Chasing Tomorrow

Jeff Stevens smiled back. “When’s lunch? I’m starving.”

CHAPTER 29

YOU KNOW IT’S NOT often a man dies on the cross and then miraculously comes back to life.”

Jeff’s surgeon, Dr. Elena Dragova, an attractive woman in her late forties, beamed down at her patient. As well she might. The case of “the man on the cross” had made headlines all across Bulgaria. Jeff’s recovery was being hailed as a modern miracle and Dr. Dragova was about to become a household name, along with the rest of the staff at UMBAL Sveti Georgi, Plovdiv’s largest and most prestigious hospital.

“So I hear,” Jeff quipped. “Every couple of thousand years or so, isn’t it? If I start my own religion, will you join?”

“I don’t believe in God.”

“Nor do I. Only in beautiful women.”

Dr. Elena Dragova laughed. She didn’t know what to make of Jeff Stevens, or of the strange, hauntingly beautiful woman who’d brought him to Sveti Georgi, insisting that she’d seen renewed vital signs in the ambulance and demanding that the emergency room staff make another attempt at resuscitation. Jeff Stevens’s heart had started again, against all the odds. But he’d needed surgery afterward, for eight grueling hours. His condition was so severe he’d been placed in a medically induced coma. Through it all, for three straight nights, the woman had sat by his bedside, barely eating or sleeping, just watching him breathe. She’d refused to leave him, for anything. Even getting her to allow the nurses to dress her own wounds, or put her in clean clothes, had been a battle. She’d told them her name was Tracy, but beyond that, nothing.

Policemen came and went. As well as Mr. Stevens, the hospital was housing another gravely injured American, Daniel Cooper, believed to be the madman who had tried to crucify Stevens up in the hills. Cooper had been found in the amphitheater with his skull smashed in the same night that Stevens was rescued. Rumors swirled that he was in fact a serial killer and rapist, that the woman at Jeff Stevens’s bedside had narrowly escaped becoming his next victim. But no one knew the truth and “Tracy” wasn’t talking.

Then one day, without warning or any words to the nurses, Tracy suddenly left. It was a day Dr. Dragova would never forget, for many reasons.

At around seven in the morning, another group of Americans had arrived—this time it was the FBI—and the scene at UMBAL Sveti Georgi’s main reception area had rapidly descended into farce.

A very rude and obnoxious agent by the name of Milton Buck burst in as if he owned the place, demanding loudly and repeatedly to be allowed to interview Daniel Cooper.

“We have an international arrest warrant,” Agent Buck hissed. “This man is wanted in connection with a string of jewelry and art thefts. He is sitting on stolen property worth hundreds of millions of dollars and I will speak to him!”

Having first taken his frustration out on Cooper’s surgical team, who point-blank refused to allow him anywhere near their patient, Buck turned his ire on Jean Rizzo.

Aside from one brief trip back to his hotel to shower and change, Rizzo had been at the hospital constantly since the night Jeff Stevens was brought in. He’d come to formally charge Daniel Cooper, monitor Jeff’s progress and to check on Tracy, whom he no longer trusted to be let out of his sight.

“You spoke to Cooper!” Milton Buck glared at him accusingly.

“Early yesterday, yes. There was a brief window when he was still lucid. He was quite forthcoming about the Bible killings.” Jean smiled. “Of course, that was before the second stroke.”

“Why wasn’t I informed! I heard about Cooper’s arrest on the goddamn Bulgarian radio news! My case—”

“—is not important,” said Rizzo. “Not compared to what’s gone on here. Not compared to thirteen lives lost. Besides, you’ve got Elizabeth Kennedy, haven’t you?”

“Elizabeth only took half the money. Daniel Cooper had the other half. If we don’t recover those assets—”

“What? You won’t get your promotion?” Jean gave Milton a conciliatory pat on the shoulders. “That’s too bad, man.”

“The case isn’t closed!” Milton Buck said furiously. “If Daniel Cooper can’t help me trace the missing McMenemy Pissarro, or the Neil Lane jewels he stole from the Chicago store, then your little girlfriend Tracy Whitney’s going to have to fill in the gaps.”

Rizzo’s eyes narrowed. “Leave Tracy out of this. She knows nothing.”

“She knows how these scumbags think.”

“You made a deal,” said Jean, “when Tracy delivered Elizabeth Kennedy to you on a platter. She had immunity. Remember?”

“ ‘Had’ is the operative word, I’m afraid. You didn’t seriously think the federal government was going to wave good-bye to hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of stolen goods just to stay in the good graces of a wanted con artist, did you?”

Jean Rizzo glared at Milton Buck but said nothing.

“Speaking of Tracy, where is she?” Buck asked, smiling. “Perhaps you’d like to go and tell your little girlfriend that I’d like a word? Right now, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“She’s gone.”

The smile died on Buck’s lips.