The detective’s office was shabby and stuffy, but he had a spectacular view of Independence Hall and the never-ending stream of antlike tourists prowling around outside. Rafferty had long ago ceased to notice his view, but his visitors were always awed by it.
This office with the view had been part of the lure the police department brass had used to get Rafferty off the street when he reached forty-five. The detective wasn’t fooled by the view or the new title of “Inspector” they bestowed on him, but he knew his stamina and reflexes weren’t what they used to be, and he had grudgingly acquiesced.
The only evidence of the detective’s private life was a family photo, pushed to one side of his desk to make room for the mass of files that covered it. The photo was old. The cherubic tykes smiling from the frame were now sullen teenagers, and their mother, Mary, had put on a few pounds and acquired some gray hair.
“To what do I owe this rare pleasure?”
“Shut up, Raff. I know it’s been awhile. But it looks like you haven’t been exactly idle either.” Fenimore waved at the cluttered desk.
Rafferty grunted. “Wish I were back on the street. Thought computers were supposed to get rid of paper. All they do is make more of it. . . .”
This familiar refrain had become a ritual with Rafferty. Fenimore had learned to let it run its course before trying to get his friend’s attention. “How ’bout those Phils,” Fenimore finally broke in.
“Yeah. Did you see them today? Beat the hell out of the Mets. Five to one.”
“Yeah, I heard.” Fenimore pulled a chair up to the desk and sat down.
“What’s on your mind?” At last the detective had run out of complaints.
“Just a minor legal question.”
Rafferty was instantly alert. He knew his friend’s predilection for dabbling in detective work. He heartily disapproved, but found it interesting all the same.
“What would the penalty be for a doctor caught rifling through another doctor’s case files? Not lifting anything, mind you. Just taking a peek.”
Rafferty scratched his head. “Depends on the other doctor. If he brushes it off, you’re home free. If he decides to press charges, you could be in deep trouble—a stiff fine, or even a prison sentence.”
“Hmm. Not to mention what the AMA ethics committee would do to me . . . er . . . him,” Fenimore grumbled.
“Mincemeat,” Rafferty said. He looked at him quizzically. “What are you up to, Fenimore?”
“Just a little detective work.” He told him about Chuck Ashburn.
“Isn’t there some other way you could get a look at his file? Make up a story that you’re doing a study on SCD in athletes, and you need data.”
Fenimore thought about this and shook his head. “Wouldn’t work. He’d be sure to tell Charlie and he’d know what I was up to.”
“Well, I sure wouldn’t risk my whole career on such a venture.” Rafferty looked stern.
“How’s the family?” Fenimore asked, to change the subject.
“Terrific. Dan Jr.’s flunking algebra. Molly’s in love with a high school dropout. Mikey wants to be a racecar driver when he grows up. And Mary’s sorry she didn’t take the veil.”
“Status quo.”
“Right.” He laughed. “I can’t wait ’til you tie the knot. How’s Jennifer?”
“Fine.” Fenimore was amazed to find himself blushing.
“Still hangin’ in there? Well, watch yourself, Doc. She won’t stick around forever. How long you been goin’ together?”
Fenimore shrugged. “Three or four years.”
“See—you don’t even know. Bad sign.”
“I’d better get back to the office.” Fenimore was anxious to end the conversation.
“Let’s make a date at the Raven real soon,” Rafferty said.
“You bet.” Fenimore hurried away.
CHAPTER 11
Fenimore returned to his office and a placid scene: his nurse/office manager busily typing, with a cup of tea at her side; his office assistant busily filing, his iPod firmly attached to his ears; his cat sleeping peacefully on the windowsill, with her paws tucked under her chin. All was right with the world—except for that small nagging doubt Rafferty had planted in his mind about Jennifer. He entered his inner office and gave her a call.
“Nicholson’s Books,” her familiar voice answered.
“I’d like a copy of Gone with the Wind in Serbo-Croatian.”
“Sorry. We just had a run on that and sold our last copy.”
“Pshaw! And I wanted to give it to my mother-in-law for her birthday.”
“Well, we have Wuthering Heights in Farsi.”
“Oh no. She’s afraid of heights.”
“Then how about Notes from the Underground in Russian?”
“Hmm. Let me think about it.”
Jennifer cut short the banter. “What’s up?”
“Could you take a drive to the Poconos with me tomorrow?”
“What’s in the Poconos?”
“Mountains, lakes, pine trees—”
“I mean, why are you going there?”
“For a physical checkup.”
“What’s wrong?” Her voice was sharp with anxiety.
Feeling guilty, but also gratified, he said, “Nothing. Just routine. But it would be nice to have company.” He paused. “We could make a night of it. It should be pretty this time of year. I’ve got the name of a B & B,” he said hopefully.
“Why not? I have a helper coming in tomorrow. Dad won’t have to cover the shop alone. What time is your exam?”
“Two o’clock. I’ll pick you up at eleven.” He hung up before she could change her mind.
The ride to the Poconos was uneventful. Except for an occasional forsythia bush in bloom and the pale green haze in the treetops where budding leaves were beginning to show, spring was coyly hiding her charms. And the farther north they drove, the more bashful she became.
“We’re about a week too early,” Fenimore said.
“Oh no. I like early spring. I’ll bet if we took a walk in the woods we’d see the skunk cabbage poking up.”
He glanced at his companion in amazement. “What do you know about skunk cabbage? I thought you were a city girl.”
“Not always. My grandfather had a farm in Lancaster County. He knew all about nature. When I was little he used to take me for long walks in the woods.”
“Hmm. That’s the first time I’ve heard of that.”
“There are lots of things you haven’t heard of.”
He gave her a sidewise look. Had he detected a note of bitterness?
They rode in silence until Jennifer spied a sign. “Pine Lake. Five miles,” she read.
Fenimore glanced at the clock on the dashboard. One thirty. They’d made good time. They had been climbing a winding, wooded road for several miles, and Fenimore’s ears were popping. As they neared the crest, the road emerged from the woods into an open space with a view of the mountains. A gentle haze encircled their blue caps.
“Nice,” murmured Jennifer.
“Uh-huh.” Fenimore reached for her hand and pressed it.
With a smile she returned the pressure.
Perhaps he had been taking her for granted lately. He would make up for it in the future. “I’m glad you came,” he said.
Spring may have been hiding her face, but her scents were strong as they stepped out of the car. The air was pungent with the smell of growing things.
“The last thing I want to do is go see a doctor,” Fenimore grumbled.
“As soon as you’re done we’ll go for a walk,” Jennifer promised. “And I’ll teach you about the birds and the flowers—”
“What about the bees?” He cast her a lascivious look.
“Come on.” She grabbed his hand. “Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER 12
The receptionist did not look as perky as she had sounded. And she was older. About sixty. She ordered Fenimore to the back recesses o
f the office and told him to get undressed. Jennifer took a seat in the waiting room and tried to concentrate on an article on fly-fishing in Field & Stream.
While waiting for Dr. Burton to make his appearance, Fenimore, clad in only a hospital gown, shivered and tried to read Time with a picture of Saddam Hussein on the cover. Was there some secret medical code requiring outdated magazines and Arctic temperatures in examining rooms? If there was, he and Doyle didn’t abide by it. Their examining room was toasty warm and their magazines were hot off the press (well, mostly). Another part of the code was to keep the patient waiting for at least twenty minutes so he could work up a good case of nerves and high blood pressure before seeing the doctor. After all, it would be such a waste if the doctor found nothing wrong with the patient.
Fenimore, although feeling fit as a fiddle when he arrived, now suffered from symptoms ranging from headache to shortness of breath to rapid heartbeat. Of course, this could be the onset of hypothermia. He glanced at his watch. Only five minutes had passed. By the code, he still had fifteen minutes to go. Now would be a good time to snatch a peek at the Ashburn file. (Besides, it might be warmer in the file room. It was important to keep all those medical records comfortable.) He slid off the examining table and opened the door a crack. He had seen a nurse enter a room across the hall, carrying a pile of manila folders. After glancing up and down the hall, he padded barefoot to the door and tried the knob. It turned. He ducked inside. It was warmer here. Quite comfortable, in fact. His teeth even stopped chattering. He scanned the filing cabinets that lined the walls. All were labeled PATIENT FILES. Fortunately, the habit of computer filing had not reached this rural, upstate neighborhood. Each drawer was labeled alphabetically. The top drawer of the first cabinet read A–C. Cautiously, he pulled it out. Locating the Ashburn file easily, he was leafing through it when he heard footsteps in the hall.
“Dr. Fenimore?” The nurse was looking for him.
He had replaced the file and shut the drawer before the door opened. The nurse stared at him.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I was looking for the bathroom.”
The nurse’s eyes narrowed. “At the other end of the hall, on your right,” she said shortly.
As he slid past her, she added, “When you’re finished, the doctor is waiting for you.”
Let him wait, thought Fenimore, and may he freeze his buns off!
Once inside the bathroom, Fenimore leaned his head against the cool tile wall. He had worked up quite a sweat in the file room. But it had been worth it. He reviewed what he had learned. Chuck suffered from SCD, just like his father. Not only that, but he had received a defibrillator implant at Pine Lake Hospital a year ago!
Dr. Burton was nondescript. Middle-height, middle-weight, middle-aged. His face had no distinguishing features. Everything could have been store-bought from the same manufacturer—eyes, nose, mouth—and attached with machinelike precision. The label on the box—WHITE, MIDDLE CLASS, PROFESSIONAL, MALE. His manner was as familiar to Fenimore as an old pair of bedroom slippers. Patronizing, with a twist of bounce, and as much pizzazz as a goldfish.*
“Well, Doctor, what brings you to the boondocks from that sacred medical citadel—Philadelphia?” Burton asked.
“You come highly recommended,” Fenimore said, smiling fatuously.
“By whom?”
“Uh . . . a friend.” Fenimore rushed on. “I’m thinking of taking up rowing again and thought I’d better get my ticker checked out.”
“I see.” He examined the electrocardiogram his nurse had taken earlier and compared it to an older one Fenimore had brought with him. “Everything looks normal for someone your age,” he said. “I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t row, as long as it’s just recreation.”
“You can count on that. I’m not about to compete for the Diamond Sculls.” Fenimore forced a laugh.
The doctor pressed his icy stethoscope against Fenimore’s chest, then his back, listening intently. When he was finished, he said, “Actually, a friend of mine has a son who’s trying for Henley. Maybe you know him. He was at Penn around your time. Charlie Ashburn?”
“The name’s familiar,” Fenimore mumbled.
“As for me, I don’t go in for those old-fashioned sports,” Burton said. “Give me a motor boat with plenty of horsepower.”
“Um” was all Fenimore could muster as the doctor felt his groin and shot a finger up his rectum.
Removing his latex gloves, Dr. Burton tossed them into the nearby wastebasket and made a notation on Fenimore’s chart. “Wouldn’t hurt to have a colonoscopy,” he said perfunctorily. “A good precaution at your age.”
*Apologies to all goldfish advocates.
Fenimore nodded and immediately blocked on the suggestion. Like most doctors, he avoided medical examinations whenever possible—unless he needed information for an investigation, such as now. He shivered on the examining table and eyed his clothes yearningly where they hung from a hook on the back of the door.
Burton continued, “I try to get down to the Mother Church for those Saturday afternoon lectures. When you live in the boonies it’s important to make an effort to keep up,” he added piously. (“Mother Church” was some alums’ fond nickname for the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.)
Fenimore nodded, keeping his teeth tightly clenched to prevent their chattering.
“I think you’re in good shape,” Burton said at last. “I’ll send you a report when the lab tests come back.” He stuck out his hand.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Fenimore shook the proffered hand fervently, thankful that the session had come to an end.
“By the way . . .”
Fenimore groaned inwardly.
“. . . what was your frat at HUP?”
“AMPO,” Fenimore uttered the name quickly, hoping to close the interview.
“No kidding?” He positively beamed at him. “We’re brothers, then!”
For a moment Fenimore was afraid the doctor was going to hug him. Great. The last thing he wanted was for Burton to remember him, let alone with fraternal affection.
As soon as the door closed, Fenimore sprang from the examining table and donned his clothes with the zeal of an explorer returning from an Antarctic expedition. As he tied his shoes, he wondered about Charlie. Had he deliberately lied about Chuck’s condition? Or had Dr. Burton lied to Charlie about his son’s health? In either case, the question was—Why?
Fenimore appeared in the waiting room, fully clad, and reported his clean bill of health to Jennifer.
“Let’s go for that walk,” Jennifer said.
Despite his good news, Fenimore was subdued when they reached the car. Once inside, he told Jennifer the real reason for his trip to the Poconos—and what he had discovered.
“I know you’ve told me how a defibrillator works, but could you refresh my memory?”
“When the heart muscle fibrillates, i.e. quivers and stops pumping blood, the defibrillator—or ICD—delivers an electric shock that stops the fibrillating and causes the heart to resume its normal rhythm. It also records the type of event and the time it occurred. The patient carries a special card that contains all the data needed to read the information from the ICD so the medic or doctor involved can figure out what happened. It’s called an ‘interrogation card.’ ”
“What does an ICD look like?”
“It’s about the size of half a pack of cigarettes and fits under the skin of the chest, hardly visible to the naked eye.”
“Is the operation risky?”
“Not at all. It’s done on an outpatient basis and usually takes no more than a few minutes.”
“But why did Chuck need one?”
“Because he suffers from SCD, just like his father.”
“Then why is he rowing?”
“Because, apparently, Charlie is so keen on his son going to Henley, he’s willing to risk the boy’s life to send him there.”
Jennifer shook her head, appalled. “What are yo
u going to do?”
“The first thing is to get back to Philly and stop Chuck from racing tomorrow. This is the big race in which the two top singles rowers compete to go to Henley. Chuck will be competing against Hank Walsh.”
“But how will you explain how you found out?”
“I’ll worry about that after I stop him.” He looked grim.
“So much for our idyllic mountain weekend,” Jennifer said wistfully.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We’ll come again,” he promised, “when all this is over and spring has really sprung.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek and turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing happened.
He tried again.
Dead.
“Oh my God. Did I leave my lights on?” He checked the knob. It was turned to “Off.” He pulled the lever that opened the hood and leapt out. When he came back, he was shaking his head. “The battery looks all right, but I’ll need a jump. I’ll go inside and call a garage.”
“Don’t bother. I have my cell.” She pulled it out. “Do you belong to AAA?”
He nodded, and dug the card from his wallet. When she called, they told her there would be a half-hour wait.
“We might as well take that walk,” Fenimore said gloomily. They left the car and set off down the road.
CHAPTER 13
Sorry, folks. This isn’t a simple jump job. You need a new alternator.” The AAA man gave them the bad news. “I can tow you to the nearest garage. It’s just down the road.”
“But I have to get back to Philadelphia.”
“If Virgil’s not busy . . .”
Virgil?
“. . . he can probably fix it for you by late afternoon,” the man said.
Resigned, Fenimore shouted, “Tow away!” He and Jennifer climbed into the cab.
Virgil wasn’t busy, but he was talkative, and he didn’t seem in any hurry to fix the car. Fenimore and Jennifer quickly realized that as long as they hung around, the mechanic would talk more than work. They asked him to direct them to the nearest restaurant.
“There’s a diner down the road on the left,” he said in a disappointed tone, sorry to lose his audience.
The Doctor Rocks the Boat Page 5
