Dante's Poison (27 page)

After he'd left to sign me up and the place had cleared out except for Josh and me—Alison's parting comment being “
Et tu, Brute?
”—Josh demanded to know what in the hell was going on. “I'm beginning to think that blow to the head really did knock the senses out of you.”

“Why? You think I'm faking wanting to go?”

“Maybe it has something to do with the fact that the smirk on your face is as wide as my waistband.”

“Do you think Graham noticed anything,” I asked, worried.

“Relax. He looked like you'd just offered him an all-expenses-paid cruise to the Bahamas. Now tell me, what gives?”

I filled him in on the events of the last two days, including my conversation with Rusty about Jane's possible motive for secrecy, the visit to Gallagher's nephew, my feigned telephone survey, and the Atria employee who'd hung up on me.

When I was done, Josh said, “Well, I'll give you the Energizer Bunny award for staying busy. And I'm glad you've finally bowed to the advisability of getting a real investigator to help you. But what is this crap about attending the Atria event?”

“I thought it was something I could do that wouldn't attract attention.”

“Oh, sure. I bet there'll be dozens of attendees sporting white canes at the conference. You'll blend in with no trouble. Besides, what do you think you're going to accomplish up there?”

“I know inconspicuousness isn't exactly my forte these days. But no one there except Graham will know who I am, and most strangers treat me like I don't exist. I figured I'd just hang out and listen—something I still happen to be competent at. You know how these events are—the hotel will be swarming with drug reps and they'll all be drinking like there's no tomorrow. Maybe I can pick up some hints about what's going on at Atria. If not, it'll just be a wasted forty-eight hours, but at least I won't be treading a hole in the carpet doing nothing but flagellating myself over Hallie.”

“OK, but how're you going to find your way around? The place sounds huge and you've never been there before.”

“If I let that deter me, I might as well sign up for Social Security right now. There are ways. I'll manage.”

“I could come with,” Josh offered helpfully.

“After that show of distaste you and Alison just put on for Graham? Forget it. He'd catch on right away that there was something going on. Even he isn't that dense.”

“OK, but what can I do to help?”

“Stay in touch with Hallie's doctor. I'll feel a lot better knowing you're standing by while I'm miles away feasting on pretzels and cheese cubes.”

I arrived back at my office close to noon, with plans on spending the rest of the day engaged in advance planning. With any luck, the resort would have an accessible website with plenty of maps. First, though, I needed lunch. I collected my cane from the hook on the door for a trip down to the cafeteria, absentmindedly patting my pants pocket to be sure I had my pills with me. I stopped and frowned. Other than the change I'd scooped up after my hallway spill, the pocket was empty. I checked the one on the other side. Also empty except for my handkerchief. No problem there. I'd probably left the pills in my jacket, which was hanging on the back of the door.

I took the jacket off the hook by its collar and shook it one-handed without hearing the familiar rattle of the pills in their bottle. I leaned my cane against the wall to free up the other hand and rifled through the pockets. Nothing. I went back to my desk and patted all over its surface, over and under papers and around empty cups and napkins, pens, pencils, and various Braille devices. The bottle wasn't there or in any of the desk drawers in or around my computer. With mounting concern I turned to my credenza, hurriedly groping through my toys and knocking my Magic Brain Calculator to the floor in the process. Maybe Jonathan had a point: my office was two steps away from being condemned. I was sure Melissa would be able to supply me with a refill, but it was embarrassing to have misplaced the pills, and I might not be able to get a substitute supply before the conference. I didn't want to think about what else I could lose if there was a several-day gap in my treatment. What in Christ's name had I done with them?

I stopped then and thought back over the morning. I had a firm memory of retrieving the bottle from its place next to the kitchen sink just after breakfast that morning. I'd tilted the plastic cylinder back and shook out one of the pills before washing it down with a glass of water and setting the bottle down on the counter—right next to my phone, Mets cap, and sunglasses so I wouldn't forget it. Then what? I mentally retraced my steps back to my bedroom area where I'd gone to the bathroom to brush my teeth before putting on a tie. Then it was back to the kitchen to collect my gear before heading out the door. The cap went on my head, the phone went into the holder attached to my belt, and the pills went into my trouser pocket. I was sure of it.

Then where had they gone to?

It was moments like this that made me reconsider my commitment to clean living.

I went back over all the places I'd searched before, this time adding a hands and knees sweep of the carpet around my desk and the area near the door. Since going blind I'd been known to drop things and not realize it unless there was a corresponding clatter. No dice. I went over all my shelves, collecting enough dust along the way to earn the admiration of Pig Pen and there was still no sign of them. I looted my desk drawers once more and succeeded only in stabbing my thumb with a loose pushpin. I had just wrapped the finger in my handkerchief and was considering what nearby object I could pick up and hurl against the wall when a knock came at the door.

“Dr. Angelotti?”

“Oh, hey, Graham,” I said, trying to appear perfectly composed.

“Sorry to interrupt you, but I was coming by to give you some materials for the conference and I saw this in the hall.”

“This?” I queried without a clue as to what he was talking about.

“Oh, sorry. I should have been more specific. It's a medication bottle with your name on it. I found it lying on the floor near the file room.”

Relief flooded over me as he put the bottle in my hand.

“I hope it doesn't mean you're ill,” Graham said, sounding genuinely concerned. “I've never heard of this drug before.”

“You wouldn't have. It's uh . . . experimental. Something for my sciatica.”

“Sciatica? Well, now, if I'd known you had that problem, I could have helped you out long ago. We have a terrific new pain product. It's only been on the market two months, and the orders are literally pouring in. I can get you a few samples. People are saying they feel relief only minutes after taking it and . . .”

For once, I let him rattle on for as long as he wanted to.

The string of fine fall days was still in place the following morning when Boris pulled up in front of my building shortly before 9:00 a.m. He got out of the driver's seat and took my overnight bag, giving me his usual terse greeting. As always, the town car was piled high with beverages, snacks, and magazines, along with a television set blaring the
Today
show. “I turn that off,” Boris said as I climbed in, expecting I might want to follow our progress on my phone as I sometimes did during long car rides. “It's OK,” I told him. “Leave it on if you want to.” The resort was a good hour away even barring traffic delays, and I figured the mindless chatter would keep me from brooding.

We headed west to the Kennedy and then north toward Milwaukee, exiting the Tri-State near Libertyville and turning west again into McHenry County. Once we were off the highway and onto the back roads, I rolled the window halfway down so I could take in the country air, breathing in the fragrance of prairie grasses and freshly plowed earth. My first year in Chicago I'd done a century—a hundred-mile bike course—not far from the area we were in, and the memory allowed me to give free rein to my imagination as we motored past farms and orchards and fields dotted with livestock. I tried not to think about what it would be like to ride a bike outdoors again.

We arrived at the resort two hours before the start of the conference and pulled into a valet area bustling with what Boris informed me were late-model Mercedes, Lexus SUVs, and BMWs. During the ride, Boris was unusually quiet, even for him, so I asked him if anything was the matter.

“You will see,” was all he said, resignedly. I wondered whether I should press him, but figured he'd tell me in his own good time.

Boris parked the car and walked me through a revolving door toward the commotion of the registration desk, teeming with newly arriving guests. He wanted to wait with me on line, but I told him I could handle it from there. We made arrangements for him to pick me up again on Sunday—early, so I wouldn't miss my Skype session with Louis—and Boris departed. It took a good twenty minutes to get to the head of the queue, where a hotel clerk greeted me questioningly.

“Are you sure you're in the right place?” he asked.

I put on a quizzical expression.

“The seeing eye dog school is a few miles down the road.” He sounded embarrassed for me.

“I tried them first, but they were full,” I said.

“As we are too, I'm afraid. I can help the next person in line,” he said brusquely over my shoulder.

Evidently he'd been well trained at hospitality school.

“Pity,” I said.

“Say what?” the clerk drawled.

“Pity when your manager finds out you've been ungracious to a paying customer.” I removed a credit card from my wallet and slid it over the desk to him. “There should be a room waiting for me. If you don't mind taking my money.”

“Why, no. Of course not,” he said, just as dubiously. “Just let me have a look in our database.” He began vigorously clacking keys on a keyboard. “Which conference are you here for?”

“I didn't realize there was more than one.”

“Oh, yes. We're booked solid all weekend.” He stopped in apparent surprise. “It appears we
do
have a guest room reserved for someone with your last name, but . . .”

I sighed.

It took another ten minutes to convince him that I wasn't a con artist posing as the MD listed in his records, that my credit was good, and that I could indeed handle a signature on the registration card if he'd just show me where to put it. I then had to cool my heels waiting for a bellhop to show me upstairs, having ascertained that the hotel's “commitment to meeting and exceeding all of the requirements of the ADA” did not extend to Braille signage on the doors of guest rooms.

“Sorry about that,” the bellhop said as he was leading me over to the elevator. “We don't get many blind guests, and the powers that be didn't want to change all the signs. You probably know they don't have to unless it's new construction or they're making renovations.”

He seemed unusually knowledgeable, and I soon found out why: he was completing a master's degree in rehabilitation counseling at ITT during the evenings.

“It's really cool you're a doctor,” he said. “Most of the blind clients I've met at school can't get a job, even when they're fully qualified. It's like everyone's worried it will rub off on them. It's why so many of them end up helping other blind people.”

“I was lucky I was already established in my profession,” I said.

“RP?” he asked. It was a good guess. Apart from accidents, Retinitis Pigmentosa was the usual reason people my age lost their sight.

“Different pedigree, but similar effect.” Normally, I liked talking about the subject about as much as I liked having a tooth filled, but he had such an open, honest manner it seemed churlish not to answer. “What's your name?”

“Nick.”

“Mark,” I said, extending my hand. “So what can you tell me about this place?” I'd pretty much struck out with the resort's website, which was no more accessible than the room signage.