Chapter Text
The bearded young man who leaned against the wall of the Kennedy airport observation deck had dark auburn hair that hung below his collar. His dark eyes watched the crowds flow back and forth, ignoring him.
"What do you see, Elliot?" asked the curly-haired young man beside him. His coat was unstylishly wrinkled, and a sharp contrast to the tailored, if patched, black cashmere overcoat worn by the man next to him.
Elliot Burch, former architect and millionaire, shrugged. "I see many people who don't see me any longer. The ones that recognize me are uncomfortable."
"You did what was right." Joe Maxwell, the District Attorney for Manhattan said bluntly. "Without you we'd have no case against the estate of Julian Gabriel."
"I know." The other man turned to him. "Roughly a year ago, Cathy Chandler came to me for information on a notebook. Then she died, I crossed Gabriel and nearly got killed. I just spent three weeks in front of the Securities and Exchange Commission telling them what happened, but I lost Burch Industries to bankruptcy. Sometimes it doesn't seem worth it to know that we brought down the empire of a dead megalomaniac."
"Justice is sometimes uneven, but in the end it all balances out," said a third man who had just passed through the security check point. He had the bearing of an English military officer and a mild-mannered expression on his face.
"Thank you, Robert," Burch said with a touch of sarcasm. "I sometimes wish it was the way it was before."
Robert McCall, former spy and now private investigator, could understand the slight trace of bitterness
in Burch's voice. There were things that he wished had never happened in the course of his long life.
Sometimes you had to let it work its way out of your system. Sometimes that took years. "Where are you headed, Burch?"
"South," the young man replied. "Miami and the South Florida area. It's going to be hot as hell in April, but I'll stand it."
"If you need my help," Maxwell said with emphasis, "give me a call. You've got my number."
"I know your number," the former industrialist said with a grin. "I know your car phone number. I know your beeper number too. I memorized them last spring."
"Think you're gonna be safe?" Joe asked with sincerity.
"I don't have any more to tell anyone," Burch said with a wry smile. "I'm not a threat to anyone."
"Then I'll take off. I have..."
"Cathy's will's being read today, isn't it?" Elliot eyed him. He saw the job was giving the young
lawyer lines and grey hairs among the mass of brushed-back brown curls. In fact he would wager that the D.A. was working on an incipient ulcer. "Thanks for seeing me off, Joe."
"Take care of yourself."
* * * *
Robert McCall looked outside at the sleeting skies and shivered. It had been a strange year for weather. Ever since Thanksgiving the weather had been ugly, and McCall hoped it wasn't going to be this way for the rest of the winter. With Christmas a week away, he hoped the weather would improve enough that his son, Scott, would be able to get to the city.
He settled down on the couch next to the fire. Behind him the music system pumped Bach into the air.
Spread out across the coffee table was the latest issue of Wall Street Business. The economy and the world was going to hell as usual. There was a full page spread on the decay of the city's hospitals. The byline caught his attention. Frank Hayes. McCall had met the reporter last spring when he had been covering the destruction of Burch Industries and the subsequent reappearance of Elliot Burch. The investigator was one of the few who knew that Hayes had had a hand in finding the missing millionaire. He wondered why Hayes had taken on hospitals? It was well off his usual beat of insider trading and currency transgressions.
A knock on his door caught him unawares. He wished that the other members of his building wouldn't let
people in when they entered. He cautiously looked out the peephole before opening the door.
"Good Lord! Elliot!" McCall opened the door, and took the man's dripping coat and hat. "What are you
doing back in the wilds of New York?"
"And wild it is, too. I'm up here to clarify some things with my lawyers." Elliot Burch grimaced.
"Never let your company go into bankruptcy, Robert. It's hell to clean up."
"You didn't have much choice as I recall," McCall remarked. He hung the coat and hat in the front
bathroom to drip on a towel.
"I was in the neighborhood and I thought I'd drop by," Elliot said, wandering around the front room.
"Would you like some coffee or tea?" McCall asked.
"Coffee would be fine."
The silver-haired man filled the coffee maker and flicked it on.
Burch stepped into the dining alcove. On the walls hung prints and paintings, African and modernistic
on one side, old masters on the others, set off by the off-white walls. The polished oak table gleamed in the
overhead light. In the center was a candle in a polished holder.
"What's this?"
McCall glanced in. "That's from our friends downstairs," he said casually.
The candle was long and tapering, multicolored and obviously hand-dipped.
"A candle?" Burch said curiously, picking up the candle and holder. He sniffed. Beeswax?
McCall brought out a steaming mug and handed it to the young man. "Yes, an invitation to a party."
"Really? What kind of a party is it?"
"Winterfest. Their personal celebration of the winter season. I've gone for a couple of years."
"Sounds interesting." Burch put the candle down and took the cup from McCall's hands. "What do you
hear from them?"
McCall waved a hand to the candle. "That's it since we last talked. First time I got one, it was
wrapped in a hand-calligraphed invitation and left on the doorstep." The former agent grinned. "I didn't know
what it was so I put it in a bucket of sand for a couple of days, till I could get a specialist in to deactivate
it."
"Mickey?" Burch remembered the young man's talents with explosives.
"No, someone else." McCall led the way into the living room, and flicked on the light beside the couch.
It was getting dark outside. "Mickey's out of town for a couple of months."
Burch put down his cup and took up a log. He arranged it on the burning embers, careful not to catch
fire himself, then settled back, dusting his hands.
"So how is Florida?" McCall asked.
The young man glanced back at him. He picked up the mug and went over to the other sofa kitty-corner
to where McCall was sitting. "It's starting to cool off finally. The summer's been blistering."
"Your tan says you were out in it."
"For the most part. I went from Miami to Galveston, and back on some of my projects."
"Building?"
Burch shrugged. "I'm still an architect."
"True. But..."
"Would you like to go to dinner, Robert?"
McCall sensed a need to talk in the young man. "I know an excellent place that does carry-out. We can
eat here."
*****
Dr. Peter Alcott massaged the back of his neck with his long fingers. He then stretched, unkinking his
shoulders, stood and walked around the crowded office. The room was only lit by a small desk lamp. To one side was a battered file cabinet with a dying coleus drooping over the top drawer. He made a mental note to get his secretary, Jennie Blackmun, to water it. Next to the plant sat a picture of Catherine Chandler, the authoress of his current back and shoulder ache. He looked at it fondly but with a wry twist on his lips. He had brought Catherine into the world, held her when she was sick, been the family's general practitioner, but their bonds had strengthened when they shared the secret of the Tunnels. Even dead, she was affecting the world around her. And his life had taken on increased stress.
In mid-April her will had finally been read. Aside from some personal behests, the entire estate had
been split three ways. A quarter had gone to Alcott free and clear. The next fourth went to the hospital where the doctor was now pacing back and forth--St. Vincent's. The remainder, the money, stocks, real estate inherited from her father, et at, had come to Alcott to, in the words of the will to be part of the "Chandler Trust, under the control of Dr. Peter Alcott, to be used by him for helping those who are needy." The total had comes to over a million dollars after taxes. Only he knew the final request was aimed directly at the Tunnels.
"Cathy, did you ever have any idea of how much work goes into administering a trust?" he said aloud
"Sir? Doctor?" The girl tapped on the dingy door, then opened it a crack.
Behind him, rain lashed at the window panes. "Yes?"
"Two men are here. From the JCOH?"
Alcott raised an eyebrow. The JCOH? What was the Joint Commission on Hospitals, which accredited and
licensed hospitals, doing here? St. Vincent's wasn't up for review for a year. "Please send them in, Jennie."
He stood when the men entered. "I'm Dr. Alcott. Can I help you?"
"Are you the man who submitted the request for the new addition to the hospital?" one man asked
politely.
"Yes, I am. Please have a seat." Alcott waited till they were seated to continue. "Is there a
problem?"
The man nodded. "I'm afraid we must reject your application, Dr. Alcott."
"What? Why? This hospital needs the addition!" Alcott waved towards the streaming glass. "We
received permission to raze the building that was on the site. Why are we being rejected at this point?"
One man shot his companion an uncomfortable look. "I understand that you are on the building committee
at this hospital--"
"Yes?"
"And, sir, I'm afraid we must report that this hospital isn't fulfilling its accreditation."
Alcott felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. It took a second for him to find his voice. "What are
you talking about?"
"Oh, it's not the quality of care or the people," the other man cut in hastily. "The building hasn't
been kept up to the standard expected."
"We've been too busy staying open!"
The man pounced. "Then, you admit that there is a problem?"
"What? NO! I do not. What problems do you see?"
The men stood. "We will be sending a report in the next few days."
Alcott took several deep breaths. "I look forward to seeing it. Good day, gentlemen."
"Good bye, Dr. Alcott."
When the door shut behind them, Alcott turned to the window and hit the frame once, hard. The glass shuddered. Outside, the rubble that had been turn-of-the-century tenements was piled, a crater in the heart of New York. In his mind's eye he could see the new addition, gleaming with paint and the most up-to-date equipment, financed mostly by the Chandler Trust. Now that dream was fading in the face of the reality which was that the hospital needed to be renovated.
"Sir?"
"Yes, Jennie?" Alcott didn't turn from the window. On the sill was an old-fashioned candlestick holder
and a rainbow-hued candle. He ran a finger up it to the wick. Winterfest. A chance to get away from it all. He had a sudden urge to run away altogether.
"Sir, Dr. Wachtell would like to speak with you."
Alcott sighed. Wachtell was against the addition and he was one of the more important administrators. "Please send him in, Jennie."
"Yes, sir."