by Melissa Yi
“I’m just gathering the facts while we’re waiting for the chart,” I said. “First of all, how could someone have sabotaged Elvis’s stunt? Secondly, who would have done it? And thirdly, why?”
Archer fell silent and squeezed his hands into fists. Elvis turned away from the window to face me. He said, “I can’t tell you all my tricks. That’s how I make my living.”
“I’m not going to steal them and sell them. You wouldn’t catch me chaining myself up in a coffin, but I can respect your privacy. So let’s start with who. When was the last time you did the stunt successfully, so that you don’t think anyone had tampered with your set-up?”
Elvis said, “We did it the night before. Not in the water, because we didn’t want anyone to see us in the Old Port and ruin the act, but we took the truck out to the dock after dark and practiced raising and lowering the coffin. Good photo op, too.”
“Did you get chained up?” I asked.
Elvis shook his head. “You gotta save the show for the show, if you know what I mean.”
“Did you wear the same costume?”
“No. I usually practice that part indoors, where no one else can film me, but I don’t remember.”
Archer said, “Hugo and I took the coffin down and practiced chaining it and lowering it down until we got it smooth. I made sure we had the whole setup going for the electronics, the flat screen TV and the countdown timer, the video clips.”
“How did you get all the electronics there, anyway?” I asked.
“Hugo knew some guys.”
Hugo knew a lot of things, it seemed. I filed that away. “All right. So you two set up the electronics and the coffin for practice. And Elvis came?”
“I signed autographs and did a few TV interviews,” said Elvis. “I remember that part.”
“Lucia wasn’t there?”
“Lucia did crowd control around Elvis,” said Archer. “A star looks like more of a star if he’s got some built-in fans, and Lucia knew how to draw them in.”
I raised one eyebrow, and he flushed a little. “She was wearing an Elvis T-shirt.”
I had one of those babies myself. Not too sexy.
“With not much underneath it,” added Elvis.
Ah. No wonder Archer ended up in the sack with her. “So, as far as you both know, everything went smoothly for your outside rehearsal on Friday night. The coffin was stored where?”
“In our hotel room, locked up, where no kooks could get at it,” said Archer.
“Except the hotel cleaning service and management,” I pointed out. “You did let them clean your room, right?”
He nodded, worried. “But I don’t think anything was wrong with the coffin. I mean, Elvis didn’t break his way out of it on Friday, because we only had one extra, but we’d practiced dozens of times in Winnipeg, with the exact same coffin, with no problem.”
I held up my hand. “Hang on a second. You brought two coffins?”
Archer and Elvis both looked at me like I was stupid. “If one of them broke on the way, we wouldn’t really have time to fix it. So yeah, we brought two,” said Elvis.
“Were they identical?”
Archer and Elvis exchanged a look. “Yeah. We built five of them. I destroyed three while practicing, and we brought the last two,” said Elvis.
“So you still have one in your hotel room,” I said.
Elvis tilted his head back and surveyed me with those green pop eyes. “You want me to show you how it’s done, for real?”
“Maybe.” I hadn’t thought it through yet. “And you break the coffins when you get out of them?”
“I don’t always,” said Elvis. “It gets expensive. We made one with a swing lid so I could just practice in chains and handcuffs and other stuff and kick open the lid. But just before we came out here, I killed three of them in a row, just to prove that I could get out underwater. We couldn’t afford for me to make a mistake.”
But something had gone wrong, and he’d almost died. The thought lingered in the air while the three of us tried to ignore it.
And then Elvis’s eyes flared with possibility. There was only one thing that could electrify an escape artist like that, that could make him feel alive instead of trapped and helpless, and I opened my mouth to object even before he punched his fist in the air and said, “That coffin’s calling me. I’m going back in.”
“You can’t,” said Archer, right away. “Not when you’re brain damaged.”
Elvis snorted. “I feel fine.”
“You get headaches. You’re still dizzy. You don’t fucking remember what happened. That’s brain damage.”
“So what? I don’t care. I want to get in and relive it. That way, I’ll remember it. Isn’t there a fancy word for that?” He turned to me for support.
“Uh, probably.” Immersion therapy was what came to my mind, but maybe I was getting mixed up because he wanted to immerse himself in water again. “Elvis. Archer’s right. This could be dangerous for you.”
Elvis grinned. For the first time that I’d seen him in hospital, I got a flash of the Elvis Lives, the escape artist, the man courting danger, instead of a sullen near-teenager trapped in a hospital. “I don’t care.”
“You’re supposed to rest after a concussion. You’re not even supposed to text or play video games, let alone try life-threatening stunts. And you didn’t have a concussion. You had hypoxic-anoxic encephalopathy.”
Elvis waved me away like I was a mosquito. “Same difference.”
“No. Concussions are from a direct blow to the head. Hypoxia and anoxia are from lack of oxygen to the brain. They’re not the same animal, but they’re both dangerous. After a concussion, you’ve got to rest and let your body heal. It’s the same deal, or worse, if your brain was missing oxygen.”
“I’ve heard of that, though,” Archer said. “People with amnesia who go back into the same situation, and then they remember things. Is that just in the movies?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I can’t be an accomplice in damaging Elvis’s brain any more than it is.”
Elvis turned to me. “Then I’m doing it without you.”
“What?”
He snapped his fingers. “You’re doing what you needed to do. You’re putting the pieces together. You pointed out that we’ve still got two coffins I can use for a do-over. So I’m going for it. With or without you.”
“You’re going to jump back in the river with brain damage?”
“No.” Elvis turned to Archer. “Look. This is how we can redeem this. We’ll get the okay from my doctors. Let’s ask the guy who shaves his head, he’s cool.”
“Dr. Weintraub,” said Archer.
“Yeah, him. I bet he’ll give the nod. We can set up in the cafeteria or the atrium—wherever there’s more room. You and Lucia can chain me up. And I’ll break out of the coffin right in the middle of the University College Hospital. It’ll be ace.”
Archer said slowly, “We can sell it like a fundraiser for the hospital. So we won’t make any money on it, or just 20 percent or something. But then you’re right, we can make this work for us.”
“Guys,” I started, but it was no use. I was like the substitute teacher that everyone ignored, even with a pointer in her hand. So I said, “I’m not buying this as a cure for amnesia. And I usually tell grade III concussions not to exert themselves for a month, so I imagine you’d have to rest for at least that long Are you going to wait a month?”
Elvis paused. I could see him calculating in his brain before he pasted a sweet smile on his face. “I’d like to do it for the University College Hospital.”
Before I could call him on his B.S., Tucker materialized in the doorway. “The nurse didn’t want me to bring the chart in here. We’d have to go to medical records during business hours. But I did run into the resident on call. He said they thought Elvis’s prognosis was good since we resuscitated him right away and he already has good verbal and motor control.”
Elvis said, �
��I’ll show them motor control.”
Tucker looked confused, but Archer made an effort to smile at us. “Thanks for trying. We appreciate you taking the time to come all the way down here, even though you can’t take the case…” His voice trailed off.
This was ridiculous. Not only was I not taking the case, but somehow I’d planted the seed for Elvis to pull another stunt where he might damage his brain even more. “You know I strongly advise against this…do-over. Even if you don’t die this time, you could severely damage your brain even more. Thanks for your understanding,” I said, marching toward the door. As I’d figured out during my psych rotation, a swift exit is the best exit when you’ve got a dissatisfied audience.
To my surprise, Tucker didn’t turn to follow me. He stood his ground and said, in a low voice, “You’re right. You shouldn’t do any more detective work. That’s just smart.”
“Thanks,” I said, gesturing him to follow me so I could explain the Serratore brothers’ latest inane inspiration, but Tucker moved past me, closer to Elvis, and said directly to him, “Dr. Sze isn’t free to take this case. I am.”
Chapter 12
WTF, Tucker? rang through my head.
I translated that into the more polite, “What are you talking about?”
Even Elvis just stared at him, confused.
Tucker spread his hands like this was all normal procedure. “Dr. Sze, you said you want to concentrate on medicine right now. You’ve already risked your life twice. You don’t need to do it any more. However, Elvis has requested help to investigate any irregularities with his stunt. I can do that.”
Says who? I caught Tucker’s eye and jerked my head toward the hallway. We needed to talk. Pronto.
“No offense,” said Archer, crossing his arms, “but we have no idea who you are.”
“My name is Dr. John Tucker. I’m a medical doctor studying family medicine. I’m 27 years old. I’m a Montreal native, which means I know the city, the subway system, the hospital network, and the ecosystem almost as well as Elvis knows his way around his pair of handcuffs. I helped solve a hit-and-run case in August, interviewing a key witness and tracking down the psychiatrist involved in the case. Last, but not least, I’m an amateur magician myself.”
“Whoa,” said Archer. He turned to Elvis and lifted his eyebrows.
Elvis’s nostrils flared. He didn’t speak.
Even I would have been impressed if I hadn’t been ready to strangle Tucker.
“Excuse me. I’d like to speak to Dr. Tucker for just a moment, please.” I took a firm hold of his sleeve and directed him toward the hallway.
“Of course. Excuse us for just a second.” He shone his pearly whites at Elvis before I firmly closed the door behind us. I couldn’t close it for long—the nurses would wonder what was up in Elvis’ room—but I needed a few seconds of privacy to screw Tucker’s head back on.
I told him, “Tucker, you can’t just steal my case.”
“I’m not stealing it. You passed on it and I’m picking it up. Big difference.”
“Tucker—”
“Hope, you were absolutely right. You almost died twice. That’s worse than most of our cancer patients! You’ve been through the wringer. You deserve an out.”
I hesitated. He was technically agreeing with me. So why did that annoy me so much? I changed my tack. “If I deserve an out, why should you get the in?”
“I’m not going to do anything risky. I’m going to try and piece together what happened. Elvis has a theory that someone sabotaged his event. I’ll gather as much information as I can to test that theory.”
“And get a behind-the-scenes look at your superhero.”
Tucker shrugged and grinned. “Well, there are perks.”
I remembered Tucker’s eye glued to his giant camera. “Would you film him?”
Tucker looked surprised. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Would you learn all his tricks and do an exposé of them?”
“No!” He seemed genuinely outraged. “Magic is only interesting because of the mystery of it. If I did that, I could ruin him.”
“Or you could set up your own show.” But he shook his head so vehemently, I regretted the words as soon as they flew out of my mouth. “Sorry I’m being so cynical. I guess I don’t want you to take on my case and run with it. I mean, if it’s not cool for me to risk my life, why should you be free and clear to do it? Just because you’ve got testicles?”
“Glad you noticed the testes,” said Tucker, poker- faced. “I’ve been pointing them out to you at every opportunity. But I’m not trying to be a sexist pig. I just don’t want you to end up in the hospital anymore. I want to protect you. I’d want to do that if you were a man, woman, child, or warthog.”
“A warthog?” I repeated. Where did that come from? All I could think of was the fat, singing warthog from The Lion King.
“Okay, maybe that came out wrong. But we’re on the same page, Hope. You don’t want to investigate anymore, and I do. Especially when it’s a magician I respect. This is a win-win situation, okay?”
I didn’t answer for a long moment. I knew I had to. I knew I had to open Elvis’s door before a nurse asked us what we were doing, nosing around patient charts and shutting their doors. But before I could shape my mind around the correct response, Tucker ruined it all by adding, “Especially if you end up moving to Ottawa.”
Suddenly, I could hear the clock ticking in a neighbouring patient’s room. I swallowed hard and licked my lips. “I…never said I was moving.”
“But are you?” said Tucker. All humour had fled his eyes. I’d never paid attention to the inches he had on me—almost every adult was my height or taller—but now it seemed like he was looming over me.
“I—” I shook my head. “I haven’t decided.”
“But you’re talking about it. You’re thinking about it. You’ve been in touch with the dean in Ottawa. Am I right?”
“Just her office,” I said quietly. “It’s a possibility. I feel safer there.” I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone in Montreal, not even Tori. Maybe Tucker was a better detective than I’d given him credit for.
“Right.” Tucker ran a hand through his gelled hair, but for once, I didn’t feel like laughing at how it hardly stirred. “So. Another thing to add to my résumé: I’m staying in Montreal.”
I realized that, when it comes to relationships, I’m the last one to get a clue. Tucker was seriously pissed, and he dealt with it by making jokes 90 percent of the time, but this was not one of those times.
I still didn’t buy that he was taking the case completely to protect me, or any warthog. He was getting a little of his own back here. And I couldn’t exactly blame him.
So even though my heart thundered in my ears and it made me feel slightly nauseous, I said, “You should go back in there and hear what they’re cooking up. Good luck with the case.” And I stormed down the hall just as Lucia tapped toward us on stilettos.
Chapter 13
I almost cannonballed into Lucia.
Actually, I stopped a foot short of her, but she seized the nearest doorframe, her acrylic nails scrabbling on the wood, and teetered on her hot pink heels for one long second before she regained her balance.
Up close, her fake tan had that orange tint that makes me thankful for my natural melanin. But her eyes were a clear and pretty blue-green, and her curves were still impressive in a low cut white T-shirt, stretchy leopard print leggings, and a bright pink coat, so she really stood out. Basically, she was as close to Barbie as I’d never seen in a living human being, and I had to stare at her for a second. “Sorry about that, Lucia.”
“No problem.” Steadier now, one hand crept to her platinum blonde hair. She tucked a lock behind her ear.
Archer appeared in his doorway. “I thought I heard—hello, Lucia!” He beamed at her like Dr. Huot with testosterone.
“Hello,” she said, still subdued.
Archer wrapped a possessive arm
around her, hugging her into his side, and kissed her cheek.
She cleared her throat and glanced at me.
“Oh, Dr. Sze was just leaving. You remember her? She helped save Elvis’s life that day. The other doctor’s here, too. Tucker. He wants to help us figure out who wrecked Elvis’s stunt.”
Did Lucia blanch a bit? Hard to tell, under all that dye, but she wrapped her arm around his back while she eyeballed me. “How is a doctor supposed to help figure this out?” She had a mild Eastern European accent that drew out some syllables and made her come down on others. (“How eez a doctor suppozed to help us feegur diz out?”)
“I’ll let Dr. Tucker explain that,” I said, pointing toward the room where I could hear Tucker and Elvis’s voices. “But I was just curious if you remembered anything about Saturday morning.” My heart fluttered in my chest. I was not investigating. I was not. I was just…priming the pump for Tucker, who’d be asking her the same questions in a few minutes. I ignored the little voice that whispered, What about all those patients who tell one story to the triage nurse, another story to the med student, a third variation to the resident, and a swiftly-changing tale to the consultant? Leave now.
Archer smiled proudly as his broad palm rubbed circles on Lucia’s back.
Lucia patted her little pink purse. “I am sorry. I forgot something in Archer’s truck. I was hoping I could pick it up.”
“Of course! We could go right now, if you want.” Archer pulled his keys out of his pocket and jingled them.
“I’ll walk with you. I’m leaving, too,” I said, pulling up on her other side.
She glanced at Elvis’s doorway, but she started striding back down the hall in her high heels. On the rare occasion when I wear heels, I walk slowly, making sure I don’t sprain my ankle, and people turn around because the sound echoes around the hallway. She made it look easy. I was wearing flats, though, so I had no trouble keeping pace and asking, “Did you see Elvis before his stunt on Hallowe’en?”
“Naturally, I work with Elvis, so I saw him.” She didn’t bother to make eye contact.
