Flashback (1988) (26 page)

At Zack’s request, Barbara Nelms hugged her son, promised to return for him as soon as she had finished shopping, and drove back down the hill to town. If Toby was frightened at her departure, his dispassionate expression hid the fact well. He had spotted the Fleet almost immediately, and had glanced over at it twice before she had even started to drive off.

Zack reflected on Brookings’s account of the child’s terrified dash across the clinic parking lot, and knew that, for the moment at least, he was making progress.

A tumor, a seizure disorder, a congenital, slowly developing vascular abnormality, a toxic reaction to something the boy was consuming without anyone’s knowledge—Zack had balanced the possibilities against the psychiatric diagnoses and found all
of them wanting. He had even made a brief drive around the boys neighborhood, searching for a landfill or other dumping site where Toby might be sustaining a chemical exposure. Nothing.

“Hi, kiddo,” Zack said, kneeling on the grass, two yards away from the boy. “My name is Zack.” There was curiosity in the boys eyes, but no other reaction. “I’m a doctor, but I’m not going to examine you, or do any tests, or even touch you. Please believe that. I would like you to learn to trust that I would never lie to you, and that I mean exactly what I say, okay? I’ll say it once more. I will
never, ever
lie to you. I asked your mom to bring you here because I thought it might be easier for us to get to know one another outside the hospital.”

At the mention of the word hospital, a shadow of fear darkened the boys expression.

“Your mom will be back as soon as she finishes her shopping,” Zack added quickly. “Meanwhile, we can lie around, or explore, or even climb up to that little cliff over there. This place is called the Meadows. I used to play here when I was a boy.” He flashed momentarily on Suzanne. “I still do, in fact,” he added.

Toby’s eyes darted again toward the Fleet.

“I built that plane over there a long time ago,” Zack explained. “It flies by remote control.” He held up the control box for the boy to see. “She loops, and rolls over, and zooms up to the clouds. Go ahead. Take a look at her.”

Toby Nelms remained where he was, but there could be no mistaking his interest.

“Go on. It’s okay. I’m going back to the car for a second to get some fuel for her.”

Only when he had reached the van did Zack turn back. The boy was kneeling by the Fleet, and was, ever so gently, running his fingers over the shiny, lacquered finish of her wings.

Too anxious to stay away for the last fifteen minutes of the agreed-upon hour, Barbara Nelms rolled to stop some distance downhill from the meadow and made her way quietly toward Zack’s van, half expecting to find her son waiting there, in near hysterics, for her return. What she found, instead, was a note, taped to the rear window.

From just beyond a small rise, she could hear the high-pitched whine of the model-airplane engine. Crouching low, she worked her way up. Near the crest of the hillock, she flattened herself in the tall grass and then peered over. Zachary Iverson sat alone, his back toward her. Her son was nowhere in sight.

Suddenly terrified at what she might have done by trusting a man who was little more to her than a voice on the phone, she began to scramble to her feet.

Then, just as quickly, she dropped back down.

The boy was there, nestled between the physician’s legs, sharing the stick of the radio-control device.

“That’s it, fella,” she heard Zack cry over the noise. “A little more, a little more, and … now!”

The plane, which had begun a slow roll across the grass, shot forward and then up, climbing at a steep angle toward the treetops at the far end of the meadow.

“That’s it. You’ve got it. Now ease off. Ease off. Terrific! Hold her right there.”

Now well above the trees, the model banked smoothly to the south and began a lazy circle of the field.

“I did it! I did it!”

It took several seconds for Barbara Nelms to realize that the excited voice she had just heard was her son’s. With a joyful fullness in her throat and tears in her eyes, she slipped back out of sight and hurried down the hill.

Zack and Toby Nelms lay opposite one another on the warm grass, a few yards from the Fleet, chewing on stalks of wild barley and watching a red-tailed hawk glide in effortless loops atop high, midday thermale.

“Now, just who do you suppose is working the radio-control
box for
that
model?” Zack asked. “Whoever it is has sure built one quiet engine.”

“That’s goofy,” Toby Nelms said.

“Of course it is. Anyone with half a brain could tell that’s just a kite. Now, if only I could see the string …”

Once the logjam of silence—of fear and mistrust—had been broken, the boy’s words had come with surprising ease, and even occasional spontaneity. Zack had been reluctant to test the progress they had made with any pointed questions, but now, with just a few minutes left in their two hours together, he felt comfortable enough to try.

“You know, kiddo,” he began, “a lot of people have been very worried about you these past few months.”

“I know.”

“But you still won’t talk to anyone?”

Toby shook his head.

“Not even your parents?”

The boy stared vacantly at the crucifix soaring overhead.

“They never help me,” he said suddenly. “I scream for them, and beg them to stop the … the man from hurting me. But they never come until it’s too late. They never stop him.”

“What man?” Zack asked, at once repulsed and fearful at the thought of the boy being molested. “Who’s been hurting you?”

Toby turned away.

“Hey, kiddo, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say anything to upset you or frighten you.”

For a few, anxious seconds, Zack feared he had pushed too hard and slammed the door he had, so gingerly, just opened.

“The man with the mask,” Toby said without turning back.

“Mask?”

The boy shifted restlessly, and then drew his knees and elbows in tightly to his body.

Zack decided he had gone far enough for one day. He reached in his pocket for a coin. One good thumb palm and they would call it quits.

“He … he cuts it off,” Toby said, in almost a whimper. “And … and then it grows back … and then he cuts it off again.”

“Cuts what off, Toby? … Look, I know it’s hard for you to talk about, but you’ve got to try.”

He moved to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but then thought better of it. He felt his heart pounding.
Don’t stop now, kiddo. Don’t give up on me now
.

“My … my peenie. And my balls, too.”

“Do you mean he touches you?”

“No, he cuts it off. He promises he won’t hurt me. He promises he’ll fix my lump, and then he cuts it off. And it hurts. It hurts and I scream at him, and he won’t stop. And I scream for my mommy and daddy, and they never come.”

The boy began to cry, his shoulders jerking spasmodically with each heavy sob.

Again, Zack moved to touch him, but before he could, the child spun and flung his arms around him.

“Please, Zack,” he cried softly. “Please don’t let him do it anymore.”

He promises he’ll fix my lump.…
Suddenly, the child’s words registered.

“Toby,” Zack whispered, still holding the boy tightly, “the lump you’re talking about, is it your hernia? That place here you had fixed?”

The boy nodded, his body still racked with sobs.

“And the man with the mask … Is that the doctor?”

Again, a nod.

Zack eased him away, but continued to hold him by the shoulders.

“Toby, look at me. I think you’ve just been having nightmares. Bad, horrible dreams, but dreams that often go away as soon as you see them for what they are. The operation was perfect. All that’s left is a little scar. The lump is gone for good.”

“No,” the boy said angrily. “It isn’t. It grows back. So does my peenie, and my balls. But then he cuts them off again, and it hurts—worse each time.”

Inwardly, Zack sighed relief. The boy’s profound disturbance was rooted in a nightmare—the expression of pent-up fears surrounding a procedure now nearly a year in the past. Fascinating, but certainly neither difficult to understand nor as bad a situation as he had feared. At least Brookings would have something to work with.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Toby said. “It’s not a dream. He cuts them off, and they grow back, and then he takes those Metzenbaums and cuts them off again.”

Zack felt a sudden, vicious chill.

“He takes what?” There was no hiding the incredulity in his voice.

“The Metzenbaums. He asks for them from the nurse, and
then he sticks them into me right here, and it kills me. Then he just cuts and cuts.”

“Toby, think,” Zack said urgently. “Have you ever heard anyone else say that word?”

“What word?”

“Metzenbaums, Toby. Have you ever heard anyone except the doctor in your nightmare say that word?”

Toby Nelms shook his head.

Zack released the boy and sank back on his hands. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. Metzenbaum scissors were commonly used in surgery, but rarely, if ever, until after the initial skin incision had been made. Toby Nelms would have been asleep at the time they were called for. Anesthetized. There was no way he could have heard that term, let alone so accurately understood what it meant. No way.

But somehow, he had.

17

By the time Zack had finished rounds and headed from the hospital to his office, evening had settled in over the valley. To the southwest, the silhouetted mountains were ebony cutouts against the deepening indigo sky. It was a quiet, awesome evening, perfect for a run by Schroon Lake or for a horseback ride into the foothills to watch the moonrise. It was an evening to celebrate the joy of living.

But for Zack, the magic of the evening was lost in reflection on the agonized struggles of an old surgeon and the desperate plea of the nurse who had condemned him; and in concern as to how much to tell the waiting parents of a child who was sinking deeper and deeper into a hell of dreams that were not dreams—dreams that cut and hurt and maimed.

As he crossed the parking lot, Zack noticed Frank’s Porsche, tucked in its reserved slot. Early mornings, late evenings, weekends—for whatever his shortcomings and the failings of his past, the man had become a demon of a worker.

Soon, Zack knew, the two of them would have to talk.

There were things Frank needed to learn of and to understand about Ultramed, about Guy Beaulieu … and now, especially, about Toby Nelms.

The boys condition was clearly on a downward spiral, and each passing day was a lost ally in the struggle to uncover the truth. With Frank’s help, the odds of finding answers in time to make a difference would be considerably shorter.

But would he listen?

Over the years, the two of them had drifted far apart in many ways. The disagreement over Guy Beaulieu had only underscored their differences. Still, Zack reasoned, they
were
brothers, and they each had a significant stake in Ultramed-Davis and in Sterling.

He glanced back at the Porsche. At seven that morning, when he had arrived for work, it was already there. Now, after more than thirteen hours, Frank was still at it. What more
testimony did he need? The man had hitched his wagon to the Ultramed-Davis star. If there was a threat to the integrity of the hospital, he would listen.

Zack felt sure, at least, of that much. But he also knew that all he had were theories—gut sensations plus a few million questions. His brother was a company man. If there were trouble in his paradise, it would take more than suspicions to enlist his help—much more.

Barbara Nelms and her husband were waiting on one of the stone benches that flanked the entrance to the Physicians and Surgeons Clinic. Bob Nelms, clean-cut, fit, and hardy, had clearly borne less of the day-to-day strain of Toby’s illness than had his wife. He greeted Zack with a firm hand.