"I cannot adjourn this press gathering without making a public apology to Dr. Arnold Freeberg."
With that, he turned around and raised a hand to beckon someone standing in the city hall entrance above.
Dr. Freeberg came forward briskly and joined Lewis at the lectern.
Smiling, Lewis shook hands with the therapist. "Dr. Freeberg, I want to acknowledge publicly the disservice I have done you, and right here and now I make an apology to you and your staff."
Dr. Freeberg smiled back. "I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your gracious effort to right a wrong. I appreciate it and I thank you."
Waving to the crowd amid the spattering of applause, Dr. Freeberg started down the steps to join the spectators.
Having heard what he had heard, seen what he had seen, Tony Zecca froze and his features reddened in fury.
What was taking place before his eyes was the greatest crime he had ever witnessed.
Wildly, almost out of his mind with rage, Tony Zecca knew only one thing.
Justice . . . justice must be done.
Zecca's right hand darted into his bulging jacket pocket.
Justice would be done.
It was Paul Brandon, in the front row of the crowd, who was the first to become conscious of some kind of altercation occurring almost immediately to his left.
Just as Dr. Freeberg neared the bottom of the last flights of steps, Brandon saw a short, stocky, powerful man, a very angry man, roughly elbow two spectators in the front row aside, burst out between them, and raise his right hand.
Gripped in his hand, Brandon was horrified to see, was a black revolver.
Apparently, others saw what was happening, too, because there was a shout from people crowded nearby, and then a woman's voice cried out shrilly from behind, "NOOO! No, don't do it, Tony!"
The hand on the gun had taken aim, and a finger tugged at the trigger.
The gun exploded once, twice, three times.
The first shot hit Dr. Freeberg. His hands clutched up at his chest, he swayed, his legs buckled, and gradually he collapsed to the edge of a concrete step, tried to rise, and then rolled down the remaining three steps to the sidewalk.
Before Brandon could join the others in reaching Dr. Freeberg, a shocked young woman broke out of the crowd, spotted Brandon, and stumbled toward him, tearing at his arm.
"Paul, stop him!" she screamed. "It's Tony! He did it!" As Brandon looked off, Nan cried out to him, "Be careful, be careful, he's gone crazy!"
Brandon whirled away, plowed through the shocked mass of spectators, pushing and shoving until he was in the open, and then he saw Zecca.
Zecca was in the open, too, twenty yards ahead, fleeing down the middle of the street.
"There he is!" shouted Brandon at the nearest policeman, pointing to the street.
But already, Brandon saw, two other policemen were on the run, racing after Zecca.
Glancing over his shoulder, Zecca saw that he was being pursued. Abruptly, he stopped, pivoted, held his gun high, and fired at the policemen.
Zecca's shots went wild.
The two policemen, crouching, fired back with more care and deadly accuracy. One, two, three, four shots targeted in on Zecca. The impact of the bullets lifted him into the air, stumpy arms flailing, and then he came down like a limp rag doll and lay sprawled on the pavement.
By the time Brandon reached the body, both policemen were bent over Zecca, examining him and shaking their heads.
"Did you get him?" Brandon wanted to know.
"Dead," said the first policeman to rise. "Stone cold dead. Some nut, eh?"
"Some nut," Brandon agreed.
It was ten minutes before Brandon returned to the foot of the city hall steps where the crowd had parted to let the ambulance through.
Paramedics had Dr. Freeberg on a wheeled gurney, very still on the gurney, as they slid it into the ambulance.
Brandon realized that Gayle had found him, had her arms around him, and was weeping and sobbing.
Brandon held her and tried to make out Freeberg's condition.
"How is he?" Brandon asked. "Will he live?"
"I don't know," Gayle moaned. "He looks awful, just awful."
Chapter XII
The third-floor physicians' conference room of Hillsdale Central Hospital had been turned over to the members of the press, who were standing by for the first report on Dr. Arnold Freeberg's condition since he had been rushed into surgery after the Zecca shooting.
Having circulated among his new colleagues briefly, Chet Hunter decided to leave the press watch and return to the visitors' waiting room at the far end of the hall. He had been there earlier, and Suzy and Gayle had introduced him around. Now, feeling he had some business among Dr. Freeberg's closest associates, he was going back to the waiting room.
Approaching the surgery, with a sign reading NO ENTRY on the door, he saw that three persons were seated in folding chairs across the way. Two of them Hunter recognized as Dr. Freeberg's wife Miriam and son Jonny. The third, a well-attired middle-aged man, Hunter guessed to be Dr. Freeberg's onetime college roommate and present attorney, Roger Kile. Passing along, Hunter was tempted to interrupt them to learn if there was any news yet. Kile was speaking to Mrs. Freeberg in an undertone, and from Mrs. Freeberg's intent and fretful expression, Hunter thought that this was no time to approach them. They would get the first news, and those in the waiting room would get it immediately afterward.
Reaching the entrance to the spacious visitors' waiting room, Hunter stood in the doorway briefly to survey it. Every cushioned wicker chair and the two sofas were occupied, and the television set in the corner was still. Unnoticed, Hunter took in the various occupants. Seated in chairs at one side of a sofa were a man and a woman he knew to be Adam Demski and Nan Whitcomb, and they were deep in conversation. Right next to them on the sofa were Paul Brandon, Gayle, and Hunter's own Suzy Edwards. Briefly, Hunter gave his attention to Brandon and Gayle, once more. Brandon, Hunter remembered, was also a surrogate like Gayle. According to Suzy, they were a close number. How odd, Hunter thought, two surrogates going steady. How could two professional surrogates make it together? Did they go through all those caressing and touching exercises first? Probably. Then again, probably not. Anyway, Hunter thought, they might make a fascinating follow-up feature story for the Chronicle one day.
His eyes continued to scan the room. There were the other female surrogates he had met earlier, and with his excellent recall, he remembered their names: Beth Brant, Lila Van Patten, Elaine Oakes, and Janet Schneider. Everyone in this grouping seemed anguished, doubtless concerned about the fate of Dr. Freeberg.
Hunter decided to check in with Suzy.
Entering the waiting room, he crossed it until he came to Suzy. He leaned over to kiss her, then gave her a questioning look. "Anything yet?"
"Not a peep," said Suzy. "I overheard a nurse say it may be another half hour. It depends on where the bullet is embedded."
"Fingers crossed," said Hunter quietly.
"They'll save him, Chet. God won't let a man like that die," said Suzy.
"Your word in God's ear," Hunter said. "I think I'll hang around a little while. I want to have a private talk with Gayle, if it's okay by you."
"You know it's okay."
Hunter took two steps along the sofa until he was confronting Gayle Miller, who had just stopped saying something to Brandon.
"Mind if I cut in?" asked Hunter. He addressed Brandon. "Do you mind if I take Gayle away from you for a few minutes? I'd like to have a personal word with her."
"Remember, she's only on loan-out," replied Brandon good-naturedly.
Hunter extended his hand and helped Gayle up from the sofa. "Just something between us," Hunter whispered. "There's an empty laboratory next door. It seems like a safe place to talk."
"Sure," said Gayle.
Hunter led Gayle into the hallway, then opened the door to the deserted laboratory and gestured for her t
o precede him.
At the nearest formica counter, he drew two high stools from under it, helped Gayle onto one, and seated himself on the other opposite her.
"I wanted a few words with you, Gayle, before whatever happens . . . happens."
"What is it, Chet?"
"You know now that Suzy is my girl, the one who sent me to Dr. Freeberg."
"That was a real surprise," said Gayle. "You're a lucky man. We all adore her."
"So do I, but that's not what I want to talk to you about. If not for her, I'd be the mess I always was. Anyway, she loved me as much as I loved her, and she is the one who encouraged me to go into therapy with Dr. Freeberg. When she told me about the clinic and what was going on there, about you, and the other sex surrogates, that's when I forgot her real purpose in confiding in me. That's when I went haywire."
"Chet, what's on your mind?"
He gulped. "You know, I'm responsible for your arrest as well as Dr. Freeberg's."
"I know, Chet. The district attorney showed me your journal."
Hunter shook his head. "I'm sorry, Gayle, I really am. I meant neither you nor Dr. Freeberg any harm. I just wasn't thinking ahead. I couldn't see what my machinations might lead to. I could think only of myself and my immediate future. I was totally the victim of an all-consuming ambition. All I could see was the chance to get the inside story on the clinic and its operation, on Dr. Freeberg and one of his sex surrogates, because I knew the exposé would land me a job as a writer on the staff of the Hillsdale Chronicle." He paused. "I simply got too involved with getting someplace."
Gayle nodded. "We all do sometimes."
"After Suzy read the report, she got mad and pounded some sense into my thick skull. Luckily, she found a few brain cells containing decency and morality. She made me see you for what you really are—and I wanted to tell you . . . and beg your forgiveness."
"All's long since been forgiven." Gayle smiled at Hunter. "You saw me for what I really am—what am I, Chet?"
"A guardian angel."
"Oh, come now." Gayle eased herself off the stool. "You know what I really am?" She pulled open the laboratory door. "I'm someone who knows how to use the squeeze method."
Hunter laughed. "The angel of squeeze."
"Exactly," said Gayle, and she left the laboratory.
Paul Brandon was slouched on the sofa, his cold pipe in hand, wishing he could smoke, when he saw Gayle come back into the waiting room. Observing her cross the room, he once more admired her feline grace, and he desired her again.
He jumped to his feet when she reached him, then settled down on the sofa with her.
"Any news yet?" Gayle inquired.
"Not a thing."
"Oh, God, let him be all right."
Brandon nodded toward the hallway. "You and Chet Hunter, what was that all about?"
"Confession. Expiation. Cleansing the soul. Chet just wanted me to know he was sorry. And grateful to me for you know what." She eyed Brandon. "What have you been doing while I was next door? Ogling the other surrogate ladies to find someone prettier?"
"How did you know? As a matter of fact, yes. Look at that Lila's legs. But to be honest, I have a preference for women with fat legs, like yours."
"Beast."
Brandon had become serious. "To tell you the truth, I've been eavesdropping." He was seated with his back to Nan and Demski, who were sitting in chairs to one side of the sofa, and he indicated them with a movement of his head, lowering his voice. "I wondered if they would be too shy to make contact after they were introduced."
Gayle glanced past Brandon. "Clearly, they're not too shy."
"Did you see how the first half hour they sat alongside each other like two wooden Indians? I was nearby when Nan became aggressive. She mentioned something about the weather."
Gayle continued to watch them. "They're talking a blue streak now. I wonder what they're talking about?"
"Maybe about us."
"Maybe about themselves," Gayle guessed. "I wish we could hear."
Nan Whitcomb had moved her wicker chair a few inches closer to Adam Demski, so that she could address him without being overheard.
"No," she was saying in an undertone, "I don't mind telling you how I got to Dr. Freeberg. I had some trouble and an M.D. recommended him. I had what they call vaginismus.
Demski, puzzled, mouthed the strange word. "What's that?"
"Muscular spasms in the vaginal area that make sexual intercourse difficult and painful."
Demski blushed. "I—I guess I never heard of it. Uh, how —how did it happen?"
"It can have many causes, according to Dr. Freeberg," explained Nan. "One cause can be some bad experiences with men. In my case it came from a terrible experience with a man named Tony Zecca."
Demski looked blank for a second and then seemed to recall the name. "You mean the fellow who shot Dr. Freeberg? I'm sorry about his being killed."
"I'm not," said Nan. "He was an animal—and dangerous."
"Why did he do such a terrible thing?"
Nan was silent, and then she spoke. "I can tell you why. Maybe I shouldn't, but—"
"You can tell me."
"I lived with Tony briefly. It was horrible. He gave me such great physical pain that I went to see an M.D., and that's how I was referred to Dr. Freeberg. I finally saw there are decent men in the world, so I walked out on Tony. Just left him. I guess he figured I'd run off with another lover. Somehow he traced me to Dr. Freeberg. He must have thought Freeberg was my lover—or at least that he was responsible for my walking out. Tony wasn't used to that. He was terribly possessive. I don't know what happened next, but I guess Tony decided to get even by killing Dr. Freeberg." Nan emitted a sigh. "I feel responsible for what happened to poor Dr. Freeberg."
Spontaneously, Demski patted Nan's forearm, then quickly withdrew his hand. "It wasn't your fault," Demski reassured Nan. "If he could, Dr. Freeberg would be the first to tell you that."
Nan sighed again. "Maybe you're right. Dr. Freeberg's a wonderful man." She gazed directly at Demski. "What brought you to him? Or shouldn't I be asking?"
"You've been frank with me. I don't mind saying." Demski's Adam's apple moved. "I—I'm from Chicago—an accountant . . . And I am—was—"
Nan touched his hand. "You don't have to—"
"Impotent," Demski blurted, hastily adding, "but I'm cured now. Thanks to my surrogate."
"How wonderful. Who was your surrogate?"
In an almost hidden gesture, Demski pointed to Gayle on the sofa.
"Gayle Miller?" Nan whispered, her eyes holding on the attractive brunette. "No wonder you're cured. I'd give anything to look like that."
"You do," Demski said, gulping. "Even—even better."
"You do know how to flatter a girl."
"I mean it," said Demski. "Who—who was your surrogate?"
Nan put a finger to her lips and with her thumb indicated Brandon on the sofa.
Demski took in Brandon and whispered, "He sort of looks like a movie star."
"Oh, he's nice. But I find an accountant easier to talk to than any movie star type." This time she blushed, then glanced off toward the doorway. "I wonder when we'll hear about Dr. Freeberg?"
Five minutes later a nurse poked her head into the waiting room. "The surgeon is on his way here."
She disappeared.
An immediate hush fell over the waiting room, all eyes converging on the entrance.
Seconds later, a tall, lean, bespectacled physician, still garbed in his green cap and green gown, materialized in the doorway, kneading his fingers together.
He took a few steps into the waiting room.
"I'm Dr. Conerly, the chief surgeon at Central, and I'm sorry to have kept you this long, but the news I have for you was worth waiting for. Dr. Freeberg is fine—couldn't be better, considering his ordeal."
It was as if a single exhalation of relief permeated the waiting room.
Dr. Gonerly went on. "We've just rolled Dr.
Freeberg out of surgery and will place him in the intensive-care ward briefly, just to be certain his recovery is complete. Without going into clinical detail, I can tell you that Dr. Freeberg's wound was not life-threatening. It was his good fortune that the bullet that lodged under his left clavicle missed his heart and lungs—in fact did no damage to any vital organs. In surgery, we removed the bullet. No permanent damage, not even serious damage aside from his trauma. We were able to patch him up nicely. We'll want him here several days, just to keep an eye on him. If everything goes as we expect, he will probably be able to be back at his desk—on a much shorter work schedule for a while—in ten days. You can all relax now and go home."
The visitors were beginning to rise when Dr. Conerly called out, "Oh, yes . . . Are Miss Miller and Mr. Brandon here?"
When Gayle and Brandon stood up and moved toward him, Dr. Conerly said, "I want to speak to you for a minute before you leave."
Dr. Conerly waited for Gayle and Brandon at the door. "I have a message for you from Dr. Freeberg. He wanted me to tell you he'd made a table reservation for tonight at eight thirty at Mario's Gardens. Since he can't be the host, he asked if you two would invite the other guests and sit in as hosts for him. Do you understand?"
"We do, and we will," said Gayle.
"Oh, yes, Dr. Freeberg asked me to tell you—'have yourselves a great Tom Jones dinner.' Well, good luck."
After the surgeon had left, Brandon looked down at Gayle, puzzled. "What was that about a great Tom Jones dinner?"
Gayle winked, slipped her arm through Brandon's, and said, "You'll find out."
After supervising the removal of the last piece of padded furniture, the Reverend Josh Scrafield watched from the doorway as the shippers loaded it into the van to put it in storage until they heard from him in St. Louis.
Scanning the street without success for the return of Darlene Young, Scrafield wheeled back into his empty quarters and began to gather together some of his smaller personal effects.
The Celestial Bed Page 29
