Dreaming Death (Krewe of Hunters #32) - Heather Graham Page 0,83

led to the second floor. The foyer, where they waited, gave way to an expansive parlor with doors opening off to other parts of the house on either side.

They were there barely a minute before the housekeeper returned, frowning and appearing to be very perplexed.

“I’m so sorry. Dr. Lawrence says he can’t see you right now. He’s extremely busy with an urgent medical report,” she said.

“I thought he was playing video games?” Keenan asked.

“I...uh... Well, I guess I was hoping he was,” the woman said, stammering. It was evident that she wasn’t at all fond of lying, even when told to do so by her employer.

She stood there awkwardly.

Then a door opened, and Dr. Lawrence came out.

“It’s all right; I’ll see these people,” Lawrence told his housekeeper.

His housekeeper, evidently uncomfortable, quickly escaped.

“I just have to close out on my computer,” Dr. Lawrence told them. “Give me a minute.”

They stood alone in the foyer.

Stacey spoke softly. “Seeing him...he’s changed. Everyone changes, but I remember him so clearly from the trial. He broke down several times. Every time McCarron was on the stand—denying his culpability—Henry Lawrence looked as if he would burst into tears again.”

“Well, physically, he came out fine,” Keenan said. “He’s got a good height on him—he’s about six-two—I could see that in the video footage. His hair was a sandy-blond back then, he’s just gaining bits of gray. I’m estimating he was in his early thirties at the time of the trial, which makes him in midforties now.” He lowered his voice still further. “He seemed to have an intense and quick manner about him then.”

“And still, though we’ve barely seen him,” Stacey murmured. “The way he moves, it’s probably gained from years of learning his way around patients in an operating room.”

“Let’s hope that he’s not too quick or jerky with a scalpel!” he muttered and fell silent.

The good doctor was back.

“Miss Hanson—or Special Agent Hanson, now,” he said, studying her. “You grew up well,” he told her.

“Thank you. I’m hoping you’ve been well.”

“Well enough, thank you.” He looked at Keenan.

“And you, sir?” Lawrence asked.

“Special Agent Keenan Wallace, Dr. Lawrence. And we’re sorry to bring back painful memories, but you were on the road to being one of the foremost transplant doctors in the country—until McCarron murdered your mentor.”

Lawrence shrugged. “There are other challenges. I performed a hernia surgery today that may well be the most complicated to ever hit the books. I’ve saved lives when people might have died of ruptured appendixes. There are different rewards.” He looked at them both and then indicated an antique sofa and matching side chairs in the living room just past the foyer. “Please, have a seat. You’ve come this far.”

They followed him and took seats. Lawrence studied Stacey intently.

“How is your dad?” he asked her.

“He and Mom are both fine, thank you. The two of them are retired, I’m out of the house, so they’ve bought a camper. They’re off now in Yellowstone, I believe.”

“Your father is a good man,” he said. “Amazing that he made it to the trial.”

“And now, Dr. Lawrence,” Keenan said, “someone is killing vulnerable women—and others. We believe that there’s more going on than a killer who enjoys killing. We believe that they’re being murdered for their internal organs, and that all these organs are going out on the black market. You were a transplant surgeon. We’re looking to find out if there was anyone you knew back then, someone who maybe dropped out of the field completely, who might be behind this.”

Dr. Lawrence frowned thoughtfully. “That was the whole thing with McCarron. He was bitter over the lists. Said they weren’t fair. I can’t begin to tell you what goes into the lists, and how a person just might match if there is a chance for an organ to survive. Such an operation—killing people randomly for their organs—is crazy. You would—well, frankly, you’d waste so many.”

Keenan shrugged. “This killer may not care about waste. Seriously, what is just one kidney worth on the black market? A half million or more, right?”

“What price do we put on human life?” Lawrence asked softly. “For most of us, lists and playing by the rules are the lot that life has cast us. But ask yourself—if you were incredibly wealthy, and you knew you were going to die without a new heart in a few years, wouldn’t you pay anything?” Lawrence asked.

“I honestly don’t think that I could ask another person to die so that I might live,”