Snapshot (30 page)

“Beer. Ya know, I could use a beer.”

“Are you going to be sick?”

“I'm never sick.”

“Yeah, well, don't sit on the couch, okay? I had it cleaned once.”

Real coffee may taste better, but instant is a blessing. Tony Foley regarded it and me reproachfully. I centered the cracked blue mug carefully on an end table, where he'd be less likely to knock it to the floor.

I said, “Is this important or what?” Maybe the jerk was lonely.

“You're no cop, right?” He made no move toward the steaming coffee.

“I'm no cop.”

“Maybe I don't want cops knowin' this, okay?”

“Tony, you phone me for advice at midnight, you gotta let me make the judgment calls.”

He leaned back in my aunt's rocking chair and scowled. His eyes were half closed, puffy.

“It would help if I knew what you were talking about,” I said.

“Once you're dead, it's over? Right?”

“I'm not in the mood for mind games, Tony.”

He got a crafty look in his eye. “Gimme another beer. I'll trade for a beer.”

Another beer, he'd probably pass out, I thought. One beer coming up.

He took a long swallow, tilting the Rolling Rock bottle toward the ceiling. A silly grin creased his face and he slumped in the chair.

“Tony, dammit—”

He didn't straighten up, but he opened his eyes. “I done nothin' but drink since I found it.”

“Nothing but drink since you found
what
?”

“It doesn't make Tina look too good, you know what I mean? I don't want her mama hearin' this on the news.”

“Hand it over, Tony.”

The silly grin spread wider. “You wanna fight for it, lady?”

“Hell, no.”

“C'mon, let's fight. Jus' wrestle a little, okay?”

“Jesus, Tony. You call me. I pay your cab fare. I bring you a cold beer. Don't you think you owe me?”

He considered it for a while, then stood on shaky legs, and dug his hand deep into the pocket of his stained khakis. “Sorry,” he mumbled suddenly, slapping a hand over his mouth, dropping a crumpled envelope to the floor. “Which way's your—”

“Upstairs. First door on the right. Hurry.”

I watched him lurch for the staircase. Either he'd make it or he wouldn't. I'd have to have the runner taken off the steps soon anyway. T.C.'s sprayed it once too often.

When I didn't hear any alarming noises, I strolled over and bent to pick up the envelope.

Addressed to the World Health Organization, Berne, Switzerland, it bore no street address, just two lines of block print. I examined the flap. It had never been sealed. Or stamped.

Handwritten in blue ball-point on onionskin sheets, the enclosed letter could have been a first draft, or it might have been written in a hurry. How else to account for the corrections and alterations?

“Dear Mr.______:” it began. That was crossed out and “To whom it may concern:” had been substituted.

“Where'd you find this, Tony?” I yelled upstairs.

No answer.

I read:

Why haven't I heard from you? I don't know whether to call the FDA or the police. Everyone who comes to my door, every time the doorbell rings, I'm afraid they've come to arrest me. Then I'm relieved, because if I'm arrested it will be over. And even if I took the medicine from the wrong place, I know I'm not really to blame. Dear God, if I could have one moment of my life to live over again, that would be the one.

Maybe because I took the money, you think I was part of it from the beginning. Maybe you don't trust me and that's why I haven't heard anything. But I swear, I never would have taken a penny if I'd known. To keep quiet about a mistake, that's one thing. And I was scared for myself, too, scared he'd find a way to make it seem all my fault.

One of the mothers I mentioned in my first letter is very persistent, and I think I owe her an explanation.

That entire sentence had been crossed out with a single thin blue line.

I haven't figured it all out yet, but I'm enclosing part of a Cephamycin package, the kind that contains 25 mL (50) mg single-dose vials. Can you check to see if the seal has been tampered with in any way? You must have laboratories where you can do that.

I saw another container that's ready to be shipped overseas, to Karachi, like the rest. Before I send this, I'll get the exact address so you can stop it and make sure it's what it's supposed to be.

My parents grew up in Karachi, and I'm glad that I can help people there. But in another way, it bothers me. I ask myself, if I weren't Pakistani, would I keep silent like the rest? There's so much money.

Please send someone quickly. I can't believe the people at JHHI know what's going on, but if they do, I need to find out. I need to know.

There was no signature.

I read it twice, then shifted my attention to Tony Foley, who was inching downstairs, clinging to the banister as if he were attempting a rope descent from a snow-capped peak. His head nodded to one side. His jaw was slack. I marched over, grabbed him by the arm, and deposited him in the nearest chair.

“Where's the package?” I demanded.

“Wha—”

“She enclosed part of a box. Where is it?”

“Huh?”

I waved the letter in his face. “Where'd you get this?”

“Wait. Wait. Slow down, okay? She forgot to return one of the library books. Books on Pakistan I told you about. I thought maybe I'd read it, see what was so excitin', why she had to spend so much time readin' and all. Damn book, I picked the thing up and threw it against the wall. And then I saw that letter on the floor.”

“It just fell out?”

“Honest. Fell out.”

“You haven't been holding back on me? Thinking you might keep Tina's money supply coming?”

“Hell, no.”

“You still have the book?”

“At home.”

“Did anything else fall out of it, Tony?”

He squirmed and swallowed, made a face as if he'd tasted something sour and bitter. I hoped he hadn't left a mess in my bathroom. “Just a little slip of shiny paper.”

Shiny paper. Shiny paper …

I dived across the living room, yanking open the top drawer of my desk so fast it nearly crashed to the floor. Where had I put it, the envelope with Rebecca's death certificate, the envelope Emily had handed me in secret?

I scrabbled through bills and letters. Shoved neat piles into disordered heaps.

There. I upended it and shook it onto the blotter. The shiny, Mylar-like stuff floated slowly to the floor.

“Tony? Wake up, dammit!”

“Hey, hey, there it is. There it is. What're you so upset for? I didn't lose it or nothin'. There's the stuff.”

“This?”

“Yeah. Pretty, huh? You hold it right, you can see colors in it. Hologram. Neat, huh?”

I lifted it to the light. Blue, red, and green
C'
s—a design I'd earlier misread as crescents—swam to the surface, wavered, and disappeared as I shifted the angle. Part of a Cephamycin package. Maybe the seal of a Cephamycin package.

The phone rang. Mooney, finally! I grabbed it.

“Hello?”

Nothing. Faint murmuring.

“Hello?” Was that a bell in the background?

I said, “Emily, please, where are you?”

Silence. I heard a distant beeping, a bell ringing again, but not like a telephone or a doorbell.

“Mrs. Hodges, dear, what do you think you're doing?” The voice was faint and far away, a voice I didn't know, a brisk voice, cheerful, but impersonal.

There was a clatter on the other end and a faraway voice said, “Code Sixty, Code Sixty.”

Then the phone clicked and went dead.

I held it to my ear for a long time.

39

I rang five times in quick succession, pressing my thumb against the bell until my knuckle hurt. I pounded the brass knocker, then hit the bell again. I was ready to kick in the door when I heard footsteps and the jangle of the chain lock.

The porch light snapped on.

“Goddamn,” Keith Donovan said, hauling open the door. “This time I was
sure
you were Emily Woodrow.”

He wore the same blue bathrobe. Blinking back sleep, his eyes looked unguarded and very young.

I stepped inside. “Code Sixty,” I said. “I heard a Code Thirty called while I was at JHHI. Does Sixty mean it's some other hospital?”

“They call Sixty at JHHI,” he said, looking bewildered. “Thirty's a child. Pediatric cardiac arrest.”

“They double it,” I guessed. “Sixty's an adult.”

“Right. Can I—”

I said, “I need your help. Now.”

He rubbed his hands over his eyes, then squinted at me as if he thought I might disappear. When I didn't, he followed me into the living room. I fumbled with the switch of a floor lamp, lifted the receiver on his desk phone.

“Call JHHI,” I said. “Find out anything you can about a patient named Hodges. Mrs. Hodges.”

“What the hell time is it?”

The floor lamp cast shadows against the deep green draperies, illuminated barely half the room. “Past two. It doesn't matter.”

“Hodges?”

“That's all I know.”

“You can't do this from your own house? In the morning?”

“I'm not a doctor,” I said. “All I can do is call patient information and find out Mrs. Hodges's condition. Period. That's it.”

“Have you tried that?”

I tugged at my hair. “Dammit, I should have.” My fingers hit 411. I counted the rings. Five. Six. Pick up!

Donovan said, “JHHI's number is five five five seven three eight oh.”

“Thanks.”

I didn't know her first name, so I decided to let a quaver creep into my voice. I referred to the operator as “dear.” I dithered and repeated myself. Yes, the operator said after a maddening pause, a Thelma Hodges was listed. Was that my friend? Yes? Well, she was in “guarded” condition.

“Over to you,” I said to Donovan, reestablishing a dial tone, then brandishing the receiver.

“What? What's over to me?”

“Get me a room, a location. A diagnosis. A prognosis.”

“If she's ‘guarded,' they don't know the outcome.”

“Get any information you can. Please,” I said.

“Is this about your friend? The one who took the wrong pills?”

“This is about Emily Woodrow. Make the calls.”

He stared at me as if I might want to make an immediate appointment for therapy, but then he leaned over the desk and started fanning through his Rolodex. I paced while he debated between two cards, dialed, and joked easily with someone on the other end of the line. Seemingly as an afterthought, he asked for Thelma Hodges's room number.

He did it well. The man was almost as good a liar as I am.

“Fifth floor west,” he told me as he hung up. “It's a cancer ward. Adult patients. Why exactly am I doing this?”

“Do you know anybody who works on the fifth floor? Anybody who works nights?”

“I might know a couple of nurses.”

“By name? By sight?”

“Both. Calm down, okay?”

I faced him. “Call a nurse. A specific nurse, by name. Ask her about Mrs. Hodges.”

“What should I ask?”

I spied a notepad on his desk and started scribbling. “How long has she been there? Who admitted her? What's wrong with her?” I hesitated. “Is she confined to her room? Does she have access to a phone?”

“Anything else,” he asked sarcastically.

“Lots. But let's start with these.”

This time, with his permission, I listened in on the kitchen extension, holding my breath. Mrs. Hodges's care presented certain problems, he learned from a motherly sounding woman named Ava. Wasn't it a shame? So young and in such ill health. First the early onset of Alzheimer's disease, so disorienting for the poor thing, and now the cancer as well. Hard to explain to her what they were doing, and that it was all for her own good. Like treating a child, really. But harder. Was Dr. Donovan doing some work on early-onset Alzheimer's?

Yes, well, Thelma Hodges wasn't confined, but they did their best to keep an eye on her. She tended to stumble around the hospital and disturb the other patients. And they were always finding phones off the hook. He probably should have placed her in a more secure facility, under greater restraint, but it must have been so hard for him, knowing that excellent care could be obtained for her right at JHHI.

He? Why, Dr. Muir, of course.

I wished I'd written more questions, different questions.

Donovan struck off on his own, started ad-libbing.

Dr. Muir? Oh, he never came to visit, but you really couldn't blame him. They'd been very close, Ava understood. Uncle and niece, yes, but really more like father and daughter. Poor Thelma's parents were separated, her mother dead. No one came to see the patient, no one at all. But then, Dr. Muir was such a busy man. And it would be so painful for him to see his niece the way she was now.

Yes, he'd engaged a private duty nurse. Would Dr. Donovan like to speak with her? Not now? Well, Mrs. Hodges was coping very nicely. Everything had been arranged with her comfort in mind.

And, might Ava ask, what exactly was Dr. Donovan's concern?

Enough, I urged Donovan silently. Don't push it. I tapped the phone stem up and down to make clicking noises, but he kept chatting away. I hung up and went after him, drawing a line across my throat with a finger to indicate that a quick farewell was in order.

“Hey, I thought you wanted to know all about her,” he said defensively, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Look, I suppose I owe you one. I barged in on you with a client, and now you get to barge in on me, but at least I phoned first—”

“She's Emily Woodrow,” I said.

His finger stayed frozen at the corner of one eye. His lids blinked. He had dark lashes for a man with such pale hair. “What are you talking about?”