Mistress of Justice

road, the one who’d killed Wendall Clayton.
    That was why he’d seemed familiar—because she must’ve seen him in the firm or following her and Reece earlier. Maybe he’d overheard her conversation with John Silbert Hemming. Maybe he’d put a tap on
her
phone at the office or even in her apartment.
    She—
    Then the poison began to churn again and she started to retch in earnest, unable to breathe, trying to scream for help, slamming her hand on the dresser so that somebody might hear and come to her aid. Perfume bottles fell, makeup, an Alice in Wonderland snowball crashed to the floor and broke, the water and sparkles spattering her.
    She began to pummel the floor—until she realized she had no feeling in her hand; it was completely numb. Taylor Lockwood began to cry.
    She crawled to the phone, dialed 911.
    “Police and fire emergency.”
    She couldn’t speak. Her tongue had turned to wood.The air was becoming thinner and thinner, sucked from the room.
    The voice said, “Is anyone there? Hello? Hello? …”
    Taylor’s hands stopped working. She dropped the phone. She closed her eyes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
     
    “What happened?” Carrie Mason asked.
    The doctor was a woman in her mid-thirties. She had straight blond hair and wore no makeup except for bright blue eye shadow. The medico’s badge said Dr. V. Sarravich.
    The woman said, “Botulism.”
    “Botulism? Food poisoning?”
    “I’m afraid she ate some severely tainted food.”
    “Is she going to be okay?”
    “Botulism’s much more serious than other types of food poisoning. She’s unconscious, in shock. Severely dehydrated. The prognosis isn’t good. We should get in touch with her family, if she has any. She lived alone and apparently the police couldn’t find her address book or any next-of-kin information. We found your name and number on a card in her purse.”
    “I don’t know where her parents live. I’ll give you the name of someone who can get in touch with them. Can I see her?”
    “She’s in the Critical Care Unit. You can’t visit now,” Dr.Sarravich said. Medical people were all so serious, the girl thought.
    Carrie asked, “Is it really bad?”
    She hesitated—a concession to delicacy—and said, “I’m afraid it may be fatal and even if it isn’t there could be some permanent damage.”
    “What kind of damage?”
    “Neuromuscular.”
    “To her hands?” Carrie asked.
    “Possibly.”
    “But she’s a musician,” the paralegal said, alarmed. “A pianist.”
    “It’s too early to tell anything at this point.” A pen and paper appeared, and the doctor asked, “Now, whom should I contact?”
    Carrie wrote a name and phone number. The doctor looked at the pad. “Donald Burdick. Who is he?”
    “The head of the firm she works at. He can tell you everything you want to know.”

     
    Taylor’s eyes opened slowly. Her skin stung from the sandblasting of fever. Her vision was blurred. Her head was in a vise of fiery pressure. Her legs and arms were useless, like blocks of wood grafted to her torso. The nausea and cramps were still rampaging through her abdomen and her throat was dry as paper.
    There was a young woman in a pale blue uniform making the bed next to hers.
    Taylor had never been in such pain. Every breath brought pain. Every twitch was a throb of pain. She assumed that the nerves in her hands and legs had short-circuited—she couldn’t move her limbs.
    Taylor whispered.
    No reaction from the young woman.
    She screamed.
    The attendant cocked her head.
    She screamed again.
    No reaction. Taylor closed her eyes and rested after the agonizing effort.
    Several minutes later the bed was made. As the attendant walked toward the door, she glanced at Taylor.
    Taylor screamed, “Poison!”
    The aide leaned down. “Did you say something, honey?” Taylor smelled fruity gum on her breath and felt like gagging.
    “Poison,” she managed to say. “I was poisoned.”
    “Yes, food poisoning,” the girl said and started to leave.
    Taylor screamed, “I want Mitchell!”
    The girl held up the watch on her pudgy wrist. “It’s not midnight. It’s about six.”
    “I want Mitchell. Please …”
    Taylor tried fiercely to hold on to consciousness but it spilled away like a handful of sugar. She had an impression of struggling to leap out of bed and calling Mitchell in Boston but then she realized that her legs and arms had started to spasm. Then a nurse was standing over her, staring in alarm and