First Thrills - Lee Child [62]
I don’t really remember injecting the Diprivan into his IV port. In less than two minutes, his eyes closed. Moments later, his breathing stopped. His face turned waxy and pale. I notified the nurses and they called the attending physician. There was no resuscitation. I watched as the time of death was logged.
11:58 P.M.
Two minutes later and I would have killed the man for nothing.
Grove sat across from me.
“You look well,” he said.
“I’ve been better.”
“I can imagine,” he said.
I hadn’t seen Grove since that week in Vegas, but somehow his hair looked even whiter, the goatee fuller; same for his belly.
For a few awkward minutes, we didn’t say anything to each other; then he broke the silence.
“I came here to thank you,” he said.
“For what? I tried to shut down The Dead Club. But I never could find you.”
“Yeah, well, our application makes it easy to erase all information about the club from a member’s computer. And Grover Marshall isn’t my real name.”
“Figured that. So what are you here thanking me for?”
“Well, you made me a lot of money.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
I asked the question, but I already had a knot forming in my stomach. I knew what his answer would be.
“You deserve to know that you were never in The Dead Club, Bobby.”
I swallowed hard. My throat was tightening, but I still managed a slight, near-imperceptible nod.
“You were The Dead Club, Bobby.”
I caught a devilish gleam in his eyes and it made me shiver.
“You were betting on me?” I croaked.
Grove didn’t budge, but he did jump in his seat when I smacked my hand hard against the reinforced Plexiglas that separated us.
“Hands off the glass, Tomlinson!” A guard’s voice boomed from a crackly PA system.
I glanced down the long hallway, past the row of other prisoners on my side of the glass, toward the guard’s station. I waved my hands in the air, the well-understood signal that I promised no further breech of prison protocol.
“I wouldn’t tell you this if they recorded our conversation,” Grove said, smiling again. “But I thought you’d appreciate knowing that a lot of members were betting you wouldn’t go through with it. I mean, they really didn’t think you could. But I gambled with you in Vegas, Bobby. I guess I had the inside skinny. I doubled down and bet half a million that you’d kill that guy to win the bet. I really owe you for coming through.”
“My win streak, the neurologist in Generoso’s hospital record not being blanked out, all part of the set up to suck me in?”
Grove nodded, real slow and deliberate.
“I also bet a bundle that you’d get caught,” he said. “Gotta hand it to you, Bobby. You don’t disappoint.”
“This isn’t over, Grove, or what ever your name is. Not by a long shot. Five years from now I’m up for parole. When I’m out, I’m going to track you down and make sure you’re either sitting on my side of the glass, or lying somewhere six feet underground. You hear me? That’s what’s going to happen.”
Grove laughed in a jolly, warm guffaw that reminded me of the week we met in Vegas.
“You’re not going to do anything of the sort, Bobby. And don’t count on making parole either.”
“Oh yeah?” I replied.
My eyes narrowed on Grove as I balled my hands into tight fists.
“Yeah,” Grove said.
“You want to bet?” I said.
*
Massachusetts native DR. MICHAEL PALMER is the author of fourteen novels of medical suspense, all international bestsellers. His books have millions of copies in print worldwide, and have been translated into thirty- eight languages. Palmer was educated at Wesleyan University and Case Western Reserve School of Medicine. His most recent novel is The Last Surgeon, dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. His novel Extreme Measures was made into the hit film of the same name starring Hugh Grant, Gene Hackman, and Sarah Jessica Parker. Palmer also works as an associate director of the Massachusetts Medical Society’s Physician Health Services, helping doctors with physical and mental illness, as well as drug dependence, including alcoholism. He has three sons, two cats, and some fish.