She landed on the road surface some fifteen feet away, tumbling helplessly until she bumped up against the curb. The motorcycle, meanwhile, had lost its driver. The machine continued riderless down the street in a ruckus of blue smoke and orange sparks, skidding to a stop at the crosswalk, just as the light hanging over the intersection turned from yellow to red.
Then came the screaming. The shouting. Onlookers rushing to the two downed people. Fingers punching 911 into scores of phones.
All the while, blood flowed from Lindsay’s mouth.
The cab driver slammed his hands down on the steering wheel in exasperation. “Forget freedom of speech! How about a little freedom of driving?”
Andy leaned forward to peer out the windshield. “What’s going on?”
The driver gestured out the windshield. “Look at this. Those bozos care so much about the environment? I’m wasting perfectly good gasoline waiting on these clowns. You think these people think?”
Andy was dialing Lindsay’s number. A parade of eco-protesters was making its way slowly along Fifteenth Street, backing up traffic in both directions. Somewhere there seemed to be a kettle drum. There was chanting, though from this distance the words were indistinguishable. Andy peered through the windshield of the immobile cab at a large puppet figure of a polar bear floating into the intersection. The bear was accompanied by dozens of small penguins on sticks.
Lindsay’s voicemail picked up. Andy waited impatiently for the beep.
“Lindsay, it’s me. Look, I’m being held up in traffic here. You just hang tight, okay? I should be there in… I don’t know. Not long. But you just stay put.”
The polar bear puppet had stopped in the middle of the intersection. The little penguins were racing around it in circles.
“This isn’t happening,” Andy muttered.
Car horns began honking, first a few, then dozens. In no time the air went thick with blaring horns. The penguins continued dancing.
I’m in hell, Andy thought. My little stupid hell. All mine.
The motorcycle cop removed his sunglasses.
“I know you,” he said.
Andy didn’t even look at the man. He was still seated in the back of the cab. Several fire trucks, an ambulance, and three police cars filled half the block of Massachusetts. “What happened here?”
“Accident, Senator Foster,” the cop said. “Nutcase on a Harley.”
Andy saw the black motorcycle lying on its side in the middle of the intersection.
“What happened?” he asked again.
“Witnesses said the biker was barreling through like a bat out of hell. He lost control. Slammed right into a woman who was crossing the street.”
Andy knew. It was clear to the senator that Lindsay would have been waiting on that corner even if the final bombs had started falling. She was nowhere to be seen.
Andy put every ounce of effort into appearing to be only casually interested in all this. The last thing he needed was a police officer shooting off at the mouth about the senator who was all flipped out about this accident.
“Would you happen to know which hospital the woman was taken to?”
The policeman knew. He told him.
Andy thanked him and rolled up the window.
“Did you get that?” he asked the driver.
“Georgetown University Hospital.”
“I’m not going to ask you to run any red lights,” Andy said. “But—”
“It’s okay, Senator.” The driver checked the side-view mirror, already having turned the wheel. “Just buckle up.”
Christine had to admit it: Butcher covered head to foot with milk and tattoos made one hell of a photograph. She projected the image with her enlarger, blown up as big as it could go without losing definition. The rocker’s torso was dominated by a two-headed dragon that was shooting orange and red flames from engorged nostrils onto Butcher’s shoulders. The dragon’s ornately inked body dominated Butcher’s chest and abdomen, the spiky tail slithering on down in a lazy S toward his crotch. The image Christine had chosen to print showed Butcher posing like Botticelli’s Venus. His left hand was draped casually over his crotch area, and his expression showed a demure but still quite masculine deadpan. The veil of milk running down the rainbow body gave the image an opaque ghostliness.
It was a good shot.
Christine made a print of the image and mounted it in a cherrywood frame. She removed her Magritte print from the wall and hung the Butcher photograph in its place and stepped back for a look. She liked it. Gothic and kitschy, to be sure, but it was also oddly poignant — the disarming nature of Butcher’s pose and expression was riveting. And unquestionably sensuous. The blue-green dragon snaking down Butcher’s milky stomach paralleled his tattooed arm, the two converging dead center on the pelvis, where the rocker’s broad hand failed to obscure completely the goings-on beneath it.
Christine was still admiring the image when the phone rang.
It was Miss Brandstetter, Michelle’s homeroom teacher. Christine glanced at the clock: one fifteen.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Foster,” the teacher said. “But Michelle seems to be quite upset. We were in the middle of an urban archaeology game in Social Studies when suddenly she just started crying. It was quite violent at first. She was shaking all over.”
“Oh Lord. Where is she now?”
“We’re in the infirmary. Michelle’s much better now, but she says she wants to come home. I think—”
“I’ll be right there.”
Michelle remained silent while her mother spoke briefly with Miss Brandstetter. She stood by, sniffling and looking forlorn. Christine thanked the teacher, and she and Michelle exited the building. Out on the sidewalk, the child took her mother’s hand. Her voice was barely audible.
“Did he call again?”
It was what Christine had suspected. Michelle had posed the exact same question at the breakfast table first thing in the morning.
They crossed Sixth Avenue and started for home. “No, honey, he didn’t. Like I told you this morning, I’m sure it was just some sad, silly man. I’m sure he wasn’t calling us specifically. He heard your voice on the answering machine and just started talking that way. I’m sure we’re not going to hear from him again. Sweetie, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“But Daddy—”
“Daddy’s fine. He gave his speech this morning down in Washington. When we get home we can see if anyone has put it up on YouTube.”
Michelle brightened a little. “Can we call him?”
“Of course we can. But you know Daddy doesn’t always answer. He’s very busy.”
Michelle implored. “But we’ll call him?”
Christine squeezed the girl’s hand. “Of course we will.”
“Daddy’s not a bad man, Mommy.”
The light at Grove changed, and the two stepped off the curb to cross. The afternoon sun hung over the distant river, almost colorless, and uncommonly blinding.
“No, honey,” Christine said. “Of course he’s not. Your daddy is one of the finest men alive.”
Andy dropped a handful of bills onto the front seat.
“Thanks.”
But if the driver responded, it fell on an empty backseat. Andy sprinted past a pair of ambulances parked in the emergency-room bay and pushed through the automatic doors. It was as he approached the nearest admitting window that he realized he didn’t know her last name.
A stout African American woman looked blankly at him from behind the glass.
“Can I help you?”
Andy took a beat to catch his breath. “A young woman. She was just brought in. She was hit by a motorcycle. It was on Seventeenth Street. Massachusetts and Seventeenth.”
The woman’s poker face remained intact. “And who are you?” she said — polite, not exactly friendly.
“I’m… her boss.” Andy was glad that the woman didn’t seem to recognize hi
m, but glancing around at the other people waiting in the ER, he knew it was doubtful he would remain so lucky for long.
“Have a seat over there.” She indicated a row of molded plastic chairs, half of which were occupied.
“Um, if there — I’d really like to find out about the young woman’s condition. Please. Her name is Lindsay.”
“Uh-huh. I know who you’re talking about. They’re working on her now, sir. As soon as somebody knows anything, we’ll let you know. You want to give me a name?”
Andy was confused. “Lindsay. I just told you. I don’t know her last name.”
The comment earned him a look. “I mean your name. So we can let you know how your em-ploy-ee is.”
Two red dots rose on the senator’s cheeks. “Andy.”
“Good. Okay. Have a seat, Andy, and we’ll let you know as soon as we can.”
Andy started away from the window, then stopped. The woman seemed to have anticipated that he would.
“Yes?”
“I was just wondering. Lindsay’s personal effects. I mean, her purse. Things she had with her when she was brought in. Where would items like that be kept?”
An eyebrow rose. “You want her purse?”
“I told you, she works for me. She was carrying some important papers.”
“We’ll let you know. There’s nothing back here. You’ll have to talk to a doctor. I can’t tell you what I don’t know. Just have a seat. Please.”
He opted to stand.
As Christine and Michelle approached Eleventh Street, Christine asked her daughter if she wanted a cupcake. Michelle shook her head vehemently.
“That’s the morning,” she murmured.
“Well, I know. But you can still have one now if you’d like. A treat.”
They had paused in front of the bakery. Michelle looked in the shop-window. “Would it still count?”
“You mean toward your million? That’s completely up to you.”
“What if it’s cheating?”
“Cheating who? Goodness, you’re not competing against anyone. You’re simply keeping count. It’s a game.”
As Michelle was wrestling with the dilemma, the door to the bakery opened and the sculptor emerged. Instead of his customary paper bakery hat he was wearing a green baseball cap pushed far back on his head. He smiled broadly as he recognized the pair on the sidewalk.
“Well, look who it is! Little Miss Cupcake herself. What are you up to? Trying to slip in an extra one?”
Michelle spun on her mother. “See? It is cheating. I told you.”
The man looked quizzically to Christine. “What? Did I just mis speak?”
“No, no. Don’t worry. We were just trying to figure out the wiggle room on this whole cupcake thing. It’s quite complex, you know.”
The man nodded sagely. “Oh, I’m sure it is. It’d be such a drag if the poor thing had to start all over.”
Michelle protested. “I’m not a poor thing! I have ten dollars.”
A look passed between the adults. The sculptor bounced down to a crouch to address the girl. “Well. Ten dollars. That’s a whole different kettle of wax. I had no idea I was dealing with a Rockefeller.”
Michelle looked to her mother for clarification.
“I believe your friend is withdrawing his charge of poverty, honey. He’s decided that you’re filthy rich.”
“I’m not filthy!”
Christine laughed. “Welcome to the Land of the Literal.”
The sculptor pulled off his cap. He ran his hands over his hair and squinted against the low sun at Christine.
“Listen, I’m glad I ran into you two. I wanted to let you know that I’ve just concluded my bakery career.”
“Really?” Christine said. “You’ve quit?”
“Yeah. The thing is, I am not a morning person. But with this bakery thing, I’m up to my elbows in dough before the sun has even come up.” He turned to Michelle. “That’s flour dough, hotshot. Don’t go laying that Rockefeller thing onto me.”
“That’s too bad,” Christine said.
The man shrugged. “Well, yeah. There’s definitely something to be said about being forced out of the studio. You do get to see people.”
Christine laughed. “You make it sound like you’d been a monk.”
“Hey, listen. There are days, believe me.”
Michelle had fallen noticeably silent. The shadow that had been accompanying her since her mother had picked her up from school was moving back in. Christine moved closer to the sculptor, lowering her voice.
“It’s not exactly been the best day for Miss Cupcake.”
“I’m sorry. Is she all right?”
“She’ll live. She’s been rattled, that’s all. But now… I just hope you’re prepared for the death of your fan club.”
“Ouch. That’s harsh.”
“Just saying it like it is. You go breaking little hearts like that, you’ve got to weather the consequences.”
The door to the bakery opened and two young women exited onto the sidewalk. They had NYU student written all over them. The more attractive of the two waved at the sculptor as they disappeared around the corner.
“Okay, then,” Christine said, laughing. “Midsize hearts, too.”
“Hey, it’s not as if I’m vanishing from the city. I mean, my studio’s right up on Fifteenth.”
“This would be your studio or your monk’s cave? I’m getting those confused.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a business card, holding it out to Michelle. “Here you go, kiddo. Take this. This is where I hang out. You and your mother can come by anytime and visit me.”
Michelle’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Absolutely. Open invitation.” Michelle accepted the card and the sculptor turned back to Christine. “Seriously, I’d love it if you came by and took a look at what I do.” He pulled out a second card. “Here.”
“Oh. One’s fine,” Christine said.
“No. Take it. You know, in case Miss Cupcake is off at school or something and you decide you want to swing by. She’s got her card, you’ve got yours.”
Christine paused. A touch of mirth tugged at the corners of the man’s mouth. The sunlight was picking up flecks of gold from his eyes.
“Take it. It’s just a card. It won’t bite.”
Christine felt the moment edging toward awkwardness. She took the card, tucking it into her back pocket without looking at it. She reached down and took hold of her daughter’s hand. “Let’s go, honey.”
Michelle was holding the sculptor’s card up to her face. “Your name is Michael!”
He made a small bow. “At your service.”
“My name’s Michelle. It’s almost the same name!”
“You’re right, it is.” He looked over at Christine. “And what do they call you? Besides ‘Mommy,’ I mean.”
She was blushing. There wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
“I’m Christine.”
“Good. I guess we’re all old friends now.”
He put his cap back on his head and reached down to muss Michelle’s hair. “So, Cupcake, tell me. What do you think about your mommy’s new haircut?”
Michelle was giggling uncontrollably. The sculptor aimed his smile over at Christine. “Yeah. I agree. It’s a good look.”
Jim Fergus was apoplectic.
“You are sitting in a goddamned emergency room?”
“I told you,” Andy said into his phone. “I got the doctor to squirrel me away in an examining room.”
“Big deal! You’re at a hospital, and you’re playing nursemaid to your intern! Andy, is it me? You can tell me. Is it something I said? Sweet Jesus, man. Pull a hat down over that pretty face of yours and amscray right now! This is your mother speaking.”
“Listen, Jim—”
But Fergus was on a roll. “No. You listen. Senator rushes to cute intern’s bedside. No, sir. Not on my watch. If you want to commit political hari-kari, give o
ld Jimbo the heads-up first so he can watch the train wreck from the safety of the unemployment line, okay?”
“Don’t you think you’re being just a little bit dramatic?”
Fergus ignored the question. “Look, you’re not a doctor. Your being there is zero help to that girl. I’ll send someone over. Let me get Linda over there. Girl to girl. In the meantime, you find yourself a back door and get the hell out of there. This is no time to start losing your instincts.”
The door to the examining room opened, and a doctor in surgical scrubs stepped in.
“I’ve got to go, Jim,” Andy said into the phone. “Fox News just showed up and they want an exclusive.”
He disconnected the call and fielded an odd look from the doctor.
“Private joke,” he explained. “So, where are we?”
He remained seated. The doctor allowed the door to shoosh closed behind him.
“It was pretty much like I thought, Senator. The lung was definitely punctured. I’m seeing five ribs injured. Three broken outright, the other two severely fractured. That’ll hurt, but that’ll be fine. The internal haemorrhaging was bad, but of course we’re fortunate that we got her here so quickly.”
This was essentially the information Andy had received in his first briefing with the ER doctor. He knew he had to be patient. Some doctors prefer the checklist approach. Andy also knew that they saved the worst for last. He felt a trickle of perspiration moving in starts and stops down the very middle of his back.
“I’m afraid it’s the leg, Senator — the leg and the hip.”
“What about the leg? Christ’s sake, just tell me if she’s going to lose it.”
The doctor assured him, “We can rule that out. But there’s going to be scarring. Even with cosmetic work. But it’s the hip I’m more concerned about.”
“Oh, God.”
The doctor continued, “We’ve got a triple fracture. The pelvic plate is a horror. We have to go in immediately and pin this whole mess back together. The last thing we need is bone breaking free.”
“It sounds awful.”
“Pretty it ain’t. There’s really no choice. Damage like this, if we don’t get to it right away she could very possibly never walk normally on that leg again.”
House of Secrets - v4 Page 16
