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in the hospital morgue. They deserve to see him one more time he s their father and husband. I m sure
they d be willing to risk it, if only to say goodbye.
In the waiting room several people sat nervously pre-tending to read the old magazines scattered about
on the tables. Others looked at the ancient television set; the off-kilter hue adjustment made the people
on CNN look yellow-skinned and jaundiced.
A candystriper walked by with a cart bearing plastic-wrapped gifts, flowers, chocolates, and stuffed
animals. The intercom broke in repeatedly, calling the names of doctors or stating nonsensical phrases; to
Craig, it sounded like a conversation during the old CB radio craze in the 1970s.
He continued to wait, but June remained quiet on the other end of the line. He had experienced her cold,
silent treatment before when she didn t have a counter-argument for him but still didn t want to surrender
the issue. Apparently, she thought that if she remained quiet long enough, the bothersome agent would
give up.
But not this time. Craig could dish out the silent treat-ment as well as June could. In fact, many of his
rela-tionship problems with Trish LeCroix had stemmed from his not talking to her often enough. In this
circum-stance, he could use that character flaw to his advantage.
All right, dammit, June finally said. You win. Give me the hospital s fax number. I ll transmit the list to
you as soon as I get it. I can t just look them up in a Rolodex, you know. I m going to have to call in a lot
of favors.
They ll be favors well spent, June, he assured her. After giving her the med center s fax number, he
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hung up.
But as he turned away from the phones, another thought occurred to him. If Dumenco had walked a real
razor s edge, doing work but trying not to reveal too much, the secret police would have watched
him but they would never have tried to kill him in the first place. And certainly not in a slow, lingering
death like radia-tion exposure. It gave him too much chance to talk.
The assassin Jackson had shot couldn t be the one who had engineered the fatal accident. As Dumenco
had pointed out, the Fermilab incident was caused by some-one extremely knowledgeable about the
inner workings of the accelerator, how to cause a fluctuation in the Tevatron, which would lead to an
emergency beam dump.
Craig let out a quiet groan. He was exactly back where he had started in the first place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Thursday, 6:10 p.m.
Fox River Medical Center
Leaning against the door frame of Dumenco s room, Trish looked up at Craig as he returned from his
phone call. Her sepia eyes were surrounded by a corona of red. I haven t felt this hopeless since
Chernobyl.
Is he going to make it through the night? Craig asked.
Maybe, maybe not. Human endurance is not a pre-dictable quantity. It s just everything else on top of
that two assassination attempts, the attack on you and Jackson, your friend Goldfarb shot. She shook
her head. I know I m the one who asked you to look into this suspicious accident, but sometimes I
wonder if I should have left things well enough alone, let Georg die peacefully rather than introducing all
this chaos.
But doesn t your PR-Cubed want to use him as a poignant example, a poster boy against the hazards
of radiation? Craig couldn t keep the edge of sarcasm out of his voice. Trish had a penchant for tilting at
wind-mills, and he knew that she had certainly found her birds of a feather in the Physicians for
Responsible Radiation Research.
She adjusted her glasses. Sure, they want to talkabout him, but nobody else has bothered to come in
and talkto him. The PR-Cubed is more interested in their ideals than in the real people I see a lot of that
now.
Craig folded his arms while she spoke. Shedid look worn out. It reminded him very much of the way she
had looked right before she packed all her belongings and drove cross-country to Johns Hopkins.
Devastated from working the summer near Chernobyl, Trish had decided to specialize in treating
radiation injuries. And she couldn t do it in California.
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That was when she had left him, calling herself Pa-trice instead of Trish& though Craig never could
re-member to call her by the right name. She didn t seem to notice much.
Craig reached out to squeeze her shoulder. Trish sighed again, exhausted. Why don t you get some
rest? he said.
How can you stand to live this way, Craig? Is this how things are for you now? Always unresolved,
always another clue to chase?
Craig shrugged. Pretty much. You get used to it.
Trish walked away toward a doctor s lounge where she could rest.
As soon as she rounded a corner, Craig slipped through Dumenco s door. He heard a cough and saw a
feeble hand wave him inside.
The Ukrainian lay on his side, his back to the door. A light in the corner burned low, and outside the
win-dow a gibbous moon dominated the night sky. His tech-nical papers lay in a disheveled stack, within
reach, near the photos of his family. Two intravenous lines ran into Dumenco s arm. His eyes were
hollow, his limbs pale and looking like they could snap in two if he tried to lift any weight. He appeared to
have aged greatly in only the last hour.
Agent Kreident, Dumenco said, with a forced smile that showed bleeding gums. I would offer you
another game of chess& but there isn t enough time. His face suddenly looked even more stricken. I m
not going to have enough time, am I?
Craig pulled up a chair and scooted close to the bed. You have enough time to help me solve this
case.
Dumenco breathed in shallow gasps, as if he had great difficulty merely forcing air into his lungs. He
didn t answer.
I need to know what you ve been holding back. What you tell me will stay with me. I promise.
There& is nothing more.
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