The Governor's Wife by Michael Harvey Page B

of mine, and the cool, thin mask dropped back over her face. “Good-bye, Mr. Kelly.”
    “Actually, I’m heading out myself.”
    We walked back to the reception area together. Marie had a few more things to discuss with Amanda, so I rode the elevator down alone. Five minutes later, I was sitting in my car with a perfect view of Prentice’s main entrance. Marie Perry came out and waited while one of the valets fetched her car. Then she got in and drove. I gave her a little room and followed. I wasn’t sure why, but figured I had nothing to lose.

CHAPTER 16
    T he Women’s Health Clinic on Chicago’s North Side is as nondescript as a building can be. Jammed in between a currency exchange and a taco stand, the clinic has an exterior made of flat yellow brick, with no windows and only a blue sign by the door indicating the services provided inside. Marie Perry pulled up in front of the clinic at just after 11:00 a.m. She ignored a small knot of protesters across the street and walked straight into the facility. I parked at a McDonald’s, got a coffee, and took a seat by a window that offered a good view of the action.
    The folks out front weren’t interested in Marie. She was a little too old to be a target. The next woman who arrived, however, was a different matter. She got off the number 50 bus at Armitage and Damen and walked across the intersection toward the clinic. The woman was in her early twenties, wearing jeans and a light blue hoodie pulled up over her head. Three people detached themselves from the group and met her almost directly in front of the Mickey D’s. The one doing the talking was a middle-aged man, slight with gingerhair and a gentle, unlined face. He was wearing a tan jacket with a priest’s collar poking out underneath. On either side of him stood two women. One appeared to be in her forties and wore a long-sleeved white shirt with CHOOSE LIFE spelled out in black letters across the front. The other looked like someone’s grandmother. She carried a stack of documents in her arms and had a set of rosary beads wrapped between knotted fingers. The group moved slowly down the block, the young woman in the center, the activists orbiting, the procession looking like some strange sort of interconnected solar system. At one point, the woman made a move to cross over to the clinic, but the pull of the group was too strong. Gradually they shuffled her toward the entrance of the McDonald’s. Then they were inside, taking a booth maybe fifteen feet from where I sat. The priest held the dominant position, directly across from the woman. The others spread out on either side. The priest kept his voice low, eyes fixed on his target.
    “Here are copies of just a fraction of the medical malpractice suits filed against the clinic.” The priest was feeding documents across the table. The young woman poked her head out from under the hoodie and gave the paperwork a sniff.
    “We’re concerned about your safety, Elena, as much as your child’s,” the priest continued. “There’s another clinic less than two miles from here. It’s a pregnancy and wellness center. Clean. Professional. Caring. They’ll give you all the information you need. More important, you, and your baby, will be safe.” The priest ducked his head, desperate to make eye contact. To no avail. He touched the arm of one of his helpers. “Marian can give you a ride over. She’ll wait while you see a doctor, then give you a lift back.”
    Elena looked up. “Don’t I need an appointment?”
    The three smiled as one. “We can get you in this morning,” the priest said. “No waiting.” He began to nudge his way out of the booth. I got up and walked over.
    “What’s the rush, Father?”
    The priest’s mouth puffed open a touch; his eyes blinked rapidly. “Can I help you?”
    “I’m not sure.” I grabbed a chair, turned it around backward, and sat in it. “Our friend here has got a decision to make. And she should have the chance