Much work to do. Keep tonight open if you can.
Frank scribbled the words on a scrap of paper, signed the note with a smiley face, and set it by her elbow as he passed.
She glanced at it and, almost imperceptibly, smiled and nodded.
Now there, Frank thought, as he opened the door to his office, was an understanding woman.
The office was empty.
“Annette, did Dr. Pearl leave?” he asked over his shoulder.
“No. Just you,” she said.
At that moment, the toilet in his private bathroom flushed. The notion of Jack Pearl sitting on his John was enough to start the acid percolating again in Franks gut. He would have to get housekeeping to scrub the whole place down before he so much as stepped foot in there again.
Pearl emerged from the room wiping his nose with one hand and tugging at his still-open fly with the other.
“Hope you didn’t mind my using your head, Frank,” he said. “This whole business has really messed up my insides, and I’ve got the shits something awful.”
Frank smiled plastically and vowed that after the sale of Serenyl was completed, sending Jack Pearl as far from Sterling as possible would rank in priority only slightly below dealing with Zachary.
“Okay, Jack,” he said, “tell me what it is, exactly, that you want.”
Pearl cleared his throat.
“Well, the more I’ve thought about the properties of the drug I built Serenyl from—the more I realize that it’s possible your brother might be right about that kid.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“Jack, you and Mainwaring have done five hundred cases. Five hundred! Have you encountered even one problem?”
“No, but—”
“But what, Jack?”
“If the kids problem is due to the drug, then it’s some sort of delayed reaction. A flashback—that’s what your brother called it. If he’s right, maybe some others are having them, but they just haven’t connected the episodes with the anesthetic. If I knew for sure that was going on, I could fix it, Frank. I know every molecule in that drug. I could do it.”
“Jack, please,” Frank said. “The whole thing is absolute nonsense. The kid is having nightmares from something he saw on TV—probably on that goddamn Nova show. They’re always showing babies being delivered and people being operated on and shit like that, for Chrissake. It’s a wonder more kids haven’t gotten screwed up.”
“Frank, we can check. A hundred or so calls, and we can see if anyone’s having—”
“No!”
“But—”
“Jack, I’ve tried to be patient with you, but now I’ve just about had it …”
Frank snapped a pencil in two for emphasis.
“Mainwaring’s going to finish presenting Serenyl to his partners, and he’s going to come back here, and he’s going to give us each … half a million dollars, and we’re going to give him the drug. That’s how we planned it, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
“But—”
“No fucking buts, Jack. If you don’t want to believe me when I tell you that kid is just a coincidence, that’s your problem. But I’ll be damned if you’re going to make it mine. Now listen, and listen good: if you say one word about all this to Mainwaring or anyone else, one fucking word, the Akron authorities will be here to scoop up what’s left of you quicker than you can blink. I got them off your back, and I can get them back on. Clear?”
Pearl wiped his nose with the handkerchief he had used on the coffee spill and lit a cigarette. Frank Iverson had him between a rock and a hard place. It was a spot he knew well.
“C-Clear,” he said.
“It had better be.” Frank shook a finger at him as he spoke. “Because I’m telling you, Jack, I want that drug sold, and I want that money in the bank. Don’t fuck with me on this one.”
“I won’t,” Pearl said. “But …”
“But what?”
“Frank, what harm would it do to make a few calls? If there’s a problem with Serenyl, I can fix it. I know I ca—”
Frank sprung around the desk, grabbed the anesthesiologist tightly by the shirt, and pulled him up onto his tiptoes.
“Dammit, Jack, I said no!”
He shook the little man like a terrier breaking a rat, and then slammed him back into his seat.
Pearl cowered before the onslaught.
“Okay, okay,” he whined, shielding his face.
Why did his life always come down to scenes like this? Why?
“That’s better,” Frank said. He patted Pearl on the shoulder. “That’s much better.…” He returned to his desk chair. “Hey, buddy, don’t look so glum. Like I said, the kid is just a coincidence. That Serenyl of yours is just as perfect as you told me it was.”
“What about your brother?”
“You let me worry about my brother. Just stay away from him. If he tries to confront you again, tell him to speak to me or … or to call your lawyer. Here … here’s a name to give him. But unless you want a long-term vacation in Akron after your long-term stay in an ICU, that’s all you give him, right? … Well, right? … That’s perfect, Jack. Just like that little anesthetic of yours—absolutely perfect.”
“Okay, Frank,” Pearl said, stubbing out his cigarette and shuffling to the door, “you win.”
The door opened and closed, and Pearl was gone.
You win.… That’s right, Frank thought excitedly. I do.
He had handled the distasteful little pervert brilliantly. After tough go-rounds with Leigh, the Judge, and the two board members, it felt splendid to be back in control again.
All he had to do now was keep Zack at bay and off balance for another week. And whatever it took to accomplish that, he would do.
Meanwhile, some well-placed pressure on a couple of weak trustees, and the future of Ultramed—and of Frank Iverson—at the hospital would be secure. After that, he would be in a position to deal in a more definitive way with both his goddamn vindictive brother and Pearl.
… Frank, Frank, he’s our man. If he can’t do it—
The intercom crackled on.
“Mr. Iverson, it’s Annette again. There’s a Mr. Curt Largent on three. He says he’s a neighbor of yours.”
Major Curtis Largent, USArmy, Ret. was the way the aging war hero had painted his mailbox. Confined to a wheelchair by an errant piece of shrapnel during a battle for some village or church in Italy, Largent was the unofficial security guard of Franks neighborhood, surveying the area for hours at a time from his upstairs porch and noting down in a book all suspicious comings and goings, as well as virtually every license number of every car he did not know.
Twice over the years his vigilance actually had thwarted crime—in one case, the theft of a bicycle, and in the other, the illegal dumping of some landfill off the end of the turnaround.
“Hello, Major, it’s Frank Iverson.” The last words of the cheer were still reverberating in this thoughts. “What can I do for you?”
Largent, despite a college education—engineering of some sort, Frank thought—still spoke with a pronounced down-east accent.
“Well, Frank,” he said, “I called mostly cause I hadn’t hud anythin’ about yoah movin’.”
“Thats because we’re not.”
“Well, that’s strange; that’s very strange.”
“What, Major? What are you talking about?”
“Well, I’m up he-ah on m’ po-arch. You know, where I like to sit? … Well, down the street, right in front of yo-ah house, is a truck. And a couple of young bucks been loadin’ stuff into it for moren an ow-ah now.”
“Are you sure it’s our place, Major?”
“Do bay-ahs shit in the woods? Course I’m shu-ah.”
“Do you see any sign of Lisette around?”
“Nope … Wait now, maybe I do.… Let me get my bi-nocs just to be certain.… Oh, it’s her all right. She’s with them cute little ones of yo-ahs, right by
the truck, watchin’ ’em load.”
“Major, thank you,” Frank said. “Thank you for calling me.”
He hung up and dialed home. Twenty or more rings brought no answer.
Fifteen minutes later he brought the Porsche screeching around the corner and up the hill to his house.
“… Fucking Lisette,” he had kept muttering throughout the trip home. “Goddamn, fucking Lisette …”
Lisette, the children, and the truck were gone. Most of the house was still intact, but she had taken her jewelry, the microwave, the largest television, hers and the twins’ bureaus, their toys, bicycles, and beds, and had left all the liquor bottles she could find smashed to bits in the kitchen sink, including the two-hundred-dollar bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild he had given her on her birthday and was saving to celebrate the Serenyl sale.
The note, carefully printed on Lisette’s lavender stationery, was pinned to a pillow on their bed.
You will never hit me again. Please do not try to find us. I’ll contact you when I’m good and ready.… Was it worth it?
Frank slapped the bedside lamp to the floor and then balled the note in his fist and threw it across the room.
“You’ll see,” he muttered angrily. “A million fucking dollars from now, you’ll see what was worth it and what wasn’t, you disloyal bitch.”
He started for the liquor cabinet, but then remembered the mess in the kitchen sink and, instead, stormed from the house and drove off
As he spun out of the driveway, from the corner of his eye Frank caught a glimpse of Major Curtis Largent, U.S. Army, Ret., sitting on his upstairs porch, rocking and watching.
The afternoon felt as close to normal—as close to the way afternoons once were—as any Barbara Nelms could remember. Sunlight was streaming through the bay windows in the living room and kitchen, bathing a house that was spotlessly clean. Stacked on the dining room table were the dishes she would use to serve dinner to the first company she and Bob had invited over in more than half a year.
Toby lay on his belly on the living room carpet, leafing through the pages of a glossy, coffee-table book on the history of aviation. On an impulse, Barbara had stopped and bought the book on the way home from the boy’s outdoor session with Dr. Iverson. That impulse had proven to be inspired.
Over the days that had followed, Toby had spent hours quietly examining the photographs and paintings. And more importantly, he had not had a single seizure since then. Predictably, Bob had wanted to rush right out and buy a model kit to begin building with their son, but she had cautioned him to go slow, and for the moment, to leave well enough alone.
Even the psychiatrist, Phil Brookings, had been a help. Although he had declined to see Toby until after Dr. Iverson had finished his evaluation, he had seen Barbara herself for two sessions and was encouraging her to bring Bob in for some family counseling as well.
As she straightened out the bookshelves and polished the already glistening clock on the mantel, Barbara mentally ticked through the meal she had planned and the music she would choose. Perhaps after dessert and coffee, if she could nudge someone into a request, she might even play for them herself. It had been so long since she had allowed herself the luxury of such mundane thoughts.
“Toby,” she ventured, “how would you like to help me put together the dinner we’re going to make for Billy’s mom and dad tonight?”
Toby continued to flip through his book, occasionally reaching out to run his fingertips over one of the planes.
“Okay,” she said cheerfully. “Suit yourself. Just let me know if you get bored with your book. I’ll be right in the kitchen.”
It had been worth a try.
Minutes later, as Barbara stood by the sink washing vegetables, she heard a soft noise behind her. Suddenly tense, she whirled. Toby was standing by the kitchen door, the corners of his mouth crinkled upward in something of a smile. Barbara felt a surge of excitement.
“Hi,” she said, swallowing against the forceful beating of her heart. “Want a job?”
The boy hesitated. And then, ever so slightly, he nodded.
“Great! … I mean, that’s fine, honey. I could really use the help. Here, let me get your little stool.”
She put the wooden stool by the sink and handed Toby the peeler.
“Okay,” she said. “Now all you have to do is scrape this over the carrots until they all look like this one, see? … That’s it. Perfect. Listen, I’m going to the laundry room to fold some clothes. When you finish with the carrots, I’ll get you started on the potatoes.”
Normal. Barbata had never dreamed she would cherish the feeling so much. As she headed toward the laundry room she glanced at the wall clock.
“Hey, Tobe,” she said, returning to the kitchen, “guess what it’s time for.”
She snapped on the twelve-inch black-and-white set that she kept on the counter to watch soap operas.
The cartoon intro for Robin the Good was just ending.
Toby stood on his stool, scraping the carrots, washing them in the cool, running water, thinking about airplanes, and looking over from time to time at Robin and his men.
“Now, maids and men,” Friar Tuck was saying, “it’s time to learn about our Letter of the Day. Today, it’s a very special letter, because it’s the only one that always has the same letter come after it. It’s the letter that starts the words quick and quail and quart. Can you guess what it is?”
“Q,” Toby said absently.
“How many said Q?” the friar asked. “Well, if you did say Q, you’re right! So now, without further ado, here’s Robin and Alan to sing about what letter? Right, our good friend, Q.”
Alan-a-Dale strummed his huge guitar several times. Then Robin the Good leapt onto a giant rock and, hands on hips, began to sing.
“Alas, my lo-ove, you do me wro-ong, I do not thi-ink that thou art true. For thou has ye-et to sing a so-ong, abou-out the le-e-ter Q-oo.…”
With the first few notes of music, Toby stopped his scraping and began staring at the tiled wall. The peeler slipped from his fingers and clanked into the steel sink. He rubbed at his eyes as the blue and gray tiles grew brighter.
It was beginning to happen Just like all the other times, it was beginning to happen.
“Mommy …”
He called out the word, but heard no sound.
They were coining for him. The nurse and the man with the mask. They were coming for him again.
“Mommy, please …”
His eyes drifted downward toward the sink, toward the splashing water.
Stop them! his mind urged. Don’t let them touch you again.
His hand closed about the black handle of a knife that lay beside the peeler.
Stop them!
As he lifted the knife, sunlight flashed off its broad, wet blade.
Over the half year since her sons attacks first began, Barbara Nelms had developed a sixth sense about them. It was as if something in the air changed—the electricity or the ions. There had been false alarms—times when she had raced through the house, terrified, only to find Toby sitting in the bay window and staring out at the lawn, or lying in the den, mechanically watching a show that held absolutely no interest for him.
But there were other times, especially of late, when she had found him thrashing wildly on the floor, or pressed into a corner, his frail body cringing from the recurring horror that was engulfing him from within.
Barbara was folding the last of the linen when she began to sense trouble. It started as no more than a tic in her mind—a notion. The house was too quiet, the air too still. Like a deer suddenly alert to the hum of an engine still too distant for any man to hear, she cocked her head to one side and listened. All she could hear was the soft splash of water in the sink and the sound of the television.
Robin the Good was singing his alphabet song—a series of absurd, ill-rhymed tributes to each letter, sung to the tune of “Greensleeves.” It was a melody Barbara had actually loved
before encountering the portly actors version. Now, it grated like new chalk.
“Toby? …” she called out. “Toby, can you hear me?”
There was no answer.
“Toby, honey? …”
She set aside the sheet she had been about to fold and took a tentative step toward the door. Then she began to run.
She bolted through the deserted kitchen and was halfway to the living room when she heard the crash of a lamp and her son’s terrified scream.
“Noooo! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” he howled. “If you touch me there, I’ll cut you. I will.… Stop it! Stop it!”
Toby was backing toward the far end of the living room, thrashing his arms furiously at assailants only he could see. It took several seconds for Barbara Nelms to realize that he was wielding a knife—a carving knife with an eight-inch blade.
Then she saw the blood.
Inadvertently, Toby had cut himself—a wide slash on the front of his thigh, just below his shorts. Crimson was flowing down his leg from the wound, but he was totally heedless of it.
“Toby!”
Barbara raced toward him, then slowed a step as his wild-eyed fury intensified.
“Stay away from me! Don’t touch me!”
“Toby, please. It’s Mommy. Please give me that knife.”
He backed into the hallway, still slashing at the air. His lips were stretched apart, his teeth bared in a frightening, snarling rictus. There was no sign that he recognized her.
His flailing sent a pair of framed photographs spinning from the wall. The glass exploded at her feet.
“Toby, please.”
All Barbara Nelms could see now was the blood, cascading down her son’s leg and over his foot, leaving grotesque crimson smears on the carpet. He was nearing the bathroom. If he reached it and locked himself inside …
There was simply no way she could let him do that.
The hallway was too narrow for any kind of attack from the side. Focusing as best she could on the knife, which Toby was slashing in wild, choppy arcs, Barbara ducked against the wall and dove at him. The point of the blade flashed down, catching her just at the tip of her shoulder and tearing through her flesh and the muscle of her arm.
Flashback (1988) Page 29
