Chapter 3 - The Black Station Wagon
The vehicle that Michael Anders drove was a 1998 Ford Taurus station wagon, its original black lacquer finish completely dulled by the salt air of the Portland wharves and its left rear fender held in place by three stainless steel rivets he had driven through the quarter panel himself. The interior smelled of old diesel logs, copper anti-seize compound, and the cold, flat wool of the surplus navy blankets he kept in the spare tire well.
He did not speak as the car cleared the limestone pillars of the Carter estate. He held the steering wheel with his hands at the nine-and-three position, his long fingers pale and steady against the black plastic rim, while the windshield wipers made a rhythmic, dry shuck-shuck against the grey mist coming off the sea.
Ellie sat in the front passenger seat, her head turned toward the rear compartment where the three girls were wrapped in the navy blankets. Hope’s breathing had slowed slightly under the influence of the car's heater, her small, pale hand tucked inside Grace’s coat sleeve like a cold bird.
"The clinic is on India Street, Mr. Anders," Ellie said, her fingers tightening around the canvas strap of her duffel bag. "The doctor there knows about the blue color in her lips. He has the small oxygen canisters that don't cost more than twelve dollars if you return the brass valves."
"We are not going to India Street, Mrs. Hayes," Michael said. He did not look at her face; his eyes tracked the white lane lines of Route 77 as the car turned north toward the industrial shipyards of the lower harbor. "The clinic there is monitored by the Carter Foundation's secondary charity board. If you register the child’s name on their intake log, the automated probate system will send a notification to Margaret’s attorneys before the noon mail delivery clearances are set."
"I don't have the resources for a private hospital, Mr. Anders," she said, her voice dropping into the low, defensive register she had used with the kitchen cook. "My account at the Skokie union bank was closed by the estate executors in twenty-three. I have seventy-four dollars in cash inside the lining of my boot."
Michael reached down with his right hand, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a small, grey plastic card that bore no corporate logo—only a sixteen-digit number stamped into the PVC and a small, silver microchip near the upper margin.
"The account is registered under The Spruce Island Maritime Trust," he said, his voice flat and level like an automated weather broadcast from the harbor station. "The liquidity index clears forty-two million dollars before the seasonal corporate tax adjustments are applied. The hospital on the ridge has an isolated pediatric wing that does not report its admission logs to the county court. The child will have the valve replaced before the winter freeze."
"What valve?" Ellie asked, her breath catching against her bruised ribs.
"The mitral valve, Mrs. Hayes," Michael said, his eyes tracking a large oil tanker that was clearing the main channel near House Island. "Your husband Andrew came to my office in Bangor three weeks before his car went off the highway. He brought the medical records from the clinic in Boston. He knew the child had a structural defect in the lower chamber, and he knew his mother had refused to authorize the trust release for the surgery because she wanted the capital redirected into the container boat hulls."
Ellie looked at his profile—the long, pale scar near his earlobe, the grey eyes that didn't change color when the sun cleared the low clouds for a brief, blinding second over the water.
"Why didn't he tell me?" she whispered.
"Because he was trying to clear the signature logs first," Michael said, his hand moving the gear shift into low range as the car mounted the steep gravel lane toward the ridge hospital. "He knew that if Margaret found out he had discovered the fraud in the shipping trust ledger, she would have the custody petition filed before he could get the medical clearance from the Boston board. He was killed forty-eight hours after he initialed the third rider."
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He stopped the car in the private ambulance bay behind the brick pavilion. Two nurses in clean, grey uniforms were already waiting by the glass doors, their hands holding a small, heated transport crib that bore the gold seal of the Anders Maritime Foundation.
"Take the child inside, Mrs. Hayes," Michael said, his fingers releasing the steering wheel for the first time since they left the Cape. "I have an administrative session with the harbor marshal at three-thirty. I will return before the child’s evening vitals are logged."
