When the weather turned foul, he would camp inside the barn, and only in mid-December would he move inside, staying in a room Jack had made for him in the basement.
Jack approached the tent.
“Tony? You awake?”
A wooden long bow leaned against a hand-hewn wooden column, and a leather quiver bristling with hunting arrows hung from a nearby peg. The bow was a thing of beauty Tony had made from a kit, and he kept it polished. He used it to harvest rabbits and turkeys and the occasional deer. He never used a gun, and didn’t need one.
At Tony’s boarding school, archery had been a major activity, and he had developed remarkable skill in it. He could shoot two-inch patterns at forty yards by the age of twelve, and had been urged to try out for the Olympic team. But Tony wasn’t interested in becoming famous. It was difficult to say exactly what his true interests were, except that he liked being alone and out-of-doors, with his bow and arrow and a penny whistle.
He was eight years younger than Jack, and when they were growing up, the doctors speculated Tony had a high-functioning form of Asperger’s disorder, which corresponded with what Jack had learned as he trained to become a physician. It was partly concern for his brother’s condition that had drawn Jack into medicine.
The only noise coming from the tent was Arbus, panting. Jack pulled aside the flap and, in the green half-light, saw the dog attempting to lick his brother’s bearded face.
“Looks like winter’s coming early,” Jack said.
Tony nodded and yawned.
“Keep warm. And let me know if you need anything.”
Two contrasting vehicles occupied the garage—a weather-beaten 2001 Ford half-ton pickup and a gleaming black 1972 Jaguar Series 3 E-Type roadster, a restoration project Jack had found in a barn near Syracuse. Tossing his briefcase and shoes into the Jag, he squeezed behind the polished wood steering wheel and turned the key. The V-12 was finicky on colder days; this morning it caught quickly but idled rough then died. Never a good omen. One shot was usually all he got.
So, a few minutes later, he pulled out of the driveway in the truck, its tires sloshing though snow as he wound down the narrow road toward New Canterbury. He slowed as he neared the Carters’ place, his closest neighbors. Wilfred Carter, dressed in a bright orange vest and Carhartt overalls, was crossing the road, heading from the barn back to his house. He waved, and Jack slowed.
“How about this white stuff, Wilfred? You gotta love it.”
“You can have it, doc,” the old man replied. “Where’s the British go-cart this morning?”
“It took a vacation.”
“Wouldn’t mind heading south myself. Can’t drag Beth away from here, though.”
Speeding back up, Jack turned his thoughts to the hospital. The memory of yesterday’s meeting welled up, along with that conversation with Dr. Gavin. He pondered again the letter Dr. Gavin had mentioned, the one Lester Zyman had written the day before he died. Why didn’t Gavin want to talk about it? What did he have to research?
The temperature had dropped below freezing during the night; he crunched on frozen slush up the steps into the old lobby. He’d intended to buy a cup of coffee at the vendor before going to the emergency department, but an unusual sight greeted him. Someone was occupying the reception desk, just like the old days, and the place was buzzing with activity.
The receptionist was a lovely elderly woman by the name of Eleanor Lane, who headed the hospital’s volunteer auxiliary. She had on the auxiliary’s trademark pink jacket, her cheeks heavily rouged and her hair freshly blue-tinted.
“Good morning, Dr. Forester,” she called out cheerfully. “My goodness, how about all this fanfare? Isn’t this exciting?”
“Looks like the circus is coming to town. What’s the occasion, Eleanor?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Shame on you.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, taking off his gloves. “It’s Public Colonoscopy Day.”
“And Brad Claxton’s press conference, too,” she said. “He’s going to do it right here in the lobby. Look.”
She pointed toward a group of technicians in jeans and T-shirts who were assembling a platform and unpacking lights. Electric cords snaked across the old carpet.
“Brenda Waters is already upstairs. I saw her come in about an hour ago. She’s very well-preserved and taller than I imagined.”
“So, they’ve got you working early today.”
“That’s the nice thing about being a volunteer—it doesn’t feel like work. I’m seventy-nine, and the reason I stay healthy is because I come here every day. Do you know I began doing this in nineteen-fifty-nine?”
“You’re definitely part of the family. I couldn’t imagine this place without you.”
“Thank you, and I still remember when you were just a medical student. And now look at you, doing such great things in the emergency department. Are you working there this morning?”
“Just desk work today. I’ll be back tonight at eleven for another clinical shift.”
“I don’t remember this much excitement since Richard Nixon came here with a kidney stone,” Eleanor said.
“Richard Nixon was here with a kidney stone?” Jack grinned.
“Oh, yes. I was volunteering in the emergency room that day, and I almost bumped into him. He was on a tour of some kind just before he threw in the towel. Probably needed to take a break from Washington. He was holding his stomach with one hand and Pat’s arm with the other, the sweat dripping off that nose of his, and he was cursing like a sailor. Dr. Gavin came in to take care of him. And isn’t it wonderful that Dr. Gavin is back? He’s my next-door neighbor, you know.”
“Have you seen him yet today, by the way?”
“Not this morning,” she said. “So, are you coming to the press conference?”
“If I don’t, you can tell me the important parts, Eleanor. You’re a good Democrat, aren’t you?”
“There are some things you should never ask a lady,” she said, wagging her finger.
As he joined the line in front of the coffee vendor, he noticed a strikingly attractive young woman standing near the staircase. His eyes lingered on her, déjà vu coming over him—she looked familiar. He studied her again, and the sense of familiarity deepened. He had definitely seen her somewhere. No—it was more than just having seen her before; there had been an interaction of some kind.
He racked his memory but couldn’t get the image to crystallize.
She had an oval face and above-average height. Her figure was willowy, and she had dark-blond hair that was almost brown. He had an excellent memory for names and faces, but for some reason hers—and how he knew her—was eluding him. The harder he thought, the more certain he was, but the more it evaded him.
She was looking around, as if searching for someone. Her attention briefly lit on him, but she gave no sign of recognition.
The man behind Jack cleared his throat, and Jack realized he was holding up the line. He moved forward. There were still three people between him and the counter. When he looked again she was gone.
Then he spotted her over by the reception desk, where she was studying the mural of Pegasus giving the country doctor the ride of his life. Was she smiling? One thing for certain—she was lovely. Transcendently lovely.
California—that’s where it must have been, during his training. Had he dated her? Utterly impossible. He would never have let someone like her slip out of mind. He sighed with frustration. The memory would bubble up in his memory, he was certain—probably after she’d gone.
Then something did surface, but it was fragile. A forest. The sound of surf breaking in the distance. He probed, but the thread dissolved.
The man behind him again cleared his throat, this time quite aggressively. She was crossing the lobby toward the staircase.
“Sorry.” He broke away and marched toward her. His throat tightened as he watched the swirl of her dress as she moved. She stopped again near the base of the steps a
nd read from a piece of paper in her hand.
“Excuse me,” Jack said.
She didn’t look up.
“Excuse me,” he repeated.
Again, no response. She probably thought he was a stalker, given the way he’d been staring at her. He was about to back away when she looked up and noticed him standing there.
“Forgive me,” she said, not unkindly. “Were you saying something to me?”
Jack’s head felt little light.
“I hate to bother you, but I think I know you from somewhere.”
Her face was even more striking up close. She had a dimpled chin, and a beauty mark on her left cheek.
“That sounds very convincing,” she said, one eyebrow rising and her smile turning wry. “But I don’t think so.”
“No bells?”
“Nope.”
“Have you ever been in Los Angeles?” he said. “I did my residency at UCLA.”
“Never been west of the Mississippi.”
“Maybe I saw you in a movie or something,” he said. “Are you an actress?”
“Ah, there you go. You must have caught me as the Tin Man in the tenth grade.”
Smiling, Jack shook his head.
“This is driving me crazy. I know I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“Maybe you’re the actor.”
“No, I couldn’t act my way out of the proverbial wet paper sack. Listen, my name is Jack Forester. Does that trigger anything?”
“Nada.”
“And you might be?”
“I might be Zellie Andersen,” she said, shaking the hand he extended. “A pleasure to meet you, Jack Forester.”
“Seriously, either you have a double, or I’m losing my mind. I take it you’re not a local.”
“No.”
“Are you a medical person?”
“A writer,” she said. “I’m here for the story.”
“I see. Listen, while my memory is trying to sort itself out, would you care for a cup of coffee?”
“Thank you, but I don’t have time.” She looked up the staircase. “In fact, the person who fits the description of the man I’m supposed to be meeting is coming right now. Red hair and a white coat.”
Jack followed her gaze, and his heart lost a beat. Skipping down the broad marble staircase toward them was Humphrey Atwood.
* * *
Atwood propelled Zellie away so quickly, bounding up the staircase with her in tow, that she didn’t have a proper chance to thank the man named Jack Forester for his coffee invitation, nor to wish him luck with his memory crisis, if that’s what it was. If he’d simply wanted to meet her, all he’d had to do was say hello. In any case, he had a very nice smile. A very nice face.
Halfway up the stairs, she turned and saw him watching her. She winked at him and had to laugh—the look on his face was so genuinely puzzled. But she was sure she’d never run into him before.
At the top of the stairway, Dr. Atwood ushered her left down the mezzanine and into a corridor and finally stopped in front of an elevator. He seemed flustered for some reason, his face pink. As they waited for the elevator, he bowed and handed her a presentation folder stamped with the university seal.
“Inside this, Ms. Andersen, you’ll find your full day’s itinerary along with a comprehensive fact sheet about the medical center and, of course, about the procedure being performed on Brenda Waters. It’s all copied out and has also been loaded on a complimentary thumb drive for you. It’s all in there.”
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re doing all my work for me.”
The elevator door opened, and they stepped inside.
“Dr. Atwood, I must tell you that I have a hearing impairment. I’ll understand you best if I can see your face.”
“I will speak plainly, then,” he said, still seeming distracted. “Listen, I noticed you talking to Dr. Forester.” He pressed a button for the fifth floor. “Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Good,” Atwood said. “I mean, it’s good I wasn’t interrupting a conversation or anything.”
Zellie had begun forming the impression Dr. Atwood was a strange bird.
“He’d just come up and introduced himself,” she explained. “What do you know about him?”
“Not much to tell. He works here. Well, again, I’m happy to welcome you to New Canterbury, Ms. Andersen. You have a big day ahead of you. You’ll start by meeting with Dr. Witner, the interim dean. That will be quite a treat for you, and I know he’s thrilled you’re here.”
The elevator door slid open.
“Your medical center is bigger than I expected,” she said, gazing up and down the long corridor.
“Forgive me if I brag, but this place is one the best-kept secrets in the nation. We are the regional referral center, and we have almost every specialty you can imagine. We also boast a prestigious medical school and many NIH research grants. You’ll find all this and more in your fact sheet. Consider yourself free to use any of it verbatim in your article.”
“How kind.”
“You also need to know, between you and I, Ms. Anderson, that Dr. Witner is the reason all this is happening today. The Medical Media program was his baby. He’s the prime mover. By the way, my wife Nancy is a great fan of your magazine. I promised to get her your autograph. I told her you probably wouldn’t object too strenuously.” He chuckled. “Was I correct?”
Zellie smiled at him.
A few minutes later, he led her beneath an arched entry off the corridor into an anteroom where a pleasant-looking woman was sitting behind a desk. She rose to her feet and came toward them.
“You must be Zellie Andersen. I’m delighted to meet you. I’m Greta Carpenter.”
“You’re the one who arranged my accommodations,” Zellie said, shaking her hand. “Thank you very much. The hotel is great.”
“Isn’t it a lovely old place?”
Dr. Atwood cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Carpenter, would you kindly let Dr. Witner know we’re here? His schedule is tight today.”
Greta glanced at him.
“Certainly.” She turned back to Zellie. “Please let me know if you need anything else.”
“Well,” said Zellie, “if you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to interview you to get a non-doctor perspective.”
“I’d be delighted,” Greta said, giving Dr. Atwood a smile as she pressed the intercom button.
A moment later, the oak inner door opened to reveal a well-dressed man who looked to be in his mid- to late forties. Zellie was struck by how straight he stood, how formal his bearing, and how white his lab coat was. It almost hurt her eyes.
“Bryson Witner, at your service, Ms. Andersen. Welcome, and do come in. You may join us if you like, Humphrey.”
“I’d like nothing better, sir.”
Except maybe bending down and kissing his buttocks, Zellie couldn’t help thinking as she crossed the threshold into Witner’s office.
Atwood took her coat and hung it in a closet while Witner showed her to a chair by the fireplace.
“What a lovely office,” she said. “It must be a wonderful place to work.”
“Yes, indeed, it is, and thank you. I trust Dr. Atwood’s been giving you what you need?”
“I’d love to know more about the history of your hospital.”
“I have just the thing for you. Humphrey, would you bring me that copy of A Century of Greatness. It’s next to the dictionary. And switch on the fireplace while you’re up.”
Atwood returned with volume and handed it Zellie, making another little bow as he’d done when he’d given her the itinerary.
“Thank you.”
“With our compliments, Ms. Andersen,” Witner said. “The university published it to mark the hospital’s first century—from the turning of the initial shovel to the building of our new clinical towers and research wing. Lots of old photos and alumni essays, many of which are redundant and overly nostalgic, but it will give you a
glimpse of our past.”
“That’s kind, thank you again.”
“Now, can we get you a cup or coffee or tea, or maybe a soft drink?”
Declining, she took a notepad out of her satchel.
“So, tell me about what’s going to happen this morning, Dr. Witner.”
“This morning, Brenda Waters will become the first personality to grace our Medical Media program. When I welcomed her this morning, by the way, I arranged for you to speak with her. I hope you don’t mind. We can do that right after the Claxton press conference.”
“Claxton, the candidate for governor? He’s involved in your program?”
“No. Coincidentally, he happens to be giving a press conference here this morning. It won’t take long, and I assumed you might like to meet him, also.”
“Sure, why not?”
“Settled, then.”
“So, tell me more about your Medical Media program? How did it begin? What’s its reason for being?”
“Let me begin by saying that modern medicine has made great strides in the prevention and early detection of conditions that cause early mortality…”
As she took notes, Zellie couldn’t escape the impression he was speaking by rote—that much of Witner’s mind was elsewhere. There was something unsynchronized between his words and his expression. It was subtle, something perhaps only someone who depended upon reading lips to one extent or another might notice, but it was real. The impression it gave her was that, as he spoke, he was trying to appease her while, at the same time, he was actively analyzing her, categorizing her. It was strange, and a little unsettling.
“But early detection procedures are for naught,” he was saying, “if, out of ignorance or fear, people don’t take advantage.”
“Or from simply not knowing such things are available,” added Atwood, who stood by the fireplace, his hands behind his back.
Final Mercy Page 10
