Father Mine (11 page)

When he got to the elevators, he reached out with his left hand, the one that was scarred, the one that was missing a pinkie and had mottled skin, and pressed the button for down.

He was going to do whatever he had to to make sure folks got the help they needed. Someone had done it for him, and it had made all the difference in his life.

Down on the first floor he hung a right and walked along a stretch of corridor until he came to the mahogany-paneled entrance of the cosmetics clinic. In discreet lettering that was frosted into the glass were his name and the names of seven of his colleagues. There was no mention of what kind of medicine was practiced inside.

Patients had told him they loved the exclusive, members-only-club vibe.

Using a pass card, he let himself in. The reception room was dim, and not because the lighting had been turned off after main business hours were through: Bright lights were not becoming on people of a certain age, either pre- or postoperatively, and besides, the calming, soothing atmosphere was part of the spa environment they were trying to create. The floor was tiled in soft sandstone, the walls were a comforting deep red, and a fountain made from cream and white and tan rocks twinkled in the center of the area.

“Marcia?” he called out, pronouncing the name
MAR-see-uh,
in the European fashion.

“'Allo, Dr. Franklin,” came a smooth voice from the back where the office was.

When Marcia came around the corner, T.W. put his left hand in his pocket. As usual, she looked right out of
Vogue
with her coiffed black hair and her tailored black suit.

“Your patient is not here yet,” she said with a serene smile. “But I have the second lasering bay set up for you.”

Marcia was a perfectly touched up forty-year-old who was married to one of the plastics guys and was, as far as T.W. knew, the only woman on the planet except for Ava Gardner who could wear bloodred lipstick and still look classy. Her wardrobe was by Chanel, and she'd been hired and was paid well to be a walking testimonial to the outstanding work performed by the staff.

And the fact that she had an aristocratic French accent was a bonus. Particularly with the nouveau riche types.

“Thanks,” T.W. said. “Hopefully the patient will be here soon and you can go.”

“So you do not need an assistant, no?”

This was the other great thing about Marcia: She was not just decorative; she was useful, a fully trained nurse who was always happy to assist.

“I appreciate the offer, but just send the patient back and I'll take care of everything.”

“Even the registering?”

He smiled. “I'm sure you want to get home to Phillippe.”

“Ah,
oui
. It is our anniversary.”

He winked at her. “Heard something about that.”

Her cheeks reddened a little, which was one of the charming things about her. She might be classy but she was real, too. “My husband, he says I am to meet him at the front door. He says he has a surprise for his wife.”

“I know what it is. You're going to love it.” But what woman wouldn't like a pair of flashers from Harry Winston?

Marcia brought her hand up to her mouth, hiding her smile and her sudden flusters. “He is too good to me.”

T.W. felt a momentary pang, wondering when the last time was that he'd bought something frivolous and fancy for his wife. It had been . . . well, he'd gotten her a Volvo last year.

“You deserve it,” he said roughly, thinking for some reason about the number of nights his wife ate alone. “So please go home and celebrate.”

“I will, Doctor.
Merci mille fois.
” Marcia bowed and went over to the receiving desk—which was really nothing more than an antique table with a phone hidden in the side drawer and a laptop you accessed by flipping open a mahogany panel. “I shall just sign out of the system and wait to welcome your patient.”

“Have a great night.”

As T.W. turned away and left her to her glow, he took his ruined hand back out of his pocket. He always hid it from her, part of the leftover from having been a teenager with the damn thing. It was so ridiculous. He was happily married and not even attracted to Marcia, so it shouldn't have mattered at all. Scars, though, left wounds on the inside of you, and as with skin that didn't heal right, you still felt the rough spots from time to time.

The three lasers in the clinic's facility were used to treat spider veins in legs, port-wine-stain birthmarks, and red dermal imperfections, as well as provide resurfacing treatments for the face, and the removal of the guiding tattoo marks of cancer patients who'd received radiation.

B. Nalla might need any one of those things done—but if he were a betting man, he would go with cosmetic resurfacing. Just seemed to fit . . . after hours, in the downstairs clinic, with a mysterious name. No doubt another one of the very wealthy, with a paralytic need for confidentiality.

Still, you had to respect your cash cows.

Going into the second laser suite, which he preferred for no good reason, he took a seat behind the mahogany desk and logged on to the computer, reviewing the patients who were coming in the morning and then focusing on the dermatology fellows' reports he'd brought with him.

As the minutes ticked by, he started to get annoyed at these rich people and their demands and their self-important view of their place in the world. Sure . . . some of them were fine, and all of them helped support his efforts, but man, sometimes he wanted to choke the entitlement right out of them—

A six-foot-tall woman appeared in the doorway of the exam room, and he froze solid. What she was wearing was simple, just a crisp white button-down shirt tucked into a pair of ultraslim blue jeans, but she had Christian Louboutin's red-soled stillies on her feet and Prada hanging off her shoulder.

She was exactly his kind of private clientele, and not just because she was wearing about three grand's worth of accessories. She was . . . indescribably beautiful, with deep brown hair and sapphire eyes and a face that was the sort of thing other women asked to be surgically altered to resemble.

T.W. slowly stood up, shoving his left hand deep into his pocket. “Belinda? Belinda Nalda?”

Unlike a lot of women of her class, which was clearly stratospheric, she didn't waltz in like she owned the place. She took just one step past the doorway.

“Actually, it's Bella.” Her voice made his eyes want to roll back into his head. Deep, husky . . . but kind.

“I, ah . . .” T.W. cleared his throat. “I'm Dr. Franklin.”

He extended his good hand and she took it. As they shook he knew he was staring, and not in a professional way, but he couldn't help himself. He'd seen a lot of beautiful women in his day, but nothing like her. It was almost as if she were from another planet.

“Please . . . please come and have a seat.” He indicated the silk-covered club chair next to the desk. “We'll get your history and—”

“I'm not the one being treated. My
hell
—husband is.” She took a deep breath and looked over her shoulder. “Darling?”

T.W. scrambled back and hit the wall so hard the framed watercolor next to him bounced. His first thought as he looked at what walked in was that maybe he should get closer to the phone so he could call security.

The man had a scarred face and serial-killer black eyes, and as he came in, he filled the entire room: He was big enough and broad enough to classify as a heavyweight boxer, or maybe two of them put together, but Christ, that was the least of your problems as he stared at you. He was dead inside. Absolutely without affect. Which made him capable of anything.

And T.W. could have sworn the temperature of the room actually went down as the man came to stand next to his wife.

The woman spoke calmly and quietly. “We're here to see if his tattoos can be removed.”

T.W. swallowed and told himself to get a grip. Okay, maybe this thug was just your garden-variety punk-rock star. T.W.'s own taste in music ran more toward jazz, so there was no reason he'd recognize this guy in the leathers and the black turtleneck and the gauge in his ear, but it could explain things. Including why the wife was model gorgeous. Most singers had beautiful women, didn't they?

Yeah . . . the only problem with that theory was the black stare. That was no manufactured, commercially viable, hard-ass front. There was real violence in there. True depravity.

“Doctor?” the woman said. “Is there going to be a problem?”

He swallowed again, wishing he hadn't told Marcia to go. Then again, women and children and all that. Probably safer for her not to be here.

“Doctor?”

He just kept looking at the guy—who made no move other than breathing.

Hell, if the big bastard wanted to, he could have busted up the place twelve times over by now. Instead? He was just standing there.

And standing there.

And . . . standing there.

Eventually, T.W. cleared his throat and decided that if there was going to be trouble, it would have happened already. “No, there's no problem. I'm going to sit down. Now.”

He planted it in the desk's chair and bent to the side, pulling open a refrigerated drawer that had a variety of sparkling waters in it. “May I offer you anything to drink?”

When they both said no, he cracked open a Perrier with lemon and downed half of it like it was Scotch.

“Right. I'll need to take a medical history.”

The wife took a seat and the husband loomed over her, eyes locked on T.W. Odd, though. They were holding hands and T.W. got the impression that the wife was the husband's tether in some way.

Calling on his training, he took out his Waterman pen and asked the usual questions. The wife did the answering: No known allergies. No surgical procedures. No health problems.

“Ah . . . where are the tattoos?” Please, God, let them not be below the waist.

“On his wrists and his neck.” She looked up at her husband, her eyes luminous. “Show him, darling.”

The man reached to one side and pulled up his sleeve. T.W. frowned, medical curiosity taking over. The black band was incredibly dense, and though he wasn't an expert on tattooing by a long shot, he could safely say he'd never seen such deep coloration before.

“That is very dark,” he said, leaning in. Something told him not to touch the man unless he had to, and he followed the instinct, keeping his hands to himself. “That is very, very dark.”

They were almost like shackles, he thought.

T.W. eased back into the chair. “I'm not sure whether you're a good candidate for laser removal. The ink appears to be so dense that at a minimum it's going to require multiple sessions to make even a dent in the pigmentation.”

“Will you try, though?” the wife asked. “Please?”

T.W.'s eyebrows popped.
Please
was not a word in the vocabulary of most of the patients down here. And her tone was equally foreign to the locale, its quiet desperation more what you would find in families of patients treated upstairs—those with medical issues that affected their lives, not just their crow's-feet and laugh lines.

“I can try,” he said, well aware that if she used that tone on him again, she could get him to eat his own legs just to please her.

He looked at the husband. “Would you remove your shirt and get up on the table?”

The wife squeezed the big hand in hers. “It's okay.”

The husband's hollow-cheeked, hard-jawed face turned to her, and he seemed to draw tangible strength from her eyes. After a moment he went over to the table, got his huge body up on the thing, and removed his turtleneck.

T.W. left his chair and walked around—

He froze. The man's back was covered with scars. Scars . . . that looked like they had been left by whips.

In his entire medical career he had seen nothing even resembling this—and knew it must have been left by some kind of torture.

“My tats, Doc,” the husband said in a nasty tone. “You're supposed to be eyeballing my tats, thank you very much.”

As T.W. blinked, the husband shook his head. “This isn't going to work—”

The wife rushed forward. “No, it will. It—”

“Let's find someone else.”

T.W. came around to face the man, blocking the way to the door. And then he deliberately took his left hand out of his pocket. That black stare dipped down and fixated on the mottled skin and the ruined pinkie.

The patient looked up in surprise; then his eyes narrowed like he was wondering how far up the burn went.

“All the way to my shoulder and down my back,” T.W. said. “House fire when I was ten. Got trapped in my room. I was conscious while I was burned . . . the entire time. Spent eight weeks in the hospital afterward. Have had seventeen surgeries.”

There was a beat of silence, as if the husband were running through the implications in his head:
If you were conscious, you'd have smelled the flesh cook and felt every lick of pain. And the hospital time . . . the surgeries . . .

Abruptly the man's whole body eased up, the tension flowing out of him as if a valve had been released.

T.W. had seen it happen time and time again with his burn patients. If your doctor knew what it was like to be where you were, not because they had been taught about it at medical school but because they had lived it, you felt safer with them: The two of you were members of the same exclusive hard-core club.

“So can you do anything for these things, Doc?” the man asked, laying his forearms out on his thighs.