Page 3 of The List
This was not his first visit to the convalescent center, so he knew its layout.
Thankfully, they’d caught a break with the family choosing here as the place to admit him.
An outside facility would have only complicated matters.
Medical records indicated that Jordon was being fed a constant supply of nasal oxygen.
He was also heavily sedated, sleep being deemed the best medicine.
That might explain why there were no visitors this evening to Room 46.
Information was so important.
It could be your best ally, which was why the files were prepared with such detail.
He walked down the carpeted corridor and bypassed the residents’ rooms, heading instead for a closed door at the end of the hall.
He was dressed in a suit and tie, one of the facility’s security badges draped around his neck, which identified him as a physician from Savannah.
He carried a small black bag. Medical professionals with regular business at the center were issued the badges, which allowed them to come and go as they pleased.
Those from Savannah or Augusta were commonplace.
He stopped at the door and glanced around.
No one was in sight.
Security cameras had intentionally not been installed. The governing board that ran the facility, comprising seven Woods County residents, had thought the measure unnecessary. This was a place where people came to live their final years in peace. Nothing nefarious about that.
So why spend the money.
He inserted the key that he’d brought and freed the lock.
Inside was a mechanical room. He flicked on the light switch then relocked the door.
His internal clock began ticking. He could not stay here long.
Every second increased the risk of exposure.
Processing this Priority, in this manner, was not standard operating procedure.
But correcting the mistake of three weeks ago had demanded that more risk than usual be taken.
He opened the black leather bag and removed a small cylinder. He then approached a bank of tubes and valves, all leading to the center’s respiratory generator. From there, pure oxygen was sent through the walls to each of the rooms, available if needed.
And currently, Room 46 was in need.
Actual processing decisions were always left to the Associate’s discretion, though the final choice had to be approved before implementation.
Once he’d learned that J. J. Jordon was here, the choice had been a no-brainer.
Years ago, in central Alabama, an eighty-year-old woman had died in the bathroom at a nearby McDonald’s.
Police ultimately determined that a bleed line used to carbonate the drink dispenser had disconnected and flooded the bathroom with carbon dioxide.
Levels built to a lethal dose, killing the elderly woman when she entered.
Talk about a freak occurrence. How many people died going to the bathroom?
When the convalescent center was remodeled, this particular oxygen feed system had been purchased because of its quick-release valves.
Normally there for purging, they also made for an excellent entry point.
It had been three years since they’d last been utilized—by him then, too.
That Priority had been easily eliminated, and this one, tonight, should be the same.
The cylinder he’d brought already had a short span of flex-tubing leading from its valve, the male counterpart to that female attachment on the oxygen line leading to Room 46.
The cylinder contained diosogene. Colorless, but with a slight odor that resembled cut hay or grass.
It, along with phosgene, was used as a chemical weapon in World War I, but had fallen out of favor in the time since.
The great thing about it was that it didn’t take much to kill and it left no residual traces, dissipating quickly.
He snapped on latex gloves, then disconnected the oxygen line for Room 46, connecting the cylinder and opening the valve, flooding the line.
But instead of life-giving oxygen, J. J.
Jordon was now breathing poison. Being heavily sedated helped, as there should be no convulsions.
Unconsciousness would be nearly immediate.
No heart or breath monitors were attached to Jordon.
Instead, the file stated that he was checked several times an hour by the on-duty staff.
He kept the gas flowing.
Two minutes.
Three.
Five.
That should do it.
He disconnected and reattached the oxygen, which would quickly flush the line clean. He then deposited the cylinder and the gloves into his bag and prepared to leave. Back in the hall he worked his way toward the main entrance, blending in with people coming and going from the rooms.
No one paid him any attention.
Normally, he was required to confirm physically with the Priority that the processing had been successful, but that mandate had been waived for tonight because of the prior mistake. In the morning, he’d check and be sure.
Right now, he had other appointments.
6:20 P.M.
H ANK R EED WAS GLAD TO HAVE B RENT BACK.
H E’D MISSED HIS BUDDY more than he would ever openly admit.
Almost twenty-five years of age separated them.
Brent was a college graduate and a lawyer—white collar.
Hank barely made it out of high school, trained as an electrician, blue collar all his life.
But in many ways Brent was the son Hank never had.
They understood each other. Always got along.
No pretending existed between them. He liked that.
Nobody else had ever been that close to him.
Ten years ago, when Brent left town, it had hurt.
But that was something he kept to himself.
Thankfully his “son” had returned.
He watched as Brent dissected a medium-rare T-bone, the table’s location right smack in the middle of Aunt B’s main dining room.
Exactly where he wanted it to be.
“Back one day and already in trouble,” he said to Brent. “I didn’t realize Clarence still carried a chip for you.”
“People get real emotional about lawyers. Especially one who takes your kids away. I’m used to it.” Brent pointed. “What happened to your hair?”
His trademark mane had always been coal black, razor-cut, layered to perfection. A bit unusual for a blue-collar guy, but he liked to look good. It was no real secret that dye accounted for much of the tint, but a few years ago he’d finally allowed silver to invade.
“I got tired of foolin’ with it. Besides, it’s time I start looking my age.”
He was sixty-four, but prided himself on looking and acting like a man much younger.
“Damn, Hank. You growing up on me?”
“And it’s good to see you too, fella.”
Brent smiled.
He’d always called him fella, buddy, or counselor. Only when it was something serious had he ever used his first name.
“You get in today okay?” he asked.
“Left Atlanta this morning and drove in right after lunch.”
“The district attorney sad to see you go?”
“I actually think he was. Doesn’t feel like ten years have passed since I left here.”
“You ready to become a company man?”
Brent shrugged. “I never thought I’d be one.”
“Me either. But I think Southern Republic’s glad to have you on the payroll.”
“I’m surprised, considering what we used to do to them.”
“I think that’s what did it. They were afraid we’d re-team.”
They’d made quite a pair. He the union head, Brent the hotshot local lawyer who knew no fear. Together they’d wreaked havoc with Southern Republic and, along the way, forged a reputation for them both.
“You got here just in time,” he said. “Contract negotiations are right around the corner. It’s going to be tough.”
“More than usual?”
“The paper industry is in the toilet. People are using less and less of the stuff. Everything is goin’ paperless. China is killing us with exports and lower prices. Health care and retirement costs are through the roof. It’s a struggle, and life’s a bitch.”
Over Brent’s shoulder, past the dinner crowd, he noticed a van wheel into the parking lot, CHANNEL 8 ACTION NEWS, SAVANNAH stenciled to the side beside a colorful NBC logo.
Two men emerged and pushed through the restaurant’s front door.
One shouldered a small video camera, the other carried a spiral notebook.
They looked around and Hank motioned for them.
They headed straight toward the table.
Brent noticed his interest and turned. “I should have known when you picked here to eat supper. These guys friends of yours?”
He smiled.
“Not yet. But they’re going to be.”
7:20 P.M.
B RENT STOOD IN THE BACK OF THE UNION HALL AND WATCHED H ANK take to the raised platform at the far end, like an actor entering a stage, perfectly at home in front of a crowd.
On the way over from the restaurant Hank had complained bitterly about the imbecile reporter from the Savannah television station.
When he’d arranged for the news story last week, Hank assumed the same woman who’d come last time would be dispatched.
Older and aggressive, she knew what it took to get her name noticed.
But apparently she’d left the station, moving on to bigger markets.
Consequently, instead of Lois Lane, the station sent Jimmy Olsen.
Brent knew the game.
Hank was softening the company’s underbelly, feeding stories to the press, starting a PR battle to place them on the defensive before the real war over a new collective bargaining agreement began.
For a guy who barely made it out of high school Hank had a talent with the press, knowing exactly how to deliver the perfect ten-second sound bite.
Make it short, sweet, and backbreaking. Tonight’s story, gathered from listening to the interview, which happened right in the middle of the restaurant, dealt with the upcoming contract negotiations and the continuing downward plight of the blue-collar worker.