Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection

Will sensed he and the doctor now had something in common. They were equally baffled. ‘Does the history speak of any medical problems at all?’

‘Some trouble with his ankle, associated with war damage. Vietnam, apparently. Apart from that, nothing. I just assumed he was a renal patient who had to have his kidney out. This certainly appears to be a complete record. And yet there’s nothing about a kidney. I’ve got to admit, this has me foxed.’

There was a light knock on the door. A woman, introduced by Russell as the media relations officer for the crime lab, opened it.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Dr Russell. It’s just we’re getting a ton of calls on the Baxter case. Apparently, an associate of the deceased called a talk radio station today saying that he believed Mr Baxter was a victim of some kind of organ-snatching plot?’

Bob Hill, thought Will. So much for his exclusive.

‘Sure, I’ll be with you in a minute,’ Russell said, his brow tensing.

Will waited for the door to close to ask what Russell would tell the press. ‘Well, we can’t give the most simple explanation, that Baxter had a history of kidney problems. Not now.’ It was Will’s fault: he knew too much. ‘We’ll think of something. I’ll show you out.’

Will was pulling out of the driveway when he heard the pounding on his car window. It was Russell, still in his shirtsleeves and breathless.

‘I just got this call. She wants to talk to you.’ He passed his cell phone through the window.

‘Mr Monroe? My name is Genevieve Huntley. I’m a surgeon at the Swedish Medical Center in Seattle. I saw the reports about Mr Baxter on the news and Allan has just explained to me what you know. I think we need to talk.’

‘Sure,’ said Will, scrabbling to find his notebook.

‘I’m going to need some assurances from you, Mr Monroe. I trust the New York Times and I hope that trust will be repaid. What I am about to tell you I vowed never to repeat. I only tell it now because I fear the alternative is worse. We can’t have people scaring themselves senseless about some organ-snatching ring.’

‘I understand.’

‘I’m not sure you do. I’m not sure any of us do. What I ask is that you treat what I tell you with honour, dignity and respect. For that is what it deserves, Mr Monroe. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes.’ Will could not imagine what he was about to hear.

‘OK. Mr Baxter’s greatest request was anonymity. That was the one thing he asked of me in return for what he did.’

Will was silent.

‘Pat Baxter came to Swedish about two years ago. He had come a long way, we found out later. When he turned up, the nurses assumed he was an ER case: he looked like a bum off the streets. But he said he was in perfect health, he just needed to talk to a doctor in our transplant unit. He said that he wanted to give up one of his kidneys.

‘We immediately asked who he wanted to give the kidney to. Was there a sick child involved? Maybe a family member needed a transplant? “No,” he said. “I just want you to give my kidney to someone who needs it.” My colleagues immediately assumed that, frankly, there must be some mental-health issues involved. Such nondirected operations are almost unheard of. Certainly the first one we had ever dealt with.

‘I sent Mr Baxter away. I told him this was something we couldn’t consider. But he came back and I sent him away again. The third time we had a long talk. He told me that he wished he had been born rich. That way – I remember his words – that way, he said, he might have known the pleasure of giving away vast amounts of money. He said there were so many people who needed help. I remember, he asked me, “What does the word philanthropy mean? It means love of your fellow man. Well, why should only rich people be allowed to love their fellow man? I want to be a philanthropist, too.” He was determined to find another way to give – even if that meant giving away his own organs.

‘Eventually I concluded that he was sincere. I ran the tests and there was no medical objection. We even ran psychological tests and they confirmed he was of completely sound mind, totally able to make this decision.

‘There was only one condition, imposed by him. He swore us to complete secrecy, complete confidentiality. The recipient patient was not to know where his or her new kidney had come from. That was very important. He didn’t want that person to feel they owed him. And not a word to the press. He insisted on that. No glory.’

Quietly, almost meekly, Will asked, ‘And so you went ahead with it?’

‘We did. I performed the operation myself. And I tell you, in my whole career there was no operation that made me prouder. All of us felt it: the anaesthetist, the nurses. There was an extraordinary atmosphere in theatre that day; as if something truly remarkable was happening.’

‘And did all go smoothly?’

‘Yes it did, it did. The recipient took the organ just fine.’

‘Can I ask what kind of recipient we’re talking about? Young, old, male, female?’

‘It was a young woman. I won’t say any more than that.’

‘And even though she was young, and he was old, it all worked out?’

‘Well, this was the strangest thing. We tested that kidney, obviously, monitored it very closely. And you know what? Baxter was in his fifties, but that organ worked like it was forty years younger than he was. It was very strong, completely healthy. It was perfect.’

‘And it made all the difference for that young woman?’

‘It saved her life. The staff and I wanted to have some kind of ceremony for him, after the operation, to thank him for what he’d done. It won’t surprise you to hear that never happened. He discharged himself before we’d even had a chance to say goodbye. He just clean disappeared.’

‘And was that the last you heard from him?’

‘No, I heard from him once more, just a few months ago. He wanted to make arrangements for after his death—’

‘Really?’

‘Don’t get too excited, Mr Monroe. I don’t think he knew he was about to die. But he wanted to be sure that everything, his entire body, would be used.’ Huntley gave a rueful chuckle. ‘He even asked me what would be the optimal way for him to die.’

‘Optimal?’

‘From our point of view. What would work best, if we wanted to get his heart, say, to a recipient. I think he was worried, because he lived so far away, that if he was killed in a road accident, for example, by the time he got to a hospital, his heart would be useless. Of course, the one scenario he didn’t count on was a brutal murder.’

‘Do you have any idea—’

‘I have no idea at all who could have wanted this man dead, no. I said the same to Dr Russell just now. I can only think it was a completely random, awful crime. Because no one who knew him would want to murder such a man. They couldn’t.’

She paused and Will chose to let the silence hang. One thing he had learned: say nothing and your interviewee will often fill the void with the best quote of the entire conversation.

Eventually Dr Huntley, with what Will thought was a crack in her voice, spoke again. ‘We discussed this when it happened and we discussed it again today and my colleagues and I agree. What this man did, what Pat Baxter did for a person he had never met and would never meet – this was truly the most righteous act we have ever known.’

TEN (#ulink_fb232c93-9eff-560b-8101-4e21c8206bf1)

Friday, 6am, Seattle

He woke at six am, back now in his Seattle hotel room. He had filed his story from Missoula and then made the long journey cross-country. As he wrote the piece, he was powered by a single, delicious thought: Eat this, Walton. What had that prick said? ‘Once counts as an achievement, William; twice would be a miracle.’

Will prayed he had pulled it off. His greatest fear was that the desk might find it too similar to the Macrae story, another good man among knaves. So he had played up the militia angle, thrown in lots of Pacific Northwest colour and hoped for the best. He even toyed with ditching the quote about Baxter’s action being ‘righteous’, the very same word that woman had used about Howard Macrae. It might look contrived. Still, it would be more contrived to ignore it.

He reached for his BlackBerry, whose red light was winking hopefully: new messages.

Harden, Glenn: Nice job today, Monroe. That was what he wanted to hear. It meant he had avoided the spike; if only he could see Walton’s face. The next email looked like spam; the sender’s name was not clear, just a string of hieroglyphics. Will was poised to delete it when the single word in the subject field made him click it open. Beth. He had not even read all the words when he felt his blood freeze.

DO NOT CALL THE POLICE. WE HAVE YOUR WIFE. INVOLVE THE POLICE AND YOU WILL LOSE HER. DO NOT CALL THE POLICE OR YOU WILL REGRET IT. FOREVER.

ELEVEN (#ulink_0e445be4-3fc6-53cf-9996-0f0db09b5752)