by Andy Siegel
“You’ve got to be kidding me, right? Hydrocephalus?” I’m stunned. “Water on the brain?”
“Well, it’s not water, it’s cerebral spinal fluid.”
“I know what it is—so, please, spare me your corrections. How do these spores cause it?”
“It’s a combination of factors. Overproduction of fluid is the main culprit, coupled with obstruction of the drainage routes. The fluid’s overwhelming your brain’s absorption capacity and the buildup of CSF is causing increased pressure inside your head. That’s what’s happening. This is serious stuff. You got a bad case of Desert Fever, buddy.”
“Okay, okay. I get ya.”
“No. I don’t think you do. Listen! And listen carefully. You need to understand the seriousness of this. The spores of C. immitis were being developed as an agent for chemical warfare at one time. That’s how serious this is. Now get yourself to a hospital right now! No, better yet, where are you? I’m coming to pick you up.”
Mick’s words resonate in my fluid-filled head. I’m formulating and assessing, and, although my concentration is off, my executive function is off, and my recall—yeah, that’s off, too—I quickly realize this is not about me.
“You there?” I hear Mick ask. “You there?”
Holy shit!
“I gotta go, Mick!” Click.
SOME NO-CONTACT DIRECTIVES REQUIRE DIRECT CONTACT
As I scramble-scroll through my phone, thoughts flash across my pounding head. The MRIs showed no evidence of a surgical injury at C4 that could be responsible for the backflow of CSF … no one ever came up to their apartment … Major and his father both worked on chemical agents out west … dry desert plants confined to Cookie’s separate bedroom. Ones I knocked over. Exposing myself.
Major is poisoning her!
The guy’s a psycho. He’s inducing the overproduction of fluid and creating the false need for repeated and emergent spinal taps. Setting up a dependency, so he can keep his dancer prize to himself. Who’d ever believe it?
I hit the call button. Come on, Cookie, pick up, girl.
“Hello?”
“Cookie, it’s me, Tug Wyler, your old attorney. Is Major there?”
“Um, uh, I don’t think I’m supposed to talk to … um, no, he’ll be back in a few. I’ll tell him that you … to call you.”
“No!” I shout. “Don’t tell him to call me! Listen! You’ve got to get out of there! Now! Major’s poisoning you! Do you understand me?”
“Not really.” Justifiably, I have to say. “Um, I like you and all,” she continues, “but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to call me or contact me in any way since I switched back to Chris. I mean, he just got the file back, and they’ve offered him two million dollars.”
Oh, man! This is no time to set the record straight.
“Cookie! You have to listen to me!” Some no-contact directives require direct contact. And this is one of them. “It’s not about your lawsuit. I promise I know what I’m talking about. Major may be manipulating Chris, too. He could even be part of the fraud scheme.”
“Fraud scheme? What are you talking about?”
“I was contacted by an investigator, from where I’m not sure, but while I was handling your case a fraud investigator approached me. A little fish named Minnow.”
“A little fish named Minnow?”
“Yes, listen, I’ll explain everything to you. I promise. Wait a minute, Minnow’s not actually an investigator. I mixed it up. Pusska said she couldn’t find anything on him. Oh, that’s not the point. Anyway, right now, it’s you I’m concerned with. Your health and well-being. I’m on my way over. It won’t be long. I’m close by. Meet me across the street from your building. Hurry!” I add with a sense of urgency, “Please! This is very real. And stay away from your plants!”
“My plants?” she repeats.
“Yes, your plants. They’re poisoning you.”
“That sounds totally crazy. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“No. I’m feeling horrible. I’ve got headaches. Pressure headaches … from the spores … headaches just like yours! Separate rooms … keeping your door shut … no visitors! Don’t you get it?”
“Not really.”
“You told me when I was there that you had no life and felt like a prisoner. Remember?”
“Yeah, and …”
“Well that’s because you are a prisoner—Major’s prisoner! Just get out of there! You’ve got to trust me on this! He’s inducing your headaches so that you need him! He’s the tap-master and you’re his slave.”
Silence. I hear silence on the other end. I struck a nerve. I need to know one more thing to be sure, though. Before I turn her world upside down.
“Cookie, when did you move in with Major?”
“About five months after McElroy’s surgery.”
“When did the tapping begin?”
“Almost a month later.”
“Were those plants in your room when you moved in?”
“No.”
“When, in relation to your first tap, did you get those plants?”
“Less than two weeks before.”
“You need to meet me now! I’ll explain everything so you understand. Or else you’ll be Major’s high-rise hostage forever.”
Further silence. Jesus, what more does she need?
“Cookie! Major took you to his medical clinic downtown when he saved your life doing that very first tap, yet you guys live closer to three major hospitals. Don’t you get it?”
“Okay, I’ll meet you across the street from my building in five minutes. But you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” Click.
My wife! I hit the speed dial as I race as best I can to Cookie. I’m in a slow jog but finding it difficult to put one foot in front of the other and increasingly difficult to breathe.
“Hi, honey,” she answers. “Oh, before I forget to tell you, your doctor’s office called. The practice radiologist read your chest X-ray and has some concerns. They want you to come in.”
“I already know the problem.”
“What is it? And why are you breathing so heavy?”
“I have Desert Fever, and I’m out of breath because I’m running down the street sick as a dog, trying to talk on the phone.”
“Desert Fever? I don’t know what it is, but I assume you have to go to a desert to get it. And why are you running?”
“I’m running to go meet Cookie. I got it at her apartment and—”
“Cookie, the stripper that fired you?”
“Yes, that’s the only Cookie I know.”
“Why did you go to her apartment? Doesn’t she live in the city? And isn’t your office in the city? Why couldn’t she come to your office? I mean, you pay rent to conduct business there, don’t you?”
“Which of those questions do you want me to answer first?”
Click.
I embrace her reaction and forge ahead. If she didn’t care, the click would’ve preceded the inquisition. I turn and give Lenox Hill, now in the distance, one last look, thinking I’ll just circle back there with Cookie. People are moving left and right out of my way as I labor down the sidewalk, in my suit, out of breath and starting to feel off-balance. I turn onto 79th Street and see Cookie standing there, up ahead. She’s looking sweet as ever, halo and all.
My pace slows as I pull up. I can’t breathe.
“Are you okay?” she asks with earnest concern.
“Fine. I mean, no, not really.” I sway off balance.
She steadies me. “Careful,” I warn her, “don’t move like that in your brace.”
“Oh, I’m not worried. I had an X-ray yesterday, and I’m finally fused.”
“That’s great news. Listen, we’ve got to walk and talk. I don’t want Major to see us. You’re not goin
g to believe what I have to say to you.”
“Okay, let’s walk and talk. I like that. It rhymes. Where to?”
“Let’s go to Papaya King on Eighty-sixth,” I suggest. No way can I make it, but I’ll be done with what I have to say in two blocks. Then it’s back to the hospital.
“Fine, let’s go. I love their dogs.” Figures. She’s such a catch. I attempt a step and realize I can’t achieve a proper toe lift. So I lift my shoe off the sidewalk straight-footed, only to realize I can’t manage a proper heel strike.
“What’s the matter with your foot?”
“Nothing, but I have Desert Fever. And so do you.”
“What’s that? And why did you do that with your foot?”
“Um, what did I do with my foot?”
“I don’t know, you kind of kicked it out in a jerky motion.
“I didn’t realize. Is it getting dark out here?”
“No, it’s beautiful out. What’s the matter with you?” She’s getting more worried by the second, and with good reason.
“I don’t feel good. It’s your plants, they’re … Cookie, where are you?”
“I’m right in front of you. Hello. Hello in there. You’re just staring at me. Move or something. What’s the matter? Hello? Hello?”
I feel my legs collapse. I go down, on my back. I use every orbital muscle I have to get my eyes open, if those are the right muscles. At this point, I’m not sure. Cookie’s standing over me, I think. Lenox Hill Hospital was right in front of me. Damn!
“Shit!” she cries out. “Oh my God, what do I do? I don’t know what to do. I’m not good in emergencies.” Her words sound all garbled. I’m fading. I’m searching for the strength to tell her to call 911. Everybody knows to call 911, don’t they?
I’m doing everything to summon all that’s left within me, but I can’t speak those three important numbers. And just as important, I can’t tell her how Major conceived this whole unbelievable thing once nurse Molina told him about the spinal fluid leak. He parlayed that knowledge into something only he could have, given his background. He’s truly one mad scientist.
She takes out her cell. Finally. Although I’m certain it’s only been a few seconds since I went down. Good girl. Call 911. She dials. Good. Hurry up, I’m paralyzed down here.
“Hello,” I hear her frantically call out. “I need help! Please!” Good girl. When they get here, just tell them what I told you—that I have Desert Fever. Her lips are moving, but I don’t hear her saying anything. And then, an instant later, I do.
“We’re on the corner of Seventy-ninth,” I hear her say. Perfect. “Hurry, Major!”
No!
Chapter Nineteen
During my journey to wherever I am, I think I hear Minnow. Those distinctive, seeeees. Or maybe I just imagine it. One thing is for sure, the image of the giant black marble sculpture in Foley Square memorializing the enslaved Africans brought to America flashes across my mind during my ride. That was the day I signed up Cookie.
My next sense of awareness is the sound of a voice. Major’s voice. I hear it clearly.
“No, Cookie,” he says, “that’s not a good idea. You shouldn’t have had contact with him in the first place. I’ll tell him of your concern. Yes, dear, we’re still at the hospital. No, nothing serious at all. He’s just one of those overworked lawyers who possibly drinks a little too much. They also found his electrolytes to be low. No, that’s not serious, either. I’ll explain it all to you later. Yes, I told the doctors here about Desert Fever and, no, he doesn’t have that. No one in New York does.
“That stuff he was saying to you was just part of his dehydration dementia. What’s that you say? Oh, dementia is when you imagine things because of sickness. Here, it’s from lack of fluids in Mr. Wyler’s systems. They’re giving him IV fluids now to help that out.”
I know for a fact that there is no IV in my arm, hand, or elsewhere. Unless that’s what’s sticking me in my lower back. Which would be an unusual access site.
“When people are in that condition,” he continues, “they hallucinate and have wild fantasies. He’ll be just fine. I spoke to his wife, and apparently it’s happened before, on more than one occasion.”
I vehemently deny that allegation. Deny, deny, deny. But I can’t say a word, since my mouth seems to be covered.
“His wife’s coming for him, dear. I guess we learned our lesson about hiring a lawyer who frequents the club, with all due respect to your profession. You know I support it entirely. Good-bye, dear.”
For the record, Major, I was only meeting my friend for a drink at Jingles. I don’t frequent strip clubs. But anyhow, at least you got me to a hospital, and my wife’s on her way. I certainly don’t feel, though, like I’m in any hospital bed or even on a gurney. However, my thoughts are still scrambled, and I’m just now approaching semiconsciousness. What I need is to be patient.
Major walks over the floor, which creaks underfoot, and stops in front of me. He slides up whatever’s been covering my eyes, holds first my right, then my left eyelid open, and flashes a pen light in each eye. He slides the cloth back down and walks away. That wasn’t very thorough.
There’s something hot poking me in my back. No way is that the access point. Wait a minute. I’m not in a hospital. Hey, my arms are taped to my sides. And my mouth—that has tape on it, too. Crap, I’m blindfolded. That’s what he slid up and down.
What the—? Where did he take me? To the psych ward?
My feet are flat on the floor, my crotch in a spread eagle and my inner thighs separated by I’m-not-sure-what. It feels like I’m sitting backward on a chair. But I have to say, despite the restraints, my headache is completely gone. I haven’t felt this good in a while. In fact, I feel a great sense of relief. It’s like night and day without the pressure. This must be how Cookie feels after her tap. I get it now, why she’d stay with him.
Let me see if I can somehow stand. I think I saw some guy break free that way in a movie once. I press down on the floor with the soles of my feet. The chair lifts up a bit and crashes back down.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Major admonishes. I’d say he’s about ten feet away. “You have a spinal needle sticking out of your back, and if you fall over it will penetrate your spinal cord, and you’ll paralyze yourself or worse.”
That settles it—I’m not in a hospital, nor am I in the padded ward of some bin. I’m a captive. I’ve been held against my will before, and this is exactly what it feels like. This Major likes to do that to people. Thanks, Henry, for landing me yet again in a predicament. I don’t think I’ll accept any more HIC referrals. They ain’t worth it. Although, technically, Cookie’s not one of Henry’s injured criminals, a distinction that seems inconsequential at this moment.
The floor lets out another creak. “I’m going to take your gag off,” Major cautions. “You can scream all you want. Nobody’s going to hear you. We’re in an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere.” He rips the adhesive tape off my mouth.
“Fuck, man,” I say. “What the fuck is going on here? And take my fucking blindfold off.” I feel him unknotting it from behind. Behold, I’m staring at a dilapidated wall with paint chips and punch holes. He steps in front of me. I look up.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
“You know, you say the word fuck a lot.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Does that bother you? Let’s make a fucking deal then. Take the fucking needle out of my spine and unfucking tie me and I’ll stop saying fuck. How does that fucking sound? Sounds like a fucking plan to me.”
“Curse all you want. It doesn’t bother me. It just confirms that you’re an uncultured lowlife.”
“Oh, let me get this straight. You poison Cookie with those plants …” His eyebrows raise. “That’s right, I know about the spores your father worked on to develop chemical weapons. Then you kidnap me so
your little codependent thing with her won’t get ruined—and I’m the lowlife?”
“I see you did your homework. My father was a good man.”
“I don’t give a crap about your father. But I can’t imagine him being a good man with you as his son. Now, unfucking tie me, like I said.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Then what the fuck are you going to do with me?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t plan for this. Your meddling has made it all very complicated.”
“Well, if you think it’s complicated now, just you wait. You’re going to do jail time for this kidnapping. And for your enslavement of Cookie.”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m not interested in going to jail.”
“Good. Then untie me, and I’ll ask the prosecutor for leniency.”
“No, I don’t think so. You know, I saved your life.”
“You saved my life, Major? You mean, after I was exposed to your fungus and developed systemic cocci that’s ravaged my central nervous system, causing my CSF to go haywire, you were nice enough to tap me and save my life? I never looked at it that way. But you’re right. Thank you for saving my life. I guess Cookie should be thankful, too.”
“She is.”
“You’re messed up in the head. Tell me something: how do you keep Cookie from dying? From the infection disseminating into her organs?”
“That’s an intelligent question.”
“Well, fucking A, man. The lawyer who uncovered your sick and twisted poison-plant scheme asked a smart question.”
He smiles, but it merely distorts his face. He’s uncomfortable with this, I can tell. Uncomfortable with the situation he created and uncomfortable with the fact that he has no clear solution. This could be very dangerous for me, but I sense he doesn’t have it in him. The killer instinct, I mean. Me, I intend to keep him irritated and distracted from any solution I might not like by the further overuse of the F-word. It’s my only option at this point.
