with any hidden danger. "It's not a holiday, is it? I didn't see a note on the door." "No. And there are other people in the building, so it can't be a fire emergency." She skirted the desk and headed back to the offices. "I hear voices," Scott said. "They're coming from the break room." Jeanette sped down the hall, stopping at an opened doorway. Missy Rayburn, the surgical tech and Randolph's latest conquest, sat at one of the small round tables. She was sobbing. Loudly. Walter Monnier sat across from her, handing her tissues with one hand and

holding one of her hands with his other. Walter had the frazzled look men tend to get when women cry all over them. Jeanette would have laughed at his predicament, but the atmosphere in the employee break room was as ominous as the rest of the clinic. Something bad had happened. She entered the room. Both the occupants looked up. "Oh, Ms. LaFleur. Isn't it terrible?" Missy cried out between escalating sobs. Walter gazed at the ceiling. Jeanette glanced over at Scott. He looked as confused as she felt. "What's happened, Missy? Why is the clinic empty? Where is everybody?" Jeanette kept her eyes on Missy, who, if possible, bawled harder. Realizing Missy was incapable of answering, she turned to Missy's improbable comforter. "Walter?" Jeanette hated dealing with Walter. He was a weasel-like opportunist, which was why she never envisioned him in the role of hand-holder to a crying woman. He must want something from Missy. Glancing at Missy's chest, surging with each wail and moan, Jeanette could guess what that something might be. Walter dropped Missy's hand. He shoved the box of tissues toward the hysterical girl. "Here, Missy, knock yourself out." Then, he turned his head to look at her and Scott. Now that she had Walter's complete attention, she said, hopefully for the last time, "Will you please tell me what's going on here?" "Jeanette!" Dr. Rutherford's voice sounded behind her. Scott whirled around to face the new threat. He swept her along with him, using his body and the wall to protect her from a new danger. "Dr. Rutherford," gasped Jeanette. She was proud of the fact that she could speak to him at all. She'd dreaded facing him today, considering what she suspected. "Why is the clinic empty?" Rutherford looked past them at Walter and the still weeping Missy. His displeasure at the scene in the break room was evident in the stiffness of his posture, the tightening of his mouth. "Walter," he said. "Why don't you drive Missy home? I'm sure she is not fit to drive."

Addressing Missy, he added, "We'll call when the clinic is open again, my dear." Scott pulled Jeanette further into the room away from the doorway, away from Walter's exit and Rutherford's entrance. Walter pushed Missy ahead of him, out of the room. "Come on, you watering pot, let's get away from this house of death." His malicious chuckle lingered long after he'd gone. "I really need to have a talk with that young man." Dr. Rutherford glared at Walter's retreating figure. Turning his head, he directed his complete attention to Jeanette, ignoring Scott. "I'm sorry you came all the way in today, Jeanette. After your incident yesterday, I thought you would want a few days off." Trembling at the reminder of the attack, Jeanette sank into the chair vacated by Missy. Immediately, Scott positioned himself behind her. His hands kneaded the tightened muscles of her shoulders. She sighed and leaned into the soothing motions of his hands. His fingers were magical, imparting to her some of his strength, telling her she was not alone. She could do this, as long as she didn't have to look into the eyes of the man standing across from her. She was afraid of what she would see, even more afraid of what she might reveal. Fixing her gaze on a spot just past Rutherford's ear, she asked, "What did Walter mean by _house of death_?" Rutherford hesitated, then stepped further into the room. Pulling the chair Walter had vacated to a position across from her, he sat. He stared at her like a hypnotist in a Grade-B movie, willing her to look at him. Jeanette's fixed stare moved with the doctor, her focal point lower, but still looking at the wall just beyond his ear. Rutherford exhaled and waited, but Jeanette refused to look into his eyes. The doctor gave in first and shifted his scrutiny to Scott. "And you are?" "I'm her boyfriend. Answer her question. What did Monnier mean? What the fuck is going on here, Rutherford?" "Scott!" "Sorry, _cher_." Scott caressed her neck and shoulders. Rutherford swore under his breath. Jeanette averted her eyes from the dirty

white wall long enough to catch a flicker of some ugly, intense emotion sweep across his face, before he answered Scott. "God, I don't know what's going on with this world." Rutherford rubbed a hand over his head, disarranging his carefully groomed hair. Jeanette had never seen the doctor so emotional. But what emotion? Fear? Anger? Hate? What had happened bad enough to close the clinic? The last time a clinic had been closed at the Medical Center had been when a doctor died... Fear took possession of her stomach in an icy grip. Someone had died. She dreaded his next words. "Dr. Randolph ... Sally." Rutherford buried his face in his hands. "They're dead, my dear." Both of them dead? That didn't make sense. She grasped wildly for Scott's hand on her shoulder. Through numb lips, her words came out in gasps. "How? When?" She'd stopped examining the wall at Rutherford's revelations. His skin had a gray tinge about it. His attire was disheveled. He acted and looked grief-stricken. He looked really upset, but Jeanette couldn't trust the evidence of her instincts anymore. "The police aren't sure about Sally," he said, "There's no body. Just the note Alex left, confessing to murdering her, confessing to..." Again, he buried his face in shaky hands. "It's hard for me to admit this, but he confessed to sabotaging my program, my life's work. Oh, God. What am I going to do?" Jeanette gasped. She looked at Scott. He shook his head, leaned down, then whispered in her ear, "Don't say anything. We'll talk later." She nodded, then turned back to the doctor. Was there a quick flash of calculation in the gaze directed toward them? Scott gripped her shoulder in a reflexive move. He'd seen the look, too. The man was putting on an act! The bastard was stringing them along, fishing for what they knew. Well, two could play at that game. She stammered out what she knew would be a logical question. "Dr. Randolph sabotaged the program? How? And why did he kill Sally?" She had a fairly good idea why Dr. Randolph wanted to kill Sally. He hadn't wanted the baby. Plus, Sally knew what was going on and could connect

Randolph to Rutherford. She was a liability. But, they had to suspect Sally had already told Jeanette all about it. So, why kill Sally? "My dear," Rutherford said. "You and Sally were instrumental in digging into the files, finding the holes and outright lies that Alex and his little chippies had woven into the medical and billing records." Rutherford's face was now an emotionless mask. Except, when he mentioned Sally's name, Jeanette could have sworn a flash of anger burned in his eyes. To her ears, his words sounded too glib, as if he'd practiced them for the maximum effect on his audience. "Fraud in my program," he continued. "My God! They must have skimmed tens of thousands of dollars. And the false data they created -- the study is flawed. I'll have to start all over." "Little chippies?" Scott asked, his disdain for the man coloring his question. Rutherford either didn't notice the tone of Scott's voice or chose to ignore it. His face was still a picture of studied concern as he answered, "Yes, chippies ... bimbos ... call them what you like. They were all under Randolph's control. Sally was one of them. So were Jeanette's predecessors. It's obvious to me and the police..." Rutherford paused. "Sally, poor girl, found a conscience. She tried to fix things by helping dear Jeanette straighten out the mess." He shook his head. "Alex obviously found out. Poor Sally. I heard she was carrying Alex's child." He sighed. "I don't think we'll ever find her body. Alex admitted to dumping it in the Manchac Swamp." The image Rutherford's words cast was too horrible to bear. Jeanette murmured a prayer for her friend's soul and that of her unborn child. "What happened to Randolph?" Scott asked. "He died in a brothel. The police found a letter with his horrible confession. Probably his guilt weighing on him." Rutherford shook his head. "It was God's will. Alex was not a nice man. Poor Sally must have gone through hell. In his note, he described in intimate detail how he tortured her. Oh, my dear, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned that." He didn't look or sound sorry. In fact, it sounded as if he was warning her! "Oh, my God!" Jeanette swallowed the bile that threatened to explode from her throat. Her throat burning, she started to cry, great heaving sobs. She couldn't sit there another second and listen to Rutherford. She

understood what he was trying to do. He'd never be blamed. No matter what she, Scott and Charles found, Rutherford would set up others to take the fall. And, the police already believed him. Her sobs turned to moans, like those of an animal in pain. She tried, but couldn't control the anguished sounds coming from her. What had she done? Two more people dead. If only she hadn't poked her nose into the mess. If she had just quit and gone on minding her own business. If... "Jeannie, love, don't." Scott reached down and scooped her into his arms. "I'm taking her home." He carried her to the door. Rutherford said, "The police want to speak to Jeanette about her and Sally's investigations. I'll have them get in touch." Jeanette couldn't answer. And Scott didn't. -------CHAPTER TWENTY "I can walk." Her body shuddered through one last sob. Scott put her down, but kept a hand on her. The sun was shining. How dare it. Life all around her was going on, but Sally -- and her baby -- were dead. And Jeanette feared it was all her fault. How could she live with the guilt? She shuddered, but no tears followed. She was all cried out. "Jeannie?" Scott's insistent voice beat on her numbed senses. "Aw, hell, come on, darlin', let's get out of here." Unresisting, Jeanette allowed Scott to lead her to the car. Her mind chased thoughts, testing them, rejecting them, then started all over again -- a vicious circle of what-ifs and what-should-have-beens. But, uppermost in her mind, she needed to single out the potential sources of concrete evidence connecting Rutherford to his crimes. She had to find the proof before Rutherford could alter it. She owed it to Sally to prove Rutherford was the mastermind. "Scott." Jeanette dug her heels into the pavement, tugging on his arm. "We need to get over to Charity Hospital and check out the Eye Bank lab. And the

morgue." "What?" Scott let go of her arm and pulled her around to face him. "Why?" "Rutherford will destroy any evidence implicating him in the crimes and make it look like someone else did them. Most likely Dr. Randolph and Sally." "I'll do it after I take you home. I don't want you anywhere near those places until we get the cops involved." "No. I need to be there. I know what paperwork to look for. You don't." She reached out and grasped Scott on his forearms. "Besides, Monnier is driving Missy home. Rutherford is here. We can be in and out of each of those places in a matter of minutes. There probably isn't even anything there. Please Scott, I have to do this -- for Sally." Scott's lips thinned in displeasure. He stared at her. She stared back. It was a stand-off, and Jeanette was not going to be the one to blink first. A frustrated male groan. "All right. But we're making this fast. If there is anybody in the morgue, _we_ don't go in. I go in alone. If there is anybody in the Eye Bank lab, neither of us goes in. Got it?" Jeanette smiled. "Got it." **** The morgue was empty. Scott cursed beneath his breath. He wanted Jeanette out of this mess -- way out. He wasn't sure they'd find anything. Rutherford seemed to have covered all the bases. The man was brilliant -- and slippery. The worst kind of criminal in Scott's mind. Yet, there was the sloppiness in the handling of the billing records and patient files. Jeannie might be right. There could be evidence still waiting to be destroyed. And once it was, they would have lost their chance of proving anything but the story Rutherford wanted known. Jeanette walked into the room ahead of him. Scott flipped on the lights, then locked the door behind them. Looking over at the daily schedule, he sighed in relief. No funeral home pick-ups were scheduled. Glancing at the body drawers, there were no new autopsy permits. A quiet day at the morgue. They shouldn't be interrupted.

Unless another body was delivered. He determined they would be out of there in less than ten minutes. Should be enough time, by definition. "Scott, come here." Jeannie's excited voice snapped him out of his reverie. He walked over to the row of filing cabinets set next to the morgue's answer for a workstation. "What've you got there?" Scott reached for the papers Jeannie held out to him. "Donor consents." Jeannie smiled. "Forged donor consents for bodies brought in as John Does. Looks like Walter forged relatives' consents to donate organs after the corpses were finally identified." Scott skimmed the first few documents. He frowned. "How do you know that?" "I know the codes." Jeannie pointed to the autopsy number. "See the letters JD before the number and year? All incoming John Does are coded that way. Corpses with identification are coded as letter A with a number and the year." "Okay. I can see that some of the John Does are later identified and their real names are typed in, but how do you know the consents are forged?" "Look at 'em! Pull out and compare the first two." Scott did so, holding them side-by-side. She pointed. "The hand-writing on the relatives' signatures is the same as the witness signature." "And the witness in all of these is Walter Monnier." Scott flipped through the twenty or so consents. "But these are for all sorts of post-mortem harvests, not just corneas." "Yeah. But look to whom the organs other than the corneas are released." She pointed to the lines at the bottom of the page indicating who'd picked up the various body parts. Scott glanced at the place Jeannie indicated. "They're in code again." She pulled him to a chart on the wall above the file cabinets. "See that? It lists all who have authority to take anything out of this room. I recognized the Epi Study code right off because the receipts for the Eye Bank donor corneas are in my files for the time up through the convention. The other code is listed up here as..."

"SRP." Scott looked down. "Okay, so Walter forges consents for organ donation. Ships the corneas to Rutherford's Epi Study and the other assorted organs to SRP where they are re-sold. That only proves that Monnier committed a crime, not that Rutherford had knowledge or ordered him to do it. Maybe Lopez ordered it." "Granted, but I have proof that Rutherford's study knowingly billed out the donor corneas after the Eye Bank cut the project off as SRP corneas, so that is proof of fraud." "Jeannie, hon, I believe you, but all that proves is that someone in Rutherford's office did that. You said so yourself. Rutherford is setting it up that Randolph, probably with Sally's help, committed all the bad acts. I bet he'll lead the police to a bank account in the name of Randolph with ill-gotten gains deposited, back-dated and all, to prove it." "Don't forget Charles linked Rutherford to SRP." "Okay, but all Rutherford has to say is that he is not in the day-to-day running of the company. That he is as shocked as anyone about what has happened, and so on _ad infinitum_." He grasped Jeannie's hands and pulled her to him. Resting his chin on her head, he said, "The man is cunning. These consents are, I'm sure Charles will tell you, circumstantial evidence. To prove a crime, you'll need more than this." "I _know_ that, but surely it's enough to get the program suspended until the university investigates. The doctors on the Medical School Review Board will support that action. Once the patients hear about the misrepresentations and faulty consents, they'll come forward with even more evidence, maybe enough for civil suits." Jeannie heaved a gulping sigh. "At least, we'll stop him from hurting and ripping off more innocent people." Scott tipped her chin up and placed a light kiss on her full lips. "Yeah. That's a good start. But you'll be tweaking the gator's tail, darlin'. I don't want you or Little Bits to be his next targets." Jeannie gasped, then went silent. Her eyes reflected she'd accepted the danger for herself, but the mention of Little Bits had thrown her. First fear, then concern, and finally steely determination stared at him from her eyes. "Okay, it's almost summer break. I'll send Brigitte to the Retreat House with Sister Mary Cecille. She should be safe enough there for a month. After that, we'll reassess the situation. How does that sound?" To Scott it sounded wonderful. "We" would reassess meant she'd already begun the process of accepting him in her day-to-day life now and in the

future. Yeah, it sounded great. "That's a plan." Scott picked up the consents which had fallen to the floor. "Let's fire up the copier and make copies of these, then put them back." "No. Let's take the originals with the time and date stamp and leave the copies. No one will notice the difference except Monnier. Maybe we can put the fear of being outed in him." Scott shook his head. "You do realize that makes you an even bigger danger to the man. He'll figure it had to be you who took them. Monnier could do time for his crimes. These documents prove he's been falsifying papers and stealing body parts. He'll come after you." Jeannie's look of grim determination never wavered. "But you'll be watching my behind. I put my money on you." Wiggling her fingers, she said, "Now gimme those papers. I'll copy them, then we can go to the Eye Bank lab next." Scott handed over the consents. Yeah, he'd watch her behind all right, all the way to his Mama's house in the bayou. Jeannie didn't know it yet, but he was taking her out of the line of fire -- all the way out. **** The Eye Bank, like the morgue, was a ghost town. Jeannie flipped on the lights and headed for the storeroom. "Scott, would you look in those cabinets over there?" He looked over and found gray metal storage units along the far wall. "Shouldn't we be wearing gloves or something?" He didn't want his or Jeannie's fingerprints anywhere in this room. "Good idea." Jeannie trotted over to some open shelving and pulled out a pair of small and a pair of large latex gloves. "Here, use these." Scott pulled on the gloves. "What am I looking for?" "I'm not sure, but you'll know it when you see it." "Great." There were three cabinets. He opened the doors to the first. Plastic containers of all sizes and shapes, lids and labels, along with preservative solutions and disposable blades filled the cabinet. The second contained blank forms and other paper products.

The third cabinet looked more promising. It contained used, but clean, containers with their original labels still intact. They probably only used these when they ran out of new ones. Shoving them around he saw the SRP logo several times. Monnier wasn't trying hard to hide things. Rutherford would be appalled that his henchman was so careless. Scott pulled a couple out from the back. The lens measurements, date of shipping, and inventory number were marked on the labels. Both of these had come in before the annual ophthalmic convention, when supposedly the Eye Bank was supplying all tissue. Scott took them and closed the door. He'd bet they wouldn't be missed. "Scott! Come here!" He shoved the containers into his lab coat pocket and ran into the storage area. The room was the same size as the outer room, but it was set up more like a morgue with refrigerated units alongside one wall, a sink and cutting area with drains and waste disposal unit on another, and a small computer workstation on a third wall. Jeannie was examining something she'd taken from a cooler unit. Her tense body language sent a corresponding chill through his body. "Jeannie, what is it?" Scott hurried over to look. In a Styrofoam container filled with ice was a human heart -- a child's heart. "Shit. What's that doing in an Eye Bank lab refrigerator?" "Exactly." Jeannie looked back at him. "The paper work said it was delivered to SRP at this address at 0800 hours today by air medical courier. Look at the Customs paperwork." "Customs?" Scott had a bad feeling about this. He reached over Jeannie and grabbed the plastic sleeve containing lab and blood work ups and the delivery papers. On top were the customs documents. He read the pertinent data. "Jesus H. Christ. This heart came from Brazil. The medical courier is listed as One World, Inc." "One World, Scott." Jeannie's eyes filled with tears. "Dr. Rutherford has connections to One World. Now why would a child's heart harvested by One World, labeled as shipped to SRP, come to the Eye Bank lab? I can't believe it's coincidence that Walter, designated tech for Rutherford's Epi Study, also works here." "Why, indeed." Charles's words at the Rock 'N Bowl came to mind..."body mafia." Jeannie's

fear-filled eyes indicated she'd reached the same terrifying conclusion. What everyone suspected was true. One World, SRP and all those involved were selling body parts. Scott took the paperwork and strode back into the outer lab where he'd seen a copier. Jeannie followed him carrying the heart. "_Cher_, put that back. Now!" he said. "We're gonna copy these papers, then get the hell out of here before someone comes to get the heart. It's 1000 hours. They can't keep the heart on ice much longer. Some surgeon is gonna be coming for it, and soon. That means Monnier is gonna be hoofing it back here to make the delivery." Jeannie gasped and ran from the room. She carried the heart out in front of her, as if it would explode in her face. When she returned, Scott smiled at her. Wanting to wipe the forlorn look off her face, he said, "Chin up, _cher_. We've got something to go to the Feds with now." "We do?" "Yeah. I've been reading up on body-part trafficking since we talked about it with Charles. The Bellagio Task Force report I read said that Brazil is notorious for its hit squads. They kill homeless children, then harvest body parts. Maybe One World is horning in on the market of these hit squads. They are killing children, probably per specific orders and medical criteria, harvesting the organs, then sending them to Rutherford to fill the requests and direct the other usable organs to other doctors searching on the black market. We've got them now. This has to be considered illegal in the United States, even if it's not in Brazil or wherever." "How have we got them? Remember, Charles said the Customs people won't do anything about interfering with another country's internal laws. He said the feds were more interested in possible drug smuggling. I was listening." Jeannie collected the papers from the machine to speed up the process. "Besides, the paperwork looks legal. The heart came through Atlanta customs, then was couriered here. No problems." "Yeah, but do you see any consents?" "No." "That's just as illegal in Brazil and most other countries as it is here." Scott put all the originals back into the plastic sleeve and walked into the storage room. Jeannie dogged his heels. "In Brazil, you have to opt out of donating organs, but can only do so after you reach legal driving age. Before then, the parents or natural guardians have to sign. It doesn't often happen, because the

majority of citizens are either Catholic and don't believe in organ donation, or they are natives who believe the souls are lost by removing organs from the bodies of their loved ones." He replaced the paperwork, shut the unit, then opened several of the other units where other organs lay waiting to be picked up. He whistled. "This is theft, plain and simple." "What are we gonna do?" Jeannie looked at him. Her eyes were wide with fear, but her mouth had firmed. She wasn't going to run from this. That had been a child's heart. He knew she was thinking of Little Bits. "We're gonna do what we have to, after we get Little Bits out of New Orleans and I move in with you for the duration." "Okay, let's get out of here." Jeannie walked to the exit, then flipped off the lights. She cracked open the door slightly. Her gasp, then the stiffening of her body, alerted Scott. Someone was coming! He reached around a frozen Jeannie to shut the door. It snicked softly. After locking the door, Scott urged Jeannie forward. "Come on, we've got to hide." She jerked at his touch, a hiccup of fright startled out of her. "There's another door to the hall. I saw it in the storage room. It's behind some shelving." Scott pulled her from the outer area into the storage room. "That's my girl. Let's hope it's not locked with a keyed dead bolt or something," he said, closing the storage room door behind them. The storage room glowed red from the emergency lights mounted in the four corners of the room. A green exit light just peeked over the temporary shelving at the end of the computer workstation. Scott only hoped there was enough room behind it for them to either hide or escape. Using his excellent night vision, honed in the bayou for night fishing and hunting and perfected in the marines for recon missions, Scott led Jeannie to the shelving. There was enough room for them behind the shelving to hide, but the door had a keyed bolt. Even if he could pick it in the next few seconds, they still wouldn't be able to get out -- the door opened inward. And there definitely wasn't enough space to open the door.

They were stuck. Jeannie's trembling body and soft gasp indicated she'd reached the same conclusions. Scott stroked her back to reassure her, then pushed her behind the shelves as far as he could. He followed, putting his body between her and whomever entered the lab. If someone did find them, he'd do what was necessary to protect her. Uncle Sam had trained him well. Jeannie wriggled around to place her front against his back. Her hands grasped his shoulders. Her body was so close he could feel every wispy breath, every delicate shiver. He reached up with one hand and patted hers. It was the only comfort he could offer. The door to the storage room opened. Scott shut his eyes to protect his night vision. Displaying a surprising instinct for surveillance technique, Jeannie buried her face in his back to do the same. Whoever entered wasn't messing around. The man walked directly to the refrigerated units. His footsteps sounded like thunder in the hushed room. The unit door opened with a whoosh, and cold air escaped into the room. The screeching noise of the Styrofoam container on the shelf caused the hairs on Scott's arms to stand on end. Small movements. The man checking the contents? The paperwork? Finally, the unit door closed with a thunk. The man shut off the light and left the room. The breath Scott had unconsciously been holding left his body. Jeannie's soft sigh of relief barely reached his ears. He edged his way from behind the shelving, then he turned and whispered, "Stay here." Jeannie nodded. He noiselessly moved to the door, and heard voices through the frosted glass. "That the heart?" A deep bass voice asked. "Yep, this is it." Monnier's voice answered. Bingo. They were correct in their assumption that Monnier was in this up to his scrawny neck. "You got the money, doc?" The sound of a briefcase's dual locks opening reached Scott's ears. He could picture the stacks of money a child's heart might bring. A wealthy parent who

needed an organ for his or her child would pay anything. No questions asked. "You don't mind if I count it?" Monnier chuckled. "It's all there," rasped the doctor. "Mr. Threlkeld is an honest man." Threlkeld! Scott knew the name. The man owned half the gas leases in the Manchac Swamp. He was a millionaire many times over. Yeah, Scott could see someone like him paying a lot on the black market to save his child. Threlkeld might be another link to breaking open this case. "Looks like you're right, doc. It's all there." The case closed with two snaps of the locks. "Here's the heart. As close a match as you're gonna get, and less then 24 hours from the body." Silence. Then the scrape of the cover on the cooler as it was removed. "It looks perfect. Tell Lopez I need another heart. Same size, age. I'll e-mail him the tissue and blood work-ups. Give him a heads-up -- the blood type is A-negative -- so he can start singling out his donors." "Got it. Nice doing business with you." Footsteps walking away and the sound of the outer door closing was Monnier's only answer. Then he, too, moved away from Scott's position. Scott waited until the lights in the outer room went out and the door shut once more. Then he waited a little while longer, to be on the safe side, before getting Jeannie. "Scott?" Jeannie whispered. "Was it Monnier?" "Shhh. We'll talk later. I want to make sure he's gone." They stood there for another five minutes in the dark. In silence. Jeannie's breathing calmed to pace his, until they breathed in unison. Finally, Scott spoke in low tones. "Let's go. Stay close behind me. Be ready to come back in here." "Okay." They left the storage area. The emergency lights and the light from the frosted pane in the outer door illuminated their silent trip. At the doorway, Scott carefully cracked open the door. Monnier hadn't locked it. Scott would leave it the same way. Opening it wider, he stuck his head out, then looked both ways. The coast

was clear. Motioning Jeannie ahead of him, they left the room. Turning toward the door leading to the underground tunnel, Scott led them down and back the way they'd come only thirty minutes earlier. He couldn't think about what he'd heard, what they'd found. His first job was to get Jeannie home and lock her in. After Charles brought Little Bits home, then they could sit down, assess what they knew, what they still needed to know, and formulate a battle plan. At least, they could until he had to go to work that evening. _Damn._ He hated the thought of asking Charles to stay with his girls, but with the deaths of Randolph and Sally and the discoveries he and Jeannie had made today, the stakes had gone up. His Jeannie had become expendable as far as Rutherford was concerned. It wasn't a matter of if, but when he would make his move against her. He couldn't risk leaving her alone until this was over. That meant for the time being, until he could convince Jeannie to go to his Mama, he had to trust Charles. _Damn._ -------CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Charles sat at Jeannie's table, his thin, aristocratic face set in lines of deep thought. Scott shoved the dessert he hadn't wanted around on his plate. Jeannie pleated a napkin, unfolded it, then pleated it again. They were waiting to hear what Charles thought, afraid he would say they didn't have anything to take to the police. Or the feds. "Momma?" Little Bits stood in the doorway to the small dining area off the kitchen. She clasped a large Raggedy Ann doll he'd bought her to her chest. "I can't sleep. Read me a story, please?" Jeannie's sigh sounded like one of relief. Scott knew how she felt. Reading Little Bits a story was far better than sitting and staring at a man who might tell you that the end to the fear, the chaos in their lives, was not in sight. Jeannie hurried from the room.

Charles looked up from the Customs paperwork they'd copied. "I'm not saying your conclusions are correct, but if SRP and One World are moving body parts into the country from third world countries like Brazil illegally, then we might be able to involve the United Nations and the World Court. The Bellagio Task Force was appointed by the UN to look into the trafficking of body parts and propose ways to contain it." Charles pushed his reading glasses back into position. "Of course, the UN can't force any member country to make laws to stop this. But sanctions by other member countries or maybe even a trial in the World Court if a treaty was involved could be possible actions." "That's it?" "Yes." Charles sounded as exasperated as Scott felt. "Scott, let's say Brazil had such a law on the books or had signed a treaty to such effect and still turned a blind eye toward Lopez's and Rutherford's operation. We don't have enough evidence to go to anybody. If I even knew to whom to take it." Scott pushed himself away from the table, got up and started to pace. "What do we need? I mean, exactly what kind of evidence do we need to prove they are killing people for body parts? God, Charles." He stopped pacing, then slammed his fist against the wall. "I heard that son-of-a-bitch doctor order another child's heart. We have to stop them. If I don't, they'll kill more children -- and Jeannie -- possibly Little Bits -- or even us." "I hear you, and I agree they must be stopped." Charles sat staring out the opened French doors. After a few minutes, he turned to Scott. "We need first-hand evidence from the other end. We need to know how they obtain their body parts and document it. We have to figure out who in the host country is working with and covering for them and nullify them. And finally, we need to establish how they get the organs through both sets of Customs, or more likely who they are paying to look the other way." "Jesus, is that all?" Scott slapped the wall. "We need a miracle to stop Rutherford is what you're saying." "No. We just need time. The good news is we can cause Rutherford enough legal trouble and bad press to keep the heat on him while we get the really damning evidence. Maybe he'll be so busy covering his ass, he won't be aware of what we're doing on the other end of his operation." "How?"

Charles smiled for the first time that evening. He waved his hand over the papers spread out on the table. "We've got enough here. First of all, we know about the accounts with the obscenely huge amounts of money. That will get the IRS and various other departments in Treasury looking into Rutherford's finances." "That's how they got Capone." "Yeah," Charles said. His smile turned almost wicked. "Plus, we have Threlkeld. We could turn the screws on him. Hint that we know what was done in order to get a heart for his child. We could offer him immunity for his testimony. We may never get any of the others, unless you recognized the voice of that doc ordering the heart, because I don't imagine they issue receipts for the cash they are taking in." Scott shook his head. "I didn't recognize the man's voice, but he had to be a cardiovascular transplant surgeon. I'll definitely be listening." "Don't bother. He probably wouldn't cave even if we confronted him. He has a lot more to lose than Threlkeld. We need to cut off his source for body-parts-to-order." Charles picked up a file he'd brought with him. "And last, but not least, we have the paper connections between SRP and One World. That raises a big question mark. We'll nail Lopez for sure -- he is One World. What we don't have is Rutherford on record saying to his friend, Lopez, 'how is our body-part trafficking business going?'" "What about Rutherford's ownership of SRP? Can't we use that against him? After all, we have the shipping papers showing that One World shipped the body parts to SRP. We have SRP selling body parts to the Epi Study at inflated prices, a violation of self-interest laws." "Yes, as Jeanette so astutely pointed out over dinner, that would get his project axed and his medical license suspended. But that's just a slap on the hands; I thought you wanted more than that." "Okay, I see what you're saying. He'd slide." "Right. Or, go somewhere else and set up shop again. State licensing boards do not communicate well with one another." Charles sipped his coffee. "Another angle is the medical malpractice we kicked around earlier. Jeanette has enough data here to prove the study stats were skewed to show good-to-excellent results for the Epi procedure. She knows that there are patients who have been harmed physically. We need to find them and convince them to pursue legal action against Rutherford." "That's still only a civil matter. That's money damages and a suspended

medical license. We need to get him off the streets before he kills again." "Well, we'll have all the other stuff in the works. Things could be leaked to the press. But a neat little side theory to the medical malpractice is, if we can use those stats and the testimony of the harmed patients to show he _knew_ his procedure was more likely than not to harm patients and that he continued to do it anyway, we could force the Prosecutor to charge him with criminal battery or criminal recklessness with intent to do bodily harm. With enough counts, he could do some jail time. At least enough until we convince the feds or the World Court to skewer him for larger crimes against humanity." "Let's do that." Both men turned to see Jeannie standing in the doorway. "I know where we can find some of the damaged patients." She walked in and sat in her seat. "Dr. Payton has seen many of them in the regular Eye Clinic at the Med Center. You'd think some of them would be mad enough to pursue legal means, wouldn't you?" "Well, you and Dr. Payton could mention it to the patients, but no lawyer could," Charles said. "That would be ambulance-chasing." "I understand." Jeannie looked at Scott. "After we got home this afternoon, I called Dr. Payton." "I thought you were napping." "I couldn't sleep." She picked up the tortured napkin and started to pleat it again. "I was thinking you were right. I can't go back to work at the Epi Study. So I called Dr. Payton for a job. She hired me over the phone. She also said she had a patient who'd just come into the clinic who is bilaterally blinded. She was a patient of Dr. Rutherford's and had the Epi procedure done. Maggie asked me to testify for the poor woman. I said I would. And for any others who wanted to sue the bastard." Scott sat next to Jeannie. "Honey, did Maggie offer you the job only if you'd testify?" Jeannie gasped and looked up from her tedious pleading. "No. She offered me the job first. Then she was just telling me about the influx of Epi study patients, and this poor woman's case came up. But I would've offered, even if she hadn't asked me. The woman is only in her mid-30s. She is legally blind because of Rutherford. We have to stop him from ruining any more lives." Charles slapped the papers on the table. "Excellent. Once we know who her lawyer is, we can put a bug in his ear and see if he won't take the criminal charges to the Prosecutor while pursuing his civil damages. Fighting a two-front battle ought to keep Rutherford busy."

"It'll make him damn mad, too," Scott growled. He turned to Jeannie. "_Cher_, I've been thinking. After we take Little Bits to the Retreat House, maybe you should go to my mama in the bayou." "No." Jeannie's face darkened with anger. "I'll be damned if I'm gonna cut and run. I'm staying here. I'm going to work for Maggie Payton as her assistant, and I'm gonna testify for as many of those poor souls as I can." "Jeannie..." "Look at the time." She glanced at the clock on the wall behind Scott's head. "You're gonna be late for work." "Shit." He jumped up to leave, but stopped and pinned Jeannie with a glance. "We're not through discussing this, darlin'." She remained mulishly silent, concentrating once more on her now shredded napkin. Scott glanced at Charles. "Keep her safe, Carter, and try to talk some sense into her." Charles's laughter followed him out of the apartment into the courtyard. -------CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO "I've got everything under control, Manuel." Seated in the library of his town home on Lake Ponchatrain, Rutherford spoke on his secure phone. "I've fixed it so Randolph will take the blame for the failed study and everything else attached to it." He took a long draw on his scotch. It had been a tedious day, dealing first with the police, then Jeanette and her companion. He wasn't sure she believed his story, but with Roth's back-up plan in place it wasn't necessary that she should. "Byron! Are you listening to me?" Lopez's voice sharp with anger penetrated his alcohol-numbed senses. "Yeah, yeah. You told me so." Rutherford swallowed the bitter words he'd like to throw back at his partner. Instead he threw out some branches of conciliation. He still needed the greasy bastard. Plus, if anything was going to take their joint ventures down, it would be Lopez's dabbling in drugs. Only bleeding heart liberals and social workers seemed upset that body-part trafficking existed.

"I never should have attempted to gain a name for myself in medicine while running SRP and One World's joint business deals," he said. "And, I especially never should have funneled body parts and laundered _your_ drug money through my research project." Assorted emotions roiled through him at the thought of how close he'd come to being exposed. In fact, there was still a slight chance of danger. Maybe he should have a back-up plan, just in case Roth's poison pill didn't take out little Jeanette. "Is Matthews state-side or with you?" Rutherford asked. Eric Matthews was a vice-president of SRP and head of security, nice titles for his real job as Lopez's personal enforcer. It had been Matthews who'd run down Stu Thomas. "He's state-side at the Atlanta office. I had him escort that last batch of pediatric hearts." Lopez chuckled. "We made a lot of money on those. Not as much as on the drugs I smuggled in with them, but still a tidy sum." Rutherford grimaced. Killing children for hearts. He wasn't usually so squeamish. But Lopez's recent foray into filling pediatric transplant requests bothered even him. His partner, however, had no qualms. Lopez rationalized that if One World didn't kill the children and harvest their organs, the Brazilian police hit-squads would and burn the bodies. Manuel couldn't stand waste. Put that way, Rutherford was forced to agree, but he didn't have to like it. As for smuggling drugs in with them, well, old Manuel was nothing if not efficient. "Byron, why do you need Matthews?" Lopez sounded irritated again. "What's wrong now? What aren't you telling me?" "I need him to help Walter keep the lid on this deal in New Orleans." "Shit. You still have loose ends. The woman from the conference, right?" Lopez cursed in two languages. "You've got to stop thinking with your _ayotes_." "I'll hire who I damn please." Rutherford bit back harsher words. He took a sip of his drink. "Just send me Matthews. He's going to be insurance. We've already planted the device to kill little Jeanette." Lopez grumbled some more, then said, "Fine. But keep me posted." An angry click ended the call.

Rutherford powered off his phone and threw it down on the sofa next to him. Finishing off the scotch in one gulp, he reached for the bottle on the end table and topped off his glass. Staring out over the lake, he sipped and mulled over the potentialities in his current situation. He concluded that once Jeanette was out of the picture things would settle down. She couldn't have much time left. She had to take Roth's tainted capsule eventually -- until then, he could keep the lid on this. After all, he had money and the power that went with it. No one would believe her story over his -- not without corroboration. With Sally, Thomas and Randolph all dead, she had nothing. Nothing at all. **** Jeanette carried a tray with fruit, cheese, crackers and a bottle of wine into the living room. Charles looked up from his notes, then cleared an area for her to set the tray. After pouring each of them a glass of wine, Jeanette broached the topic she'd avoided all evening. "So, I bet you're wondering about Scott and me?" "No. He told me at dinner. It's better this way. Brigitte would never accept me. She's a Scott fan. And you would never be comfortable with someone whom your daughter didn't approve of." Jeanette didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted that Charles was taking her newly discovered relationship with Scott so well. Her thoughts must have been obvious because Charles chuckled. "Jeanette," he said. "We were trying to make something out of an initial physical attraction. But, the more we learned about each other, the harder we tried to make our wants and needs mesh. And they never would. I'm career, not family-oriented. While you like your career, you cherish your family life. I'm not ready for that. To be honest, with my family background, I may never be ready." Jeanette laughed. "We did try to force square pegs into round holes, didn't we?" She reached over and patted his hand. "My excuse is that you were different. Different from Paul -- and Scott -- who are enough alike that they could've been twins. I guess I thought by ignoring what was right in front of me, I thought I could side-step being hurt again." "I can understand that. Avoidance is a common response to emotional pain. Look at me and my family." Charles grinned. "I avoid the heck out of them." "Well, in my defense, I never knew Scott was interested in me in that way. He never even hinted at it."

"He's more than hinting now. Trust me. He basically told me to butt out..." Charles waved off Jeanette's gasp of outrage. "No, in a nice way, mind you. Don't get mad at the man. I think he's got it pretty bad for you. It must have killed him to watch you date me. I know it would have bothered me if I were in his shoes." Jeanette had no reply. She still hadn't come to terms with Scott's silence for so many years. A change of subject was in order. "Charles, what do you think Dr. Rutherford's chances are on being found guilty?" "Guilty of what? The medical malpractice or the criminal battery charges?" "Either." "With your testimony and that of other experts in the field and a sufficiently harmed plaintiff, I would say good-to-better-than good on the medical malpractice." He leaned back on the sofa and massaged his forehead, wincing slightly. "As for the criminal charges, it would depend on who was prosecuting the case and if he could be bought." "That's what I thought." Jeanette knew New Orleans' justice system was highly dependent on whom you knew or could buy. Dr. Rutherford had both options fully covered. "Jeanette, do you have any allergy meds? Mine seem to be wearing off. There's something in the air today that has messed me up something awful. My sinuses are just pounding." "I've got some sinus medication. It's prescription, but it's just like Claritin only a stronger dosage. Would that be okay?" "Yeah, I take Claritin." Charles groaned. "It will do just fine." As Jeanette hurried from the room, she cast a worried glance over her shoulder. Charles had gone from being just fine to pain-stricken in a matter of moments. New Orleans was not a good place to live with allergies. Her symptoms were mild compared to his. In fact, she hadn't needed the capsules at all for the last month. Charles must be allergic to early summer grasses or something. Opening the medicine cabinet, she reached up to the second shelf. Odd, she could have sworn the bottle had been behind the aspirin the last time she used it. She didn't like leaving the sinus medication in the front since the capsules were so much like Brigitte's ear decongestants. She was always afraid her daughter would try to self-medicate and didn't want her grabbing the more powerful meds.

She made a mental note to speak to her daughter about messing around in the medicine cabinet. She pulled the bottle she needed out, then shut the cabinet door. "Here they are. Help yourself." Jeanette handed Charles the bottle. "Do you want a glass of water?" "Nah. I'll just take them with the rest of my wine." Charles popped open the bottle, shook one out and downed it, quickly followed by the rest of his drink. "Are you sure that was a good idea? Those aren't meant to be mixed with alcohol," Jeanette said before she could stop herself. "No need to mother me. I know they shouldn't be taken with wine, but all it will do is make me drowsy. From what Scott said, I have guard duty tonight. I'm not going anywhere." "Damn right, you're staying here. I won't let you drive." Jeanette walked into the kitchen and raised her voice so that Charles could hear her. "Do you want to cushion that combo with anything? Milk for instance?" "No, thanks." She re-entered the room. Charles had picked the Rutherford file up and was glancing over some of the papers, jotting down notes on a pad lying next to him on the couch. "What are you doing?" She sat in the arm chair perpendicular to him. "I'm copying some of the bank codes on the off-shore accounts. I have a friend back in Jersey who is, for the lack of a more politically correct term, a hacker. I'm hoping he can get me some names, or even Social Security numbers, to fit the depositor codes. If we could link Rutherford to some known criminals, we might be able to interest the Justice Department sooner, rather than waiting for evidence on the body-part trafficking or drug smuggling to interest them." "Can I help?" She needed to do something, anything. If she didn't, she would think, and thinking right now meant she'd worry about the danger in opposing Rutherford or about her future relationship with Scott. Both subjects she'd rather not visit at the moment. _Bootsie, you're a damn coward, girl. Nothin' to be worrying about with Scott -- and you know it. Now the other, I can't argue with that._ "Sure." Charles handed her half the file and tore a piece of the notepad paper off for her. "Start listing all the codes next to where there are deposits. Don't

need to list the same code twice." "I could've figured that out. Thanks." For the next ten minutes, she and Charles worked in a companionable silence. A light drizzle had begun to fall, and a fresh, rain-scented breeze wafted through the open French doors. "Shit!" Jeanette looked up from her assignment. Charles was so pale, she could see the veins through the skin on his forehead. "Are your sinuses worse? Are you nauseated? I knew you shouldn't have taken that capsule with alcohol." She put her papers aside. "No-o-o." Charles shivered visibly. "I don't know. I feel so weak. Like I've got the flu or something." As Jeanette started to stand, Charles dropped the file he held. The papers flew about his legs and landed all around. Then he slid to the floor, his eyes half-closed and his breathing becoming more and more labored. "Charles!" Jeanette hurried to his side then knelt by him. Taking his pulse, she found it rapid and weak. Was he having a reaction to the capsule-alcohol combination? He was too young for a stroke or heart attack. "Jeanette ... help ... me." She put his wrist down, then stroked his arm. "Hold on. I'm calling 911." Rushing to the portable phone, she picked it up and dialed the emergency number as she hastened back to Charles's side. Pulling the afghan from the back of her couch, she wrapped the rapidly weakening man in it. "Damn. Don't they answer this double-damn number." "Nine-one-one. What's your emergency, please?" "A medical emergency. My friend is having some sort of attack. His pulse is thready. 100 beats per minute. He's losing consciousness. Please send someone fast." "They're on their way, Ms. LaFleur. Is 56 Chartres Place still your correct location?" "Yes. It's Apartment 2A. Please hurry." "They're less than three minutes away, ma'am. Please stay on the line until they get there."

"I understand." Jeanette sat on the floor, close to Charles, hoping her body warmth would keep him from going into shock. "Ma'am. The EMTs would like to know if the patient has a history of cardiac problems." "I don't know." Jeanette looked at Charles's face and found him watching her, as if she were a lifeline. She saw knowledge in his eyes. He knew something was horribly wrong. "Charles. Can you hear me?" He blinked his eyes once. "Does that mean yes?" He blinked them once again. "Do you have a family history of heart problems?" He blinked his eyes twice. "Operator. Tell the EMTs no history of heart problems." "Thank you. They just pulled up to your building. You can cut the connection, ma'am." "Thank you." "Good luck, ma'am." Luck, Jeanette thought, as she shut off the phone, then gently lowered Charles to the floor. Charles needed more than luck. He needed a miracle. A pounding on the door indicated the arrival of the emergency crew. She got up and ran to the door to let them in. "Where's the patient?" Jeanette pointed toward the sofa. "On the floor. He slipped off the couch. I kept him warm, but I think he's in shock anyway." The EMT who'd asked the question, nodded. "How long has he been like this?" "It came on so fast. Maybe a total of eight minutes. Or less. You got here quickly." The EMT and his partner moved the coffee table out of the way. One of them started an IV, while the other took vitals.

"Damn, we're going to lose him." The man taking vitals sent an urgent glance to his partner, who had a drip flowing and had started to administer oxygen. "Let's get him on the stretcher and hit the road." As Jeanette watched in growing horror, the two men efficiently loaded up Charles. He made no motion. No sound. A cold, dark feeling lodged in her heart. It felt like death. She recognized it from when Paul died. "Charity, this is EMT Unit 55. We're about to transport a white male, approximately 30 years of age..." "Twenty-seven. He's only twenty-seven." Jeanette choked back the hysteria threatening to escape. She had to hold it together. She couldn't do Charles any good if she panicked. She followed the two emergency personnel out to the ambulance. "Correct that dispatch. Twenty-seven years of age. He's unconscious and diaphoretic. We're giving him oxygen, 4 liters. His pulse is 150 and thready. His BP is 60 over 40. I think we're losing him. Any advice you could give would be appreciated, Charity." The lead EMT spoke calmly. Yet, Jeanette heard the underlying urgency in his voice, saw it in the fast, efficient movements of the two-man team. Something niggled at her. There was something she needed to make sure they knew. Damn, how could she have forgotten? "Tell them he mixed prescription allergy medicine with alcohol about thirty minutes ago." "Charity. Friend of patient says he took allergy medication with alcohol about thirty minutes ago." "How much meds and alcohol?" "One 25 mg capsule of Claritin and one glass of white wine, maybe six ounces tops." The EMT repeated the information, then listened and shook his head. He looked at Jeanette. "Doc says that wouldn't cause this kind of respiratory arrest." "You're taking him to Charity?" "Yes, ma'am." The EMT who answered her climbed into the back with Charles. The other

got into the driver's seat. Then, with no further discussion, they were off. "Thank you." They couldn't have heard her. They were half way down the block before she'd even spouted the automatic courtesy. Tears flowed over her face unchecked, commingling with the drizzling rain. She stood frozen to the spot and watched the empty street. Her last image of Charles was of the EMT starting CPR as the ambulance sped away. _Blessed Jesus, protect him. Mother of God, shelter him in your loving arms. Please God ... please..._ "Momma?" Brigitte's high-pitched cry roused Jeanette from her state of shock. She turned. Her daughter stood on the front step of the building and stared out into the street where the ambulance had been parked. "Baby, did the paramedics wake you up?" She ran to her daughter and gathered her close. "Yes. Who's sick?" Jeanette heard a hitch in her daughter's breathing, felt her stiffen as if to prepare herself for the worse. "Not Uncle Scott?" "No, baby. It's Charles." Brigitte's body relaxed. "What's wrong with him? Did he get a tummy ache or something?" "I don't know, sugar. But we need to go to the hospital and see." Jeanette reluctantly let her daughter go. "Scoot on upstairs and put on some clothes." "It's a school night, Momma. What are we gonna do about that? It's late -- I checked." Jeanette followed her daughter up the stairs. "I'll call Sister and leave a message. We'll use one of your free days tomorrow." "Yeah!" Brigitte skipped up the stairs. "Can we go to the movie or something -- uh, that is if Charles is okay, of course?" "We'll see." Jeanette avoided making any sort of definitive statement. The picture of the paramedic working on Charles's still body replayed itself over and over in her brain. "Just hurry. We need to be there for Charles. We're all he has, baby."

"That's so sad, Momma." Jeanette knew that it was more than sad. It was tragic. -------CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE _Charity Hospital Emergency Room, Wednesday, 1:15 a.m._ Scott saw Jeannie and Brigitte before they spied him. He hurried to cut them off. He didn't want them to get the news from the Emergency Room receptionist. He wished he could protect them from all things bad, but since he couldn't, he could at least soften the blows life threw them. "Jeannie!" he called. She stopped, then whirled around. Her face, pale with worry, brightened when she found him in the crowd. She bent over and whispered to Brigitte, who looked where her mother pointed. Brigitte's serious little face lit up like a sparkler on the fourth of July. "Uncle Scott!" She waved, then broke from her mother's grip to run to him, her arms out-stretched. Scott bent and caught the little girl up in his arms and gave her a bear hug, rubbing his cheek on her dusky curls. This was what life was all about. It was worth protecting with every bit of his being -- be it from bad news or evil. "Scott?" Jeannie's voice vibrated with worry. "I'm sorry..." He knew he need go no further in his explanation. Her eyes reflected her acceptance -- her prescience -- of Charles's death. "Oh, Scott." The tears she must have held back since Charles fell ill streamed down her cheeks unheeded. "How? Why? He was so young." "I don't know -- yet." Scott still held Brigitte with one arm. He extended the other to her. She came to him and took the comfort he offered. "I'm sure there'll be an autopsy. We'll know more after that." "It looked like a stroke." Her voice faltered. "I didn't do anything. I should've

done something -- CPR -- anything." Scott led his girls away from the hustle and bustle of the late night ER-zoo. Lifting his arm from Brigitte's shoulder only long enough to push the door open to the doctor's on-call lounge, he waved them inside. After he'd settled them on the ratty old couch, he shoved a pile of two-year-old Soap Opera Digests to the floor and sat on the coffee table in front of them. "You couldn't have saved him. The paramedics said he was too far gone when they arrived. Plummeting blood pressure, thready, rapid respirations. He died in the ambulance. Even with all the modern equipment and an excellent response time, Charles was gonna be dead." "It doesn't make sense." Jeannie looked down at Brigitte; the little girl had fallen asleep as soon as she'd gotten comfortable, snuggled against her mother's side. Lowering her voice, she continued, "What do you think happened? He was never sick. In fact, he bragged that his grandfathers on both sides were in their late eighties and still played golf. His father was a marathoner. Why did he just die -- all of a sudden?" "Don't know, darlin', but we'll know more tomorrow." He looked up as the lounge door opened. It was the ER doctor in charge. "You need me?" "No. It's organized chaos tonight." He smiled at Jeannie. "Believe it or not, ma'am, we have that room well under control. Looks like all the trauma cases have gone somewhere else tonight. Mostly, we're seeing earaches and bad stomachs. Your friend was the only excitement tonight, and I'm sorry there was nothing we could do for him." "Thank you. Scott explained." "I hate to bother you, but Scott said you called 911, and we need to finish up some paperwork on that. Would you mind?" The doctor held out a clipboard with some papers attached. "I'll do what I can." Jeannie reached for the paperwork. "If it's all right, Bob, I'll help her." "Sure, Scott. You were due a break anyway. We'll scream if we need you." Bob nodded to Jeannie and left the room. She looked up from the documents. "I'm not sure whom to list as his next of kin. He wasn't on speaking terms with his father. His mother lives in California with her third husband. He has a brother, Andrew, in Atlanta. Do you think I

should list him? I remember Charles said we'd go visit..." Jeannie sniffed back a sob. "...go visit him some day and take in a Braves game. So they must be on speaking terms, right?" "_Cher_, why don't you put down his law firm as a contact person for advising next of kin. I'm sure he had paperwork in his personnel file. They'll have the emergency information." "That's a good idea." Jeannie bestowed a watery smile on him. "I should've thought of it." "Why should you?" He stroked her cheek with his finger, letting it trail lightly down to the hair of the small child lying against her mother's shoulder. "You've had a shock. That's why I stayed to help. Let me get you something with sugar and caffeine. You looked wiped out." "A Pepsi would be great. I'll just fill in the details with comments on what happened and in what order." Jeannie balanced the clipboard on the couch arm, so she could write with her right hand and still hold Brigitte with her left. Scott fed the soft drink machine in the lounge. "Make sure you list any allergies he might have had and what he ate tonight." "He ate the same stuff we did. I don't know anything about any specific allergies, other than the usual stuff that floats around in our air to which every self-respecting citizen of New Orleans is allergic." "Maybe it'll be in his personnel file. Or they can ask his brother." Scott carried a couple of cans of pop and two bags of chips to the coffee table. "We'll run a check through the Medical Information Bureau and see if he had any hospital admits in the last year or so. Then we can pull any files done on him, get his history from them." Jeannie cast a suspicious eye on the junk food. "Is this how you take care of yourself at work? Eating junk food?" She glared at the machines humming away on the far side of the room. "Don't they have any fresh, healthy food?" "Nope. Just junk food. Chips, please note they are baked, not deep-fat-fried, are the healthiest things in the machine. I usually have the little devil's food cake thingies with the cream in the middle, but they're out tonight." A delicate snort and a scrunching of her cute little nose indicated what she thought of his late-night eating habits. "Well, I guess I'll have to start packing you a healthy snack for break. Your brain can't work right on junk food. Plus, your immune system needs healthy food to fight off all the germs floating around the hospital. You should know that."

"Ahh, knowing and doing are two separate things, darlin'." Scott munched a chip and offered her one. "Well, now that I know, I'll be doing something about it." She took the chip and sniffed at it, then ate it. "Tastes like cardboard. The cake does sound better. I'll make some low-fat cookies for the guys." "They'll appreciate it. I'll have to beat them off you with a stick." Scott cast a concerned eye over Jeannie. She was way too calm considering all that had happened. He knew this was her way of coping -- finding something else to occupy her. So, she turned to her nurturing instincts. It was a way he wanted to encourage, because it meant she was taking care of him. The next step would be loving him. He could wait -- he'd waited this long. He pointed at the clipboard. "Finish up what you can, and I'll have someone drive you home." "No. I'll be fine. I drove. We'll be fine." Jeannie smiled down at Little Bits, still asleep at her mother's side. "No. One of the security guards can follow you home. It's not that far. You should know as well as anyone that New Orleans is a rough town at night, especially in the Quarter." Scott refused to budge on this issue. Charles's death, in Jeannie's home, at this point in time, was too coincidental. Until the autopsy showed some freakish, but natural, ischemic attack, Scott wasn't allowing Jeannie to go anywhere without someone watching her. He'd be calling in a bunch of favors, but she was worth protecting with all the resources he had available. "Okay. Whatever you say." The mulish look on Jeannie's face indicated she was humoring him and that he wouldn't have it so easy the next time he tried to run roughshod over her. He was lucky she was too tired and grief-stricken to fight for independence tonight. **** _Wednesday, 9:00 a.m._ Jeanette lay awake. Brigitte played in the other room. She'd kept her daughter home because of the disturbing night they'd spent and out of respect for Charles. Sister understood and said she'd send Brigitte's work home with the neighbor's son from across the courtyard. With only two

more weeks of school remaining, Brigitte couldn't afford to lag behind. The phone rang, startling Jeanette out of her lethargy. "Hello?" She held her breath, fearing it might be Rutherford. "Jeannie? You okay?" It was Scott! "You sound sort of far away, lost-like." "I'm fine. Have you heard anything?" "That's why I'm calling." Scott exhaled. The breath came across the digitally clear line. He sounded ... what? Disgusted? Angry? Both? "They aren't doing an autopsy." "What? Why not?" Jeanette strained to remember her course in legal medicine which all technicians were required to take to get licensed. She was sure unexplained deaths of healthy, young people were always autopsied by the coroner. "No explanation. The body was sent to the hospital morgue with papers issuing its release to a funeral home. The only good news is the next-of-kin hasn't been reached yet to finalize the burial arrangements. So, I called Charles's law office and used my credentials to get the brother's number in Atlanta. Then I called him." "And?" "And I asked him to authorize a private autopsy." "And did he say yes?" "Yep. My buddy who is a pathology resident and I are gonna do it tonight after everyone else goes home. We'll release the body tomorrow, early, before the hospital wakes up." "Scott? Are you doing anything illegal?" "No. Andrew did have the power of attorney for Charles and is his Executor. He was happy to sign the autopsy consent. In fact, he would've called the New Orleans Parish Coroner to complain, but I talked him out of it." "Then why all the secrecy?" "Let me ask you this. Why didn't the Coroner do the legally required autopsy?" Jeanette's mind reached a horrifying conclusion, one which she was sure Scott had reached the night before. She hadn't seen it, because she hadn't wanted

to. Charles must have been murdered and someone didn't want the police to find out. "Scott, be careful. I don't want to lose you, too." "You won't. Trust me." "I do." _With my life._ "Stay home. Little Bits there with you?" "Yes, I kept her home." "Good. I've contacted an old Marine buddy of Paul's and mine. He owns a security firm. He's going to arrange bodyguards for when I'm unavailable." "Is that really necessary?" "Yes. I wouldn't do it if I thought it wasn't." Jeanette heard the tension, the worry in his voice. She decided not to argue with him. Truth be told, she would be glad to have someone here. "Why aren't you coming home? Are you still at work? You need to sleep and eat sometime." Especially if he was going to work on his night off -performing an autopsy. "I'm at the airport. Andrew is flying in. We're going to his brother's apartment and look for anything that might help us. Andrew works for the Center for Disease Control, Jeannie. He wants to know what killed his brother as much as we do. Try to think what else Charles had to eat -- something we didn't. If you think of it, isolate it from the rest of your food. Better yet. Get food delivered until we figure this out." "You think he ate something here that caused his death?" She trembled at the thought. Covering the phone with her hand, she shouted, "Brigitte! Don't eat anything until Mommy says so. Uncle Scott is worried about something being bad." Turning back to the phone, she asked, "Scott? What could it be? Brigitte had cereal and milk this morning. Should I be worried?" "No, darlin'. It has to be something else. You'll think of it. Just calm down. Tony will help you. This is what he does for a living -- provide security. Just let him walk you through last evening. Okay?" "Okay. When will I see you?" "I'll be bringing Andrew over to your place before I go to do the autopsy."

"Fine. Be careful." "I will. You too." Jeanette heard the dial tone before she could reply. All she could do now was wait -- and figure out what in her house could've killed Charles. Realization hit her in the face. If her emotions hadn't been so befuddled with Charles's death, she would have seen it sooner. If his cause of death was in her house, then it had been meant for her -- not Charles. Scott understood this. He was doing all these things not just to find evidence to lead to Charles's killer, but to protect her from being the next victim. "Mommy. There's a man at the door. He said he knew Daddy and that Uncle Scott sent him." Brigitte's excited voice reached shrill heights. "And he's got a gun." Jeanette threw her covers off and pulled on a chenille robe as she ran from the room. Standing on the other side of the locked screen door was the biggest man she'd ever seen. "Hi. Jeannie?" His white teeth showed brightly against his coal black skin. No Creole blood in this Louisiana boy. "I'm Tony Fortier." He held his private investigator's license up against the screen. "Scott tell you why I'm here?" "Yes. Please come in." Jeanette unlocked the screen door. "Momma? Can I talk to him about Daddy? Please?" Brigitte looked wary. Jeanette hadn't talked about Paul much since his death, not even with Scott. Although she'd never actually kept Scott from speaking to her daughter about him, she hadn't encouraged it either. It dawned on her that her all-consuming grief had her locking Paul away in her heart and mind oblivious to the needs and wants of all those around her. First, Scott's interest in her, now her daughter's need to know the father she barely remembered. What a self-centered ass she'd been. "Sure, honey. You can even pull out the scrapbooks and look at the pictures of Daddy." She smiled at Tony. "I believe there are some of his Marine unit. Maybe you can find Mr. Fortier in them." "I'll be happy to look at the pictures." Tony allowed himself to be led into the living room. "You go ahead and get dressed for the day, ma'am. I'll take the watch." "Thank you." Jeanette smiled, then turned toward her bedroom. At the door, she stopped and turned back. "Mr. Fortier?" "It's Tony, ma'am."

"It's Jeannie, Tony. I'm sure that's all you heard from Paul and Scott, so you might as well use it, too." Tony's face was solemn, then it tightened into something fierce and dangerous. "No one will hurt Paul's widow and his child while I'm around. There are others coming to help. Paul was our commander. He saved our hides so many times I can't begin to tell you. It's the least we can do. You just go gussy yourself up. Let me do the worrying today." Jeanette nodded, then hurried from the room before he could see her tears. -------CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR _Wednesday, 11:00 a.m., Charles Carter's apartment_ Scott searched Charles's apartment for anything that might be useful in the pursuit of Rutherford. He didn't expect to find much, and only went through the motions to satisfy Andrew that his brother had not been the primary target. Scott knew for a fact that whatever had killed Charles had been meant for Jeannie. Now, all he had to do was isolate it. Andrew had offered his CDC lab as a resource after the autopsy. The turn-around time on the tox screens would be faster. And more confidential than having it done in New Orleans. "I'm done here." Andrew entered the living room from Charles's bedroom. "I couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. Just Charles's usual mess. We might have better luck with the personal files and effects we picked up from his law office." Once again, Scott had to look twice to be sure that the man speaking was Andrew, not Charles. It turned out they'd been twins. Identical. "Let's take these things to Jeannie's." Scott picked up the box with the personal effects. "His briefcase with his other research and notes, along with our research, is at her place. You can look it over and see what we're up against." Andrew headed for the door. "I'll leave my suitcase here. I can make camp here until I make arrangements for Charles's transfer for burial in Atlanta." "Aren't you going to send him back north?" Scott motioned Andrew out ahead of him. "Nah. Mom isn't there anymore, and she'd be the only one who cared." Andrew locked the door and pocketed the key. "Dad would say he'd gotten what he asked for by poking his nose into something he shouldn't. Dad took a cover-your-ass approach to life, especially if it was his own ass."

"No wonder." "No wonder, what?" Andrew cast him a curious glance as they got into the car. "Your brother had trouble dealing with family relationships, which is probably why he and Jeannie weren't married." Scott wasn't going into any greater detail. He just realized he could be a perfect suspect for Charles's murder -- at least in the eyes of Andrew Carter and outsiders who didn't know the situation. "This Jeannie -- she has a child, right?" "Yeah. A little girl." "Then Charles would have had a problem." Andrew sighed. "After Mom had us, the marriage fell apart. Father hadn't really wanted us, but after the divorce, to spite Mom, he kept us. Then proceeded to either ignore us or attempt to control our every thought. After he remarried, he trotted us out for perfect photo ops. Charles and I used to plot father's demise in painful, gruesome ways." "What about your mom? Didn't she see what was going on?" Scott pulled into the alley leading to the garage for Jeannie's apartment block. "Mom didn't get to see us again until after we left for college." Andrew's lips thinned into a parody of a smile. "Father had paid her well to stay away. She gave up all visitation. Charles never spoke to Father again, and only just recently made it up with Mom. Yeah, you could say Charles had familial relationship problems." Scott mentally groaned. "Please don't tell Jeannie all that. I'm sure she's figured out by now that she was the intended target. If she knew what kind of childhood he'd had, she'd feel even worse." "She made an issue of the family stuff, I take it?" Andrew raised his eyebrows in a manner so like his brother's that Scott got chills. "Yeah. They agreed they wouldn't suit after that." Scott led the way to the second floor apartment. "Leaving the way open for you to compete the family group?" Scott heard no suspicion in the rhetorical question, just a sense that Andrew felt satisfied at solving a puzzle. He turned to face Andrew. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. You have a problem with that?"

"No." Andrew returned Scott's regard. "As long as it wasn't an issue between my brother and you, why should it bother me?" "Well, it wasn't an issue." Scott turned to proceed the man up the stairs. "Your brother saw this case as a way to put his name on the New Orleans' legal-political map. He was committed to his career. Family was way down his list of priorities." "That sounds like him. I just wanted to clear the air before we get down to the serious business of finding out who killed Charles." "To be precise, we're seeking the person who killed Charles by mistake," Scott said over his shoulder as he waited for someone to let them into Jeannie's apartment. "Jeannie was the target. And still is." "I stand corrected." Andrew tugged on Scott's sleeve. Scott turned his head to stare into blue eyes blazing with anger. "I want to get this bastard. Count me in for whatever I can do." Scott nodded. "We'll need all the help we can get. New Orleans is as corrupt a town as you're likely to find. We need Federal contacts." As footsteps hurried to the door, Andrew whispered, "I've got all sorts of those -- and, if you need corrupt, I can call on my father's friends. The Carter name does mean something in certain underworld circles." Scott's shock must have shown on his face, because Andrew laughed, piercing the quiet of the courtyard and scaring a flock of finches from their resting places. "Obviously, Charles hadn't divulged the family's skeleton." Andrew sneered. "Father made the family fortune as an accountant for the Jersey mob." **** Scott emptied his mind of everything but the need to perform the autopsy. He wasn't going to look on Charles as someone he knew, but as a clinical case. Objectivity was crucial in order to find all forensic evidence. He had no forensic training, but Andrew had and had offered to come along to assist in place of Scott's friend. Less lips to worry about talking out of turn and tipping Rutherford off. The medical community was small when it came to gossip. "If someone walks in on us, let me do the talking," Scott said as he and Andrew started with the initial cuts. "I'm playing it as a surgical resident who wanted more anatomical study." "Okay. Gotcha." Andrew frowned. "I called my lab and had them fax me a list of all organs we use for tox screens." Andrew snapped his gloved fingers covered in a combination of blood and tissue. "Hey, Scott. You with me,

buddy? You look sort of pale." Scott scowled. He thought he'd gotten over queasy stomachs in his freshman year anatomy and physiology lab. Give him a live, anesthetized patient any day. Cutting on dead bodies spooked him. "I'll make it." Scott deftly cut the rib section so Andrew could get to the heart. The electric saw sounded like a dental drill and the ensuing smell reminded Scott of the hot odor of grinding teeth. "Takes some getting used to." "Yeah, but you become immune to it," said Andrew. "Med school cadavers are worse than anything because of the formalin smell. Fresh dead bodies are better." Scott admired Andrew's objectivity in light of the fact he was cutting his twin. This seemed to be harder on him, a total stranger, than on Andrew. He placed the ribs to the side. They'd sew them back into the chest cavity later for the undertaker to tidy up. Andrew placed the heart on the scale. "580 grams. Let's get some heart tissue." Scott took the heart and placed it next to the ribs on an empty stainless steel table. They'd take tissue for slides before putting the heart back in with the ribs. "What next?" Scott let Andrew lead, since he seemed the calmer of the two. "Next we go to the gut and get the samples we need." Andrew pulled out the abdominal organs and laid them between Charles's legs. "Why don't you start checking every millimeter of the colon while I take care of the stomach contents." Scott's lips tightened, but he started examining the colon beginning with the small intestines and working his way down. "What exactly am I looking for?" "Unusual bleed-outs, loops, tumors -- anything that shouldn't be in smooth muscle tissue. GI is not your area, I take it?" Scott looked up from the colon. Andrew ladled stomach contents into a plastic container. Now that the gut was opened, foul bacterial odors had replaced the fresh meat smell in the room. "Uh, no." Scott swallowed hard. "Believe it or not I'm in a trauma surgical residency."

Andrew laughed. "Blood and guts are okay -- just as long as you don't know them. Right?" "Yeah." Scott hesitated. "Doesn't it bother you -- this being your brother and all?" "I refuse to let it." Andrew stopped and looked at him. "You were in Desert Storm, right?" Scott nodded, knowing what was coming. "You saw people killed. You killed. You risked your life to bring your dying friend, Jeannie's husband, out of the line of fire." Andrew paused. "How did you do that? Didn't it bother you?" "No. It was something I had to do. Something I would do again. I didn't think -- I just reacted." "Bingo." Andrew turned back to the stomach contents. "I'm not thinking. I'm just doing what is needed to get the bastards who killed my brother." Scott nodded, his stomach now calm. His mind focused on what needed to be done. He turned back to his examination of the colon. "He'd eaten not too long before death, right?" Andrew stopped removing contents and fished out something floating on top of the slop. "Yes. He ate the same things we ate." "Did all of you take gelatin capsules of some sort?" Andrew pinned Scott with a penetrating glance. "Cause I just found something that looks like that." "No. I don't recall him taking any meds at dinner." Scott let go of the colon, marking the place he left off by tying the glove he'd removed around the spot. Then he walked over to the phone on the morgue desk. "I'll call Jeannie, and see if she can tell me anything about a capsule." While Scott waited on the phone, Andrew muttered as he continued to remove stomach contents -- now into two containers: one for general content and a smaller one for gel cap remnants. "Hello?" "Jeannie. It's Scott." "What's wrong?" Scott heard Tony's voice in the background asking her who it was. "It's okay -- it's Scott." Tony's voice rumbled once more. "Scott, do you need to speak to Tony?"

"No. I need to ask you if Charles had taken any medicine that night." "Yes. I thought I told you. No, I'd forgotten. Damn. I'm sorry." "Darlin', don't worry. You're telling me now. What did he take?" "He took one of my allergy capsules. He said they were the same kind he took. Why? What's wrong?" "Jeannie, get the bottle. Use something to pick it up. Then, give it to Tony. Do not -- I repeat -- do not touch the bottle anymore than you have to. And whatever you do, don't take any of them. Now go -- and put Tony on." "Scott. What did you find? What's this about allergy meds?" Tony's voice sounded harsh with frustration at being on the sidelines. "Jeannie is going to give you a bottle with her allergy capsules. Charles took one the night he died. We found a partially digested one in his stomach contents." "Thanks, Jeannie. I've got it. She wrapped it in a hankie. I'll have some cops I know run the prints through NCIC. Andrew will have to have all the capsules tested. If we're lucky, the killer doctored more than one to make sure he got his kill." Scott grimaced. Lucky? Yes, he'd say so. Jeannie could've been killed at any time. "We'll have the stomach contents and tissue for testing also. We'll nail what did it, but will we be able to tie it to the person who ordered it done?" "Patience, Scott." Tony's I'm-in-charge-and-on-the-scene voice reassured him. "We'll get there. Now, go back to work. Things are under control here." "Tony?" "Yeah?" "He might have doctored other things in the house." "Got it, buddy. Project massive-dump-time begins as of now. Anything that looks suspicious, I'll bag it and preserve it as evidence." "Tony -- I owe you." "No, you don't." Scott hung up the phone. "Things okay on the home front?" Andrew had stopped to watch Scott.

"Yeah. The capsules are allergy meds that Jeannie takes. Charles took one. They're dumping all the food and meds just in case the son-of-a-bitch doctored anything else in the apartment." "Sounds like a good idea to me." Andrew waved his hand at the containers of gut contents. "Whatever the toxin was, it killed him almost as soon as the gel cap began to dissolve. I found most of it and a lot of time-release beads. He absorbed the toxin and his system immediately started the process of shutting down." "Are you saying the time-release beads didn't have time to become absorbed?" "You got it." Scott whistled. "That's some poison. What would be your best guess?" "On the toxicity rating scale, with one being large amounts of the poison to kill and a six being minuscule amounts -- I'd say this puppy would be a six. Very small amount and very lethal." Scott came back to the body and regloved. Picking the colon up where he left off, he resumed his examination. "So what poisons would those be? Cyanide and the like?" "Yeah, cyanide would act that fast. Some heavy metals, too. But he didn't have those kinds of symptoms. You said Charles lost all muscular control, then stopped breathing. Right?" "The paramedic said he was in full respiratory arrest with little then no pressure when they arrived -- less than four minutes after the call went out." "Fast-acting shit. Some poisonous plant oil, maybe." "Will we be able to find it in that?" Scott tilted his head toward the containers with the stomach contents. "_We_ won't have to." Andrew grew solemn. "The CDC lab's computerized chemical analyzers will be able to find it if anything can. That's our specialty. The bastards picked the wrong man's brother to murder." -------CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE _One week later._ "Hemlock." Andrew Carter's voice echoed like thunder in Jeanette's living room.

Scott glowered, his lips pressed together so tightly they had to hurt. As for herself, she was numb. The past week had been hell. First, she'd sent her daughter to the Retreat House on Lake Pontchartrain before the end of the school year in order to protect her. God help any attacker trying to get to her daughter through the vigilant guard of Sister Mary Cecille and the other nuns. Then, insulated in a frozen limbo, Jeanette stood between Scott and Andrew as Charles was buried in Atlanta. After flying home, she'd tendered an overly business-like, written resignation to Dr. Rutherford by first-class U.S. mail, return receipt requested. No way was she facing the devil in person. Finally, just this morning, she'd started her new job at the Medical Center Clinic run by Dr. Payton and Dr. Warren. The end results of Rutherford's immoral practice of medicine confronted her throughout the long, interminable day. She'd cried so much for his victims she had no tears left. All through this time, Tony or one of his security people had been her constant companions. When Scott and Andrew were present, they spoke about anything but what they were doing -- or whom they were seeing. Her life had become a prison. Yet now, she -- and they -- had to face the truth. No one could protect her from what they'd all managed to avoid acknowledging out loud. Someone tried to poison her, and Charles had died in her place. With Andrew's one word, the game of fooling herself, blaming his death on a freak aneurysm or a weak heart, was at an end. Rutherford wanted her dead. He'd tried to poison her. "Jeannie?" Scott's voice wrapped her in its concern. "You all right?" "No, but I'll live." Jeanette choked on a sob. "You know -- it should've been me." "No!" Jeanette jumped at the raw anguish in Scott's roar. Chancing a glance at him, she shrank from what she saw. He wasn't upset; he was in a rage. "Don't ever think that. You aren't responsible for what that amoral bastard

did." Intellectually, Jeanette could accept that. Only Rutherford was responsible for his evil actions. But, emotionally, she had a hard time swallowing the fact. She wasn't ready to pass through the rationalization phase and go on with the grieving process. It had taken her a long time to get over Paul's death. Also, Charles's death had a whole other twist to it. On any given day she could've taken that capsule -- and he wouldn't have. No -- rationalization and acceptance wasn't in the cards for a long, long while. This was much more immediate and a whole lot closer to home. "Scott's right." Andrew interrupted the strained silence. "I've always found when someone you care about has been taken from you, actions often help more than talk. What we need to do is nail this sucker." Jeanette was embarrassed. Here she was acting like a weeping widow over Charles while his twin brother, who had all the more right to be grief-stricken into immobility, had been thinking of a way to make Rutherford pay. He was one hundred percent correct. Some action definitely would make her feel better -- or at least help her forget the image of a dying Charles contorted in pain, gasping for breath. "I'm sorry, Andrew. You're right. Action sounds good. So, when are y'all going to clue me in as to what we're gonna do about Rutherford?" Scott sent Andrew a questioning look. Andrew nodded. "Tell her." "Andrew and I have met with investigators from both the DEA and U.S. Customs." Scott moved to sit next to her on the couch. He picked up one of her hands and held it in his, his fingers gently massaging as he spoke. "As Charles had found out, the agencies have lots of suspicions, but no proof that Lopez is a drug smuggler. They knew about the body parts, but bringing transplant organs into the country is not on its face illegal." "But..." "But what about the body mafia?" Andrew finished for her. "DEA knew nothing about that until we connected the dots for them and pulled U.S. Customs into the meeting. It seems the United Nations Task Force on Illegal Body Part Trafficking had asked U.S. Customs to police itself. Customs had conducted a somewhat half-assed investigation, but had gotten nowhere." "Then it's hopeless?" Jeanette grew cold at the thought of Rutherford getting away with all his crimes.

"No. It's not." Andrew paced as he spoke. "All we have to do is help the DEA and Customs people get the evidence to file federal charges against Lopez. We showed the agencies the proof that Lopez and Rutherford are working together. They agreed if we could find physical proof of the crimes committed -- read drug smuggling here, because that is all they are interested in -- then they could charge both men and freeze their assets and those of the companies they own." "How will that help prove they murdered Sally, Alex Randolph, Stu Thomas and Charles?" "It won't," Scott said. "But federal charges on drug trafficking would put them away for a far longer period of time then anything else we can currently pin on them. And crooks have a way of selling each other out to avoid prison." "And there are the murders of foreign innocents for the body parts," Andrew said. "Everyone involved in that would be tied up in courts both domestic and international for years. They'll go away for a long time -- and you and your daughter will be safe." "That's the most important thing -- you and Little Bits." Scott kissed the back of the hand he held. "So -- how do we get the evidence?" Jeanette sensed they were keeping something from her. It wasn't going to be as easy as it sounded. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch. "Remember when you, Charles and I were discussing all this and I mentioned that One World had one-month rotations for medical residents?" "No!" Jeanette sat up and gripped Scott's hand so tightly her hand cramped. "You aren't going to go. I won't let you. You can't leave me ... I can't lose you, too." She ended on a wailing note. Jeanette flung Scott's hand away from her and stood. She moved away, afraid she would hit him in her anger. She couldn't recall ever being this mad. How dare he throw his life away? Why couldn't he see that putting Rutherford away wasn't worth losing his life? If he cared for her, he would stay -- let some DEA man go. Hell, she'd go herself before she allowed him to go. "I have to go." Scott's voice was firm. "Paul would've gone, and I love you as much as he did -- maybe more. What kind of a man would I be if I didn't protect you any way I could? How could I practice medicine knowing that my peers are transplanting organs taken from murdered innocents? This may be the one chance to prove these guys are evil scum bags. Not just anybody can infiltrate One World -- it has to be another doctor."

_Stupid, macho man_. Jeanette stiffened, then turned around. What had he just said? "Who tried to infiltrate? What happened to the other doctor?" "I didn't say anything about..." "Yes, you did." Jeanette stalked over and poked him in the chest. "You said something about not just anyone could get into One World. It has to be _another_ doctor. Did the DEA already try to get someone on the inside? What happened?" "Scott, it isn't going to wash." Andrew looked grim. "Tell her the truth." "Yes, tell me the truth." Jeanette stared Scott in the eyes. "What has already happened down there? Where are they located now? In Central America? South America? No, I remember. Brazil." Scott turned his head and contemplated the open doors to the balcony. For a while she thought he wasn't going to answer, then he turned back. His eyes asked for understanding. She knew she wasn't going to like what he'd say. "A Brazilian doctor doing his residency at University of Miami Med Center volunteered to help the DEA track down the proof for the drug smuggling." Scott looked toward the dusky courtyard once again, seeking what? A way out of this mess? A way to make her accept him going to his death? He sighed, shook his head. He turned, his eyes filled with resolution. "He sent several reports back. He'd found some evidence on the body-part trafficking and was just about to follow a lead to the drug operation when he stopped transmitting. Some native fisherman found his body in the Pantanal Region of Brazil. His throat had been cut, and his heart and other organs removed." "No. You can't go." Jeanette grew calm, frozen in an icy rage. "I've already signed up." Scott looked at her, eyes pleading for understanding. "I leave in a little over a week." Strange that it would take anger to make her feel really alive for the first time since Charles died. Even now in the midst of this all-encompassing fury, she felt in control. She realized what needed to be done -- and, nobody could stop her from doing it. Especially the men in her life. Jeanette swept both men with a frigid, angry glance. "Fine. Don't take into consideration my feelings on this. You do what you have to do -- and I'll do what I must do." "Jeannie," Scott rasped, as he reached out to grab her. "What the hell does

that mean? What are you going to do?" Shrinking from his touch, Jeanette replied, "Why should you care? You won't be here to worry about it." Both men stood paralyzed with silent stupefaction as Jeanette left the room. **** Monnier wasn't sure what was going on, but he knew that Eric Matthews's presence in New Orleans didn't bode well for someone. He just hoped it wasn't him. Matthews was a stone-cold killer. So amoral that Monnier felt uncomfortable around the man -- and Monnier had associated with some fairly evil dudes in his time. "Report," said Rutherford. Monnier's head jerked round to look at his boss. What report? Then realized that Rutherford was asking Matthews, not him, to speak. "Mr. Roth met with an unfortunate accident in his cell." Matthews's face displayed no expression. Chills swept down Monnier's spine. Roth was dead. Mentally, he calculated all his liquid assets and wondered how long it would take to get them together so he could leave town. "And our next project?" Rutherford lit the cigar he'd been chewing on. "How are you coming with that?" Matthews pulled a small leather notebook out of his pocket and flipped the cover open. "Ms. LaFleur has been staying close to home. She is accompanied at all times by one and sometimes two men -- professionals by the look of them. Good, too. They almost made me yesterday. Her daughter is gone. They must have taken her out of town before I got here. I have no clue where she is, and the only people who know are the woman and the men who are guarding her." "And the people who the kid is with." Matthews allowed a hint of irritation to materialize on his stone face. Monnier smirked. So the man was human. "Yes, sir. As you say." All hints of anger buried, Matthews once more imitated a rock. "So, how do you intend to get Jeanette LaFleur out of my life?"

"She just started to work for the Medical Center Eye Clinic." Matthews flipped to another page. "I..." "What?" Rutherford threw his cigar at the ash tray on his desk -- and missed. Anger turned the doctor's smooth, handsome face into a grotesque mask. "The bitch has to be eliminated and soon." As if he realized he was losing it, Rutherford used the pretense of picking up the smoldering cigar and relighting it to give himself some time to calm down. "Do you realize the trouble she could cause if she puts her head together with Payton and Warren? Even her death wouldn't stop the investigation into my research project or the potential medical malpractice suits." The soothing ritual of smoking the cigar unsuccessful in appeasing his loss of temper, Rutherford stood up and walked over to the bar. He poured himself a Scotch, straight up, and tossed it back in one swallow. Fortified with alcoholic courage, he turned to his imported gun and snarled, "Kill her, Matthews. Kill her tomorrow -- at the Clinic." "Her bodyguards are with her when she goes to work." Monnier could have sworn he caught a hint of laughter in Matthews' feral eyes. The man enjoyed Rutherford's uneasiness. Rutherford pinned both men with a comprehensive glance. "Monnier. You help him. Kill little Jeanette tomorrow -- or be prepared to take the fall for the murders you both have already committed. You know I can do it." Both he and Matthews nodded. Monnier wondered if Matthews had heard about Rutherford's past. Before he had become a doctor, his reputation had been that of a man who never let anything -- or anyone -- get in the way of what he wanted. Since becoming a doctor, Rutherford had paid others to do his dirty work, but he still held to the same philosophy. Some people might imagine he'd gone soft. But Monnier wasn't stupid enough to think Rutherford couldn't kill if he had to. Killing had to be like riding a bicycle; once you've learned, you never forget. Survival instincts kicking into high gear, Monnier made plans to buy an airplane ticket to the most remote place he could find and still maintain access to his Swiss bank accounts. After tomorrow -- New Orleans wouldn't see him for his dust. -------CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX _Next Day at Medical Center Eye Clinic_ "Come in, Jeanette."

Jeanette entered the small room used by the Clinic doctors for patient-family conferences. Dr. Payton sat at the head of the oblong table. In the room were two others, an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, wearing tinted glasses, and a stork-like figure of a man who dressed far older than he probably was. If Maggie Payton had done as she'd promised, the woman was Lynn Barrios, the patient who'd been bilaterally blinded by Dr. Rutherford's Epi Procedure. The glasses masked and protected her unseeing eyes from some holdover light sensitivity. And from public scrutiny. According to her charts, she could only differentiate between varying intensities of light. Her world was one of misty shadows with just enough visual acuity for her to avoid walking into objects and people -- and that only in bright light. But what should have been a partial blessing had turned out to be even more of a curse than total darkness. The glare of the light caused the poor woman to suffer debilitating migraines. Lynn Barrios was in constant pain and distress from the results of the Epi Procedure -- and she had mentioned, more than once, her intent to sue Rutherford. After making her decision to do something about Rutherford, Jeanette had called Maggie, who'd mentioned the young and attractive Lynn as the ideal plaintiff to draw public attention to Rutherford's perfidy. Lynn had been a highly successful model who'd graduated to anchoring a popular Louisiana cable morning show. Since the surgery, she couldn't do her job, was embarrassed to be seen in public, and had lost her husband to another woman. Sight unseen, Lynn Barrios had sounded like the answer to Jeanette's prayers. The reality was even better. A jury would have to be made of stone not to relate to this beautiful woman's plight -- a plight created solely by Rutherford's reckless disregard of his patient's safety. "Not a pretty picture, am I?" Lynn Barrios tilted her head toward Jeanette. "I understand you worked for a short time at the Epi Study Clinic. How many more people has he blinded since he butchered my eyes?" A hint of rising hysteria tinged the husky contralto of Lynn's voice. "Lynn, please." The thin man's deep baritone startled Jeanette into really looking at him. He had to be Lynn's lawyer, Evan Devereaux. His voice belied his appearance. Jeanette's first impression had been of an Ichabod Crane-stick of a man. Next to the auburn-haired glory of Lynn Barrios, Evan appeared gaunt, colorless -a non-entity.

But his voice had a magnetism. Jeanette could imagine both men and women falling under the spell of that voice -- a male Siren beckoning the jury to his way of thinking. "What, Evan? Aren't I allowed to ask questions? Ms. LaFleur is supposed to be our expert witness on the Epi procedure. Aren't I allowed to find out what she knows -- or doesn't know? Am I to be kept in the dark about this, too?" Lynn's voice caught on a small sob. "Isn't it enough that I can't see, can't do my job, can't..." Lynn wiped a tear from under her tinted lenses with the back of one elegant finger. "I'm sorry, Ms. LaFleur. Evan keeps reminding me that we must speak only neutral, non-committal words until the facts come out, lest the evil doctor pre-empts us by suing for slander. And here I always thought truth was a defense." Jeanette had to give the lawyer credit. He hadn't winced. Instead, he smiled gently and took his client's limp hand within his two large ones. Devereaux loved Lynn Barrios! Only she was too blind -- both physically and emotionally -- to sense it. Evan's eyes, a startling platinum color, captured Jeanette's gaze. "Ms. LaFleur, I would..." "Please, call me Jeanette." "Jeanette, it is then. I'm Evan." She nodded. He smiled and cast a glance at Lynn, whose vacant stare was just visible through the tinted lenses of her glasses, then he squeezed his client's hand gently. "I would like to thank you for being willing to testify on Lynn's behalf against your former employer. I know this will be hard on you both personally and possibly professionally." "Jeanette has nothing to worry about professionally, Evan." Maggie spoke up. "She trained here. My colleagues and I are behind her -- and Lynn -- one hundred percent. Dr. Rutherford has to be stopped. Lynn's case is just one of dozens we've seen in the Clinic. Unfortunately hers is the worst case -- but the best for legal purposes." Maggie turned. "Lynn, with Jeanette's investigation results and our clinic's documentation of the Epi failures we've seen, I'm sure that your attorney can make not only a case of medical malpractice, but also of intentional infliction

of bodily harm. In Louisiana, I understand you can get emotional distress damages." "Battery. We lawyers call it civil battery, doctor. And yes, with the physical damage Lynn has suffered, we can go after psychological damages and punitive damages because of the knowledge and intent on Dr. Rutherford's part." Maggie waved her hand. "Well, whatever you call it, Byron Rutherford did it. We can show that he knew that his procedure was flawed, but manufactured data to show a higher success rate than was real. That was misrepresentation." "He told me the success rate was well over ninety percent. That the side effects were minimal -- maybe some initial blurring or auras around lights at night, like contacts cause. That I would be able to read the teleprompter without contacts or glasses. He even said my reading vision would improve..." Lynn's voice trailed off softly. "And then he did this to me." She shook off Evan's grip and gestured to her eyes. "Now, I'm a freak -- and in constant pain, taking medications that barely cut it." Empathetic tears filled Jeanette's eyes. Now, she had even more reason to nail Rutherford's ass to the wall. This woman's life was dominated by Rutherford's actions, just as hers was. Both of them were imprisoned: Lynn with her lack of sight and loss of independence and emotional stability, and Jeanette with her lack of freedom to live in safety. Putting away Rutherford wouldn't bring back Lynn's eyesight, but it might heal her psyche. It definitely would make the world a safer place, not only for Jeanette but also Rutherford's other potential victims. Jeanette could help. But her help alone would not do the whole job. She had to concede that others would have to become involved. Some, like Scott, in dangerous ways. His trip to Brazil had the highest probability of putting the lock on Rutherford's prison door for life. She'd known that fact last night when he announced his decision to spy for the DEA -- but she'd been afraid to acknowledge it. Instead, she'd gotten angry at the unfairness of it all. Truth be told, she was still mad -- but resigned. Rutherford had to be stopped. "Jeanette?" Maggie's voice cut through her whirling thoughts. "Are you okay?" "No, but I haven't been for a while." Jeanette attempted to smile, but failed

miserably. "Do Lynn and Evan know about the danger? Have you told them why I'm willing to stake myself out as the sacrificial goat in order to get something, anything, pinned on Rutherford?" "What do you mean?" Evan's resonant voice sharpened with suspicion. "Obviously, you haven't." Jeanette half-chuckled. "It's funny, Evan, but in a way I'm using you to tie Rutherford up in court long enough so we can buy time to hang him. Well, not literally hang him, although that might not be a bad idea..." "Dr. Payton? Ms. LaFleur? What's going on here?" Protectively, Evan moved closer to Lynn who sat silently remote, unseeing eyes fixed on a spot somewhere past Jeanette. "Is there some danger to Lynn? I won't have it, if there is." Jeanette paused before answering. Maggie and she hadn't thought of that angle. Danger to Lynn? Rutherford wouldn't be that stupid. Would he? Mentally, she trotted out and examined a myriad of ramifications, then rejected each in turn. Finally, she shook her head. "No. Once the lawsuit or lawsuits as the case may be are filed, he wouldn't dare do anything. If he found out somehow ahead of time, all bets would be off." She leaned on the table, closing the distance between herself and the others. "You see, publicity is the best protection for all of us. He can't do anything with the population of New Orleans -- and all of Louisiana -- looking at this case." Evan blew out a harsh breath. "Let's say the word got out -- about the law suit, your testimony, and all the rest of it -- what kind of danger are we talking about here? Would he kill you? Kill Lynn?" "Yes." The lawyer's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "Jesus. You have to be kidding. He's a doctor for God's sake. He's..." "A well-respected man in the community, _et cetera, et cetera -- ad nauseam._ Yeah, that's what I told myself when I first found out he doctored the Epi Study stats. I used the same excuses again when I'd heard that an SRP sales rep who'd embarrassed him by leaking potentially harmful information had coincidentally died. I tried to find other reasons for the fraudulent billings and misuse of Eye Bank tissue. I blamed his associates and his secret business partner." Evan's shocked gasp pulled Lynn back from wherever she'd escaped. She reached out and took his hands as if to return the comfort he'd provided earlier.

_Looks like there might be feelings on her side, too._ "Then I was attacked," Jeanette continued. "And my secretary was supposedly murdered by one of Rutherford's residents who, in turn and quite conveniently, committed suicide. Yeah, I kept hoping that all this malignant synchronicity was just one of those universal screw-ups that happens from time-to-time. But then..." "There's more?" Evan's skin was translucent with his shock, his eyes dulled to pewter. A vein on his forehead pulsed until Jeanette thought it might burst through the thinly stretched skin. "He tried to kill you, didn't he?" Lynn said. In a sharp contrast to the man at her side, her voice and demeanor were calm, accepting. Wherever she had gone during the last few minutes, she hadn't totally lost her grip on reality. Maybe some sixth sense had given her a new way of perceiving the world around her. She'd followed everything Jeanette had said and leaped to the next logical step before her lawyer, a man who was trained to anticipate such things. "Yes." Jeanette closed her eyes to Evan's shock and fear. "But he blew it." "Who did he kill, Jeanette?" A hand touched hers. Her eyes flew open. Lynn had released Evan's hand and reached across the table, offering comfort. By reaching out to others, Jeanette knew the healing had begun for Lynn. Would it work in reverse? Jeanette covered the slim white hand with her own. "He killed my friend. He could very well kill another ... uh, friend, who has chosen to infiltrate one of Rutherford's organizations to try to get evidence of even greater crimes the bastard committed. Is still committing." "Then we'll just have to keep the _bastard_ occupied until your ... uh ... friend has gotten the evidence." Lynn smiled beatifically as she turned her hand palm up under Jeanette's, then squeezed the hand lying upon hers. "Lynn, no." Evan's voice sounded unnaturally high and breathless. "This area of law is not my specialty. Plus, the firm, not to mention my father, won't countenance a potential criminal case. Besides, you've suffered enough. I won't let you expose yourself..." Evan sputtered to a stop when Lynn using her free hand removed her glasses and unerringly focused her sightless, emerald-colored eyes on him. "I may not be able to see, really _see_, but I do _know_ that everything you've just said is just so much bullshit. I can not in good conscience allow

this unspeakable excrement of a human being to continue to breathe the same air as decent people." Lynn let go of Jeanette's hand and used both of hers to zero in and frame the dazed man's face. "Evan, for once in your life, be your own man. I picked you as my lawyer because you're smart. You think outside the box. And, when you wish to be, you are devious enough to give the bastard a damn good fight. So stop thinking about what dear old daddy and those lily-white ass-hole partners of yours are going to think and start planning on how to fight dirty. I want this slime ball dragged through the mud, do you hear me?" She patted his cheeks, then put her glasses back on. Evan's face burned bright red, but his eyes showed silver-gray once more. "Well, uh, okay then." He coughed, clearing the tension from his vocal cords. In his male Siren's voice, he turned to the business at hand. "Jeanette, let's see those damning statistics. Maggie, I'll need the charts of the patients who've been harmed by the Epi procedure. I'll have a private investigator the firm uses start digging up background on Rutherford. We'll need to schedule a second-opinion exam for Lynn with a credible..." Jeanette couldn't believe the difference in the man. The touch of a woman's hand and a gentle kick in the butt -- and the formerly staid and proper lawyer to the rich and famous acted like an eager first-year lawyer on his first big case. _Bootsie, you know what they say about women being the giddy-up in most men's gallops. I'd say she'll be the making of that one._ Yeah, but sometimes it works against you -- especially when it sends the man into danger. "You might want to check out the Desire area." Maggie's suggestion to Evan roused Jeanette from the slippery slope back into depression. She wouldn't worry, just walk the path of righteousness and hope for the best. They had a battle to fight -- and just as Scott meant to hold up his end, she would hold up hers. Sometimes you just had to trust in God, Allah, Karma or Fate to make it all work out. -------CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN _Federal Building, New Orleans, 2:00 p.m._ Andrew and Scott sat on one side of what seemed to be a mile-long conference table in a meeting room of the DEA's offices. On the other side sat

representatives of Justice, Customs, DEA, CIA and FBI. Both sides glared at one another. Scott had never been so pissed. The same country that had sent him armed to the teeth with all the resources of the United States at his command to win a war he wasn't even sure why they'd fought refused to protect citizens within its own borders. Well, he would protect his own. Tony was on board for the duration and Jeannie was going to the bayou with Little Bits if he had to hog-tie her to get her there. What really hashed his grits was they were all thrilled to have a man with his military training and medical knowledge, but they weren't willing to back him up with on-the-ground support -- other than the one agent they already had there, who was a volunteer like himself. And who had no military training and was a woman to boot. Now, he understood why the other doctor hadn't made it back. "Dr. Fontenot, you have to understand our predicament," the CIA representative said. The FBI man at the table picked up his counterpart's thought. "We can't operate within the borders of another sovereign nation." "That's bullshit. We've gone around and around on this. Let's cut to the chase. You want me to find the evidence of drug trafficking. Once it's found, you'll use all the drug treaties signed in the Western Hemisphere and anywhere else to involve yourself in the business of another sovereign nation, whether they like it or not. Oh, and you'll nail Rutherford and Lopez." Scott took a breath and unclenched his fists. "But you won't lift a finger to help me get that evidence for you. Never mind that innocent lives are at stake every damn day, both here in New Orleans and abroad in Brazil and anywhere else that One World operates." Andrew smiled at Scott. "I'd say you summarized the last two hours of bureaucratic BS quite nicely." He glared at the men across the table. "Since we've heard everything you gentlemen can't do, what can you do to help Dr. Fontenot and his contact at San Jacinto camp?" "We can provide a secure satellite phone. And once you have the information, we might be able to insert a team at a meeting place away from San Jacinto to get you out of there -- as long as it's not in the middle of the wet season," the DEA rep offered. "Well, that just thrills me to no end," Scott drawled. "Since I will most likely

be leaving in the middle of the wet." The suits started to talk all at once, but shut up when Scott slammed his fist on the table. "Let me tell you what," Scott whispered so they all had to strain to hear. "I'll get myself in and out of the Pantanal, after all it'll be a swamp in the wet and I know swamps. Y'all just give me that secure satellite phone and a promise of safety in Brasilia after I manage to get me and the other poor sucker who volunteered out. Okay?" The suits turned to one another. Whatever signal passed among them, Scott couldn't discern, but they all turned to him and nodded. Scott wondered if he'd ever see the phone, and made a note to ask Tony to set him up with one. **** _Medical Center Eye Clinic, 4:30 p.m._ "I'm going -- and that's that." Enough was enough, Jeanette thought. Since Charles's death, she'd followed the rules laid down by Scott and all the other alpha males in her life, but tonight she was going to have some downtime -- some freedom from the prison of protection in which they'd swaddled her. "Jeanette, be reasonable." Tony, her bodyguard _du jour_, sounded almost whiny with his pleading. "The New Orleans' Fair Grounds are just too wide open to protect you without a small platoon of men. And with the Jazz Fest crowds, well, I couldn't even promise maximum coverage." "Tony -- I'm going." Jeanette stood firm. "Charles's ensemble is playing tonight and dedicating their performance to him. I'm gonna be there, with or without you. So, what's it gonna be?" "Damn." Tony punched a number on his ever-present cell phone and waited. If glaring could kill, she'd be on the ground dead. He was that mad. Well, fine, she thought, but she couldn't go on living the way she had been. She missed her daughter -- nightly phone calls did not make up for her little darling's hugs and kisses, sweet-smelling hair and sticky little hands. She hadn't been able to take her nightly stroll to the coffee shop near her apartment for latte. Hell, she couldn't even go to the Med Center cafeteria to eat. Tony or one of the other men guarding her would take her order and bring it to her in the Clinic. Scott was pissed that she was going to work at all. If he had his way, she'd be hidden in an even more fortified prison -- one of bricks and mortar, instead of overly protective men and colleagues.

"He wants to talk to you." Tony held the cell phone out to her. A grim smile told her she didn't want to hear what Scott had to say. "Scott, I don't care what you say. I'm going." "Jeannie." He sounded disappointed. One word in that tone of voice which managed to convey his love and concern all at once and she felt like caving in to his desires. "Jeannie -- if it means that much to you -- go." She couldn't believe her ears. There had to be a but; there always was a but. "_But_ please wait for me to get to the Fair Grounds with Andrew and a few of the others -- okay?" Jeanette knew a compromise when she heard one -- and she could definitely live with it. It wasn't one hundred percent freedom, but it was better than staring at the four walls of her apartment. "Sure -- tell Tony where and when -- and we'll be there." Jeanette handed the phone back to the obviously crest-fallen guard. While Tony relayed logistics, Jeanette collected her purse. She was going out! **** "So, you did Alex, huh?" Matthews leaned against a pillar of the Medical Center's main underground parking garage. Flower's car was two rows away, within sight, but not so much so that she or her hired muscle would see them. Monnier wasn't sure what Matthews wanted to hear about Alex's death, so he skirted the issue. "Yeah," he said. "I heard you did Stu Thomas -- with a car. Nice work." "Thanks." Matthews threw him a hooded glance. "So, how did the new drug work? Did he linger -- or did it work fast?" "Why do you want to know?" Monnier would be very careful of what he ate and drank until he got on the plane heading for Australia tomorrow night. He wanted to live to enjoy all the money in his offshore accounts. "Just curious. The boss -- uh, Dr. Lopez -- wants to sell it to some clients, but he doesn't know what it does to humans -- just to rats." "Ahh, a scientific query then."

Like hell, Monnier thought. Like they think I'm not smart enough to realize I'm just as loose an end as Alex Randolph or Stu Thomas. "It worked fast. He sort of seized like a heart attack, could barely breathe or talk. Not much noise at all. Nice, quick and clean. Happy?" Matthews spit out his gum onto the garage floor. "Yeah, sure." His stone face didn't reflect happy thoughts. He looked as if he wanted to hear that Alex's death had been gory and gruesome. Tough. "You want some gum, Walter?" Matthews held out a pack of Big Red. "Why? So I can spit it out on the garage floor for someone to step in like you did?" Matthews sneered. "I'll take that as a no. Touchy bastard, aren't you?" Monnier ignored him. One of his biggest pet peeves was people who spit gum on sidewalks. Hell, he could easily kill Matthews for that one thing alone. Never mind the fact he suspected the man had orders to "do" him after they killed Flower. Well, Walter Monnier was not an easy man to kill -- and Eric Matthews, the gum-spitting son-of-a-bitch, would find that out -- later. "Heads up." Matthews straightened from his slouch and moved to hide behind the back of the panel truck they were driving. "Bitch and her guard dog just left the elevator." "Guy looks mad," Monnier observed. "Flower has a way of pissing guys off. Little Miss Priss." Matthews snickered. "Sounds to me like you've got the hots for her. Rutherford thought so -- said I should make sure you kill her, not fuck her. He wants this to look like an accident, not a mugging or attempted rape." Matthews headed for the driver's side. "So, how are we going to kill her?" Monnier asked as he got into the truck through the door on the side away from Flower's car. Matthews already had the vehicle started and in gear as Monnier shut the door. "We'll improvise," Matthews said as he followed the car out of the garage. "It's a dangerous world out there, buddy." Monnier shivered. Buddy? Yeah, sure. A friendly sounding Matthews was the most deadly kind. Monnier would make sure the danger didn't bite him in the butt and that any improvising didn't include him as the patsy. ****

"Promise me you'll stay close, Jeanette." Tony had her tucked close to his big body, protecting her from being pushed about by the large crowd standing around the bandstand. Charles's jazz ensemble was playing. Charles's sax was lying on an empty stool, surrounded by flowers, as a memorial to him. "How can I not stay close? You're holding me." Jeanette shouted in order to be heard above the noisy crowd and music, then she wiggled her body to prove her argument. Tony pulled her closer. She sighed. Well, at least when Scott got there, he would take over the close body-guarding. Ignoring the whispers and looks aimed at her and Tony, she lost herself in the music. The guys were playing "Baker Street, "one of Charles's favorites. Tears formed as the plaintive tenor sax played the introductory notes to the song. Charles shouldn't have died. It wasn't fair. _Hell, Bootsie, life just ain't fair some days. Ya just have to go on living the best you can._ A commotion roused Jeanette from her music-induced lethargy. "What's going on?" Tony whipped his head from right to left and back. "I'm not sure, but I thought I heard someone scream something about a gun." He swore succinctly under his breath. "In this crowd that's like yelling 'Fire' in a theater." Pulling her toward a small opening in the packed crowd, Tony yelled, "Come on. Let's move out of here." "But what about Scott?" Jeanette winced as someone jabbed an elbow into her waist. "He'll be looking for us here." "He'll go to Plan B." Tony urged her along, never letting go of the death-like grip he had on her arm. "Plan B?" Tony laughed. "Honey, there's always a Plan B. Now, come on. Save your breath in case we have to run." "You think someone planned this?" Jeanette struggled to keep up with the longer-legged man. "Yeah." Tony didn't even hesitate when the crowd miraculously opened up a path to the left, which led toward the front of the fair grounds. He just moved into the breach in the crowd, tugging her with him.

Jeanette was breathing heavy now. A stitch in her side and a cramp in her arch hindered her ability to stay with Tony's grueling pace. She had to stop before she fell. "Tony," she gasped. "Please ... uh, I have to catch ... my breath." She pulled on the arm holding her. Tony swung her off her feet and to the side, under the shelter of a live oak. "Sorry. I think we'll be okay here. It's defensible." Jeanette saw his point. In front of them were wide open vistas and behind the oak was a large wooden fence, marking one of the fair ground's outer boundaries. She leaned against the tree and concentrated on breathing while Tony kept his eyes on the plaza in front of them. Spying the VooDoo Exhibit across the way, she placed their exact position. Tugging on Tony's shirt, she said, "We're near the east gate. Scott will be coming in this way. We'll be able to see him arrive." Stopping mid-nod, Tony stiffened and said over his shoulder, "Hundred feet to the right. Two men by the lemonade stand. Do they look familiar to you?" Jeanette turned and sought the spot. She gasped. "Walter Monnier! He's the one on the left. Scott told you about him. He works for Rutherford. The other man I've never seen before." "Shit. I knew this was a bad idea." Tony got out his cell phone, punched a code and waited. "Shit. No time. They're coming!" "The VooDoo Exhibit. I've been in there before. We can lose them in there." Jeanette dashed around Tony and ran for the Exhibit's entrance. "Jeanette! Wait. Dammit." Tony's voice sounded angry -- and behind her. But Jeanette wasn't going to wait in wide open spaces and make it easy for Rutherford's henchmen. She was going to evade, hide and then escape. Tony caught up with her at the VooDoo entrance. He threw a bill at the ticket-taker, then grabbed her arm and pulled her into the large building. The interior was filled with booths and tented exhibits featuring tarot readers, charms and amulets, VooDoo dolls, fortune-telling, and any other alternative or fringe life-style or belief a person could think of. It had always been Jeanette's favorite part of the Jazz Fest. She just hoped it wouldn't be the last time she ever visited it. The woman collecting the ticket money yelled after them. "Hey Buddy -- don't you want your change?"

Tony waved the woman off as he kept pulling Jeanette further away from the entrance. They were fifty feet inside when they heard the woman's voice again, this time yelling, "Stop those men. They didn't pay." "Where should we go?" Tony whispered as he pulled her along in a running slouch. "The fortune teller's booth." Jeanette tugged to the left. "This way." They moved swiftly, without looking back. As they approached the front of the gaudily decorated tent, Jeanette changed directions and pulled Tony into a shop offering VooDoo charms for sale. "Why...?" "Shhh. The Fortune Teller's booth was the obvious goal on that path, but this place has a back way out." Tony grinned and gave her a thumb's up. Jeanette chanced a glance out the curtained front door of the little shop. Monnier and his ugly friend headed straight for the Fortune Teller's Booth. There, they stopped and questioned the girl at the entrance. When she shook her head, the two angry-looking men glanced around them. She knew the instant they decided on the VooDoo charm shop. "Come on, time to move," Jeanette whispered to Tony, shoving him toward the back of the shop. Along the way she picked up a couple of packages of some powders. Then she said, "Give the gal some money, darling, and come on. We don't want my ex to catch up with us." Tony smiled at her quick thinking and threw another twenty at the dark-skinned girl who asked no questions. Her Caribbean-accented voice called after them, "Have a nice day -- those mens will no follow you." Jeanette heard the snick of the lock and the sound of something large being shoved against the door after they left. She smiled. After they left the shop, they edged their way around the small building back toward the back of the next booth, a candle shop. "Let's just skirt along the back of the booths until we get back to the front entrance," Tony said as he placed his body between her and whatever might follow them. "Scott should be here by now. He'll be looking for us outside, near the front of this exhibit." Scott and safety. It felt right. She'd never bemoan her cushioned prison again

-- if they got out of this, that is. Behind them, an altercation erupted. The sales clerk in the charm shop screamed at the top of her lungs, "Stop thieves! Police!" Her cry was soon taken up by the other booth holders. Jeanette laughed. They just might make it. The main entrance to the VooDoo exhibit building was only thirty feet away when Walter Monnier stepped out from the side of a building and blocked their path. His lurid grin made Jeanette want to vomit. Behind her, an almost inhuman growl became a gasp of pain. Turning she saw Tony fall. Her escape had been cut off, and she couldn't leave Tony. Monnier's evil sidekick had hit Tony over the head with a large box. He now stalked her. Jeanette placed her back against a booth in an attempt to keep both men within her field of vision. "Flower. Give up, sweetness." Closing in slowly, Monnier spoke in low tones, his words dripping with slime. "Don't make a scene -- or we may have to shoot the so-very-brave man lying on the ground." "Y'all are gonna kill him -- and me anyway. We've both seen you. And Rutherford wants this to look like another accident. So I'm not budging, and I'm not making it easy." Jeanette hugged the booth wall with her back, wishing she could meld into it and escape out the other side. Since that was a physical impossibility, she settled for glaring at Monnier. Her heart raced at a hundred miles an hour and she was afraid she wouldn't be able to catch her next breath, but she managed a small chuckle at the look of consternation which settled on her adversary's face. "Ya think you're smart, don't ya?" Monnier sneered. "Uh huh." _Come on, Scott. Come in and find us. We need you._ "Do something, Monnier!" The ugly sidekick turned and kicked Tony's unconscious body. "That black bitch from the booth will have everyone in the place looking for us. We can't stay here -- and we can't leave them alive to talk." Jeanette was puzzled. Monnier had grimaced at the snarled order from his

ersatz partner. Was there trouble brewing in hell? "Yeah, Walter." She decided to stir the pot. "What ya gonna do? Can you really kill me? After all, I've done nothing to you. Are you gonna murder me in cold blood? That's the death penalty in this state. And they will get you. There are too many witnesses now. The clerks in this exhibit have all seen you." Jeanette swept both men with a knowing glance. "Both of you." In the main part of the exhibit, the noise of frightened people was now overlaid with a police presence. "Find them." "Spread out." "Look in and around every booth." "Clear these people out of here -- and check them." At the sound of law enforcement, Monnier's sidekick spat a vulgarity, then pulled his gun. He pointed it down at Tony. Jeanette screamed, "No!" She looked for a weapon, anything, to throw off the man's arm. Then she remembered. She pulled one of the bags of powder she'd bought from her pocket and threw it at the man's face. He instinctively raised his arms to ward off the object. As he coughed from the irritating potion dust, she flung herself at the man, pushing his arm up as he fired the gun blindly in her direction. "Flower, no!" Monnier's voice sounded afraid -- for her. "He'll kill you." A hand shoved her out of the way. The bullet whizzed by her face so closely she could smell the heat. Behind her she heard a gasp of pain, but she was too busy struggling with the gunman to see whom he'd shot. She screamed once more, hoping help would soon come. She didn't know how long she could hold him off. The man was strong -- and trained. All she had going for her was that she was pissed and fighting for her and Tony's lives. And, for a few short moments, sheer guts and strength of will had taken the upper hand. But within mere seconds, the struggle turned in the gunman's favor. He back-handed her across the face with the butt of the gun, knocking her to the

ground next to Tony. "Good-bye, bitch." Jeanette closed her eyes, too exhausted and stunned to move. She said a prayer, then wept for her daughter, for Scott, for... A roar erupted over her head. "You fucking, back-stabbing bastard!" Walter shouted. Jeanette opened her eyes to see him throw himself between her and the gunman. She heard a loud discharge -- then there was darkness. -------CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT At the sound of screams coming from the direction of the VooDoo Exhibit, Scott left the men who'd accompanied him and tore off toward the building. At the entrance, pandemonium reigned. He shoved and twisted his way through the mass of frightened and crazed people who tried to exit the building. A frazzled police officer attempted to stem the exodus. At Scott's upstream intrusion, the man threw him a questioning glance, but waved him on when he saw the hospital garb. Once inside, the scene wasn't any better. Anarchy reigned. Police and private security guards milled around the center of the main aisle. They shouted contradictory orders, while booth owners yelled at the law officers to do something. Scott grimaced -- the heck with them. He barreled his way up the main path, listening for anything that would indicate to him where Jeannie and Tony might be. As he approached the middle of the building, the sound of a single screamed "no" was heard above the racket in the exhibit. The cry was immediately followed by the sound of a gun. The single shot tore through his soul. Shoving horrible images aside, he strained to hear above the clamor in the building. He sensed the sound had come from behind and on his right. Going with his gut feelings, he cut between two tented exhibits, then turned to run toward the front of the building when a second scream occurred. Enraged, Scott raced toward the sounds of a fight.

Then he was upon them. Tony on the ground -- unmoving. His Jeannie struggled with a man who had a gun. The man knocked Jeannie to the ground and pointed the gun at her. He was going to kill her! And Scott wasn't close enough to stop him. He dug down for more speed, but he wouldn't make it. Even love can't outrun a bullet. With a loud roar, another man leapt between Jeannie and the gunman. It was Walter Monnier! The gun fired once more. Monnier fell, covering Jeannie's body with his. The killer looked around. He hadn't noticed Scott -- yet. And Scott couldn't wait for the law to figure out what was going on. The keystone cops and private muscle were still trying to decide what had caused the commotion. Jeannie's screams and the gun shots had been lost in the hubbub. He was the only person between the gunman and escape. Hugging the backs of the exhibits, Scott moved on the unsuspecting man who now leaned over Monnier -- and Jeannie. Scott had to take him before the man decided to shoot again -- a high-powered bullet could pass through Monnier's body and hit Jeannie. If she was even alive. She had to be alive. Scott ran lightly, then leapt at the killer. He kept his hit low, his goal to push the man and the gun up and away from the two helpless people on the ground. Scott didn't see the box until he hit it with his foot. The noise drew the gunman's attention a millisecond before Scott tackled. The killer's face was a mixed bag of hate, anger and shock. Even with the warning, Scott's timing was better than good. He thrust the man's arm up before the weapon went off. Scott's body followed through and knocked the man away from the those on the ground. Scott now had the upper hand both in size and ability. The gunman fought to escape, not win. His desire to survive to kill another day lent strength to his wiry frame. The ensuing fight had no rules. Scott wouldn't have it any other way. Peripheral movement from the aisle between the exhibits distracted Scott. A flash of blue, the dull shine of a revolver aimed in their direction caught his eye, then a voice yelled, "Hold it! Put your hands up and move away from each other!" The police officer's untimely intervention disrupted Scott's rabid concentration, distracting him long enough to give the gunman a chance to slip out of Scott's strong grip. The murdering bastard bolted behind a small storage shed and out through a fire door at the side of the building.

_Dammit all to hell!_ Spinning round, he looked at the cop who'd turned the tide of the battle. "Get him, you fool!" Scott shouted. "He killed a man. He's unarmed." The cop's blank face lit with understanding. He yelled for back up to cover the outside as he pursued the gunman through the door. With the forces of the law now after the culprit, Scott turned his attention to the injured. Monnier was dead. The holes in his chest and forehead told him that. He rushed to check on Jeannie, who'd uttered no sound since the single scream. She lay motionless under Monnier's body. Fumbling for her pulse, he found it. It was strong. Tears of relief streamed down his face as he shifted Monnier's dead-weight off her body and proceeded to check for other injuries. Lifting her head with one hand, he probed for lumps with the other. He found one -- about the size of a golf ball. His hand came away with a small amount of blood. Because she hadn't regained consciousness, he had to assume she had, at the very least, a concussion. Only x-rays would tell him if she'd fractured her skull. Spying a bag of styrofoam peanuts, he used them to cushion her head. Gently he probed her face. A vicious bruise on her jaw told him the bastard had struck her with his gun. It, too, would need to be x-rayed. A quick examination of the rest of her body showed no other wounds. All the blood was Monnier's, not hers. _Thank you, God._ Satisfied she was in no immediate distress, he pulled a loose piece of tarp from a pile a boxes and covered her to keep her warm. Shock was still a potential problem. He'd done all he could for her until emergency personnel reached them. Before he turned to Tony, he brushed a kiss on her pale lips and stroked the hair off her brow. Movement from behind startled him into a defensive posture over Jeannie. Had the killer circled around to finish what he'd started? "Sir. Step aside please." Scott looked up. Fire department emergency technicians stood behind him. Scott's muscles relaxed. He shifted to the side, allowing them access but

maintaining contact with Jeannie by placing a hand on her shoulder. While the EMT took vitals, he updated the tech on his preliminary examination. The tech nodded. "We'll collar her to be on the safe side. If she hit the floor hard enough to raise a contusion that size, she might have some trauma to her neck." The tech called over his shoulder, "Joe, how's the other guy?" Scott was ashamed to admit he'd forgotten all about Tony with the arrival of the emergency personnel. Turning his head, he watched as the other EMT examined his friend. "Steady. Looks to have some contusions, possible concussion -- need to check him out for a fracture. Guy seems to be able to answer all my questions, but the knot on his head is big and bled out big time." The tech caring for Jeannie nodded. "Okay. We're gonna transport two to Charity. Call it in, would you? I need to get this IV started." Scott assisted with Jeannie's IV, freeing up the tech to assist the man working on Tony. After Jeannie had been shifted to a rolling gurney, he gently brushed the back of his hand against her pale cheek. Then he went over to check on Tony. The other EMT and one of the security guards had shifted Tony onto a gurney. He was alert, but his dark skin was tinged with an unhealthy grey. "How's Jeanette?" Tony winced as the gurney hit a bump, jostling him. "Damn, I ache all over." "She's fine." Scott heaved a sigh and forced back the sob which threatened to escape. "If it hadn't been for you, she might have been killed." Tony started to shake his head, but stopped with a groan. "I didn't do all that much. If it hadn't been for the other guy, that Monnier fellow, we'd both be dead. He took one in the chest, then he threw himself between Jeannie and the gunman. I couldn't do nothin', just lay there. Damn, I was useless." Tony reached up and grabbed Scott's arm where it rested on the gurney. "Did he make it?" "No." Out of habit, Scott took his friend's pulse and found it to be normal. A cursory examination of Tony's pupils showed them to be equal and responsive to the penlight he'd borrowed from the EMT. If Tony had a concussion, it was a mild one. Thank God his friend's head was hard. He'd be okay.

"I'll ride with you to the hospital. Smooth the way for both of you." Scott turned to see the EMT and a police officer carrying Jeannie to the ambulance. "We'll regroup later." "Scott." Tony reached out and grabbed Scott's arm. "Did they get the shooter?" The police officer walking alongside of Jeannie's gurney heard the question. "No. The bastard got away. We've got his gun. Prints all over it. If he has a record, we'll find him." Scott wasn't about to hold his breath on that point. If the guy was a pro, he would be half way out of the United States before the local cops found a match on the prints. The gun was probably cold. No, Scott thought, they hadn't seen the last of that guy. He had to kill the people who could identify him, or he'd never be able to move freely in this part of the United States again. "You know what we have to do, don't you?" Tony asked. Scott looked down at his buddy and smiled grimly. "We go to ground. You and Jeannie to the back waters of the bayou and me to Brazil. We've got to get him -- or them -- before we're all dead." -------CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE "I need to lie low for awhile." Matthews' feral eyes swept the room for potential danger. He sat in a booth in a dark corner of a bar on Bourbon Street. Across from him, Rutherford puffed angrily on his cigar. He couldn't believe how badly Matthews had botched a simple assignment. How hard could it be to kill one small woman and a stupid idiot like Monnier? In his day that would've been an initiation rite for the gang in his old neighborhood. He shook his head in disgust and drank his scotch in one gulp. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you myself, you fuck-up." Rutherford whispered the words, and smiled when the hired gun blanched, his face whiter than a freshly bleached sheet. At least the man was smart enough to be afraid. Matthews drank his own form of liquid courage, coughed, then said, "Lopez needs me -- you need me -- to keep the smugglers in line." "Ah, Eric, so foolish to think we couldn't replace you. There are always others waiting to take your place. Try again."

Rutherford stared at the man through slitted lids. He could see Matthews was having a hard time refuting his logic. As with all predators, Matthews knew there was always another rapacious male waiting in the wings, ready to take over another's turf. "Dr. Rutherford -- it won't happen again. I'll go back to Brazil. Lie low. How could they find me? And even if they did, Brazil wouldn't extradite me. The police down there are even more corrupt than the New Orleans cops." Matthews was grasping at straws, and he knew it. Rutherford laughed silently at the man's obvious struggle to find the right excuses. But he wasn't off the hook, not by a long shot. Sorry to say, Eric would have a little accident on his way back to Brazil. Manuel would just have to understand. Rutherford smiled. "Sure, go to Brazil, Eric. Report to Manuel. Tell him all, mind you, or I'll have to do it myself. It would be better coming from you, don't you think?" Matthews nodded his head wildly, sweat streaming down his face in the air-conditioned coolness of the bar. "Yes. Yes. I'll do that. Thank you, doctor. I'll leave tonight." After taking another gulp of his drink, he asked, "What about Monnier's body? Won't the police question you?' "Why how nice of you to think of the predicament you've left me with, Eric." Rutherford's low reply was tinged with more than a hint of a sneer. "I have it covered -- don't worry about it. Lucky for you I have friends in high as well as low places." He took a pull on his cigar and blew the smoke at Matthews, who coughed and turned an interesting shade of green. "Uh, yeah -- lucky for me." Matthews finished his drink in one gulp and signaled for another one, holding up two fingers to indicate a double. "I'll be gone within the hour." "Wise move." Rutherford smiled -- and he knew it didn't reach his eyes. -------CHAPTER THIRTY _Two days later._ The sky over Lake Pontchartrain was dark and threatening. A summer storm had threatened to dump on the people in the small power boat ever since it had left the docks at New Orleans and headed toward Pass Manchac. In the distance, Jeanette spotted the stark white tower of an abandoned

lighthouse rising from the storm-darkened waters and outlined by the blue-black sky. The building once stood on dry land, but was now completely surrounded by water. It marked the opening of the Pass. Once through the Pass, the boat would enter Lake Maurepas. After that, they would be that much closer to Manchac, a small town on the edge of the swamp after which it was named. It was where Scott and Paul had grown up and where Scott's mother still lived. Her mood as somber as the storm clouds shrouding the sky, Jeanette sat in the middle of the boat. As if she were two separate people, one part of her observed Tony and Scott entertain Brigitte, the other brooded over the tangled mess their lives had become. She should be happy to be reunited with her daughter, the child's protective stay at the Retreat House shortened by the new threat to herself and Scott's decree that she and Little Bits hide in the bayou backwaters with his mother. She _was_ happy to be reunited with her daughter. But deep inside, she couldn't avoid the horrifying truth: a man as ruthless as Rutherford would find them sooner or later. And then, not only was she and her daughter in danger, but also the other innocent people who'd vowed to protect them. It was a Catch-22. She was damned no matter what she did, where she went, and whom she involved. The only way to end the danger was to cut off the head of the beast. The fact that Scott intended to take the beast head on -- risking his life in the process -- chilled her to the marrow of her bones and only added to the guilt that threatened to bury her. What had she done? Why was karma biting her in the butt, time and time again? First, Paul's death. Then, Charles's. And now, the danger to her loved ones still among the living. "Momma." Brigitte's happy and excited little voice broke through her funky state. "Look at the bird!" Jeanette shifted her vision to where her daughter's finger pointed. An involuntary gasp of sheer delight escaped her. Near the opening of the Pass, a single ray of light had broken through the angry ceiling of clouds, creating a pathway of light, bisected by a rainbow midway to the surface of the lake. And flying along the ray from the dark sky through the rainbow toward the pewter-colored water was a giant egret. The cold spot in her soul thawed. It was as if God had sent her a message. Hope could dawn during even the darkest hour. Just as on this dark and miserable day, there were rainbows and

beauty. "The Manchac Swamp welcomes us home." Scott's calm gaze centered on Jeanette. "Little Bits and you belong to Paul -- and to me. He and I belonged to the swamp. It was in Paul's blood just as it is in mine. The swamp will protect its own, Jeannie. Believe it." She couldn't speak, she just nodded. For the first time in weeks she felt like smiling -- and she did through the rainbow of her tears. **** Scott threw a rope to a teenager at the Manchac docks. As he went through the mechanical tasks of securing the boat, he scanned the crowd for his mother, Clothilde Fontenot, known as Mama Chloe to everyone in the Manchac area. She'd promised to close her gift shop where she sold local, handmade items in order to meet them. He wanted Jeannie and Little Bits to be made welcome from the instant they set foot on his home soil. "Scott, _cher_." There she was. Scott grinned and waved. "Hi ya, Mama." The older woman called out, "_Comment ca va?_" "_Ca va bien_." Scott returned the traditional greeting of the bayou. "Who's that, Uncle Scott?" Little Bits shyly clung to his arm and peeked around him at his mother, who ran to the dock to greet them. Her long skirt tangled in her legs; gray-brown hair escaped from the braids wrapped upon her head like a crown. "She looks happy to see us." Scott pulled Little Bits round in front and held her as they faced his on-rushing mother. "That's because she's my mama, and she is happy to see us. She knew your daddy when he was little. Practically raised the two of us, since he liked to come to our house all the time." His mother overheard his last words. "That's 'cause little Paul liked Mama Chloe's cooking, _cher_." Not waiting for them to disembark, she stepped into the boat and wrapped her arms around Scott and Little Bits and hugged them until the little girl squealed with laughter. "We're gonna have us a big party tonight with some of that good cooking to welcome y'all. I made my boy's favorite -- andouille gumbo." Scott smacked his lips loudly while he rubbed his stomach. Little Bits giggled. "Mama," Scott said. "I want you to meet Brigitte LaFleur and her mother, Jeanette."

Scott turned and found Jeanette standing next to Tony in the middle of the boat. Jeannie laughed along with Little Bits. Scott's heart ached to see her smile and he fell in love all over again. He was going to do everything within his power to rid her of the danger so he could see her smile every day for the rest of his life. "Nice to meet you, Mama Chloe." Jeanette came forward and got a hug. "Paul told me all sorts of stories about his childhood. And your cooking, especially the andouille gumbo, was a prominent feature in every one of them." "Well, that boy sure could eat." She laughed. "I swore Paul had a tapeworm he ate so much." She turned to her son. "You gonna introduce that good lookin' man over there, or am I supposed to guess who he is?" Scott smiled. "Mama meet Tony Fortier. He served with Paul and me in the marines. He's going to stay with you -- for extra protection until I get back." She frowned at him, then pasted a smile back on her face and turned to Tony. "Good. I like having big, strong men around to eat my cooking." "How about little girls, Mama Chloe? Do you like them to eat your cooking, too?" Little Bits pulled on Scott's mother's long skirt, an eager smile on her face. She pulled the little girl into her arms for a tickle and a hug and stared over the girl's dark curls at Scott. "I like little girls most of all, _cher_. We're gonna all get along just fine..." Mentally, Scott filled in her unspoken words ... "_until that son of mine gets home to stay where he belongs."_ -------PART TWO The conquest of the earth, which mostly means taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it. -Heart of Darkness, ch. 1, Joseph Conrad (1857-1924) --------

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE _October 1st, San Jacinto fazenda in Brazil, One World Base Camp._ Scott's trip to the San Jacinto _fazenda,_ the ranch which Dr. Lopez had bought to house One World staff and anchor his base camp, was an eye-opening education. After a commercial flight from New Orleans to Miami, then another to San Paulo, he took a smaller plane to Cuiaba, where he transferred to an even smaller plane owned by One World. Scott soon became aware that a plane was the most efficient -- and safest -way into the southern region of the Pantanal where the San Jacinto _fazenda_ was located. The only other possible route out of San Paulo -- a slow boat to Porto Jofre, then a bus ride down the Trans-Panataneira highway to Cuiaba, then another even slower boat trip to San Jacinto -- meant weeks of travel, exacerbated by the inherent dangers of the jungle, swamp and mountainous regions the route traversed. San Jacinto gave a new meaning to being located in the back of the beyond. Scott concluded that he and his contact had better maintain their covers, because he didn't see One World offering to fly them safely out to spread the word of its crimes. If the worst happened, he'd improvise. He'd plotted a route to Brasilia by water and it was slightly more treacherous than the one from San Paulo to San Jacinto. With luck, they wouldn't have to use it. As he had since the day he'd arrived, Scott set out after lunch for his daily walk around the border of the base camp. He nodded to the armed guards, most of them imported thugs from Central America's endless supply of mercenaries. Ostensibly they were there to protect the One World staff from hostile natives and eco-terrorists. From the briefing Scott had received from the CIA, there were no hostile natives in this particular region of the Pantanal and the eco-terrorists hadn't discovered the unspoilt area yet. They worked farther north in the Amazon. But the guards didn't know he knew that. "_Hola_, Dr. Fontenot." The comely young woman who'd hailed him rose from the bench in the shade of the hangar building and strolled toward him. Her hips gently swayed under her gauzy skirt. The hanger guards laughed and poked one another. Scott presumed the joke was at his expense. The word had gotten around the camp that the crazy Norte Americano was stupid to walk in the hottest, most humid part of the day. Or, maybe they were sharing the most current piece of gossip. That he and Rosalie, his DEA contact, were once again meeting to

fuck each others brains out during siesta. Scott didn't care which rumor they laughed over, just as long as they believed he and the woman approaching him were harmless. _"Hola,"_ he replied as he hurried to meet her. As he approached Rosalie, he observed the way the guards handled the Russian-made automatic rifles. For all their rough edges, the men handled the guns with ease. Their patterns of patrol and hand-offs had convinced Scott that Lopez had bought himself a highly trained, mercenary army. The thought didn't do much to ease the tightness in Scott's throat and the itchy feeling on the back of his neck, feelings he'd had from the day he arrived and realized how isolated he and Rosalie were. No wonder the other DEA plant hadn't survived. Yeah, better the guards thought him stupid or randy. Rosalie and he had agreed to this daily walk as a way of exchanging information. The fact that the guards and half the camp were now used to them meeting would help if the couple had to leave suddenly. They'd be just another couple running off to have hot sex on a little river voyage up to Porto Jofre. Or, at least that's what they hoped the camp would think. If not, they'd be running for their lives. He was glad Jeannie didn't know about his comely DEA contact, or he would lose the ground he'd gained with her. He hoped his love had realized that thoughts of finding the evidence to protect her were the only thing that kept him in this hell hole. Besides being isolated in the middle of proverbial nowhere, San Jacinto sat in the middle of an alluvial plane on one of the rivers which regularly escaped its banks during the wet season and made the area into a full-fledged swamp -bigger and more dangerous than Manchac or even some of the other swamps Uncle Sam had dropped him into during his stint in the Marines. Beyond the swampy land were vast areas of grass lands, forests, and mountains. The Pantanal was one of the last, basically undiscovered and protected eco-regions of the world. Mostly, because no one could get there to ruin it. It still amazed him that Lopez had been able to build an air strip capable of handling the One World hospital plane. It was this plane in which Scott and the other medical personnel flew to reach other medical _fazendas_, even further into the swamps and plateaus of the outer reaches of the Pantanal. There, they treated locals who had only recently come into contact with the white man.

Scott grimaced. He wasn't sure that the indigenous population was better off. Only two days ago he'd gone out on his first mission of mercy to one of the more far-flung camps. The fury at what he'd observed still lingered. _"Jesus Christ."_ _Scott had been shocked. He'd turned and glared at Rosalie who from his first day at One World had attached herself as his nurse assistant and translator to ease their investigation. "Who'd they turn loose on these poor people? The Marquis de Sade masquerading as a surgeon?"_ _"Shhh." Rosalie had looked around quickly to see who might have overheard his outburst. "Some understand English. Don't risk our cover over something you will be seeing quite a lot of."_ _Scott lowered his voice. "You mean we're going to see more of this -- this butchery?"_ _He waved his hand at the line of people outside the fazenda. The small group of people looked like extras in a Stephen King horror movie. The first man in line had only one eye, as did the second and third behind him. The good eyes they had left glared at him. They muttered words at him which Rosalie had later told him meant "devil doctor."_ _The patient he'd just treated and released for an infection in a surgical incision had been someone's kidney donor. He recalled the child's heart back in New Orleans, and shuddered to think of where the body of that unwitting donor might be buried._ _Rosalie touched his arm and moved closer, using the chart he had in his hands as a cover for the conversation._ _"There's more than maiming and killing going on, doctor," she whispered. "Lopez and his partners are also raising marijuana and poppies. The drug trade is just as deadly -- and that is what Julio -- Dr. Calabria -- died for. I want these bastards caught and convicted -- so we're not anywhere near through with our mission here. Don't you forget what you signed on for."_ While Rosalie flirted with the leering guards, another little daily routine to throw the killers off the scent, Scott cursed at his feelings of helplessness. He wanted to kill the One World butchers for what they were doing to these innocent, trusting people. They had no right to call themselves doctors. But he kept his feelings to himself. As Rosalie had so succinctly reminded him, he'd signed on for the long haul, and they didn't have enough evidence to convict anyone of anything -- yet. The irony of it was that the bastards would probably spend more time in jail for the illegal farming of drug crops and smuggling of the by-products, than

for the mutilating and maiming of native populations. So far neither Scott nor Rosalie had found any concrete evidence which would hold up in court to tie One World to murder for harvesting organs. Rosalie said Dr. Calabria had begun to gather that kind of evidence, but he died before he could complete his mission. Again, Scott wondered just how she knew that. No one in the DEA briefing had mentioned any details. Maybe he would ask Rosalie about it today. He suspected there was more to his cohort than met the eye. "Scott, good afternoon." Rosalie waved one last time to the hanger guards. "Did you have a good lunch?" "Yes, and you?" Scott nodded to some mechanics. Like the guards, they hung around the hanger doors and grinned at the sight of Rosalie and him "accidentally" meeting for the eighth time in eight days. The rumor mill would have a hey-day. Rosalie's next words mirrored his thoughts. "You think they take bets on how many times we make love?" Scott glared at the leering faces of the men congregated in front of the hanger. To a man, they ignored him as they stripped Rosalie naked with their eyes. His nostrils flared. He could almost smell the testosterone coming from the men lusting after the woman at his side. Almost hear their thoughts that he should share her, one of the few white women in the area, with them. Like hell. "Probably. I've been thinking -- maybe you should move into my room." At her gasp of shock, Scott rushed to add, "Of course, I'd sleep in the hammock. You could have the bed. I have a girl friend." "Sorry. You're right. It would make sense, especially if we had to get away quickly, but..." "But what?" "I haven't even thought of being so close to another man since my lover died." Rosalie blinked away a tear, then sniffed. Rosalie followed his eyes to where the men stood. She shivered. She knew. "Yes, let's feed the rumor mill some more. I'll move into your room tomorrow during siesta," said Rosalie. "It will make our job easier. Maybe then we can eliminate these daily walks. Neither of us can afford to sweat off anymore water weight." They moved away from the hanger at a brisker pace than the weather called

for. Scott broached the topic of the dead Dr. Calabria. He could add two and two, but wanted to see if Rosalie would admit the answer was four. "Julio. Dr. Calabria." Rosalie stiffened at the sound of the dead doctor's name. "He was your lover." It wasn't a question, but Rosalie answered anyway. "_Si_. We lived together in Miami. We were to be married after he finished his residency." "So the reason you know what evidence he'd found on the murders of the organ donors was because...?" "Because he sent me e-mails written in a code we'd arranged for our love notes." Rosalie slowed her pace, then stopped, forcing Scott to stop. She looked up at him. "Both Customs and DEA have the transcripts of his e-mails, but without Julio's first-hand testimony and the doctors' notes, files, and yes, even specific written requests he'd copied for certain organs right down to the blood-type, they had no case. And then there was the drug operations he'd stumbled across. We suspect that is what really got him killed. One World was afraid they would lose all that lovely drug money." Rosalie spat in disgust. "I could kill them all." "And we're going to try to reconstruct all that evidence?" Rosalie nodded. "We have to. What else can we do?" "Well, do you have any idea how we are going to do that? I mean, the mutilated natives are easy to document. We can take pictures. I'm already making duplicate copies of my notes on the cases we've treated." "Where are you hiding the papers?" Rosalie urged him to start walking once more. One of the patrolling guards had stopped to stare at them. They couldn't take the chance that someone might overhear and understand their conversation. "I'm not." Scott grinned. "I'm transcribing them onto my laptop at night and saving to a diskette only. The disks are easier to hide." Rosalie matched his long-legged pace for about fifty yards before she spoke. "That will do for confirmation, but it isn't evidence. We need to have copies

of the original charts with the doctors' signatures. Julio told me the surgeons had documented the harvesting procedures. Those records are somewhere in camp. Plus, we need copies of the organ orders." "I agree. But we only need a representative sample of those kinds of original written documents. My transcriptions will just add to the enormity of the crimes and be corroborating. Besides I'm an expert and the medical records are exempt from hearsay. I can testify using the transcripts as a refresher to my memory. It'll be legal and conclusive." Rosalie cast him a curious glance. "Are you a lawyer, also?" "No. Another person killed by one of Lopez's partners advised me what needed to be found. He told me how I could get around the hearsay rules." "He was a friend, this lawyer?" "Yes -- he was a friend. Charles ... Charles died in place of the woman I love. So I, too, have a taste for revenge." Scott took Rosalie's hand and squeezed it. "We'll get them. Don't worry." Rosalie returned the gentle squeeze and dropped his hand. "Why don't I move into your room tonight after dinner? I can help transcribe the notes. And we can plan on what else we need to look for." "Good idea. Your typing is probably better than mine anyway." "That sounds sexist, doctor." Rosalie smiled and winked at him. Scott's answering shout of laughter startled a macaw into flight from his perch high in the forest canopy. The brilliant beauty of the bird streaked skyward like a moving rainbow. Scott recalled the memory of another rainbow and a bird welcoming Jeannie to safety in a swamp in Louisiana. He took the macaw's flight as an auspicious note for his mission in Brazil. -------CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO _October 8th, Manchac, Louisiana_ "Why doesn't he call?" Jeanette paced Mama Chloe's small kitchen as she kept one eye on the phone and the other on her daughter playing in the tree house that Tony and Mama Chloe's male friend, Frenchy, had built. "Sit down, child, before you wear a hole in my floor." Mamma Chloe picked

up the bread dough she was kneading, then vigorously slapped it down on the marble top counter. "Scott will call when he is able. Remember, he told us there were too many ears in the camp. He doesn't want to chance using the satellite phone Tony got him too often." "I know." Jeanette stopped her nervous pacing, then picked up a dish towel and started drying the dishes sitting in the drainer. "But he needs to know that the killer from the VooDoo Exhibit was found dead." The New Orleans detectives had wanted her to identify the morgue photos of a man called Eric Matthews. Tony had refused to take her into New Orleans and forced the NOPD to choose what he termed "safe territory" for a meeting. Jeanette would never forget the ordeal of traveling to the Slidell police station to meet the New Orleans detectives. The trip back to Manchac had been a blur. She could still recall the photos depicting the dead man. He hadn't died easy. She wanted, no needed to talk to Scott about it. Once she had, the images would fade. She'd gotten so used to taking her worries and problems to Scott over the years since Paul's death. Now that Scott was gone and unreachable, she felt lost. Mama Chloe asked, "You like that boy of mine, _cher_?" Was Scott's mother a mind-reader? The older woman concentrated on the dough she was attacking with solid punches and not on Jeanette. But she had a feeling that Scott's mother was waiting intently for her answer. "Uh..." _Answer the woman, Bootsie! You know what the woman wants to hear. Do you_ love _her boy?_ "...I like Scott very much." _Coward. Don't lie to the woman. Why can't you admit what you really feel?_ Because then I would lose Paul. _You already lost Paul, girl, in case you hadn't noticed._ Shut up. Turning to Scott's mother, she tried to explain her hesitancy. "When I started to see Paul, it was always the three of us -- Paul, Scott and me. When Paul asked me to marry him, I asked him if Scott came with the package? Paul laughed and told me that Scott was 'our' friend and that if

anything ever happened, Scott would be there to help me. And he has." She sniffed. Mama Chloe handed her a tissue. "When all this started, I never even thought twice about accepting Scott's help. It was a given that he would. But believe me, I never wanted him to risk his life for me. I couldn't live with myself if he died. That's going way beyond what Paul expected of him." "No, child." Mama Chloe placed the bread in the oven, then walked over to stand in front of Jeanette. "That is exactly what Paul would have expected Scott to do. It's what he would have done if the situation had been reversed." Jeanette shook her head and started to speak, but was stopped by Mama's finger against her lips. "Hush, now. Listen. There's something you should know. Something Paul told me a long time ago." The older woman led her to the wooden porch swing on the veranda off the kitchen. "I didn't approach you at the funeral, 'cause I didn't trust myself not to say something right then and there. It wasn't the right time with you being a new widow and grievin' and all. I figured my boy would help you through your grief, then proceed with his wooing a lot faster than he did. But he didn't. And now he's gone off and left the whole situation in the air." With a heavy sigh, Mama set the swing in motion. "It probably isn't my place to tell you this, but I'm a nosey old woman and I'm gonna do it anyway." "No, please..." Jeanette didn't know what to say, wasn't sure she wanted to hear what caused the normally cheerful woman to look and sound so serious. "You know, I was like a momma to Paul after his own sweet mother died. His daddy had to work, so Paul practically lived at our house. It didn't surprise me none that he called me after you accepted his proposal." Mama reached out and took one of Jeanette's limp hands in hers. "_Cher_, he was over the moon with happiness. You'd picked him over Scott, the man he loved like a brother. He'd always thought if Scott had popped the question first, you would've chosen my boy over him -- 'cause Paul realized what you don't: you loved them both equally. I think you still do, and I'm sure that has caused you even more grief. What you have to decide is have you grieved your first love enough to go on to your second?" Jeanette tried to speak but couldn't around the tears clogging her throat. And even if she could speak, she wasn't sure what she would say.

Mama shook her head. "Now, now, _cher_, I'm sorry to make you cry. My boy would skin me alive if he knew what I'd just told you." The older woman hugged her. "You don't have to tell this old busy-body a dang thing. But promise me, you'll think on what I just told you. Because if you could find it in your heart to love my son as a woman loves a man -- or if you could possibly grow to love my son in that way -- please tell him. I swear he loves you as much as he loved Paul. Maybe more." Mama gave Jeanette one more hug, then pushed herself up off the settee. "And, if you can't return that love, well, he ain't gonna stop loving you, ain't gonna regret helping. So, don't you worry about that. Now, I need to go check on that bread. Why don't you get Little Bits in here and we'll have us some _café au lait_." Jeanette didn't move. She couldn't. She was caught in a swampy maze. Every time she thought she'd found a way out of her emotional quandary over Scott, she bumped into another dead end. She knew Scott loved her, because he'd said so. All those years, and she never had a clue and wasn't sure yet exactly how she felt about it. Before all this mess started, she would have sworn that the feelings she had for Scott were ones of deep friendship. Except a man who goes off to risk his life for a woman wants more than just being buddies. Yet, he'd gone -- even without the words he needed from her so desperately. And, she'd let him go. Mama Chloe had just told her that Paul knew Scott loved her. Even more, her husband realized she loved them both. How could he not tell her? And how could he love her knowing what he knew? Even so, he had continued to include Scott in their lives. Had made Scott promise to look out for her and their child. Had she always been this clueless? _Bootsie, stop beating yourself up, girl. Let the past go. Think about the future. That is what's important._ The future. Yeah, she would have to think about it. But not now. **** _New Orleans_ "Have you found her yet?" Rutherford glared at Bennie "The Finger" St. James, an old boyhood friend from Desire. After Bennie had gotten rid of Matthews, he'd assigned him the

task of handling Jeanette. So far, Bennie had been a big disappointment. "It's not my fault, Bry. I've checked her apartment which has been sublet. I checked her kid's school, and the nuns slammed the door in my face. I even went over to the Medical Center and nosed around, listening to gossip. Nothing. It's like she vanished off the face of the earth." "She can't just disappear without a trace. How about that dead boyfriend of hers, the lawyer?" "Carter? I went through his place. It was clean as a whistle. He's got a twin brother who came and cleaned it all out. I even picked up one of the secretaries at his law firm and took her drinking. She knew nothing. Said the brother had cleaned out the desk." "Where's the brother? Maybe Jeanette is with him?" "Nah. He's in Atlanta at the CDC. I had a buddy of mine break into the guy's apartment. No woman and kid living there. The guy barely lives there. One of those types who's married to his job. I'm at a dead end." Bennie picked his teeth with an ever-present ivory toothpick, the motion calling attention to the lack of a right index finger. Rutherford had been present the night, many years ago, when Bennie lost the finger defending their turf in the old neighborhood. So when it had become obvious that Eric Matthews had outlived his usefulness, Rutherford looked up his old boyhood friend and offered him the job of garbage duty. "I don't want to hear that. I want the bitch found." Rutherford gulped his Scotch. He really needed to stop drinking so much, but until Jeanette and the information she possessed were found and eliminated -permanently -- he didn't think he could. She was just the kind of witness a zealous attorney needed to pin things on him. A jury would love her wide-eyed honesty and absolute sense of morality. What had possessed him to hire her? Had a chance at dirtying up that look of innocence been worth what was happening now? In hind-sight, it hadn't. But he couldn't waste time regretting one small lapse due to raging hormones. He needed to deal with the mess and go on. Bennie said, "No action on the legal front, I take it?" Rutherford shook off the mental hair coat. Something was going on here. Bennie's darting eyes, tapping foot, and incessant sucking and picking of his teeth indicated stress.

"No. My sources are telling me all's clear. You heard something different?" "Well ... uh, I'm not sure." Bennie still refused to look him in the eye. Rutherford slammed his drink on the desk, spilling some on the gleaming mahogany surface. "Cough it up, Bennie. How can I deal with it, if I don't have a clue what you've heard." Heads would be rolling if Bennie had something his local police and federal sources should have told him. What in the hell was he paying those idiots for if they weren't keeping their ears to the ground? "I heard from one of my snitches that a lady is gonna be suing you for making her blind, and that the bitch you've got me looking for is going to be one of her primary witnesses." Bennie's nervous actions stilled. His watchful attitude reminded Rutherford of a dog waiting to be kicked again. Rutherford didn't explode -- that would be what Bennie expected him to do, what he used to do back in the old days when he'd had the reputation of being a loose cannon, unable to control his violent temper. He'd come a long way since then, or at least he liked to think so. After he was sure he wouldn't yell, Rutherford took a calming sip of his drink and wiped up the spillage on his desk with his finger. "Where did you hear this exactly?" "Like I told you, one of my snitches. He works part-time as a bus boy in one of the bars off Royal favored by the legal types. He heard your name -- knew you from the old days -- so managed to clean up in the area where the two lawyers were talking. One of them was saying something about some client who was blind and that he'd found this Jeanette LaFleur who could pin some serious shit on you." "Did your snitch catch the lawyer's name?" "He got it offa the credit card slip after they left." Bennie reached into his pant's pocket and pulled out a small notebook. Opening it, he flipped through some pages until he found the one he wanted. "Guy's name is Evan Devereaux." Rutherford smiled. "This could be the break we need." "Huh? You think getting sued is a break? You okay, Bry? Maybe you shouldn't be hitting the booze so hard." Bennie's forehead creased with concern.

"If there is no primary witness, then I'm sure I can get the case settled." "But we don't know where the broad is." "But you can find this Devereaux. And when you do, I want you to become his shadow. I want to know where he lives, who he sees, who he calls. You are going to know him and his life better than his own mama. He'll lead us to little Jeanette, sooner or later." Bennie's forehead relaxed. "Gotcha. I'll need some more guys to help cover him this closely." "Get whomever you need. Just give them enough info for the job at hand." Rutherford caught Bennie's eye. "And Bennie -- they don't need to know who you're working for. Got it?" "Yeah. No worries." Bennie made a couple of notes in his little book. "When I find the LaFleur broad, you want me to do her?" "I want you to make her gone. After you get all the evidence she has in her possession." "What if she's turned it over to this lawyer already?" "Kill him and everyone who's come into contact with the information." "That could mean torching the law firm, Bry." "I know." -------CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE _October 15th, San Jacinto fazenda_ "Please calm down, Jeannie." Scott mentally cursed the distance between him and the woman he loved. She needed him, and he was thousands of miles away. Thank God for Tony and his security firm's resources. The damn DEA had never gotten him the satellite set-up they'd promised. But Tony had. "What did the police tell you and Tony about this Matthews' death?" "The police said it looked to be a professional hit." The tension in Jeannie's voice came over the digital connection loud and clear. Scott closed his eyes to avoid Rosalie's questioning ones. It was hard to talk to Jeannie with Rosalie in the room, but he couldn't take the chance without

her. Although they thought the camp had bought their lover's act, neither one of them wanted to risk their lives on that belief. So, Rosalie was watching -and listening -- for any extra-inquisitive passers-by. "Did Tony go into New Orleans and check the situation out?" "No. He was afraid that anyone looking for me might have resources in the NOPD and the Medical Examiner's office." "Damn. He's right. Thank God he's staying with you. I feel a lot better knowing that he's there to protect y'all." "How are you getting along?" "Fine. Learning a lot of interesting things. Meeting lots of the locals. The One World set-up is very efficient -- and productive." Scott hoped she would get the picture he was trying to convey. They had promised the DEA that Scott would not directly address any of the reasons why he really was in Brazil just in case someone had hacked into the satellite transmissions. Not even the most secure system was secure in the cyber-world. Later, he would be making a coded-report to his DEA and Customs contacts in their guise as his Uncle Lou. In fact, the DEA and Customs people hadn't wanted Scott to call Jeannie at all. But he had told them where they could shove that idea. There was no way he could do what he had to do without knowing -- and hearing -- that his loved ones were safe. "Will you be home soon? It's been over a month. I thought you'd only signed up for one." "Please try to understand, _cher_. These people really need medical care down here. So, I promised them another month. After that, I should be home." Through the miracles of modern digital technology Scott heard enough to realize that Jeannie was crying and trying hard not to let him know. "Scott?" Jeannie sniffed. "Be careful. I've heard troublesome things about Brazil. If I had known before you left, I would've tried to stop you." "I'll be fine, _cher_. Remember, I was a Marine. I can handle myself -- and anything this old over-sized swamp can hand me. Don't worry. Just take care of yourself, Little Bits and mama until I get back." "I want you home, Scott. Soon. In one piece." Scott smiled. Behind the words, Scott thought he detected a hint of Jeannie's true feelings for him.

"I want that too. I love you, _cher_." "Good-bye. Mama Chloe and Little Bits send their love." The beep of the digital disconnect cut off any chance for Jeannie to add her love. He sighed. His woman still couldn't admit out loud she loved him, too. Maybe he'd tipped his hand too soon back in the States. Oh, well, he couldn't go back and do it over. "How is your woman holding up?" Rosalie whispered. "As well as can be expected with someone wanting her dead." "This person who wishes to kill your Jeannie. It is Lopez's partner? This Rutherford of whom you've spoken?" Rosalie spat the names of the two men as if they were a bad taste in her mouth. "Yes." "You must love her very much to leave your safe world and come down here to find evidence against this man." "Just as much as you loved your Julio. You did the same, after all." "Yes. We are a pair, are we not? The only difference is you have someone to live for -- and I do not. Go home, Scott. I will find the evidence to convict both men of their crimes. Your Jeannie needs you." Scott laughed harshly. "What kind of man do you think I am?" He grabbed Rosalie's arm and pulled her close, until their noses almost touched. "After the butchery I've seen here and the stories I've heard from the relatives of the missing, I can't run home ... Jeannie, if she knew what we knew -- and saw what we've seen -- wouldn't want me to. No right-thinking man or woman who calls themselves a decent human being could turn their backs on the atrocities committed here. I'm staying. When I go, you'll be leaving with me. Your Julio wouldn't have wanted you to martyr yourself." With tears running down her face, Rosalie nodded abruptly. Scott groaned. He'd made her cry. Pulling her into his arms, he offered the only comfort he could -- a reassuring hug. It must have been enough, because she hugged him back, then pushed away, her cheeks pink, her eyes downcast. Had he embarrassed her in some way? "What do we do now?" Rosalie's tone of voice negated the previous few minutes as if they had never happened.

"Well, we have more than enough of the doctors' notes on the harvesting of organs from donors that are still living. Thanks to you, we also have some of the same donors' statements on tape about how they were tricked into having surgery. But we need more." "We need witnesses to the murders of the heart and liver donors." "Yes, and we need visual evidence of the drug manufacturing and smuggling." "Then, we had better get busy." Rosalie went over to the chest of drawers that Scott had set aside as hers. She pulled out a portfolio. From it, she pulled a sheaf of what looked to be e-mails. "Let me read you what Julio sent me before he was killed. I went over these with some of the other DEA agents who have worked in Brazil. We agreed that there are only two or three places in the Pantanal that could be the source of the drugs. From what Julio wrote, those were the same areas where the organ donors were killed so the bastards could harvest hearts, livers and lungs." "The smugglers way of making sure the locals wouldn't talk to outsiders about the drugs?" "Yes. That's what we assumed." Rosalie sighed. "Julio was just sick near the end. He had gotten some grief-stricken mothers to tell him about their children being killed for their organs. He said he'd found actual correspondence from your Rutherford for the juvenile body parts. It's all so -- evil." Scott looked over the e-mails. "I can't see where Julio mentions any specific areas in the region." "That's because they are in code. He wasn't sure what he was getting himself into, so we had devised a code. Later, the DEA used it to communicate with him." "Okay, so when do we start following Julio's trail?" Rosalie smiled. "We start tomorrow. I found a native who goes by the name of Sam and is willing to act as a guide and translator. He will take us to a medical _fazenda_ on one of the tributaries of the Rio Verde de Mato Grosso. It is deep into the southern Pantanal, where few outsiders have ever gone. We can reinterview the natives there. Julio had listed it as one of the areas where most of the major organs were harvested." "Sounds like a place just ripe for the body mafia." "What is this 'body mafia?'"

"It's what the United Nations calls the organizations and people who trade in illegally obtained body parts." "The international community knows of this and still has done nothing?" Scott smiled at the outrage in Rosalie's voice. "They are trying. But many nations, like Brazil, not only ignore what is happening within their own borders, but actually participate in it." "Brazil is a Catholic country! It is a sin." "The government doesn't care." Scott lowered his voice. "We can't trust anybody in Brazil -- no local police, no federal police and especially no government officials. So, if we have to run, we'll be on our own. The only safe place is the closest U.S. consulate, which according to my calculations is in Brasilia." "If we have to run, we would never make it. It is soon the beginning of the wet season. It's hard enough to get in and out of the Pantanal in the best of weather. Add to that, Lopez and his private army control the air fields and equipment around here. Even if we could make it to Porto Jofre to pick up the highway, they would catch us soon after we got there. The highway is all but impassable in the wet season." "That's why if we have to make a run for it, we'll be going by water," Scott said. "Water? Do you have any idea how long that would take us? Besides some of the areas between here and Brasilia are inhabited by people who hate outsiders. We'd never make it." "We'll make it. Trust me. Let's just hope we don't have to run and can arrange to leave on the next transport out after our contract with One World expires." Rosalie looked as doubtful as he felt about the latter happening. Once they started to retrace the same ground that Julio had traveled to gather the evidence he'd uncovered, Lopez would hear of it. After that, it would only be a matter of time before they would have to run for their lives. The DEA had made it clear that the agency wouldn't be able to get anyone in to get them out in an emergency. Like Julio, they would be on their own. Unlike Julio, Scott knew how to survive in a swamp in the rainy season. **** _October 15th, Manchac, Louisiana_ "Jeanette. _Cher_?" Mama Chloe's sweet voice pierced the depression that had settled over Jeanette after she'd cut off the call to Scott. "There is a call

for you from a Mr. Devereaux. How did he know you were here?" "I told him. He's a good guy. I'm his principal witness against Dr. Rutherford in a medical malpractice case." Mama didn't look too sure about others knowing Jeanette's and Brigitte's whereabouts. "You can take the call in my sitting room. That will give you some privacy." "It's okay, Mama Chloe. You can sit in. I don't have anything to hide from you." Jeanette walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone. "Scott knows all about this. We'd hoped that the civil case could be expanded to include reckless endangerment and battery. That way, Rutherford would be so busy fighting a legal battle to save his career and his reputation that he wouldn't notice the attacks on his other business ventures." "Do you really think that will work?" Mama's frown indicated she had her doubts about the success of such a strategy. "We don't know, but I couldn't just sit around while Scott was trying to prove the criminal charges. I have to stop this man from hurting any other innocent people. He blinded Ms. Barrios in both eyes -- ruined her life. We've got a good chance to take one thing away from him that he prides himself on -- his good reputation." "You'll do whatever you wish, _cher_, but I've got a bad feeling about this." Jeanette did too, but she would never admit it out loud. She had to do something to bring Rutherford down. The only thing she could do was to help Lynn Barrios get her revenge and some compensation. "Evan. How are you? How's Lynn?" "I'm doing fine, Jeanette." Evan's baritone washed over her, imbuing her with a sense of calm and strength. That voice should be able to charm a jury into listening to Lynn's story. "Lynn, well, she is still depressed most days, but determined as ever to bring Rutherford to his knees. You hear anything from your man and his investigations in Brazil?" Scott and the Federal agents had agreed that Evan Devereaux could be advised about the potential criminal evidence against Rutherford. He, in turn, agreed to stall the case for as long as possible so that Rutherford would be occupied in New Orleans. That way, if the evidence of criminal activities were found, the Feds would know where to find him. They didn't want Rutherford to get the wind up and flee.

"I spoke to him today for the first time. He is working on it, but needs more time." "Damn, I was afraid of that." "What's wrong?" "I filed the civil case two days ago..." "Why so soon? I thought you were going to file it later this month?" "One of the firm's private investigators got the word that somehow Rutherford heard about the lawsuit and your involvement in it. Rutherford has hired a thug by the name of Bennie "The Finger" St. James to find you. He and his pals are following me around to get to you." Icy fingers clutched at Jeanette's throat. She couldn't scream, couldn't breathe. Rutherford was working harder than ever to shut her up -- permanently. _"Well, Bootsie, did ya just think da man would roll over and forget about you because you're hiding?"_ "Jeanette? What's wrong? What did that man say to you? Tony!! Come here!" Mama Chloe's voice sounded a long way away, beyond the tunnel of cold white light which grew quickly narrower, threatening to squeeze Jeanette to death. Jeanette gradually became aware of Tony's angry tones in the background as Mama Chloe hovered over her, wiping her face with a cool, wet cloth. Where was she? On the couch in the sunroom off the kitchen. "Tony! She's come around." Tony appeared at her side, portable phone in hand. His look of concern warmed her. He'd become a close friend, more like the brother she never had but had always wished for when she was growing up. "Hey, kiddo. You scared us. Even Evan is threatening to come out here." She must have made a sound of alarm, because Tony hurriedly added, "No, no, don't look like that. I told the man he couldn't come near here. He'd lead them to you." "What about the phone call? Can they trace it?" Jeanette didn't recognize the strained voice as her own. The realization that she wasn't safe in the little swamp town had hit her hard. "Nope. Old Evan ain't stupid. He's calling from a public phone." Tony smiled to reassure her. "They couldn't put a trace on it, because they'd have to know

about the location ahead of time." Jeanette's sigh of relief was audible, but she didn't care. She'd come to love her life in Manchac, even considering why she had to move here. It was the safest she'd ever felt in her life. Even her life with Paul. This was home now. _Home._ Jeanette sat up with a start. When had she started thinking of this little town on the edge of a swamp as her home and not as Scott's -- or Paul's? Was it when Mama Chloe held Jeanette against her ample bosom after she'd broken down, crying over pictures of Paul and Scott in the Fontenot family albums? Or was it the day Frenchy brought by his fishing and hunting buddies and they offered their services to protect Scott's woman from the bad 'uns? Or maybe it was the day Brigitte and she found the tree at the edge of the swamp with Scott's and Paul's names carved into it? No. Those incidences were only a part of the feeling. Manchac felt like home, because she missed Scott more than she missed her past life with Paul. It had finally all come together after the call from Scott. He'd said he loved her and she finally accepted it. Accepted that she loved him, too, and wanted Scott to come home -- home to her in Manchac. New Orleans and the apartment in which she'd lived and loved Paul and in which Charles had died was merely a place in her past. She knew she could never live there again. Oh, my God. She hadn't told Scott she loved him back. What if she never got the chance? No, that wouldn't happen. God couldn't be so cruel as to take another man from her. "Jeanette. Are you okay? Evan needs to tell you some things." Tony knelt by the settee and stared into her face. He gently cupped her head with his hands and felt her scalp. "Did you hit your head again? Do I need to call a doctor?" "No. No." She sat up and disengaged herself from Tony. "I was wool-gathering. I forgot to tell Scott something, that's all. I'll have to remember to tell him later." She smiled at Tony and Mama, who smiled back, although Jeanette could tell they were still concerned for her. "I'm fine, really. Please give me the phone." She held out her hand for the portable. "Evan? Sorry, I must have fainted. It was a shock hearing that Rutherford is on to us so quickly." "I can understand that, Jeanette." Evan's tones, which before had calmed her, were now serious and somber.

She started to get afraid all over again. "What is it that you haven't told me? Is it about the case?" "Rutherford somehow managed to get the case docketed for an early trial date. Some bullshit about the potential for damage to his reputation and that he deserved to have his case heard quickly and his name cleared as soon as possible." "From your tone, I take it that this doesn't usually happen." "Not in civil cases, but he got the case assigned to a judge who is one of his golfing buddies and who we have to assume is in Rutherford's pocket." Evan sounded disgusted and disheartened. "Money talks in New Orleans. Rutherford has a lot of money." "Can we get another judge?" "I've already asked for one on the grounds of bias and conflict of interest. Judge Tremayne has denied the motion and has refused to consider recusing himself." "What are we gonna do?" "I've demanded a jury trial. He can't deny us that -- the Constitution guarantees that. The judge may be biased, but he isn't stupid. He knows a denial of my motion would be immediate grounds for an appeal. After which, we could get a change of judge on the refusal to recuse and on his error in denying us a jury trial." "Okay, so we're stuck with a biased judge but, hopefully, an unbiased jury. What else is wrong?" "Rutherford's attorney is Ruel Dubois. A real piece of work. He's crooked as they come, but so smart he's managed to keep his law license all these years. There isn't a dirty pie in New Orleans that he doesn't have his finger in. He grew up in Desire right alongside of Rutherford and Bennie The Finger, the guy looking for you." "Sweet Jesus, can it get any worse?" "Yes, ma'am, it does get worse. They want to depose you -- immediately." "A deposition?" Jeanette's words came out as a croak, her throat so tight with fear. "Is that where I have to sit across from them and answer questions -face-to-face?" "I don't like it." Tony grabbed the phone from Jeanette and yelled into it. "We aren't going into New Orleans so they can grab her or follow us back here. And we aren't letting them come here. Can't you get them to do it by

video-conferencing or something?" "Tony, Louisiana civil procedure does not recognize video-conferencing for depositions. We're still in the Dark Ages on that score. Besides, Ruel demanded a face-to-face deposition. Smart-ass bastard even spelled it out. Judge couldn't do anything else even if he were receptive to arguments of safety for the witness -- and he isn't." "Tony. We have to do it." Jeanette took the phone back from him. "Evan, can we go somewhere away from Manchac for the deposition? Like Slidell? We'll have to figure out a way to get back home without them following us." "I'll see what I can do." Evan spoke to someone behind him. "I've got my clerk with me, he'll be looking into the case law on depos. I'm sure it is at the convenience of the witness, so we could have it in Slidell or Timbuktu, if we wanted." "Fine. I'll let you work that all out with Tony. I have to tell you I'm scared of what they'll ask." "Don't be. The case we filed is only for medical malpractice and several counts of civil battery and reckless endangerment. I'll go over potential questions with you. If they try to go fishing about what else you know, I'll object. I'd love to see the judge order you to testify about non-relevant subjects. Talk about grounds for reversal and abuse of discretion." "Okay, Evan. I have to trust you on this." "You don't sound too sure about that, Jeanette." Evan's disappointment came over the phone loud and clear. "It's not you, Evan. It's me. I'm just worried about Scott. About the effect that all this is having on my daughter and the people who care for me. I'll be fine. You do what you have to do. I'll help all I can. Rutherford is a monster, and he has to be stopped." "We'll get him, Jeanette. Trust me." "I don't have any other choice." -------CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR _October 22nd, New Orleans_ Bennie had a problem. Evan Devereaux had been playing it cagey. If the lawyer had an address or

phone number for Jeanette LaFleur, he hadn't put it anywhere Bennie or his plant in Devereaux's office could find it. Bennie's men followed the lawyer everywhere. Devereaux led a boring life -work, home, work, home. When he ate out, he used public phones, rather than his cell. Bennie would bet his best Sig Sauer that the lawyer called Jeanette at those times. But the bastard never ate at the same place twice in a row. It was hard to rig a phone for a trace if you didn't know which phone to bug. And Bennie damn well couldn't rig all the public phones in town. But Bennie's problem was more than just the lawyer. He also had the beginnings of a much greater, and life-threatening, problem with Bry and his shark of a lawyer, Ruel Dubois. Dubois made Bennie's blood run cold, and he prided himself on not being afraid of anybody. Dubois was an exception. Both men had been pressuring him for results. Bennie knew what had happened to the last man who hadn't produced, 'cause he'd taken care of the under-achiever for them. Bennie didn't intend to be gator bait like Matthews, but if he didn't get a break on Jeanette LaFleur's whereabouts soon, he knew he'd have to leave New Orleans to avoid the possibility. One bit of insurance that just might save Bennie's ass had panned out. He'd phoned Manuel Lopez to clue him in on what was really happening in New Orleans. _"Dr. Lopez, my name is Bennie St. James. I was hired by Byron Rutherford to handle some clean-up in this situation he has going on in New Orleans."_ _Bennie held his breath. He wasn't sure just how much Lopez knew or didn't know. He was betting his life on not much._ _"And what situation would that be, Senor St. James? I haven't heard from my good friend for over a month."_ _Bennie smiled. The man wasn't playing with him. He heard the Latino's teeth gnashing clear across the phone. So, old Bry was hiding things from his partner. Bad move on Bry's part. Good move for old Bennie._ _"The situation with Jeanette LaFleur, sir. I had to eliminate Eric Matthews, because he failed in his assignment to neutralize her."_ _Lopez swore in fluent gutter Spanish, then yelled for someone named Javier to get on the extension._ _"Senor St. James, are you on a secure phone?"_ _Lopez mumbled something to a man in the background. Bennie couldn't quite catch all the Spanish words, but knew the man was cluing in this Javier._

_"Yes, sir. Just call me Bennie."_ _Bennie grinned. Maybe, just maybe, he could buy himself some protection from Bry's partner. Bry made a big mistake not to clue his south-of-the-border buddy in on what was coming down -- and an even bigger mistake in threatening Bennie._ _"Bennie, my new security chief, Javier, is now on this call with us. Please fill us in -- from the beginning, if you will. I think my old friend has neglected to keep me advised on his end of the business. Start with why you think Byron felt the need to ... ah, neutralize the woman."_ _Bennie had quickly brought Lopez and Javier up-to-date. He had even filled them in on his fears for his own continued good health._ _"Thank you for bringing this to my attention." Lopez mumbled a few words to Javier, then said, "I will be sending a man from my security force to assist you in your search for Senora LaFleur. No need to let Byron know; this is between us. My man will keep me apprised of the situation."_ _"When will this man arrive and how will I know him?"_ _Bennie would be glad to get out of keeping Lopez up-to-date. Later, he could always claim ignorance if Bry came out on top. A man had to keep his options open._ _"Give Javier your direction. My man will find you."_ _"Sure, Doctor Lopez. I appreciate your help. I have to tell you, I was beginning to sweat it. Old Bry seems to be losing it."_ _"No problem, amigo. As you say, Byron is not acting as smart as he thinks he is in regards to this matter of Senora LaFleur. Eric Matthews was a good man. I regret his loss."_ _"Well, I hope you don't hold it against me, sir. I was just following orders."_ _A cold chill rippled down Bennie's spine. Maybe he had made a mistake in calling Lopez. Just what had been the relationship between the doctor and Matthews?_ _"No. Any grudge I hold is against Byron. Do not concern yourself, Bennie. Someone will be in touch. Good-bye."_ Bennie once again shivered, recalling the tone of the last few minutes of his call to Lopez. Well, he couldn't do anything about it now. If he'd opened a can of worms, he would just have to deal with things as they came. One thing for sure. He didn't want to be in Bry's shoes if this whole LaFleur thing blew up in his face. Lopez sounded like he would be a bad enemy.

-------CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE _October 29th, San Jacinto fazenda_ Scott sat and thought about the materials he and Rosalie had amassed over the last two weeks. They just might have enough to nail One World, Lopez and Rutherford for crimes against humanity and for drug smuggling. Julio's _fazenda_ in southern Pantanal was a goldmine of evidence that had panned out. It had taken three days of travel there, two days of snooping and recording victims'stories, then three days travel back. It had been worth the trouble as far as their mission went. But they now had another problem. Their explanation that they'd responded to an emergency medical call from a village in the wilderness received only a lukewarm response by the One World chief of staff. Rosalie feared they'd been outed as spies. Scott felt the jury was still out on that issue. "Rosalie, when anybody asks, blush," Scott had advised earlier that day. "They'll think we skipped camp for hot sex and are using the medical story to cover our asses." "I'll try." Rosalie blushed. "But I don't lie very well. I think they already suspect." "Just keep your ears open. I'd like to get to that other outlying _fazenda_ to get some pictures of the poppy fields. The one native we spoke to said they were harvesting this week." Scott glanced over at the radio which had a secret compartment for the secure, satellite phone. Maybe he should call his contact and tell them Rosalie and he were coming in. Sam, the native who'd taken them into the southern Pantanal, was willing for $500 US to take them to Brasilia. If they were lucky, it was possible that the DEA might be able to insert a team to pick them up somewhere along the Araguaia River in Goias province. What was more worrisome was that the heavy rains of the wet season had started early; the formerly low marshy lands surrounding the San Jacinto camp were already swampy and getting more so every day. The longer they stayed, the more likely it would be that some of the rivers and tributaries would become treacherous with swift currents. Hidden dangers, masked by the higher waters, included predators looking for a quick and easy human snack. Scott had no fears for himself, but he felt responsible for getting Rosalie, who

was not so swamp-savvy, back to civilization in one piece. Traveling unknown waterways in the height of the wet season was for seasoned trekkers only. Scott quit debating with himself and made the call. **** "Mama?" "Scott?" "Hi, Mama. Can I speak to Jeannie, please?" "She's in Slidell with Tony. That lawyer fellow is getting her ready to give a deposition in that Barrios woman's case." Scott frowned. "That's awfully fast, isn't it? Didn't Evan just file the case?" "Yeah. That Rutherford got himself a judge in his pocket and a junkyard dog of a lawyer." Scott swore, not caring that his mother would take him to task. But she surprised him. "Yeah, son, that's how we feel about it, too. You should've heard Tony yelling at Evan, and it wasn't even Evan's fault." "How's Jeannie handling it? Is she scared?" Scott ached to be there for her. Leaving Brazil was more important than ever. It would take weeks to get to Brasilia. "When's the trial? Surely, they couldn't move the case that fast." "They surely did. The case is set for two months from today. Evan is trying to push off the deposition as long as possible. So if you have any evidence against Rutherford that could put his evil butt in jail, you need to be getting it here." "I'm leaving as soon as I can get transport out of here. It may take me a month, but I should be home well before the trial date. Tell Evan I have enough to get Rutherford for illegal body part trafficking. The DEA will have to decide if they have enough to get him for smuggling drugs." "That's good to hear. I'll tell Jeannie and Tony. They can tell Evan. Will you be able to contact us while you are traveling?" "I don't think so. The batteries on the satellite phone are fairly good, but the reception may not mesh with the satellite signals. I'll try. If you don't hear from me, just expect me at the trial. Okay?" "Okay, son. God be with you." "You called home?"

Scott jumped and turned quickly. Rosalie had entered their hut without him hearing her. He'd been careless. Anybody could've been listening in to either of his conversations. Yes, it was definitely time to go, before another stupid lapse got them both killed. "Yeah. The trial date has been set for two months from today. I say we get the hell out of this place before we are trapped by the weather. Or found out." Scott then noticed the serious -- no, more like frightened -- look on his partner's face. "What happened? Why do you look like you just lost your best friend?" "One of the camp guards asked me why you and I were taping patients at the southern Pantanal camp." Rosalie sank onto the bed. All color had left her face, and she started to shiver. Scott moved to the bed and pulled the coverlet up around the girl's shoulders. Then he moved to the windows to check outside. He saw nothing other than the heavy rain. Most sensible people would be inside. Satisfied there was no one outside listening, he returned to Rosalie. Sitting on the bed next to her, he gathered her close to him, trying to absorb some of her shivers. "What did you tell him?" "I told him we were recording native mythology and songs. That we were planning on writing a book about the tribes of the Pantanal after we got back to the States." Scott grinned and gave her a quick hug. "Good story. Did he believe you?" Rosalie stared up into Scott's eyes. Hers were darkened with terror. "No. He smiled and said that he didn't care what we were doing, but that others were not so charitable, as he put it. He suggested we go away -- for our health." Scott's grin vanished as quickly as it had come. "Right then. I've already packed the records. Throw together some stuff in your backpack. We'll leave now while the rain is the heaviest." "Where we will go?" "We'll steal a jeep and take it to Sam's village. We have to hope he can get us out of here before they realize where we've gone." Rosalie shrugged off the blanket and began to pack her things. She turned to watch as he dialed the satellite up one more time.

"Who are you calling? The DEA?" "No. My home. I have to let them know what's going on. I already called our DEA contact earlier to let him know I thought we'd be leaving soon. He told me they can't get anyone to us anywhere between here and Brasilia, but that they would have the consulate in Brasilia prepared for our arrival." "Great. This is what happened to Julio. They dropped him into this nest of snakes and then left him to get himself out." Rosalie grasped her pack against her chest. "We're not going to make it, are we?" Scott held the phone to his ear and glanced over at the scared woman. "Hell yes, we're gonna make it. I was a Marine, and we Marines never say die." He smiled at her for emphasis. Her lips turned up slightly and she bowed her head in acquiescence. "Hello? Jeannie? You're back!" "Scott? Yes. I just got here. Mama Chloe said you called awhile ago. Is something wrong?" Jeannie's fear for him was palpable even over the phone. "I just called to tell y'all, my partner and I are bugging out. Have Andrew Carter put some pressure on the DEA to come get us. Right now we're out on a limb and the gators are snapping their jaws waiting for us to fall in." "Scott! Be careful. I want you home -- we all want you home." "I want to be there, darlin'. Tell Mama I love her. Hug Little Bits for me. I love you, Jeannie." "I love you, Scott. Now get your butt home where you belong." Jeannie's sobs punctuated her words. "Don't you dare die on me. We haven't even started to live yet. You hear me?" Scott closed his eyes in relief as tears streamed down his face. "I hear you, love. I'm coming home. Bye." Scott turned. Rosalie stood ready and waiting for him. She smiled as she reached out and brushed a tear from his cheek. "Your woman is finally ready for you?" "Yes. Let's get out of here. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to go home." ****

_Manchac, Louisiana_ "Tony? Tell me I didn't hear what I just thought I heard." Jeanette was so mad she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this way. Underlying the anger was pure, unadulterated fear for Scott and his partner. "You heard correctly." Tony's voice was harsh with unspoken outrage. "Scott and his partner are on their own until they get to Brasilia. And after they get there, there is a question of whether the Ambassador is on the payroll of One World." "Is this one of those Catch-22 situations?" Mama Chloe sat in her bent wood rocker, furiously rocking back and forth. "Is my boy gonna bust his ass getting to safety and then find that it ain't safe?" "That's how it looks." Tony slammed his fist into the mahogany woodwork. "We've got to do something." Jeanette paced the small sitting room. "Call Andrew back. Maybe he knows someone in Washington who could get this Ambassador out of the way." "Hell, if I have to," Tony growled. "I'll get some of my men together and fly down to Brazil and camp outside of the Embassy until Scott gets there." "That's what the Customs and DEA people should be doing." Mama Chloe rocked faster. "What are we paying taxes for if our citizens can't be safe when they get to their own embassy?" No one answered. There wasn't an answer. -------CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX _Same day, One World Headquarters, Brasilia_ "Dr. Lopez, we have a problem." Lopez looked up from the third quarter projections for the drug smuggling operations. He frowned. It must be a serious problem for Javier to interrupt him without knocking. After marking his place, he closed the binder and shoved it aside. "What is it, Javier?" "The San Jacinto chief of staff called. He suspects that two of the volunteer medical personnel, one doctor and one nurse, are DEA plants like that other doctor we eliminated several months ago. What do you want me to tell him to

do?" Lopez swept the contents of his desktop onto the floor with a vicious swipe of his arm. "_Diablo!_ How did this happen? I thought we had Security checking on all the backgrounds of the volunteers?" "We did. They are all who they say they are. Other than that, how can we find out if they have been approached by the DEA? I mean, what are the chances? We thought Julio was an isolated incident." Javier lifted his hands in supplication. "What more could we do?" "You could have bought us an inside person at the DEA. The Colombians have inside people at the DEA. Why can't we?" "These things take time, Dr. Lopez. We are working on it." "I know. These things take time." Rubbing his eyes, he sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Eliminate them. Make sure they do not leave San Jacinto with any documentary evidence." "What if they have already conveyed information to their superiors?" "Without documentation and the witnesses who found the information, the DEA has nothing. The North Americans call it 'hearsay.' Thank God for all the protections in the American jurisprudence system." Lopez closed his eyes and waved his hand in the general direction of the doorway. "You have your orders. See to it. Oh, and don't waste any body parts. We can always find a use for their organs." "Yes, doctor." Lopez listened to Javier's footsteps retreat toward the door. Before the door closed, he called out, "What are the names of the soon-to-be departed?" "Dr. Scott Fontenot from New Orleans and Rosalie Portero from Miami." Lopez's eyes flew open. "You stupid bastard. I thought you checked their backgrounds?" "We did." Javier choked out the words. "Well, then why is it you didn't connect the Portero woman to Dr. Calabria, also from Miami? And this Fontenot with Rutherford's problems in New Orleans?" "But doctor, we get a lot of volunteers from Miami, and we did not know of Dr. Rutherford's problems until that Bennie person called." "I'll grant you the New Orleans excuse, but the Miami situation should have occurred to you. Don't make that kind of error again, Javier, or I'll find a Head

of Security who can look at the larger picture. Do you understand me?" "Yes. I will take care of the situation, and it won't happen again. I guarantee." Lopez glared at Javier who swallowed hard, then left closing the door with a gentle click. Fools. He was surrounded by imbeciles. And they included his old friend, Rutherford. Well, all he could do now was damage control. Javier understood him -- the DEA spies would be taken care of. But just in case, he needed to have as much information on them as possible -- whom they knew, to whom they might have sent information, and most importantly why they had come to One World and spied on him in the first place. The woman's connection was easy. She was either a Miami DEA operative who just happened to be a nurse or she knew Dr. Calabria and had volunteered to help the DEA find out how he died. The New Orleans doctor had to have a connection to the problems Bennie told him about. Turning to his phone, he picked up the receiver and buzzed his secretary. "Get me Bennie St. James in New Orleans, Louisiana." "Yes, sir." Waiting for the call to go through, he decided his next call would be to the U.S. Embassy and his old friend, Ambassador MacNeil. Just in case Javier messed up and the two escaped from San Jacinto. MacNeil would report if the two made it to any of the Brazilian U.S. Embassies. "I have Senor St. James, sir." His secretary didn't wait for him to thank her -- that would never happen and she knew it. She switched the call over to his phone. "Bennie. How is the search going for Ms. LaFleur?" "Not too good. But we have eliminated all the places she isn't. We're still trying to get a lead on her through the lawyer suing Rutherford. There is a deposition scheduled in late December. We're planning on tailing her from there." "I may have some help in narrowing down your search area." Lopez smiled as he rocked in his leather chair. "See if she has a connection to a Dr. Scott Fontenot. He could be a boyfriend of Ms. LaFleur or maybe an interested party in the law suit against old Byron."

"Fontenot, hmm. Hold on a sec. One of my guys had some notes on someone named Fontenot, I think." Lopez heard Bennie ruffling through some papers. "Ah, here it is. Scott Fontenot, a surgery resident at New Orleans Charity Hospital. He was a friend of LaFleur's dead husband. No direct connection to LaFleur other than as a friend since the husband's death. She'd been dating a Charles Carter until his death. Funny thing, Carter took the poison meant for LaFleur. Bry had to off the local talent who'd botched the deal." Lopez swore under his breath. Byron had gone totally over the edge. "Would this Fontenot have any relatives in the New Orleans area?" "Let me see. Fontenot is from Manchac in the swamp land. Yeah, that isn't too far from here. We would've checked him out eventually. Guess we should move that item up on the agenda. Didn't figure she would go stay with non-relatives, but hey, what the heck. It's as good a lead as any." Bennie paused. "If you don't mind me asking, how'd you find out about this Fontenot character?" "Let's just say he has become a thorn in my side, Bennie, and I'm about to rid myself of him." "Do you think he's on to your deal with Rutherford and is trying to come after Rutherford through you?" "Something like that, Bennie. I don't need you to understand the whys and hows. I need you to eliminate problems and keep my partner from getting any deeper into the mess in which he's already involved." "What if Rutherford becomes a danger to you, Dr. Lopez?" "That's not your problem. Just take care of LaFleur." "Gotcha, doctor." "I hope so, Bennie, I surely hope so. Has my security man contacted you yet?" "Yeah. I'm meeting him tonight. I'll take him with me to Manchac, and we can check the place out. Maybe we can eliminate the bitch before the deposition." "That would be nice. See to it." "Yes sir." Lopez cut the connection. He dialed MacNeil's direct and private line himself. If these measures failed to take care of the problem, he would start to distance

himself from Rutherford, break down the operations and lie low until it all blew over. One nice thing about living in Brazil -- it was one of the most corrupt governments in the world and his protection could be easily bought. He would never be extradited for any crimes. Rutherford, on the other hand, wouldn't escape so easily. If the United States authorities didn't get him, Lopez would for messing up a sweet deal. Nobody messed up Lopez's life and got away with it -- not even good friends and business partners. "Ahh, Ambassador. Manuel Lopez here. How are you? Good. Good. I need to ask a favor..." -------CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN _San Jacinto, October 29th_ Scott reached the motor pool first. Rosalie would arrive later. One of them had to show up at the afternoon staff meeting in order to keep suspicions down. The motor pool was located next to the hanger. As usual for this time of day, no one was around either building. The guards and mechanics usually took advantage of staff meetings to indulge in siestas or their drug of choice. To be on the safe side, Scott walked around both buildings. No one challenged him. Pushing open the rust-covered metal doors, Scott waited until his eyes adjusted from the harsh sunlight to the dimmer light. The appellation, motor pool, was a bit too grand for the dirt-floored hut and its meager inventory of tools and vehicles. The few vehicles One World owned were peculiarly situated to the region's conditions, mostly four-wheel drives with flotation tires, sealed underbodies, and extra-road clearance. They looked like something a good ole boy in the States would use to compete in monster car rallies, without the exaggerated height. Scott walked past all the monster-cars. The vehicle he favored for their escape was the Humvee, the personal pride and joy of the San Jacinto Chief of Staff. Not only did the Humvee have off-road capability, but it had speed. He checked the Hummer's oil, fuel and water. All were good to go. The trip to Sam's village was only about ten miles, but it was ten miles of rock and dirt tracks covering several elevations, some of which were now under water. Scott pulled up a cover in the back of the Hummer to find a semi-automatic weapon. And not just any weapon, but a top-of-the-line personal submachine

gun. Plus, enough ammo to wage a small war. Just what every medical Chief of Staff carried in his personal vehicle in a country where the natives were armed with bows and arrows and blow pipes, he thought. He removed the weapon and began to field strip it. It was in pristine condition. He reassembled it with swift, deft movements. "Scott?" Rosalie's hushed tones echoed within the metal building. "Over here." He placed the gun back in the vehicle, then pulled the cover back over it and turned. "I found us some more firepower in the Chief's car." "We're taking the Humvee?" Rosalie walked over to stand in front of him. "Are you nuts? He'll call out the regional militia to get that car back." "With any luck, he won't catch on that it's missing until after we're on the river with Sam. I'll have one of the villagers run back to let him know where it is." "He'll send the chopper after us. We'll be sitting ducks." "If he does, he'll lose his chopper. We have this." Scott drew back the cover to show her the machine gun. "This little darling can take down a small aircraft or a very large tank. And he'll know we have it. He won't take the chance. He'll send the four wheels after us." "Why don't we disable them?" "Because I want him to have the option of sending the off-road vehicles after us. If I leave him the chopper as his only choice, it would be more dangerous. I'd rather not have a gun battle with a chopper even though I'm sure we'd win." Rosalie nodded, but looked skeptical. "Trust me," he said. "We'll make it to Sam's and get on the river tonight. After that, I can't guarantee what we'll face. But I was raised in swamp country in Louisiana. With Sam's guidance, we can make it to Brasilia. It's what we'll meet there that worries me." After pulling out a hand gun which she placed in her belt, Rosalie stored her backpack in the rear of the vehicle. "What is there to be afraid of in Brasilia? Won't we be home free?" Scott helped Rosalie into the passenger side. He braced his arm on the roof and leaned in to make sure the harness didn't cut her across the neck. The ride would be rough and the resultant motion would toss her around. She didn't need a bruised or possibly even broken neck. Assured she was buckled in safely, he addressed her question. "They'll figure out fairly quickly we are heading for Brasilia. The US Embassy and the

Marines stationed there are the closest safe harbor. I'm sure they'll have a welcoming committee for us. Believe me, the city streets of Brasilia will be more dangerous than the swamps and rain forests." "What about the DEA agents? Won't they be there to help us?" "They didn't do a lot for Julio, did they? They sure aren't offering us a lot of support now, are they? Face it, we've been hung out to dry. If we make it, fine, then we'll be heroes. If not, they'll deny all knowledge of us." "You're right." Rosalie turned her head away, but Scott could see the tears forming. "Don't worry," he said. "Let me do the worrying. Just keep your eyes open, and when I tell you to do something, do it. We'll make it just fine." Scott picked up his pack. Pulling out his handgun, he placed it in the shoulder holster he wore. He took out the satellite phone, then tossed his pack on top of Rosalie's. "Here, you keep track of the phone. For now, plug it into the cigarette lighter so we can charge the battery up to full strength." Rosalie took the phone and plugged it into the adapter on the dash. She avoided his eyes. Scott climbed into the Hummer. After switching on the engine, he cast another quick glance at her stony face. He'd insulted her. He'd be wise not to underestimate her. He should've learned from observing Jeannie -- women weren't the weaker sex; men just liked to think they were. "Rosalie, I didn't mean to talk down to you. Chalk it up to a male's over-protective urges. I know you'll pull your weight on this trip. Don't hesitate to call me on something if you think I'm making a wrong move." She nodded. He backed the large vehicle out of the tightly crammed building. Without asking, Rosalie jumped out to close the metal shed's door. Hopping back in, she looked at him and smiled. "I'm perfectly happy letting you lead, but thanks for the vote of confidence. Julio..." A small hitch in her voice caused her to pause. "Julio treated me like I was spun glass, always protecting me from everyone, even myself. I'd like to think I can carry my weight." "That's one of the reasons you volunteered, isn't it? To prove to yourself that you could do this." "Yes. That and to make sure Julio didn't die in vain."

Scott nodded. Valid reasons. He just hoped he could make good on his promise to get them to safety. He drove slowly, as if he were out for an afternoon excursion with his lover. He decided to take the back trail out of the camp, then cut across a small water-laden ravine to connect up with the track leading to Sam's village. It meant going out of their way, but it also meant not driving by the Chief of Staff's bungalow. With any luck, the absence of the Hummer wouldn't be noted until the Chief called for it. The workers would not think anything of its absence, since the Chief often went out without telling anyone. About a mile out of the camp, Scott prepared to cross over the ravine. He'd hiked around the camp a lot in the last couple of weeks and had found a spot which the Hummer should have no problem in traversing. As he turned to go down the small incline, he saw a flash of light in the driver's side mirror. A stray ray of sunshine had broken through the clouds and was reflected off glass -- a windshield, maybe? It flashed again. "Someone is following us," Rosalie said, looking out the rear of the vehicle. "No, there are two of them. Both Jeeps." "I saw them," he replied. "The good news is they won't have a reception committee waiting for us on the main trail to Sam's." He flashed her a grim smile. "Hold on. Let's give them a rough ride. They don't have the capabilities of the Hummer. Maybe we can ditch them in this ravine. It's gonna be rough even for this hunk of metal." Rosalie nodded and braced herself. "I'm ready." Scott shifted down, revving the motor. The Hummer half-slid down the slope into the shallow water at the bottom of the ravine. Gearing down another notch, he straightened out the vehicle. The monster engine growled as it pulled through and over the rocks and gravel bed of the natural culvert. He glanced in his rear view mirror. The Jeeps started to follow the Humvee into the stream bed. He laughed. They took the bait. Suckers. "Let's see what this puppy can do." Scott up-shifted. The well-crafted machine pulled forward like a race horse leaving a gate. The exit he spied a week earlier should be coming up soon. There it was. He geared down for the forty-five degree incline which led out of the small canyon. The Hummer took the slope like an expert rock climber. Within

seconds they were safe on high ground, while their pursuers fought the rough terrain below. Scott wasn't hanging around to see if they made it. "They aren't up yet." Rosalie sounded relieved. "We lost them?" "Maybe. But there is only one place we can go. They'll backtrack. So we need to get there first. All we did was buy ourselves some time." Neither one mentioned the radios in the Jeeps. If it were Scott stuck in the middle of a stream and his quarry getting away, he'd call out the copter to take over the pursuit. Rosalie must have been thinking the same thing, because she reached over the seat and pulled the cover off the submachine gun. "Can you use that?" Scott asked without taking his eyes off the rugged ground. The main trail was only a half mile or so away with another eight miles to the river. "Yes. The DEA trained me." Rosalie checked out the weapon. She loaded a magazine, locked it, and cradled it in her arms. "Good." Scott gunned the big vehicle up a small incline in top gear and leapt onto the main trail. Switching into over-drive, Scott pushed the Hummer up to sixty miles an hour. The machine responded like the hardened thoroughbred it was. So far, so good. No bogies in his rear view mirror. No air search in sight -- yet. He'd counted his chickens too soon. "Do you hear that?" Rosalie asked as she lifted her head. "I think it's the helicopter." Scott didn't know how she could hear anything above the road noise, the sound of the big engine, and a rapidly building thunderstorm, but he didn't doubt her. He took the car up to seventy and started to scan above and ahead of them. One-handed, Scott reached over and unlatched the windshield on Rosalie's side, then did the same on his. The windshield now lay flat on the hood of the car. Due to the weight of the tempered glass, it bounced only a little with the movement of the car. The rush of air into his face was a necessary evil. His sunglasses would keep most debris and bugs out of his eyes. He didn't want to get cut with flying

glass. Rosalie reached forward and shoved the hood latches into place. Now, the windshield was fully secured. Removing her hand gun from her belt, she aimed over the back of her seat and shot out the rear window. After replacing her handgun, she turned her head and smiled at Scott. "I'm ready." "You sure are, sweetheart. They won't know what hit 'em." "At least we have more of a chance then my poor Julio had. He hated guns." Scott's reply was cut off by the sound of a helicopter approaching. "They're coming up behind us. Fast. Wait for your shot. I'll be doing evasive maneuvers." "Understood." Rosalie released the shoulder harness. Lowering the back of her seat down to about a sixty-degree angle, she twisted, then braced the automatic weapon on the back of it. "If I miss them coming from behind, how much time do you think I'll have before they come around at us from the front?" "Not much. That copter is highly maneuverable in tight combat situations. Maybe ten seconds tops. And they can come at us from anywhere. Be prepared to shoot through the Hummer's roof if they sweep over us. I'll try to give you clear shots. Listen for my signals. That is, if you miss them on the first go round." "In other words, don't miss." Rosalie's dry tone reassured Scott. She understood that they were sitting ducks. The first fly-by would be crucial. By the sound of things, the copter was very close. Scott couldn't see it. The overhang of the forest was thick and impenetrable. Their pursuers couldn't see them, either. And with the copter's noise, they couldn't hear the Hummer to shoot at them. He and Rosalie were safe until they emerged from the tunnel of trees. "We'll be out of the overhang within a quarter mile," he said. "Got your shot picked out?" "Yes. I take out the back rotor. Correct?" "That's a plan. Can you do it?"

Rosalie didn't answer. She was staring out the back of the Hummer, her hand on the trigger. She seemed to be mouthing prayers. Adding a few words himself, Scott prepared to keep them out of the line of fire. They hit the open road going sixty-five miles an hour. Scott started evasive maneuvers, swerving in an erratic pattern. The helicopter was on them like a giant mosquito looking for blood. Gunfire followed, but the copter had difficulty keeping up with Scott's crazy-quilt pattern. So far, the shots lagged behind them. The Hummer's body armor was not as thick as a tank, but thicker then a normal automobile. Scott prayed the copter's ammo wasn't armor-piercing. Rosalie hadn't taken a single shot. "Rosalie!" Scott's shout seemed to blow back in his face. "Shut up!" she said. "I'm trying to concentrate." Scott laughed. She was fine, although he wasn't sure about himself. His heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest. If he wasn't careful, he'd hyperventilate. He concentrated on breathing. The sound of the submachine gun erupting next to him caused his heart to leap from his aching chest into his throat. He swerved in a less-than-controlled manner. The motion threw Rosalie against the passenger door. After a particularly foul four-letter word, Rosalie snapped, "Watch it! I almost had the bastards." Rosalie swore once more, in Spanish this time. Scott laughed. He'd heard enough of the guttural Spanish to know that the men-in-the-helicopter's ancestors should be turning over in their graves. His partner was one tough lady. He wondered if Julio had ever realized that. Maybe he was watching over them, cheering them on. _Hey, Julio. If you're watching, help us out. Okay, buddy?_ Scott swerved to miss a large hole. Rosalie swore some more. "Forest overhang ahead," he said. "How we doin'?" Rosalie mumbled something he couldn't quite catch. Another burst of gunfire from the powerful gun punctuated her inaudible comments. Then the cool darkness of the forest archway swept over the vehicle, hiding it

from sight.. "They'll try to get ahead of us, won't they?" Rosalie swung around to face forward, then braced the gun on the dashboard. "Got half a magazine left. That should do it. I nicked the pilot. The co-pilot took over. There are three of them in the copter. I can't seem to get the rotor in my sights. I may have hit one of the auxiliary tanks, but..." "They'll have enough fuel in the main one to outlast us to the river," Scott finished for her. "Well, you'll just have to get them when we come out of the tunnel." "Okay." A hitch in Rosalie's voice caused him to look at her. She stared at him. No, she stared at his arm. It was then he felt the sting. He'd been hit and hadn't even realized it. Blood oozed from a wound on his upper arm. "You've been hit! You're bleeding." Rosalie's voice, although calm on the surface, held hints of underlying hysteria. Scott maneuvered around a fallen branch and slowed the vehicle down to fifty miles an hour. Let the damn copter wait on them a bit. He couldn't have his gunner flying into hysterics over his little flesh wound. "I'm fine." He hoped his voice would reassure her. "Then, why are you slowing down?" "To show you I'm okay." Rosalie ripped a piece of her shirt off and wrapped it tightly around his wound. The pressure eased some of the sting. "I want them in position at the end of this forest tunnel," he continued. "They'll be expecting us to come out straight at them -- giving them a clear shot." Rosalie picked up the gun once more and resumed position. "But we won't be giving them one, will we?" "Nope. Hold on, partner." Scott angled off the road, then maneuvered through the thick swampy under-growth. The Hummer pulled through the marshy ground like a duck in water. From the sound of the hovering motors, Scott estimated the position of the copter. He slowed, then paralleled the road, using the natural cover to hide the

Hummer, as he circumvented the enemy. "Bingo. Gotcha, you son-of-a-bitches," he said as he pulled to a position intersecting the road behind the copter. Still hidden by abundant ground cover, the Hummer's smooth-idling motor couldn't be heard above the copter's whining engines. "Think you can hit the bastard now -- or do you want me to do it?" Rosalie grinned. "No, thanks. It's my kill." She sighted carefully. As she pulled the trigger, she yelled, "This is for you, Julio." Rosalie emptied the magazine into the rear rotor, nearly shredding the tail assembly. The copter hung for a moment then fell from the sky like a whirling dervish. It crashed into the road just short of the forest tunnel, effectively blocking the road from any land pursuers. Then it erupted into a fire ball. Before the copter had hit bottom, Scott gunned the engine of the Hummer and broke onto the road. They were half a mile away, before the falling debris from the explosion littered the space they'd previously occupied. Rosalie ejected the empty magazine, slapped a fresh one into place, and locked down the gun before she set it on the back seat. She pulled a First Aid kit from the glove box. "Pull over, Scott. I need to clean and bandage the wound before you pick up some exotic jungle germ." "No. We've got to keep going. It's okay. It'll wait until we're at the village." Rosalie glared at him. Scott chuckled. "Hey, honest. It's just a scrape. Maybe a piece of metal or something hit me from when one of the bullets hit the Humvee. The pressure bandage you applied has already slowed the bleeding. I'll be okay." "Okay. But if you're wrong, I'll kill you myself." "If I'm wrong, I'll deserve it." **** Scott was correct -- it was only a deep gash. Rosalie cleaned it out, then left it open to drain, using butterfly bandages to pull the ragged edges together. It wouldn't be as smooth a scar as a sutured wound, but stitching in this damp climate would only have promoted bacterial growth. He'd keep it clean, medicated and bandaged. He'd be fine.

The village medicine man gave them some tree bark. Sam told Scott the bark was good for infections. He didn't doubt it. The rain forests, swamp and forest lands of Brazil probably had plants that could cure a lot of medical problems. Time and modern man were the enemies of the Brazilian wilderness. Scott humored the medicine man and Rosalie and drank some tea made from the bark. The toothless medicine man chattered some words at Sam, while gesturing between Scott and Rosalie. Sam smiled. "He said you would do fine. Just let your woman nurse you and stay away from bullets in the future." "Tell him I will." Scott smiled at the old man. He turned to see how Rosalie had handled the old man's innuendo. Her face was red. The man had embarrassed her. Scott wondered if he was red in the face, too. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to take Rosalie into his arms and love her. Then guilt struck. He loved Jeannie -- had always loved Jeannie. He felt lower than a swamp snake. "Scott. You're human." Rosalie stared at his face, where he was sure his lust and guilt blazed like a neon sign. "You love Jeannie, but you're human. I still mourn Julio, but that doesn't mean I don't find you attractive. What's important is that neither one of us is going to act on those feelings. We are honorable people." "Thanks. You hit it on the head. Neither one of us is dead, and I mean to keep us that way. Let's move it." Scott said good-bye to the village elders and the medicine man. Then, he proceeded to the boat where Sam and Rosalie had already climbed in and sat waiting. They'd stripped the Humvee of all weapons and survival gear they might need. Added to what they'd packed and what Sam had loaded for the lengthy trip to Brasilia, they were as ready as they would ever be. Scott climbed into the boat next to Sam and across from Rosalie. Sam fired up the small motor. For the first leg of the trip, the small boat would go under power. Sam had assured him that there were enough _fazendas_ along the route to buy or barter for more gasoline. But later, Scott knew, some of the tributaries segued into marsh lands flooded by the heavier than normal October rains and they would have less clearance. Then the motor would be useless. At that point, Sam and Scott would

alternately pole and row the dugout canoe which was a lot like a bayou pirogue. The goal was to connect, eventually, to the great Araguaia River, which traversed the Pantanal and flowed into the Goias region. There, at this time of the year, the great river would connect through various tributaries to take them directly into Brasilia. Scott had heard that the land through which the great river flowed was often called "The Garden of Eden" for its high concentration of wildlife. It was one of the last and largest nature refuges in the world, not yet mortally harmed by man. If it weren't for the life-threatening nature of their journey, Scott would enjoy the upcoming trip. To him swamps were swamps, and he'd always loved exploring the Manchac with Paul. "Scott, where did you go just now?" He turned. Rosalie sat in the rear of the boat. She eyed the dark waters, made even more leaden with the thick cloud cover and the lush overgrowth of the swamp forest. He couldn't believe his eyes. She who had shot down an armed helicopter seemed afraid of the river. "I was thinking about all the interesting things we'll be seeing on our trip. This area of Brazil is full of life." Scott reached forward and took her hands in his in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "Don't be afraid of the swamp and the jungle. Think of it as a large nature habitat, like at Disney World. I'll let you know when there is danger." "Sam won't let you be hurt, senorita. The Pantanal and later the Araguaia are beautiful and full of wondrous things. Sam will show you, also." The little man nodded his head for emphasis as he cheerfully piloted them into the middle of the waterway. "See the caiman?" Sam laughed and pointed to a place over Rosalie's shoulder. "They are taking their siesta. The rocks -- they are still warm from the sun." Scott eyed the large reptiles. "They are bigger than the caiman in Louisiana," he said. "If we leave them alone, they'll leave us alone. We're too big for a meal." Sam chortled. "Yes, yes. Too big. They seek the smaller food, like fish and turtles." Rosalie sighed, then gifted the two men with a small smile. "I looked that scared, huh?" "Yep." Scott smiled back and let go of her hands after a gentle squeeze. "I

couldn't believe you were scared. I mean, you took that copter out like a seasoned Marine." "I don't like river travel." She turned and pointed out a large bird taking flight ahead of their boat. "What's that?" Scott took her abrupt question as a hint to change the subject. If she wanted him to know why she didn't like traveling on rivers, she'd tell him. She'd proven herself to be courageous and able. She'd do what had to get done. He and Sam would help her. Scott studied the bird. "Looks like an egret, but it isn't quite the same. Sam?" Sam's answer showed he'd been following their conversation closely. His English learned in a missionary school was excellent. "It is a _curicaca_, what you call an ibis." He gestured toward a stand of trees. "See near the lower branches? The _curicaca_ nest there. A little higher see the nests for other swamp birds. That is a _ninhais_, a nesting place. This is where they nest during the day. At night they move to other trees and have their night-time resting place called a _dormitorios._ As Rosalie quizzed Sam on why the birds felt the need to have two separate nesting areas, Scott scanned both banks of the small waterway. They were being watched. Not by the enemy, they wouldn't be after them just yet, but by the curious eyes of local natives. Scott wasn't too worried. The locals along this part of the journey would know that the three were not a danger to them. Sam had explained the native telegraph. The watching eyes would assure them of safe passage, at least until they were out of Sam's tribal lands. Later, when they hit the less-traveled part of the swampy region, who would threaten first? The wildlife or the natives or One World's mercenaries? -------CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT _Manchac, Louisiana -- October 30th._ Jeanette and Mama Chloe baked cookies for the Halloween carnival at the local elementary school. Instead of trick-or-treating from house-to-house, the town of Manchac held a carnival every year so the students could have a safe environment to celebrate Halloween. The carnival featured lots of games, treats and entertainment, including a Haunted House in the high school gym. Brigitte looked forward to attending. Jeanette was thrilled that her daughter had adjusted so well to attending the public school. The little girl had already made lots of new friends. Mama Chloe knew everyone in town and made sure that

Brigitte -- and Jeanette -- felt welcome. A loud noise from the front of the house disturbed the peaceful atmosphere in the cozy kitchen. The racket was followed by hurried, heavy footsteps. The sudden intrusion had both women gasping. As one, they turned toward the door which led to the front hallway. "Who's making all that commotion?" Mama Chloe recovered first. She wiped orange frosting off her hands as she stepped toward the doorway. Frenchy, one of the local fisherman and Mama Chloe's beau, rushed in. He held a rifle in his strong, weathered hands. For such a friendly man, he looked too comfortable with the deadly looking weapon. Jeanette shivered at the sight. While omnipresent gun racks in the local men's pickup trucks blatantly advertised that this was NRA country, she couldn't recall ever seeing any of them carrying the guns quite so openly. And especially not into someone's house. "Is it Brigitte? Is something wrong?" She ripped off the apron she wore and threw it on the counter. "What's happened? Why are you carrying a gun?" "We got us some big time trouble coming. We need to get you women hidden away back in the bayou. There's some strangers in town who've been asking questions about Scott -- and you gals." Frenchy went to the storage closet off the kitchen where he pulled out another rifle and a couple of boxes of shells. "Chloe, _cher_, you've been practicing with this like I taught you?" "I can hit any vermin I aim at, Frenchy, and you know it." Mama took the gun. "Where we gonna go? The hunting cabin?" "Yeah. Tony put out a call for reinforcements from his agency. He's picking up Little Bits from school. Floyd sent the nosey bastards on a short trip the wrong way up the road, but they'll soon realize he steered them wrong. They'll be back. You need to be gone." Jeanette ran out of the kitchen and into her bedroom. Pulling a bag from the closet, she threw some clothes into it, then proceeded to do the same for her daughter. Anything she didn't remember, she didn't need. Cursing her clumsiness, she finally zipped the bag. Jeanette shuddered. She'd never pictured the taciturn Cajun as an alarmist, but his fear was tangible. Rutherford had somehow tracked her down. Had he connected her to Scott and his hometown? _Oh my God!_ Had something happened to Scott? Had they captured him? Tortured him? Was that how they'd found out about

Manchac? Swearing under her breath, she ran back to the kitchen. Throwing the bag on the floor, she grabbed the satellite phone from the counter. She hit the redial and waited for the phone to connect. Then she listened as it disconnected. The signal wasn't going through. Cursing once more, she dialed the number Scott had given her for One World headquarters at San Jacinto. Frenchy and Mama Chloe stood with mouths open at the swear words that seemed to tumble effortlessly from her lips as she waited for someone to answer. "Who you calling?" Frenchy finally asked. "Scott." Mama Chloe's eyes reflected confusion, followed quickly by shocked realization. Now she, too, uttered a combination of prayers and swear words. She'd finally made the connection to Frenchy's words about the men asking after not just Jeanette, but Scott. Frustrated, Jeanette whispered, "Come on, answer, God damn it." "_Hola_. San Jacinto _fazenda_." "Is Dr. Scott Fontenot there, please?" She hoped the person on the other end understood enough English. "Who is calling, please?" "His sister." Mama Chloe smiled and mouthed the words "smart girl." "He is not here, _senorita._ May I take a message?" "When will he be back?" "I am not sure. There is some confusion here. May I take a message?" "No. Thank you." Jeanette hung up. "They said he wasn't there, and they aren't sure when he'll be back. They said there was some confusion." Tears streamed down her face. "I think Scott is in trouble." "You don't know that. Remember, he said he was leaving. He probably did that last night. He's long gone, _cher_." Mama Chloe came over and hugged her. "We need to leave."

"But what if he calls? We won't be here." "We'll have someone come and check the machine." Mama pulled her around and gave her a gentle shove. "Now go get your bag. Tony just drove up." Jeanette started to move, then stopped. "We need to call Evan. Tell him what's going on and that we're leaving. Tell him to use the cell phone number he has to contact me." "Good idea, _cher_. I'll do that. You scoot on out there and comfort your daughter." Mama nudged her toward the door. "Oh damn." Jeanette kicked her bag. "Brigitte was so looking forward to the Halloween Carnival tomorrow night. Now she'll miss it." "Plenty of other carnivals in her future," Frenchy said in his calm way. "Go on, get out there and into the boat. We'll bring some of these cookies and have us our own Halloween party in the bayou." Jeanette couldn't argue with his logic. Once again, she was forced to run. But she was tired of running. She wanted to confront the bastard who'd made her life a living hell. Yet, all those around her assured her it wasn't the time to stand and fight. Jeanette was afraid that when it was, she wouldn't measure up, that she would let all those counting on her -- Lynn Barrios, Evan, Scott, Mama, Brigitte -down. **** Frenchy's air boat whisked them smoothly across the surface of the black waters of the swamp. From the town of Manchac, they headed deep into the back of the bayou. The heavily treed waters provided just enough room for the skilled boatman to maneuver his craft among the large-rooted mangroves. Spanish moss hung down from the denuded trees. The plentiful moss, which was a form of fungus, brushed the boat's inhabitants' heads and shoulders. This area of the swamp seemed as stagnant as the water. Or maybe it was just the fact that fall had come with winter just around the corner. All was deathly still in preparation for a long winter's sleep. Shivering at the gloomy surroundings, Jeanette couldn't help but remember a story she'd read in school about a man who'd traveled into the back of the beyond, away from all civilization, and found not the enlightenment or the riches he sought, but insanity. Was she traveling into her own "heart of darkness?" Would she, like Conrad's Kurtz, find only horror when the thin veneer of culture was stripped away, revealing the true and violent nature every human had lying just beneath? Would she waiver and abandon her faith? How could she maintain the teachings of her Church and society when someone

wished to kill her? Harm her daughter and those she loved? "The horror. The horror," she whispered. Was this how Kurtz had felt? Empty. Soulless. Helpless in the face of violence and true evil. "Mama!" Brigitte's excited voice drew her from the dark well of depression into which she'd sunk. "Look!" Jeanette followed the line of her daughter's pointing finger. A great white egret flew on a beam of sunlight. It landed on the surface of the water just in front of their boat. Frenchy slowed to a crawl. The kingly bird eyed them as he floated on the gently rolling swamp surface. Brigitte's excited voice played in the background of Jeanette's conscious mind, but she couldn't take her eyes off the regal bird. As the boat floated within a few feet of the resting animal, his head bowed down. Jeanette thought he wanted to catch his dinner, just below the water's surface. But she was wrong. As she continued to gaze at the magnificent creature, he lifted his crowned head and met her eyes. She could have sworn he nodded to her, before taking off on a ray of sunlight, back to the tops of the trees, then off to the sky. Lingering in aftermath of the great bird's skyward path, Jeanette thought she heard Paul's voice saying: _"You are safe here."_ Or maybe it was just the egret's farewell cry. But somewhere deep in her soul she knew no harm would come to her or hers in the bayou. All fear, all the darkness in her soul followed the great bird on his flight. Her faith had been restored by the nod of one of God's creatures. Before turning back to Brigitte, she sent a prayer of safety for Scott on the beam of sunlight now fading with the dusk. -------CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE _Pantanal Region, Brazil, November 30th_ Through the overhang of swamp trees lining a minor tributary of the Araguaia River, Scott searched the leaden sky. It had rained for most of the month it had taken them to travel this far, and the skies didn't show signs of letting up anytime soon.

Ignoring the burning pain in his arm, he deftly guided the small boat. Sam had assured him that the waterways would be deep enough to use the mighty little outboard until they reached Brasilia. The closer to civilization they got, the more likely the rivers would be dredged to promote water traffic and the commerce it brought. In the last two days they'd seen three large floating hotels conveying tourists on wildlife expeditions. Last night they had stayed at a hotel-_fazenda,_ and had debated joining one of the tours as it traveled back toward civilization. They'd decided against it. The closer they got to civilization, the more likely they would be caught by One World mercenaries. No use exposing innocent tourists to danger. Their one deadly meeting with Lopez's hirelings two weeks ago was still fresh in Scott's mind. Since then, they'd been lucky. If you called dealing with man-eating caimans, sapping sauna-like heat, constant, often torrential rains, and living off the river and land lucky. For a time during the attack, Scott had thought they'd bought the farm for sure. Besides a little help from whatever gods were watching over the trio, he'd had his Marine training to thank for saving their hides. Not to mention, able sidekicks in the form of loyal Sam and a gutsy Rosalie. The day of the attack had been much like today. Partially overcast, it had stopped raining. The clouds and the forest overhang spared them the intermittent appearance of the hot sun which turned the humid air and the cool surface of the river into a steam bath. Sam had just put into shore to find lunch and, with luck, supper. The able guide had proven adept at reading the signs of wildlife, and he thought he'd seen evidence of a herd of capybara, a sort of a pig-like creature, watering along the stretch of water on which they traveled. He hoped to catch a small one, butcher it, and cook it for a hot noon meal with the leftovers taking care of the evening meal when they next made camp. For most of the trip, when they couldn't find a river _fazenda_ or a friendly village, they'd camp out. Both Scott and Sam had wanted to avoid fires at night for a variety of reasons, but mostly to avoid attracting both two-legged and four-legged predators. Most nights, they slept anchored slightly off-shore, away from predators and shoreline insects. On the day of the attack, after they had anchored the boat in knee-deep water, Rosalie and Scott had searched the jungle areas for fruit and edible plants while Sam walked deeper into the jungle. The boat had scared the capybara away from the water's edge. Sam would have to track them to their land shelter. Scott couldn't recall exactly how it happened, but somehow Rosalie had

wandered off, out of his sight. He had been getting ready to go find her when he heard her scream. The following hours had been dicey. Sam and he had combined their skills and knowledge in order to divide and conquer the mercenaries who'd been sent to kill them. Rosalie had been saved, and all of her kidnappers slain. They'd left the bodies for the jungle to dispose of. The circle of life and death was a part of the jungle. The strong survived and the weak became food. Scott hadn't wanted to hang around long enough to discover where in the grand scheme of things the three of them fit. Yet, for that one day, Sam, Rosalie and he were the strong, because they had survived. "Scott?" Rosalie's touch on his arm caused him to gasp. The wound he'd received in their flight from San Jacinto had been giving him fits in the last few days. They'd run out of the medicine man's healing bark and the First Aid kit's antibiotics days ago. It was a good thing they were getting closer to civilization. Rosalie gentled her touch. He tried to tell her he was okay. Her fingers now stroked his forehead. The soothing motion reminded him of Jeannie. She'd touched him that way once, when he'd had a bad cold. But he'd had a fever that time. He was sure he didn't have one now. In fact, he was freezing. Damn, it would be nice to see Jeannie and Little Bits again. Another week or so to make Brasilia. And with any luck, they would be on a plane out of there the same day they arrived. He could be back in New Orleans in less than two weeks -- if everything went as planned. If. "Scott?" Rosalie's voice was louder now. Why was she yelling? "Scott. You don't look well." Her touch on his forehead felt like burning needles. Why was the boat going in circles? "Sam! Help me, he's falling..." Into a swirling vortex, down, down he went. Faster and faster. So fast that the bottom came up to meet him, then he knew no more.

-------CHAPTER FORTY _December 14th, a fazenda one week outside of Brasilia._ Wading up through a thick fog of unconsciousness, Scott felt disoriented. The room was dark. No light of any kind filtered into the space. All around him was colored in varying shades of black. He could not ever remember being anywhere this dark. He lifted his head off the bed, then immediately dropped it back to a flat, hard pillow. Flashes of red and yellow pin dots of light swam across his field of vision. What was wrong with him? Where was he? A hospital? He sniffed the air. There was a musky scent in the room. Definitely not a medicinal smell. It was too quiet for the normal 24/7 hustle and bustle of a hospital. Keeping his head motionless, he lifted a shaky arm and investigated his immediate surroundings. His fingers found a warm body, close to him, but not quite touching. The soft flesh felt female. A low moan, then a breathy sigh confirmed the identification. "Scott?" A sleep-filled female voice spoke. "At last. You are awake." He was confused. Why was Rosalie in his bed? He remembered Jeannie being there. That must have been a dream, mere nocturnal wishful thinking. "Rosalie?" Was that his weak, thready voice? "Yes." Cool fingers reached out and stroked his forehead. "It is Rosalie." "What happened?" His throat ached. His mouth felt dry and tasted like crap. "Water?" A glass touched his lips and he drank greedily until he could take no more. "You've been very ill. Sam and I were very worried." "What day is it?" "It is December 14th." The fourteenth? He had been unconscious since November 30th. "Where are we?"

"Sam got us to a _fazenda_ about a week out of Brasilia." Rosalie sat up in the bed and turned on a light. "We couldn't chance taking you any further. You were burning up and the root medicines Sam found were barely keeping the fever in check. You had become delirious, and we were afraid you would do harm to yourself." Damn. What had been happening in Louisiana while he'd been out of commission? Was Jeannie alive? Did she think he'd abandoned her? "Jeannie." "I managed to contact your mother's house. No one was there. I left a message telling them you were safe and not to worry." Rosalie's worried gaze captured his. "Was that okay? Did I do right? I was afraid to tell them too much -- I wasn't sure who would be getting the message." Scott smiled. "That was perfect. Thank you. I'm hungry. Is there anything to eat?" He wasn't really, but he knew he had to gain his strength back. Rosalie swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. "I'll get the manager to find you some nourishing food. Sam and I have only been able to get some fluids, the root medicines and some soup down you." "Where is Sam?" "He is asleep across the hall." Rosalie opened the door. "We took turns watching over you. I couldn't have done this without his help. He has been a godsend." "I'll make sure he is rewarded." Scott lay on his back while Rosalie went to order his food. Now that he was fully conscious, he realized he had no clothes on. He blushed. Chancing the dizziness that had overcome him earlier, Scott pushed himself up in the bed. His arms shook with the effort, but he managed. He saw his clothes hanging over the back of a chair near the door. Maybe he could get his pants on before Rosalie returned. Carefully, he sat up on the side of the bed. As he leveraged his arms to either side of him, he came into contact with something sticky. He raised his fingers to his nose. Sex. The substance smelled like sex. Fresh sex. Scott groaned. The dreams he recalled must have not been dreams. What had

he done? By the time Rosalie returned with a tray of simple food, Scott had managed to get his pants on. The effort had taken what little strength he had. He barely made it back to bed before he collapsed on top of the covers. "Scott." Rosalie's voice and face scolded. "You shouldn't have gotten up without someone to help you. You are still too weak." "Not so weak that I couldn't take advantage of you." Scott looked anywhere but at Rosalie. "Did I hurt you?" "No." Rosalie set the tray down on the bedside table. Taking Scott's chin in her hands, she turned his head toward her. "Look at me. We took our ease with one another. You thought ... you thought I was Jeannie." Scott closed his eyes. "Rosalie, I..." "No! Don't you dare apologize. You did nothing wrong." She stroked the hair off his forehead. "It was good. No harm was done. You needed Jeannie, and I was here. And to be honest, I needed Julio -- and you were here. Neither of us has anything to be ashamed of. Nothing." Scott nodded. He understood what Rosalie said, but he still felt disloyal to Jeannie. How would he explain this to her? Would he explain this to her? "Here." Rosalie shoved a spoon in his hand. "Eat this. Get your strength back. You'll do the right thing when the time comes." "What do you mean?" "You were wondering how to tell your woman about us." "How did you know?" "You are an honorable man, like my Julio." Rosalie spread a napkin on his lap. "He would have told me -- and like your Jeannie will do, I would have forgiven him. So, stop your worrying and eat. We need to get to Brasilia and finish this, so we can all go home and resume our lives." Scott just smiled and shook his head. She was right. He would tell Jeannie -and God willing, Rosalie called it correctly, Jeannie would forgive him. **** _December 24th, outskirts of Brasilia._ Scott glanced around the smoky cantina located on Lake Paranoa. No one seemed to be taking undue notice of his travel-weary group. Sam and Rosalie were using the facilities to freshen up. They would eat one last meal

here before making their way across the various sectors of Brasilia to reach the Embassy Sector where the United States had its delegation. In some ways, this could be the most dangerous part of their trip. The streets of most cities in Brazil were more dangerous than the rainforests. The predators here walked on two legs and often used the clothing of authority to commit the most heinous crimes. Scott would bet that many of the children's organs sent out of the country by One World were taken from the multitudes of street children who lived and begged on the avenues and promenades of one of the most modern cities in the world. It wouldn't be much longer now. Rosalie and he would stop One World. "Ready?" Rosalie said. He hadn't heard Rosalie and Sam approach. "Yeah, I'm ready." Scott stood up. Turning to Sam, he pulled a plastic wallet filled with traveler's checks and held it out. "Here. Take this. I've endorsed them over to you. Any of the banks here will cash them." "Senor Scott." Sam's dark face turned red. "I no need your money. I bring you here so you stop the bad people from hurting anymore of my people." "Rosalie and I will still do that, Sam. But I want you to take this. Buy whatever your village needs." Scott reached over and shoved the small wallet into Sam's shirt pocket. "My address and phone number are in there. If you ever need anything, get word to me or mine. We'll see that you get it." "Thank you." Sam's eyes shined with moisture. "I will stay with you until you get to the Embassy." Scott shook his head. "There's no need. You've done enough getting us here." "I go to Embassy. Make sure you get there safe. Then my job will be done." Scott could tell by the resolute look on Sam's face that he would follow them no matter what Scott said. "Okay, but stay behind us. Don't take any chances." Sam nodded. "_Si,_ I will how you gringos say 'cover your ass.'" "Yes, Sam," Rosalie said with a chuckle. "That is exactly how we say it." **** With darkness on their side, the three set out for the United States Embassy. Scott led the way. He held the automatic weapon close to his body. He hoped

he wouldn't have to use it. The CD-ROM with the files was sealed in plastic and taped to his side below his armpit. A stray shot would have less chances of hitting the vital info there. Rosalie had a companion CD-ROM taped in a similar matter. Hers contained the pictures taken of the victims of One World, along with photos of the drug operations. The information they carried on the two, small disks should be enough to start the investigations that would lead to the arrest and incarceration of One World's administration. More important, it would discredit Dr. Byron Rutherford and force the New Orleans' federal prosecutor to charge the doctor with a myriad of crimes. Jeannie would be safe -- for Rutherford was sure to spend time in jail. Silently, the threesome moved through the shadowy streets of Brasilia. An occasional shout of laughter floated through an open window. The rustling of little feet betrayed the presence of some street children as they scurried away from the strangers in their midst. But on the whole, deathly silence accompanied their journey. At times it was so quiet that Scott could hear the accelerated breathing of his companions. As they got closer to the embassy sector, the atmosphere changed. Now, open doorways of bars and houses of prostitution allowed the raucous noise of people to escape into the streets. Intermittent street lights cast long shadows. Then they acquired an extra set of shadows -- ominous ones that moved from place to place, following, then stopping, then following. Never quite close enough for Scott to see who they were. They could be robbers. They could be the body police looking for fresh organs. One World was not the only body mafia in the South American country. They could be common criminals out to see what they could get. Or, they could be from One World. Scott sensed Rosalie close the gap between them. Sensed Sam move in to back up Rosalie. The trackers would have to make their move soon -- before the embassy appeared. "Stay close." Scott's harsh whisper carried no further than his companions. "We're going to lead them on a merry chase. When we get within sight of the embassy walls, I want you both to run for it. I'll hang back and create a diversion that will bring out the Marines to see what's going on." "But Scott..." "Just do it. I'll be fine. If I don't make it, make sure the Marines get the disk off my body before the bastards get it."

Brasilia's streets were shaped like boomerangs. Evenly spaced cross-streets intersected the parallel streets. From the map Scott studied, he knew that as long as he kept the main curved street in his sights he could not get lost. He might have to back track some to get to the cross-street that led to the U.S. Embassy, but get there he would. There were many potential ways of reaching his goal, so he could keep his pursuers guessing. For the next ten minutes, Scott wove his way through the streets and alleyways of the main part of town. Soon he would have to make the perpendicular cut to the Embassy's cross-street. He hadn't heard or seen his pursuers for a few minutes. It was highly likely they would have some people lying in wait at the embassy. Scott only hoped he would see them and could take them out before the pursuers caught up. He held his hand up, then pulled his companions into a shadowed doorway. He listened. No sounds of close pursuit. "We have a small lead," he said. A rustling noise close by. Scott paused. Listened. A rustle then a squeak. He let out the breath he'd held. Only a rat. "If my calculations are correct, the next street over is embassy row. The U.S. Embassy should be half-way down the street on the right-hand side." "Won't there be some of them waiting for us?" Rosalie asked. "Yes. That's why I'll go first to take them out." "No, Senor Scott." Sam spoke for the first time since they left the cantina. "I will also help take out the watchers." "Okay. Sam, you parallel the embassy from the next street over and come at the embassy from the far side. I'll take the side closest to this position. You see anyone who doesn't look like a U.S. Marine, take them out quietly." Rosalie said, "Where will I be?" "You stay with me. I'll hide you so you can see the embassy and my approach." Scott tipped her chin up and caught her gaze. "Don't make your move to the front gate until I signal you." "How? How will you signal?" "I'll whistle." "Okay."

"If the ones who are following us manage to catch up, they'll not be quiet when they realize we are close and their compatriots have fallen. So shoot to kill. I'll yell for help." Scott placed a hand on each of their shoulders and squeezed. "I couldn't have asked for two better traveling companions. Thank you. God bless you both." Sam nodded and left to make his way to his assigned task. Scott pulled Rosalie next to him. "Stay close. Keep your gun at hand. Ready?" "Ready." Scott set out, hugging the walls of the buildings. The next cross-street was labeled Via N-1 Este. He turned right, once again staying in the shadows as much as possible. While not as brightly lit as the main streets, the gas lights and gate lamps on each embassy shined enough to light their way. He and Rosalie approached the U.S. embassy from the opposite side of the street. When they were two houses away, he halted and pulled Rosalie into an alcove on what was the entryway to the Canadian embassy. All was quiet. Scott signaled for her to stay and to keep her eyes open. Rosalie nodded. He crossed the street and cut into a small esplanade of trees between the U.S. facility and the neighboring embassy. The preternatural sense that had saved his skin so many times in the Marines told him that someone was hiding in the bushes that lined the brick wall of the embassy. He stopped. Listened. Sniffed. Smoke. Stupid, stupid. Scott stalked the careless hunters. There were two of them. He could tell by the small red ash on their cigarettes. Carefully, soundlessly, he drew his knives. If he timed it correctly, he could take both of them out with no one the wiser. Stealthily, he moved. His feet caused no more sound than the wind rustling the leaves on the trees. From somewhere within the United States embassy, music played. Sounds of quiet laughter filtered through the trees. The clink of glasses and silverware carried clearly on the night air.

The ambassador was entertaining. The noise from the open windows would aid in covering his approach. When he was within ten feet, he stopped. Again, he listened. No one approached him from behind. His only enemy lay ahead. Timing was everything. They would not cry for help, because they were in a place they shouldn't be. Their counter-attack would have to be as silent as his assault. Taking in a slow deep breath through his nose, Scott let it out in a silent rush of air. His knives at ready, he attacked. The last ten feet crept by in slow motion. Both men faced the street. His approach was on their flank side. At the last minute, the man closest to him must have sensed his approach. He turned and aimed his weapon at Scott. Scott threw his larger knife. It hit the man in the forehead. The man and his weapon fell to the ground. The second man rushed to meet Scott. The flash of silver indicated he also had a knife. Scott's body flowed into the offensive moves of Krav Maga, the Israeli street-fighting he'd learned during Desert Storm. His boot hit the man's elbow. The knife fell to the ground. Scott knew the man's arm would be numbed from the harsh kick. With no conscious effort, Scott reached for the man's head and slashed at the same time. The second man dropped to the ground, his life's blood draining rapidly from the surgical slash across the carotid. The silent attack took mere seconds. Scott stooped to retrieve the knife from the first man's forehead. He wiped it on the grass and slid it back into the sheath attached to his thigh. He repeated the motions for the other knife. Then he patted the disk taped to his side. Walking away from the bodies, he stopped at the corner of the brick wall. He peeked around the corner and looked toward the opposite end of the embassy enclosure. He wondered if Sam had encountered any opposition. A quick glance told him nothing, so he chanced another. Sam stood at the far end. Scott could make out his white smile. Scott sighed his relief. He signaled to Sam to make his way to the front of the embassy. Then he stepped out and whistled. Rosalie broke away from her hiding place.

All hell broke loose. Shots were fired. They came from behind Rosalie. "Run, Rosalie!" he shouted. "Keep your head down. Zigzag fashion." Lights on the corners of the embassy walls flashed on, spotlighting Rosalie. Scott turned and shot them out. He let out a rebel yell, then shouted, "_Semper fi._" An American voice shouted, "What the hell?" Scott let out another rebel yell, another "_Semper fi._" An echoing rebel yell came from the embassy gates. Confident that his rear was now covered, Scott turned. Rosalie lay in the middle of the street, firing her gun back at the men who shot at her. Scott aimed a swath of automatic weapon fire beyond Rosalie to where the men hid. The attackers continued to fire. Bullets sizzled past Scott. One caught the edge of his shirt. He slapped at the smoldering cloth with one hand while he continued to fire his weapon. As he reached Rosalie, she struggled to get to him. Her gasp and low moan told him she'd been hit. He pulled her up under his left arm and backed away from the attack, half-carrying, half-dragging her. He fired wildly in the direction of the shots. "Senor Scott. I cover you." Sam's voice came from close behind and to his right. He let Sam lay down a cover fire while he continued to back up to the embassy walls. Scott sensed rather than saw that Marines lined the upper walls of the embassy. They waited, not firing. Waited to see who was friend, who was foe. For a few precious seconds, Scott leaned against the wall to catch his breath. Sam crouched next to him, still firing. Rosalie moaned and hung limply from his arm. "Yo, Rebel. Identify yourself!" Someone shouted from above. "Dr. Scott Fontenot. Former U.S. Marine, Desert Storm. I have a wounded woman here." "Good enough for me, buddy."

The man yelled orders to lay a cover fire. The sound of automatic weapons thundered over their heads. "Come on, Sam. Let's get our butts in that gate." "_Si, si, senor_." Scott moved laterally toward the gate, which was now open. A Marine showed his head around the corner of the opening. "Doctor, you need help?" "No. Stay back. We'll make it." As Scott gathered Rosalie up into his arms, warning shouts came from above. "The bad asses are making a move." "Stop them, Marines." "Lay protective fire, boys." "Doc. Doc. Move it." The gate marine's urgent voice wasn't necessary. Scott ran toward safety, Sam close on his heels. As he reached the gate, he urged Sam around him. One Marine pulled the native inside. Another reached to take Rosalie, while another grabbed Scott. From the side of the embassy, out of the range and sight of the Marines on the walls, a One World thug ran toward Scott. Scott stiff-armed the Marine grasping his arm, shoving the man to safety. Then he raised his gun and got off several rounds into the attacker. Before he took the man out, a bullet hit Scott high in the chest. As the Marines pulled his limp body into the embassy, his last thoughts were of Jeannie and Little Bits. At least the information he carried would protect them. -------PART THREE The darkest hour is that before the dawn. -- Hazlitt: English Proverbs. -------CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

_December 27th, Manchac, Louisiana_ It had been a Christmas of mixed emotions. Jeanette was thrilled to hear from Scott's partner that they were alive and well and only a week away from their goal. Yet, she hadn't heard anything since. Rutherford and his attorney, Ruel Dubois, had managed to use power and money to get the trial date moved up to January. Today Jeanette would answer questions in deposition. At least Evan had managed to move the location to a neutral place -- Slidell, Louisiana. Rutherford's spies and hired muscle had been scouring the bayous around Manchac, but hadn't managed to find Jeanette's hide-away. Tony, Frenchy and the swamp-men assisting her wanted it to stay that way. All in all, worry had become her closest companion. The site chosen for the deposition was a small restaurant in Slidell, renown far and wide for its home-cooked lunch specials. The owner of the restaurant was a friend of a friend of Evan's family. Frenchy, Tony, and the other two men riding shotgun would hang around the kitchen, chowing down on left-overs. Evan felt her protectors were over-reacting, but had enough common sense to see that she felt safer. Jeanette felt her lawyer had a lot to learn about ruthless people. "Jeanette, _cher,_ we're here," said Frenchy. His heavily accented baritone nudged its way through the miasma of Jeanette's emotions. She exited the car and was immediately surrounded by her four protectors. The restaurant sat silent, sheltered among hundred-year old live oaks. Lingering on the air were the cries of swamp birds and remnant odors of the special _du jour,_ fried fish by the smell of it. The lunch crowd was long gone. She wished she'd been one of them. Wished she could be anywhere but here. But she wasn't. She had to see this through. She couldn't allow Rutherford to harm anymore people. Couldn't allow him to threaten her life and that of her child's. Couldn't let Scott down after he'd put himself at risk. Evan waited for her on the sagging front porch of the small eatery. "Jeanette?" His deep voice soothed the rough edges of her nerves. "You

okay?" She nodded. Tried to speak, coughed, then tried again. "I think so. Just a little shaky." Evan grasped her cold hand with his hot one. "You'll do fine. Just remember. Let Dubois finish the question before responding. Don't rush your answer. Measure your words. Keep your eyes on me. And..." "You'll jump in to protect me whenever possible." Jeanette smiled as she finished Evan's cardinal rules of deposition-giving. "You got it." Evan squeezed her hand gently, then led her inside. The dining area had been set up as a conference room. Four tables were pushed together to form one long one. Ruel Dubois sat on the far side of the table with a young man, probably an assistant. The rest of the table was filled with piles of paper and files. She swallowed hard. Evan leaned down to whisper, "Puts out an impressive front, doesn't he?" "Is that all it is?" she whispered back. "What's in all the files?" Before Evan could answer, a woman said, "Ms. LaFleur. Mr. Devereaux. I'm Ms. Scorpius, the stenographer. I need to get some preliminary information before we start." The business-like brunette held out her hand. Jeanette and Evan shook the proffered hand and followed the woman to the table. Jeanette had been so distracted by Rutherford's attorney that she'd overlooked the small set up to the side of the conference table. Ms. Scorpius took a seat at the extra table upon which sat a laptop computer attached to a contraption with several keys sitting on a pedestal. "What's that?" Jeanette blurted the question without thinking. Her face flamed at a sneering chuckle from the youth at Dubois's side. Ms. Scorpius glared at the young man. Turning to Jeanette, she smiled. "This is my steno machine." She pointed to the small machine on the pedestal. "I use a form of short-hand, which prints out on the tape you see. In the old days I would then retype my abbreviated notes into a final document. But with a software translation program, I can type directly into the computer. I use the tape to double-check the computer document, since my short-hand has some quirks." Jeanette smiled at the kind woman. "You said you needed some preliminary information?"

"Yes. Would you spell your name for me..." The preliminaries soon over with, the grilling began. For three hours, Dubois posited questions, then re-posited them in an attempt to trip Jeanette up over minute details of the daily operations of the Eye Clinic and the Epi Study and its protocols. Evan objected frequently. But Jeanette didn't feel protected. She felt violated. Verbally raped. In the end, if the deposition had been a ball game, the home team would've lost -- a zillion to zero. They'd been out-classed, out-gunned and out-manned. Even the stenographer looked frazzled and upset on their behalf. Jeanette glared at the urbane and smooth Dubois as he followed his legal gopher out the door. The defense counsel stopped before leaving. Looking down his elegant patrician nose, he said, "Ms. LaFleur, I want to extend my condolences for your recent loss." The smarmy smile on his face chilled and repulsed her. What loss could he be referring to? Charles had been dead for awhile. Why would the bastard take it upon himself to say something about it now? And why? It had nothing to do directly with the law suit in question. Evan must have felt the same and once more attempted to defend her against the slimy lawyer's intimidation tactics. "Now see here, Dubois. Mr. Carter's death is none of your..." Dubois cut Evan's words off with a derisive laugh. "I'm not referring to Charles Carter." He turned and caught her eyes with his cold, black ones. "I'm speaking about Scott Fontenot. It seems the good doctor died..." The vicious bastard paused at her gasp. "On the steps of the United States Embassy in Brasilia." He bowed his head. "My condolences. I believe he was someone special to you, or am I mistaken, Ms. LaFleur?" Jeanette cried out as the room whirled around her. **** Gradually, Jeanette fought her way through a heavy blanket of unconsciousness. It was the voices which caused her to return to the real world. Loud voices arguing in a mixture of Cajun French and

Louisiana-influenced English. They were arguing about her. "She needs to know." Tony's voice was harsh with what? Anger? Grief? "The _petit chou_ can not handle much more." Frenchy's voice contained sympathy mixed with sorrow. "It can wait. It is enough she knows that he might be dead." "_Might_ is the operative word here." Evan's voice of reason jolted her from her languor "Scott might be alive?" Her voice was hoarse from the hours of answering questions and the tears she had yet to shed. The three men all spoke at once. "One at a time, please," she said. She twisted her head and sought out Evan. "Evan, you seem to think what that Dubois person said was wrong. Tell me what you know." He knelt on the floor near her. His eyes reflected his concern and something else that looked like uncertainty. Even he wasn't sure whether Scott was alive or not. But being a lawyer, he wouldn't believe it until he had all the facts, the proof. Maybe that was the way she needed to take this. Only believe proven facts. Whatever Evan said, she would take it as hopeful, even though the other two frowned behind him. The two realists in the bunch. Men who dealt with death and ugliness every day. Unlike Evan and her, who dealt with hope. "Evan?" "The facts aren't entirely clear..." Tony protested, cutting off the lawyer. "Evan, you know..." "Tony, let him talk." She turned her eyes back toward the lawyer, who ran his fingers through his hair. "Go ahead, Evan. I'll draw my own conclusions." He attempted a smile, but failed. "Good girl. Like me, you need more proof than DEA gossip. Because that is all it is -- gossip. The DEA called Charles's brother and told him that the mission was completed, but that two lives were lost at the gates of the United States Embassy." Jeanette grasped his arm and squeezed. "Thank you, Evan. Obviously, the DEA didn't specifically identify Scott by name."

"That's right. Until they do, there's always hope." "Yes. There's always hope." Jeanette stressed the last word and dared the other two to contradict her. "Ah, Jeanette," Evan said. He sounded hesitant. What else could be wrong? She turned expectant eyes toward his troubled ones. "I'm sorry about today. About Dubois." Evan's faced flamed red. "I knew he was a hard-ass, but I didn't expect him to put you through an inquisition. You did good, but I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to bail on Lynn and me. She wouldn't want you to be hurt anymore." Tears filled Jeanette's eyes. Evan was concerned for her. He would give up a chance to win his client's case to save her more distress. Did she want to go forward and face that shark again? Not really. But she would. Because if Scott was dead, she wanted Rutherford held accountable. "What would happen if Lynn dropped her case? Because we all know I'm the best evidence she has of medical malpractice and Rutherford's intentional misrepresentations. No, wait. I guess my real question is will the federal government jump on Rutherford as soon as possible to make sure he doesn't get away?" "I don't know." Evan patted her shoulder. "Right now, Rutherford is convinced that he is in the clear on the malpractice. If he has a clue about the potential federal investigation, we can't tell. From what Charles's brother said, the feds are nowhere near pursuing the Rutherford end of the scheme. Their primary concern is to stop the flow of drugs through One World sources. The body-part trafficking is no big deal to them." "Well, it should be." Jeanette trembled with anger. "Scott may have died getting that information." "I agree. Our plan to expose Rutherford's filthy core at Lynn's trial is still the only game in town. Once we convict him of medical malpractice, we can leak the rest to the press and let public opinion handle it." "How can we leak this to the press?" Personally, Jeanette would love to scream the knowledge to the world from the witness stand, but would abide by Evan's counsel. "After the trial we can arrange a press conference to lay out what we know. Hopefully, by then the information from Brazil will be available."

"Won't I be able to tell all of the truth in court? After all, Rutherford was using illegally obtained corneas. Walter was dealing in stolen babies' hearts in the Eye Bank lab. Doesn't the court want to hear that?" "Not really. What we know and what is relevant to Lynn's case are two different things." Jeanette opened her mouth, but Evan held up his hand. The smile that crossed his face made him look like the Big Bad Wolf getting ready to chow down on grandma. "But," he said, "we'll sure as heck get everything out we can whether or not it is allowed to go to the jury. I'll have the press in the courtroom. I'll make sure they know something hot is going on and promise them a press conference on the _real_ scoop after the trial is over." He smile turned even more vulpine. "Trust me. The press will figure out what is going on before the federal government. There will be a demand for a full investigation -- and then the government will have to address murdered innocents used for spare parts." "Well, then. I'm still in." Jeanette reached up and took Evan's hand in a firm grip, then shook it. "I want to nail Rutherford's ass to the wall, make him bleed and discredit him in the eyes of the world. And we're gonna do this together." Evan returned the grip and the handshake. "Together." -------CHAPTER FORTY-TWO _New Orleans Parish Courthouse -- Present Day_ Jeanette made her way to a seat in the front row, right behind Lynn Barrios and Evan. Tony was already sitting there, saving her a seat. The shock she'd just received in the courtroom lobby was still with her. She stumbled and almost fell on a man at the beginning of her row. Tony reached out to steady her. Her hands were cold and trembling. He shot her a quizzical glance, then frowned. "Jeannie?" Tony whipped his head around seeking the danger that had put her into this state. "What happened?" Jeanette couldn't avoid it. She looked over at Rutherford. Tony's eyes followed her line of vision. The doctor's lips parodied a smile, and he shrugged his shoulders. Tony glared at the man, then assisted Jeanette to her seat.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Tony said in a low growl. He made a move to leave the row. Jeanette placed a restraining hand on his arm and shook her head. "Don't give him the satisfaction," she whispered. "I'll be fine. It was nothing." "What was _nothing_? I left you at the ladies' room. You're in a courthouse for Christ's sake. If you aren't safe here..." He shook off the thought. "What happened out there?" "From the balcony." She closed her eyes, then took a deep breath to force the lump out of her throat. "Someone threatened me -- and Brigitte. But they can't hurt her. She's safe." At Tony's swift nod, she sighed. "And you're here. I'll be fine." Tony placed a comforting arm around her shoulder and gave her a little hug. "Want me to report it to courthouse security?" "No. You're correct. They can't do anything here. Maybe later Rutherford will be too busy defending himself from the press to worry about me." Jeanette felt she'd held up well over the last few days of the trial. Lynn Barrios's testimony had clearly impressed the jury. The woman's obvious disability gained their sympathy. Several of the jurors had thrown condemning glances at Rutherford. Yesterday afternoon Evan called an expert witness, a Dr. Van Hoven, to the stand. His direct testimony was that the "living lens" procedure had more risks than benefits and should only be used in the most extreme cases of loss of sight. Upon cross-examination, Dubois could not shake the man. In fact, the urbane defense attorney ended up looking foolish when Van Hoven called the living lens procedure a _hoax_ for people with mere myopia like Lynn Barrios. The outburst after Van Hoven's statement had the judge calling the court to order. Even the jurors spoke among themselves. The press wrote fast and furiously in their notebooks. Rutherford wasn't too happy with his high-priced mouthpiece. He'd pulled on the lawyer's Armani suit. The angry, harsh whispers which ensued had even managed to carry to Jeanette's position on the opposite side of the courtroom. The press sitting behind the two men must have gotten an earful. Evan was ecstatic about yesterday's testimony. Today he would put on a psychologist who would testify to Lynn Barrios's mental and emotional status. Then it would be Jeanette's turn. Her stomach tightened. Acid rushed forth to burn through even more mucous

membranes. The lump in her throat refused to go away, no matter how much she swallowed. But these were conditions she'd lived with since the deposition a month ago. That and her repressed grief for Scott. The only things that had gotten her through the period were Scott's family and friends, Brigitte and -- her rage. Righteous anger had brought her here. She would testify and hope to God the jury believed in the evil the doctor had committed. If not, Evan's Plan B -- the press conference -- would nail the bastard's coffin. The _Times-Picayune_ had featured the trial on the front page for the last two days. So far, the slant had been about risks of medical research and mistakes being made, because, after all, doctors were only human. Evan said that Dubois had hired a publicist and that, for now, the press received the party-line ala Rutherford. But today's testimony -- her testimony -- along with Evan's planned post-trial disclosures should put an end to that benign approach. She just hoped it would take care of her problems. Living with Brigitte in the back of the Manchac Swamp -- or on the run -- wasn't how she wanted to spend the rest of her life. Tony tugged her arm, then practically lifted her up. The judge had entered the courtroom during her mental wanderings. The court was now in session. Evan called his first witness. Jeanette glanced over to the defense table. Rutherford stared at her. Once he was sure he had her attention, he checked out the jurors who listened to Evan and the psychologist. Then Rutherford looked back at her. He raised his hand in slow motion to a level just above the table. With his motions shielded from the jury box by his body, he made the motion of shooting a gun. Then he smiled. A horrible smile. Jeanette gasped. Wildly, she considered who might have caught the threatening gesture. If someone had, wouldn't they cry out? Report it? "Jeanette." Tony put his arm around her shoulders and whispered, "Don't let him get to you. I'm definitely going to report the threat in the lobby and that gesture. The security people can't do much about him now, but they sure as hell will make sure you get in and out of this courthouse safely." Jeanette nodded. "Okay. I'm okay." He brushed a kiss across her cheek. "That's my girl. Head up, kiddo. Don't let the asshole have the satisfaction of knowing he got to you."

"You're right." She straightened up, then shot a derisive glance -- or at least she hoped it was as disdainful as she wanted it to be -- at Rutherford. He sneered at her. Jerking, she bowed her head and bit her lower lip to stifle any sounds that might escape and betray her ragged emotions. It was hard, but she maintained control. She vowed not to look at Rutherford again. She wouldn't allow him to push her buttons. She focused on the testimony of the psychologist. He told the court what she already knew, that Lynn Barrios was as rational as the next person. Yes, she'd suffered a mild depression when she was bilaterally blinded, but she'd bounced back and participated in her legal action against the man who'd harmed her. Her reactions were those of a normal, sane woman. "Thank you, doctor." Evan turned to Dubois. "Your witness." Dubois didn't even look up from his notes. With a shake of his head and a negative wave of his hand, he said, "I have no questions for this witness, your Honor." The judge peered over his half-glasses at Evan. "Call your next witness, Mr. Devereaux." "The plaintiff calls its last witness, Jeanette LaFleur." The courtroom bailiff called out, "Jeanette LaFleur, please approach and take the stand." Jeanette stood up. Her knees threatened to give way. Monique, Evan's paralegal, sensed Jeanette's anxiety and patted her hand. "You'll do fine. Go get 'em, girl." Monique's confidence became hers. Lynn Barrios smiled and mouthed: "Thank you." It was show time. Jeanette took a deep breath, then moved out of the row and walked to the witness chair. She kept her eyes straight forward as if she wore blinders. All her focus had to be on what she would say, not on any threatening gestures from the defendant's table. "Raise your right hand..." She repeated the oath to tell the truth. Evan approached.

Previously, he'd only approached the witness stand when Lynn had testified. Jeanette knew how much that must have helped Lynn, because it helped her. His kind eyes and strong bony face imbued her with a sense of calm. They'd gone over the questions many times prior to today. She knew what he would ask. Knew how she would answer. The familiarity of it was comforting. She could do this. Evan started with the easy stuff, laying the foundation for more detailed testimony. "Please state your name and legal address for the record." When she did, he led her through her education and how she'd come to be employed by the Epi Study. "Ms. LaFleur, in your own words, tell the jury how you first met Lynn Barrios." "I met Lynn Barrios through you. Dr. Maggie Payton at the University Eye Clinic gave you my name as a potential witness in this case." "Why would Dr. Payton consider you a witness for this matter?" Dubois leapt to his feet like an avenging angel. "Objection, your Honor. Calls for conjecture on behalf of the witness. How would Ms. LaFleur know what was in the good doctor's mind?" "Sustained." Evan bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Yes, your Honor. Let me approach this from another angle." The judge nodded. "Do so. Just keep in mind that Ms. LaFleur is not a mind reader, unless you'd like to lay the groundwork for such?" Laughter rumbled throughout the courtroom. Evan smiled even as he winced. "No, your Honor. I think we can get at this another way." He turned back to Jeanette and winked. "Ms. LaFleur. What do you know about Ms. Barrios's case?" Jeanette waited for an objection. Dubois stared at his notes. "I'm not sure what you mean." "Could you tell me why you are a witness here today?"

"Because I found evidence that Dr. Rutherford was slanting his statistics to show a higher success rate than what he told the Review Broad, the university, and his patients, including Ms. Barrios." "Yes, exactly." Evan smiled broadly. "Please tell the jury how you discovered this manipulation of the surgical outcomes." "From the billing records." "Please tell us specifically how the billing records led you to this conclusion that Dr. Rutherford was 'cooking the stats.'" "Objection!" Dubois again surged to his feet. "The billing records have nothing to do with what happened to Ms. Barrios." The judge sent a laser-like glance at Dubois. "Overruled. Mr. Devereaux laid the foundation. The court shall decide what is relevant. Now, sit down." The judge turned to Jeanette. "You may answer the question." Jeanette nodded, then looked at Evan. "Should I start from when I first looked into the billing records?" "Start wherever you need to." "Okay." Jeanette fixed her eyes on the jury. She could hear Rutherford angrily whispering to Dubois. She blocked them out. "It first started about a month or so after I began working for Dr. Rutherford. The patient records were a mess. I started a database to sort out who had the surgery, who was billed and for what, and who was seen afterward in follow-up." "Why did you go into the billing records to help straighten out the patient files?" "The billing records were the most accurate, up-to-date and complete records the study had. Basic costs have to be covered. Every patient had a certain amount of costs associated with their surgeries. The project budget didn't cover everything, you see, and doctors do like to get paid." Laughter scattered throughout the courtroom. Evan paused to let the courtroom quiet. "What did the billing records tell you?" "They told me who'd been operated on."

"How did that help you with the patient records?" "It told me that I should, at the very least, have patient files on all those people billed." "And did you?" "No." Murmurs of shock rumbled through the room. "How many files were missing after your examination of the billing records?" "Over sixty percent." The chatter in the courtroom rose. The judge rapped his gavel several times. "Order in the courtroom. Any more noise and you're all out of here." When all was quiet once more, the judge turned to Evan. "Continue, please." "Let me rephrase what you just said. Is it your testimony that of the patients who were billed for the living lens surgical procedure, you only found forty percent of those patient folders in the project's file room?" "Yes." Evan turned and walked over to Monique, who handed him several large folders. He took the folders, left a set with Dubois, and brought the others to her. "Ms. LaFleur, would you please look at what have been marked as Plaintiff's Exhibits 15 A and 15B and identify them, please?" Jeanette opened up the folders. "Exhibit 15A is a spreadsheet of the billing records for the Epi Study from its inception. Exhibit 15B has the databases and spreadsheets I created, cross-checking the billing records with the patient files as they existed when I took over the position of Clinical Coordinator." "Are these the records you used to draw the conclusion that sixty percent of the patient files were missing?" "Yes." "Your Honor, I would like to submit what have been marked as Plaintiff's Exhibits 15A and 15B into the record." The judge looked at Dubois who said nothing, then said, "So entered." Evan handed the exhibits to the court reporter, then walked back to Jeanette.

"Let's explore another area, Ms. LaFleur. Where did the study get the data for the statistics on its success/failure rate?" "From patient follow-up after the surgery. The Clinical Coordinator would examine the files and following the protocol, would list certain medical indicators for each patient at predetermined intervals post-op." "From which patient files would the statistics come?" "The only ones the project had." "The same files that don't account for sixty percent of the patients receiving the surgery?" "Yes." Murmurs of unease threatened to erupt into something more, but the judge gaveled sharply and cast a stern glance at the courtroom observers. The noise died an instant death. "Is it your testimony that the Epi Study data, as published in official reports to both the Review Board and the University and mentioned in the patient interview process and on the surgical consent forms, did not account for all the patients receiving the procedure?" "Yes. But the data was never in the consent forms. I had to assume it was mentioned to the patients prior to surgery, because I have no specific knowledge of what happened prior to my coming on board." "Thank you. I stand corrected. Suffice it to say, _if_ the data was mentioned to the patients, then it was incorrect in that it did not take into consideration all the patients operated upon, is that correct?" "Yes." "Was Lynn Barrios in the forty percent of the patient files you found in the clinic?" "No." Evan stopped and looked around the courtroom, pausing only when he reached the jury. After the short hesitation, he turned back to Jeanette. "Let's go back to something you said just a bit ago. You said something about the consents for surgery not mentioning the statistics. What did the consents contain?" "Objection." Dubois popped up like an over-dressed Jack-in-the-Box. "She just testified that she hadn't seen Lynn Barrios's file so she has no way of knowing what the consent Ms. Barrios signed said or did not say. Mr.

Devereaux has already in this trial entered the consent into evidence, and..." "Sit down, Mr. Dubois. Overruled." "Thank you, your Honor." Evan walked over to the court reporter and picked up a piece of paper from a pile on her desk. "Since Mr. Dubois was so kind as to remind me the consent signed by Ms. Barrios is already in evidence, I'll ask you Ms. LaFleur to look this consent over and see if it is in any way familiar to you." Jeanette took the form. "Yes. This is the general surgical consent that was being used when I first hired on and was included in most of the patients' charts. Although they weren't always signed according to protocol." "We'll come back to the signing protocol in a bit. Does this consent address the living lens procedure in particular and mention any statistics on success/failure rates?" "No and no." "You said _most_ of the patient records you saw. Does this have something to do with the signing protocol you mentioned?" "Yes. Not long after I began working at the clinic I observed first-hand that the doctors would not always obtain a consent prior to surgery. One time in particular, one of the doctors obtained the signature of a patient under the influence of twilight anesthesia after I pointed out his oversight." "Can a person physically sign his name while under this twilight anesthesia?" "Yes." Jeanette sensed the unease in the courtroom. People were wondering what they'd done under the influence of anesthesia. "Is that doctor in the courtroom today?" Evan looked directly at Rutherford. "No. Dr. Randolph's dead." Evan nodded. He walked over to the plaintiff's table. Monique pulled something out and showed it to him. To Jeanette, it seemed that the people in the courtroom were holding their breath. All eyes were on Evan. They were waiting to see what he would pull out of the hat next. He had them in the palm of his hand. "Ms. LaFleur, did you go to Dr. Rutherford with your concerns?" "I went to him about the consents. He was most upset and told me he would speak to Dr. Randolph. Later, a new consent was created, and I saw to it that

all patients signed it at the acceptance of the patient into the study." "I'm handing you what is marked as Plaintiff's Exhibit 30. Is this the new consent?" "Yes." "Does it contain statistics about the success/failure rate of the Living Lens procedure?" "No. It does explain in detail the risks of the procedure, but classifies them as minimal." Evan proffered the exhibit to be entered into the record. After making another trip to the court reporter's table, he returned to the witness stand and leaned on the wood barrier. "Didn't it bother you that the new and improved consent failed to list specific statistics about the procedure's success rate and merely classified them as minimal?" "No. Because at that time I hadn't yet finished the database. I assumed the stats I'd seen were accurate and that the risks were minimal." "You trusted Dr. Rutherford's say-so on the risks?" "Yes. At that time, I did. Everyone did." "Aha." Evan's deep baritone whisper carried far beyond the front of the courtroom. "Your Honor!" "Take your seat, Mr. Dubois." The judge ordered, then turned to Evan. "Counsel, I suggest you keep your editorial noises to yourself, please." "Yes, your Honor. I apologize." The jury was eating this up, Jeanette realized. Evan was playing to them -- and to the press. "When you found the discrepancy between the billing records and the patient records," Evan continued, "did you take that to Rutherford?" "Yes. He told me the people who'd held the job prior to me were inept. He thanked me for getting on top of things. Told me I was doing a good job." "What did you do then?" "I tried to reconstruct the missing patient files."

"How could you do that?" "Well, I remembered Dr. Payton had made some comments that she and Dr. Warren were seeing some of the living lens patients in their clinic at the university. So I asked her about them." "And is that when you found out about the failures?" "Yes." "Was Lynn Barrios one of those failures?" "Yes." "Were there others?" "Yes. Dr. Payton offered to spread the word to other eye physicians seeing living lens failures. They would approach their patients to see if they would be willing to come forward with their stories." "And did they?" "Yes." "You have those stories?" "Yes. I felt I needed to document the actual results of the procedure." "Why did you feel the need to document the actual results?" "To get the project shut down. I didn't want anymore patients endangered. Plus, there was more going on than just further harm to patients." "What else was going on that you felt the need to go on a one-woman campaign to get the project shut down?" "Your honor, I object. Plaintiff's counsel seems to be heading away from the medical issues in this case and looking to propose some sort of conspiracy theory involving my client." Evan turned and pointed a finger at Dubois. "I didn't propose any such thing. You just did." The judge sighed loudly. He pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Devereaux, it does seem that you are tripping off the path here of medical malpractice and reckless endangerment of one Lynn Barrios. Please keep your questions on the applicable issues in this case. If there is a conspiracy theory, it is not for this court to rule on it. Objection sustained."

"Yes, your Honor." Evan turned to Jeanette and smiled. "I have no further questions for this witness." The judge checked his watch. "Mr. Dubois, your witness." "I would like to reserve the right to cross-examine this witness later, your Honor, after my case-in-chief." "Highly irregular, Mr. Dubois. You have any objections, Mr. Devereaux?" "No, your Honor, just so long as I may reserve my right for rebuttal." "Granted. You may step down, Ms. LaFleur. Please keep yourself available. And please do not discuss your testimony with anyone until after Mr. Dubois cross-examines you." Jeanette nodded and stepped out of the witness box. The eyes of the entire courtroom followed her back to her seat. "Since the hour is quite close to the lunchtime, we'll recess now and resume at one o'clock. Court dismissed." The judge rose and with him the court. Back at the plaintiff's table, Evan turned to Lynn and patted her shoulder. Then he turned to Jeanette. "You did a wonderful job up there. The jury was impressed." "The press were writing like crazy about the missing sixty percent of files," Tony said. Evan grinned. "Well, I figure we are at least assured of a full house at our post-trial press conference. Especially after Dubois slipped up and classified my attempt to wander off the path as proposing a conspiracy. I expected him to object. Then I would have given the hint. He saved me the effort." "But it wasn't allowed in." Jeanette was confused -- or maybe she wasn't processing because she was bone-tired. "No, and it shouldn't have been. It isn't relevant to the case at hand. But I wanted the press to hear whatever I could get in after Dubois objected. As I said, he played right into my hands. There is a conspiracy, and we'll lay out the facts for that in the press conference." "What facts?" Tony asked. "Evan is going to give them the documentation from the Eye Bank about the donor tissue and SRP tissue," Jeanette said. "With the copies of the billing

records, the press will have a starting place to investigate the money angle. We're also hoping DEA and Customs will be ready to share some of the information that Scott found in Brazil about One World and its connections to Rutherford." Jeanette choked back the tears that welled in her eyes at the thought of Scott and his sacrifice. She'd made it this far. She refused to be weak now. "Great, just great," Tony said. "Now I know why you're being threatened in the courthouse. Do you have a death wish?" Evan yelled, "What threat?" "Jeanette was threatened out in the lobby. A disembodied voice. In the courtroom, I saw Rutherford gesture a shooting gun at her. Hell, I felt chills, and it wasn't even aimed at me." "Somehow, they must have found out about the press conference," Evan said. "What are we doing about security in the courthouse?" "I've told the security officers, but I'll call the feds. Maybe they'll go out on a limb long enough to confirm they have Rutherford under investigation for federal crimes and send some U.S. Marshals over here." "Do they? Have Rutherford under investigation for federal crimes?" Jeanette asked. "You didn't tell her?" Tony looked accusingly at Evan. "I thought you did." "No." "Suffice it to say, neither one of you bothered to tell me." Jeanette pushed her hair out of her eyes. She was furious. "It's obvious to me that Rutherford knows someone or has contacts in the local federal prosecutors' office. Wouldn't you say?" Tony said. "Then why in the hell is he still here? Didn't we think he would run if he knew his little games were being looked into by the feds?" Monique asked. "Maybe he isn't afraid of the feds," Tony said. He merely voiced the grim reality of what everyone was thinking. -------CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Jeanette couldn't eat her lunch. Her mind was too busy digesting dark and depressing thoughts. It was giving her indigestion. "Stop fretting and eat," Lynn urged. "I can't. I keep wondering about the man who threatened me and my child. Then I worry about Dubois asking me questions like he did at the deposition. I know he has nothing, but it's the way he looks at me and the tone in his voice." "The judge and Evan will protect you from the looks and tone," Monique said. "This judge doesn't like counsel intimidating witnesses. You'll be fine." Jeanette cast the woman a grateful glance. "I'm sure I will. I just don't want to lose the case for Lynn." Lynn felt for, then patted her shoulder. "You can't lose the case. In fact, your testimony made the jury sit up and take notice. I predict several more of the people harmed by Rutherford will be knocking on your door to testify for them after this is all over." "Oh, no. I couldn't go through this again." Monique laughed. "You won't have to. Lynn's right about your testimony, but since it is now a public record, all those other plaintiffs' counsel will be asking for a transcript in order to enter your testimony into the record. So, don't worry. You won't have to become a professional expert on Rutherford and the living lens project." Evan and Tony finally arrived from wherever they'd rushed off to after court. Tony frowned when he noticed her plate. She gritted her teeth, daring him with her eyes to say something about the untouched food. He just shook his head and sighed. Evan didn't catch the byplay, because the first words out of his mouth after he sat down were, "Jeanette, you need to eat. It will be a long afternoon." Monique tugged on Evan's jacket, then whispered to him, saving Jeanette the need to explain once more. It was nice they were concerned, but she had to cope with all this in her own way. And eating was not on her list of coping mechanisms at the moment. Maybe later, when this was all over. She took a sip of her cola. The sugar and caffeine would keep her going. "Jeanette? Jeanette?" How long had Evan been trying to get her attention?

"Yes?" She looked over at the lawyer. "The courthouse security has brought in more men. Tony has three more of his men coming to sit at the back of the courtroom. We'll use them to get you to the press conference." Evan's serious face expressed his deep concern. "We won't let anyone get to you." "What's going to happen next?" "Dubois will put on his experts and try to countermand our experts. Then he'll probably finish up with Rutherford." "Then he'll call me to the stand. Why did he do it that way?" Evan scrunched his forehead. "I think he hopes Rutherford will charm the jury. And they count on you falling flat on your face in cross, casting doubt on your..." "My what?" Jeanette hadn't meant that to come out as shrill as it had. Monique sent a disgusted look at Evan, then answered for the red-faced man. "On your morals, your brains, your memory -- whatever Dubois can think of to discredit you in the eyes of the jury." Well, it was what she'd feared all along, but now that it was voiced and out in the open, she wasn't as scared as she thought. "Since I have nothing to hide," she said, "what can he do to me? Plus, it isn't about me. It's about Lynn. Right?" "Right." Monique and Evan said together. **** The first few witnesses called by Dubois didn't make a dent in Evan's carefully constructed case. Two of the expert physicians wouldn't stake their reputations to validate that Rutherford's studies were as successful as had been claimed. Obviously, they were in the courtroom during her testimony and had processed the large holes in the patient data. They did testify that in _appropriate cases_ the living lens procedure was the only hope some patients had. Heck, Dr. Van Hoven had said much the same thing. But Lynn Barrios wasn't one of those appropriate cases. Then Dubois called Bruce Jessup, a registered nurse and ophthalmic technologist from the Epi Study, to the stand. Jeanette cringed.

After taking Jessup through the preliminaries, Dubois asked, "Mr. Jessup, did you have occasion to work with the plaintiff, Lynn Barrios?" "Yes. I did her pre-op history and her post-op follow-up. What little she had." "Could you clarify what you mean by 'what little she had?'" Dubois cast a recriminatory look at Lynn. "She stopped coming. I only saw her two, maybe three, times." "In your opinion as a trained nurse and ophthalmic technologist, could her failure to do the post-operative follow-up have contributed to her bad results?" "Yes, definitely." "When you dealt with Ms. Barrios, what was your impression of her mental state?" Evan stood up. "Objection, your Honor. While Mr. Jessup may be a trained nurse and technician, he is not a qualified psychologist." "Sustained." Dubois glared at Evan, then turned back to Jessup. "Let me try this another way to satisfy my esteemed opponent. Describe how Ms. Barrios acted when you saw her after the surgery." Jessup looked as if he was seriously considering his words. Yet Jeanette suspected he'd been taken over his testimony in this case many times, just as Evan had with her. "Well, Ms. Barrios would get hysterical during her post-op visits. She refused to follow the simplest instructions. Kept insisting that the doctor had done something wrong. I thought she was very unstable. Of course, that is just my opinion." Jessup threw a snide look at Evan. "Thank you. I have no further questions of this witness." "Mr. Devereaux, would you like to cross-examine this witness?" "Yes, your Honor." Evan remained seated. He flipped through his notes. The courtroom was blanketed in silence. "Mr. Jessup, you stated in direct examination that you've been employed by the study for one year, give or take a week. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir." Evan stood up. He handed a set of papers to Dubois and took another set with him. He walked toward Jessup in slow, measured steps. "Would you please look at these and tell me what they are?" Taking the papers out of Evan's hand, Jessup said, "They look like payroll records for me." "Yes, so they are. Please take a look at page four. In particular, the lines I highlighted. What happened at that point in time?" "It looks like I got a raise." "Would it surprise you to know that your raise occurred exactly one week after the summons for this case was served on Dr. Rutherford?" Dubois shot out of his chair. "Your Honor, I fail to see how Mr. Jessup's raise and the timing of this suit have anything to do with the cause of action in this case." "Your Honor, these matters have to do with Mr. Jessup's bias in this case. I wish to use this line of questioning to impeach him." "Overruled, Mr. Dubois." The judge turned to the witness. "Answer the question, Mr. Jessup." "Yes, it would surprise me," Jessup answered in an insolent tone. Evan moved to admit the payroll records into evidence. While Evan went through the routine of getting the exhibit admitted, Jessup's wary eyes kept drifting toward Dubois, as if the defense counsel should give him some answers. Obviously, Evan's line of questioning hadn't been in the defense's script. "Do most employees get a substantial raise -- what was it? almost double? -within a year or so of employment?" Jessup jumped visibly. "I was due a raise. I'm very good at my job." "I'm sure." Evan pulled out another piece of paper. He didn't offer it to Jessup. "Is it also customary that one-year employees who've just doubled their pay also get two fully paid weeks of vacation in Acapulco at their boss's condo?" Jessup mumbled something. "I don't think the jury or the court reporter heard your answer, Mr. Jessup. Could you repeat it, louder this time?"

"I said no," yelled Jessup. "That's what I thought you said. I have no further questions for this witness." "Rebuttal, Mr. Dubois?" "No." Dubois's abrupt negative was not his usual courtroom demeanor. He looked extremely unhappy. He either hadn't been told about the perks or hadn't expected anyone to find out about them. The information about Jessup had been given to Evan courtesy of Drs. Payton and Warren, who'd heard rumors about Jessup's timely vacation windfall. Jeanette wondered if she should clue in the hapless nurse about Rutherford's little practice of eliminating people who failed him? Nah. She wasn't feeling that charitable. Dr. Rutherford took the stand. Jeanette glanced over at the jury. The six men and women leaned forward in their seats. They'd been waiting to hear from the accused. Once they heard from him, they would have all the pieces of the puzzle. They then could begin to figure out who was telling the truth. Dubois breezed through Rutherford's background. If she hadn't known about his misspent youth and his current penchant for murder and mayhem, she would've been impressed. It was sad in a way that all that talent and potential was twisted and riddled with Rutherford's hunger for power and money. Could Evan trip him up on cross-examination? Expose the doctor's dirty underbelly? Or would they have to wait for the post-trial press conference? Jeanette sat up. She had to stop wool-gathering. They were talking about her now. "Dr. Rutherford, wasn't it true that you hired Ms. LaFleur because she was an _intimate friend_..." the look on Dubois's face clearly indicated he meant _lover_ "...of one of your fellow physicians, a, um, Dr. Shriver?" Rutherford turned to the jury and flashed one of his toothy smiles. As the doctor opened his mouth to answer, Evan overcame whatever had caused him to delay and objected. Dubois held up his hands. "I withdraw the question." But the damage had been done.

Anger burned through Jeanette like wildfire. The jerk had insinuated that she was Dr. Shriver's lover. Tony bristled beside her. Even he'd caught the implication. She chanced a peek at the jury. Several of them looked at her. What were they thinking? Could they actually believe Dr. Rutherford's lie? Jeanette was afraid they could. So far nothing had been said or shown other than her evidence on the statistics that in any way depicted the true character of Rutherford. The rest of Dr. Rutherford's direct testimony explained away the mistakes in files and data as the fault of employees in whom he'd placed his trust. No further mention was made of her. Evan flowed out of his seat to start his cross-examination. Then, he paced. And as he paced, he fired questions at the speed of an automatic weapon. And, gradually, the darkness that had fallen over Jeanette began to lighten. "Isn't it true, Dr. Rutherford, that Ms. LaFleur graduated at the top of her class and had one of the highest scores ever made on a standardized test? A test that is administered outside of the university by a national certifying organization?" "Well, uh, yes." "Then would you say that even if a close friend of yours hadn't recommended Ms. LaFleur, you still might have hired a graduate with such stellar grades and test scores?" "I guess so." "Now, let's look at your Epi Study. Isn't it true that the Eye Bank of New Orleans had cut off the donor tissue to your program right about the time Ms. LaFleur applied to your program, because they found your statistics and conclusions were flawed?" "I wouldn't say that was accurate. I believe the Eye Bank Board's rationale was that the tissue could be used more appropriately for corneal transplants in patients with diseased eyes." "Aha, then this report from the Eye Bank's Board of Directors is wrong when it stated that from their own local inquiries they found evidence that a majority of the corneal grafts had failed and that the living lens procedure was not indicated for patients with mere myopia. Wasn't that the real reason why they cut off your supply of tissue?" "What report?" Rutherford's urbane charm slipped as he grabbed at the paper in Evan's hand. He flipped a page, then said through gritted teeth, "Where did you get this?

This is an Executive Board decision. I wasn't aware that these were made public." "Your Honor, would you please instruct the witness that the lawyers ask questions, not the witnesses?" "Dr. Rutherford, you will restrict yourself to answering questions. The jury will disregard the unsolicited information volunteered by witness." "Thank you, your Honor." Evan retrieved the paper from Rutherford. "Now, doctor, the Executive Board of the Eye Bank clearly stated that the reason they cut off your supply of tissue was because they concluded your project's outcomes were undesirable, isn't that correct?" "That's what it says, but I say they were wrong." "Fine." Evan walked back toward the plaintiff's table, then turned back to the witness stand. "So, where did you get the tissue for the project after the Eye Bank cut off your supply?" Dubois rose from his chair and waved his hand toward Evan. "I object, your Honor. What has counsel's question got to do with Ms. Barrios and her specific procedure?" "Counsel?" The judge looked at Evan. "This line of questioning goes to Dr. Rutherford's veracity, your Honor." The judge nodded. "Overruled. Answer the question, doctor." "I bought it from Silver River Pharmaceuticals." "Is this the same Silver River Pharmaceuticals in which you own a controlling interest?" Dr. Rutherford's full lips thinned. He said nothing, but his eyes glittered with anger at the question. He shot his attorney a protect-me-or-I'll-deal-with-you-later look. Dubois turned his eyes away from his client. "Please answer my question, doctor." "Yes." "Isn't that a violation of federal law, doctor?" Rutherford sought Dubois's eyes once more, but the defense counsel still refused to look. "Yes."

"Now, let's look at the billing records for the Epi Study. As Ms. LaFleur testified, these records were the most complete records kept by the project." Evan handed a copy of the previously admitted documents to Rutherford. "When the project started, patients were billed for processing charges on donated tissue from the Eye Bank. Correct?" "Yes." "What were those processing charges?" "I don't know." "I believe if you read the numbers in column two, you will see the processing charge was one thousand dollars." Dr. Rutherford said nothing, just glared at Evan. "So, let's flip ahead to when the Eye Bank cut off the donor tissue. My goodness, the charge for processing didn't change -- it's still one thousand dollars. If you are buying tissue, how can you justify the same processing charge? Shouldn't it be more, since you had to purchase tissue?" "I don't know. It must be a bookkeeping error." "I would hope so, doctor, since it was the understanding of the Review Board, which oversees medical research projects such as yours, and the University, which provided the funding, that patients were to be charged only a minimal charge for donor tissue. I believe the amount was fifty dollars. Isn't that correct?" "Yes, I guess so. I don't remember." "Well, which is it, doctor?" "I don't recall." "Since this lawsuit was filed, an audit has been done. Would it surprise you to learn that the project was billed large amounts of money, to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars for tissue bought from Silver River Pharmaceuticals? The same tissue that you charged patients for at the tune of one thousand dollars per lens, which coincidentally was what you were charging patients who received free tissue." "I don't know." "You don't know." Evan ran his fingers through his hair. "Doctor, how much money have you made off this project personally? Ballpark figures would do." "I don't know."

"Seems I heard that answer before." Evan blew out a breath filled with disgust. "I have no further questions of this witness." Dubois slowly stood for rebuttal, then sat down almost immediately. He shook his head. No rebuttal. Well, what could he do? Evan had effectively, Jeanette hoped, destroyed Rutherford's capacity for truthfulness. "Your Honor. The defense would like to exercise its right to cross-examine Jeanette LaFleur at this point in time." Jeanette leaned forward and whispered in Evan's ear. "Why now? Isn't their case in the toilet?" Evan shrugged. Jeanette stood up and took the stand. "I'll remind you that you are still under oath." The judge smiled at her. "Yes, sir." Dubois stalked over to the witness stand. "Ms. LaFleur, did Dr. Shriver, your university mentor, recommend you for the job at the Epi Study?" "Yes." "Had you any work experience as a Clinical Coordinator prior to applying for this job?" "No." "Then what made you think you were qualified for such a responsible position?" "I wasn't looking for such a position. Dr. Shriver told me about it and suggested that I meet Dr. Rutherford. It was Dr. Rutherford who suggested I apply after I graduated." Dubois raised his eyebrows, then threw a glance over his shoulder at Rutherford. Evan smiled and winked at Jeanette when she glanced his way. "Let me understand. Dr. Rutherford met you through his old friend, Dr. Shriver, and suggested that you, a new graduate with no administrative experience, should apply for the position in his project. Didn't that seem strange to you?"

"Yes, it did." She smiled at him and shrugged. "I guess Dr. Rutherford is easily impressed. The previous Clinical Coordinators only had high school diplomas." Shouts of laughter erupted in the courtroom. The judge gaveled for order, but Jeanette noted he had a smile on his face. Dubois stalked back to the defense table and spoke to Rutherford, who angrily shook his head and pointed toward her. Dubois slammed his hand down on the table. An angry, low "no way in hell" was heard by those in the front of the room. "Mr. Dubois, we're waiting. Do you have anymore questions for this witness?" "No, your Honor." Rutherford surged from his chair, knocking it over. "Goddamit, Dubois. She set me up. Now do your job and ask the damn questions. Ask her about her lovers poking their noses into my business. Ask her about her after-hours searches of my offices." The judge stood up from his chair and yelled to be heard over the tirade as he pounded his gavel rapidly on the podium. "Dr. Rutherford, if you do not take your seat and shut up, I will have the courtroom cleared and hold you in contempt of court. Do you understand me, sir?" Rutherford sat down. His face was sullen. Dubois held up his hands. "I'm sorry for the outburst. My client is upset." "That's obvious." The judge turned to Jeanette and in a gentler tone excused her. Jeanette rushed to her seat. Rutherford's burning eyes seared her all the way. No matter what the outcome -- and it didn't look good for Rutherford -- he would do his best to kill her. After final arguments, the jury left the room. But they returned almost immediately. Lynn Barrios received everything she'd asked for -- one million in compensatory damages and two million in punitive damages for the knowing, reckless endangerment. Dr. Rutherford would be poorer, but still free.

Jeanette said as much to Evan and the others, surrounding her with their bodies, as they left the courtroom. "I had a representative of the Medical Licensing Board attend the hearing. That was the man who cut Rutherford off when he tried to storm out of the courtroom before everyone else. I fear the good doctor has been summoned before the Licensing Board to determine why they should not for good cause take away his license to practice medicine." "Oh, shit." Tony tightened his grip on Jeanette and looked around. "That signed her death warrant for sure, Evan. You heard him in there. He's blaming all his troubles on Jeanette." "Until Jeanette came along with her sharp eyes, astute mind and courage, he'd been getting away with it,"said Evan. "So, in a way, he's correct." "That'll do Jeanette a lot of good when she's dead." Evan's answering smile to Tony's grumbling reminded Jeanette of the Cheshire cat in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. "What do you know, Evan?" she demanded. "The feds are on board. They'll be at the press conference. I've seen the prepared statement. It'll knock the reporters' socks off." "What are they charging him with?" Monique asked. "What aren't they charging him with?" Evan laughed. "Well, that's great," Tony said. "I just hope he's arrested before he hears about it, or our prize witness here won't live long enough to celebrate his trial let alone his life-long incarceration in a federal prison." Tony's statement sobered Evan up quickly. -------CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR _The W Hotel, French Quarter_ Surrounded by Tony and his men, Jeanette now knew what a quarterback must feel like in a huddle in the last few minutes of a ball game, behind by five points, with third down and goal to go. She'd done her job and gotten the team there. The offensive line had to step up and provide the protection needed to see the game won. She just hoped whatever play they'd come up with, she wouldn't get sacked. The W Hotel's small ballroom was standing room only.

Evan was like a kid in a candy store. Every major wire service was there. The Pulitzer-prize winning investigative reporter for the _Times-Picayune_ had a front row seat, his photographer at his side, camera at hand. Jeanette even thought she saw Bill Kurtis from A&E's _Justice Files_ mingling among the crowd. Truth to tell, she couldn't see all that much. She was short, and the men guarding her were as tall as redwoods. If Rutherford was going to try and do something before the conference, he would have to chop through her protection first. Hopefully, he was leaving the country, trying to get to his assets before the federal government convinced the Caymanian Bank to freeze them. But then, when had Rutherford ever done the smart thing? The smart thing would have been to fire her and bury the evidence. But no, his hubris -- his machismo -- his goddamn-I'm-god-and-no-one-can-touch-me attitude hadn't allowed him to do the rational thing. He'd gotten away with murder and more for so long that he really couldn't see an insignificant female like herself taking him down. Well, he'd been wrong. But look at the price she'd paid. "Tony, why am I here?" Tony looked down at her. His frown told her it was an excellent question. "I don't know," he said. "I told Evan it would be hard to protect you in a crowded room. Hell, any of those guys out there could be a sniper on Rutherford's payroll." He shrugged, then rolled the tension out of his shoulders. "Evan said it was important for you to be here. Maybe the Feds will acknowledge your part in this. Who knows? But if they're going to give you a goddamn medal, they could do it later, after Rutherford's in jail." "Are they arresting him?" Jeanette peered through a gap between the two big men guarding her front. "They were supposed to serve the warrant and take him into Federal custody at least fifteen minutes ago." Tony snorted, the sound somewhere between a laugh and disgust. "The local law enforcement now wants a piece of him. They heard somehow -- probably through the same sources that Rutherford uses -- that the deal was coming down. Now, New Orleans wants to charge him with all sorts of crimes." "Stupid, stupid. What difference does it make who arrests and tries him? Just

so long as he is punished for all the grief and harm he's caused." Jeanette shook her head. Even elected officials had to get into the dominant-territorial-male act. It was the herd that always paid for it, though. "They're starting." Tony reached out and grabbed her arm. "I can't see." Jeanette steamed. You would think she would at least be able to watch while Evan brought the lid down on Rutherford's casket. Tony issued low-voiced orders to the men in front of her. Still shielding her with their bodies, the two angled themselves so she had a full view of the podium. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the press. May I have your attention, please?" Evan said. The clamor in the room died down. Only an occasional scuffing of feet, a cough here and there, and the sound of chairs moving across the wooden dance floor were heard. Evan had their complete attention. To his right, the side nearest her and her bodyguards, stood the New Orleans Chief of Police. She recognized him from all the times she'd seen him on the six o'clock news. An arrest like this on his territory, even though he had nothing to do with the man's apprehension, would be a coup come election time. Maybe it was more than a territorial thing for him; to him, it was his survival. Everybody had an angle. On the far side of Evan was a man she'd never seen before. She assumed he was a federal government representative -- maybe DEA, since they seemed to want a piece of Rutherford and One World so damn bad. Jeanette stifled a sob. In all this, no one cared about Scott or Charles or Sally or poor Stu Thomas. All of them dead because of Rutherford and his ilk. The people in this room only cared about drug-running activities. Well, Evan had promised to set them all straight. She'd seen the statement that was being handed out to the press. That ought to open their eyes. Someone out there would report the victims' stories. "The report circulating through the room spells out in detail the list of crimes of which Dr. Byron Rutherford, his partner, Dr. Manuel Lopez, and their nonprofit organization, One World, are felt to be guilty." Evan paused. "Please glance over the papers. When the remainder of our podium panel arrives -- which should be in just a few minutes -- we'll be ready to address all your questions."

One reporter yelled, "Has Rutherford been arrested yet?" The Chief of Police stepped up to the microphone. "Cars have been sent to his residence and his clinic. We have the sheriff and the State Police alerted to keep a look out for his car on the roads leaving New Orleans. We have also covered the airport, the train and bus stations. We expect an imminent arrest." Jeanette's heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest. "Tony?" "They'll get him, kiddo." He stroked her arm. "You won't be left alone. We're here for you until he's in jail and his connections to his thugs are severed." A commotion at the back of the ballroom had the reporters turning _en masse_. The show being put on in the room was the most exciting thing to happen to New Orleans since Mardi Gras. Peeking through the burly arms of her two front protectors who'd closed the gap when the disturbance had occurred, Jeanette saw several men enter the room. The two lead men looked like her bodyguards, yet stiffer. Must be Feds. She always heard they all walked and talked alike -- as if they had a poker up their behinds. The next man was very distinguished looking, an ad for Gentleman's Quarterly. The third man was... "Scott!" Jeanette screamed his name. "Jeannie?" A frail-looking Scott called her name. His head whipped around searching for her in the crowd. With a strength she didn't know she had, she barreled through her protection like a running back slipping through the defense. Her goal was Scott. And no one, no how, was going to stop her. "Jeanette, no!" Tony roared behind her. "It isn't safe." Jeanette didn't care. If she died now, it would be in Scott's arms with the words "I love you" on her lips. She hadn't told him that enough. She wanted him to know. But she didn't plan on dying. God wasn't that cruel. She flew down the aisle. Reporters cleared out of her way as she approached. Camera flashes lit up the room. Then the shooting began. "Jeannie, get down!"

Scott's frantic words reached her a second before the stinging burn of a bullet creased her blouse on her upper arm. Yet, even though someone was shooting and all hell had broken loose in the room, she didn't stop moving toward Scott. Crouching, she made herself as small a target as possible. Hell, what did Scott think he was doing telling her to get down? He was a target, too! "You get down!" There she'd said it. And she'd give him piece of her mind after all this was over. Evan, too. Parading Scott down the center aisle like bait. Damn, that's why they'd done it. Bastards. Hadn't Scott been through enough? The room erupted in chaos. Reporters yelled. Cameras flashed. Bullets flew. But in her concentration to get to Scott she saw none of it. She didn't even notice Rutherford until he popped up next to her. He grasped her arm, then jerked her around in front of him. A gun jabbed at her head. "Everybody shut the fuck up!" he screamed. Rutherford's mask of civility had slipped completely. He now sounded like the street-smart thug he'd hidden for years. "Give it up, Rutherford," a stiff-figured man who'd arrived with Scott called out. His gun was drawn and pointed at Rutherford -- and her. "The building is surrounded. There is no place to run. Let Ms. LaFleur go." Rutherford snarled a vile epithet, then called out, "Bennie? You out there?" "Bennie is dead." The twin to the stick figure spoke. "Throw down your gun, please." "The hell I will." Rutherford prodded her temple with the cold metal barrel. "She's my pass out of here. I want a helicopter outside, now. She stays with me until I reach my destination." "No can do, Rutherford." Number-one stick answered this time. "Then I'll just blow her brains out right here." Rutherford shrugged and jammed the gun into her temple even harder. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. _Think, Bootsie. The FBI and the New Orleans police must have

sharpshooters in the room. What had Scott and Paul taught her about weapons and being held captive? Think. And do it fast._ Jeanette looked for Scott. He was a mere six or seven feet in front of her. His gaze glued onto the gun at her head. Then he caught her eyes with his. An imperceptible nod. A slight smile. Scott knew what she was thinking. He always had. For once, she didn't resent it. Then he blinked three times. Okay, on the count of three she would do what? Whatever it was, she'd better figure it out. Then she knew. Like a gift from God -- she knew. She blinked back three times. Scott smiled. She watched him like a hawk, readying herself to move at his signal while around them the two Fed-sticks and Rutherford argued her fate. Scott blinked once. He blinked twice. He blinked the third time. At the third blink, she did three things in a concerted move which would either allow her to live another day -- or not. She let the strength go out of her knees. She reached back for Rutherford's balls with a free hand, grabbed them as hard as she could and twisted. And she dropped, taking advantage of his momentary distraction. As she fell, several shots rang out at once. **** "Jeannie? My God, where are you hit?" She lay on the ground. Scott's voice, filled with panic, washed over her. She didn't have the energy to move. But she didn't think she was seriously hurt, or if she was, she was too numb to feel it. "Not hurt," she said. "I think." "Thank God. At least you can talk to me." Scott began to feel for any damage. Jeanette let him take control. It was nice

to have him back in one piece, taking care of her once again. A warm, metallic wet oozed over the arm she'd thrown up to cover her head. Blood. Was it hers? Scott's surgeon hands gently probed her head and neck. She wanted to tell him her shoulder hurt, but she was afraid if she opened her mouth again she would either start bawling or screaming. She refused to break out into hysteria in a room full of strangers, especially ones with cameras and press credentials. "No obvious injuries," Scott said. "Where are the goddamn medics? She needs to be taken to the emergency room." He spoke to someone other than her. All the while, he stroked her hair, her cheek. Why didn't he hold her? She needed to be held. Through clenched teeth and tightened lips, she chanced speaking and was happy to find that she was enough in control not to scream. "H-h-hold me." "Oh, baby, of course." Scott pulled her onto his lap. She started to rest her head on his shoulder, then remembered the blood and stopped. "Blood on my face -- off." Scott wiped a warm cloth over her face and head. The smell of blood lessened. Of course. It was Rutherford's blood. They'd shot him when she fell. Scott nudged her head onto his chest, then tucked a blanket around her legs and another over her chest. She'd been shivering and hadn't even realized it. Scott's concerned face appeared above her. He concentrated on her as if he wanted to absorb her. He smiled. She smiled back. "Did I remember to tell you I love you?" It was important that he know. Before anything else was resolved. "Yeah, baby. You sure did." He shook her gently. "You almost got yourself killed telling me. It could've waited." "No." She reached up and touched his lips. He kissed the tips of her fingers. "It couldn't. I'd put it off so long. Besides, why would God bring you back to

me if he'd meant for me to die?" Scott just smiled and shook his head. "Crazy woman." "But I'm your crazy woman, right?" "You got that right, _cher_." He leaned over and kissed her lips. "Dr. Fontenot." Scott broke off the kiss which had deepened to a point where Jeanette felt the adrenalin pumping again, but for different reasons. The man who'd interrupted the kiss probably saved her and Scott from an embarrassing moment. Jeanette looked to see to whom Scott was speaking. Their conversation flowed over her like Lethe, the Greek stream of forgetfulness. Love -- and yeah, she would admit it, lust -- had a way of healing all ills. Scott said, "The bastard is dead, right?" The hatred in his voice shook her out of the peaceful lethargy that his nearness and kiss had brought her. "Rutherford's dead?" Jeanette could barely speak, her voice tightened by the memory of the gun jammed against her head and Rutherford's hateful voice in her ear. "Yes, _cher_." Scott gathered her even closer against his warmth. "He won't ever hurt you or threaten those you love again." "Then, can we go home? To Manchac? Our family must be worried to death." Scott laughed out loud. "No need, my heart. Look who's coming down the aisle." A forest of legs parted in front of her. Down the aisle came Mama Chloe holding onto Brigitte's hand with Frenchy and some of the other bayou men close behind. "Mama!" Brigitte broke free and raced down the aisle. The little girl threw herself at Jeanette. "You're all right." Jeanette reached up from the shelter of Scott's arms and hugged her daughter, kissing any and all parts of the precious little face she could reach. "Yeah, darling." Jeanette sniffed back tears of relief and happiness. "I'm all right." Brigitte's shining face looked up at Scott.

"Did Uncle Scott tell you? He came to the swamp and got us, me and Mama Chloe. He said we're going to get married." "He did, huh?" Jeanette looked up. A crease appeared on Scott's forehead. She reached up and soothed the lines on his tanned face. "Well, he happens to be one hundred percent correct. We are getting married, as soon as we possibly can." Jeanette started laughing as the entire room erupted into cheers. Spring had come into her life once more. Winter was a distant memory, a season in her life she hoped to put off coming again for a long, long time. -------AFTERWORD Although a real life case inspired the writing of this book, this is a work of fiction. So, the reader might ask, "What's real and what isn't?" In the 1980s, there was a study performed in New Orleans called Epikeratophakia or the Living Lens procedure. The procedure was as described in this novel -- it used donor corneas, which were cut, lathed, then applied as a living contact lens. The procedure had potentially severe side effects. Patients were not fully informed of the potential risks, one of which was blindness. Blind-Sided takes as its inspiration the case of one such bad result. One patient was bilaterally blinded by the Living Lens procedure. She chose to sue the doctor and the research institution. Janet Ferran, a Research Assistant on the project, was subpoenaed to testify on behalf of the patient. Janet was fired when she refused to lie on behalf of the doctor. The patient won her case at trial, which was appealed by the defendants to the Louisiana Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals. The appellate court not only upheld the jury's verdict and award, but also increased the amount of money damages. Body part trafficking was not a part of the real-life case. However, in today's world, body part trafficking has become a concern. A small international task force (not associated with the United Nations, to my knowledge) called the Bellagio Task Force on Transplantation, Bodily Integrity, and the International Traffic in Organs conducted field research into what they call the "commodification" of the body and body parts. A paper written by Nancy Scheper-Hughes, Department of Anthropology, University of California -Berkeley, entitled "The End of the Body: The Global Traffic in Organs for Transplant Surgery," (May 14, 1998) summarizes the findings of the Task

Force (only up through the date of the report's publication; I'm sure they have found out much more since then). It was from this paper I learned about Brazil and the body mafia. Once I had a setting for my stolen body parts, the rest was all fiction. The characters are all figments of a writer's imagination, and any resemblance to any one living or dead is unintentional. While the Jazz Festival, Manchac Swamp, the Rock N Bowl do exist, Lady Marmalade's in the Quarter does not. We needed it, so we invented it. -Monette Michaels and Janet Ferran The End -------About the Authors: Janet C. Ferran is a native of New Orleans and as a Certified Ophthalmic Technician has worked as a clinician and researcher in the field of ophthalmology for the past twenty-eight years. As Vice-President of Research and Development for Baltech, Inc. for the past thirteen years, she has worked on the development of an antiviral drug recently licensed to a large pharmaceutical company. Daily she can be found in the retina clinic at Ochsner Foundation. In her spare time, she enjoys interviewing local ophthalmologists for her column Reflections in the New Orleans Academy of Ophthalmology Newsletter. She shares her private life with her daughter Tina, son-in-law Matthew, and grandson Austin. **** Monette Michaels is the pen name for a Carmel, Indiana attorney/arbitrator. She lives with her pathologist husband of thirty-one years, her teenage son, and two parents, one hers, one his. Her other novels are Fatal Vision, Death Benefits and Green Fire, published by the Canadian publisher, LTDBooks, and Vested Interests, published by Atlantic Bridge Publishing. ----------------------Visit www.atlanticbridge.net for information on additional titles by this and other authors.