"L. Timmel Duchamp - Living Trust" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duchamp L Timmel)

Living Trust by L. Timmel Duchamp

On that gloomy February morning, Kate Abbotson’s personal phone woke her a scant ten
minutes before her alarm was programmed to. She had been dreaming that the misting system
in her vivarium refused to shut off.

The caller said, "This is Lady Godiva." Kate, slow to wake, pictured a woman seated on a horse,
naked under flowing, ankle-length hair. "Is this Kate? The thing is, it’s about Mike." Mike. Kate
snapped to. This was Godiva, the pop video artist whom her father had been seeing for about
two months. "Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you this. I really, really am. Like, I was sleeping when
some weird siren kind of alarm on Mike’s phone went off. It was about five to seven, I guess. I
rolled over to look at him, to see why he wasn’t doing something about the racket, and, well, he
was completely out of it. I mean, he was unconscious. His face looked terrible, and though his
heart was beating, he wasn’t breathing that I could tell. So I called 911 right away, and then did
artificial respiration until the paramedics came. He’s in an ambulance now, on his way to
Cedars-Sinai. I knew I should call you, but I didn’t have your number. Then I noticed that Mike’s
phone had a shortcut for you, which is how I reached you."

Kate sat up. Her hand was gripping the phone so hard her palm started to cramp. "Daddy?" she
said, just managing to get the word out. "Daddy’s . . . ?" She was shivering violently. Her mind
had totally blanked of everything but the vivid images Godiva’s words summoned up.

Godiva repeated everything, then said, "Kate, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I’m going to go to
the hospital, of course, myself, but since I’m not a relative, I don’t know if they’ll even let me near
him. But . . . is there somebody else I should call?"

"I’ll have to get down there right away," Kate said hoarsely. "It shouldn’t take me long." Her mind
zoomed into focus on the practical. There were commercial flights to L.A. from SeaTac every hour
of the day. Or would it be faster to charter a plane? She said, "I, I, I think my father would want
his attorney to be notified ASAP. But I’ll see to that myself." She was babbling, and there was
nothing more Godiva could tell her. Somehow she managed to thank the woman, say she’d see
her at Cedars-Sinai, and disconnect. She had to pee badly–her teeth were chattering partly from
that need and partly from the tension–but she input Matt Hull’s personal number immediately
anyway, and then, when she had him on the line, went into the bathroom, collapsed onto the
toilet seat and let loose with not only a stream of urine but a flood of diarrhea as well. She gave
him the news, indifferent to his hearing the racket she was making in the toilet. She thought
about how lucky it was that her father had gotten that implant set to trigger his phone alarm if
he stopped breathing or if his heart stopped beating. Obviously, if Godiva hadn’t woken up and
given him artificial respiration . . .

"An ambulance?" Matt said. "Does he have his security with him? And why the hell haven’t I heard
all this from them? Tell me again, Kate, exactly what Godiva said."

She repeated what little there was to tell. "What does it matter if his security is with him?" she said.
"Nobody’s going to be abducting him on a totally random 911 call."

"Abduction is the least of our worries," Matt said. "And short of his hemorrhaging severely, or going
into cardiac arrest, the orders to his security are that he’s to be brought home, to University
Hospital, pronto, without detours. Cedars-Sinai is one of the last places he should be going."