by Robin Cook
Quickly Brian used the cloudless sky as a backdrop to adjust the ocular so that the crosshairs visible within the scope were clear. Then he adjusted the focus on the side of the scope for the target at one hundred yards, opened a box of ammunition, filled the rifle’s magazine with ten cartridges, and inserted the magazine into the underside of the rifle.
“I’m ready,” he called over his shoulder.
“Okay,” Mark responded immediately. “Commence firing.”
Using the bolt handle on the rifle, Brian loaded the first round into the barrel chamber. The ease and the feel of this action impressed him. There was no doubt in his mind that he was using a precision instrument. Totally relaxed, he sighted through the scope and saw the target clearly. Using a very steady pull on the trigger, Brian shot a round and immediately saw the hole appear in the target slightly lower than he anticipated. After a minor elevation adjustment of minute of angle, he shot another round, and on this occasion the hole appeared exactly where he intended: dead center. The sound and the feel of the weapon were outstanding, far better than what he remembered with the Remington 700. Then in rapid succession he fired eight more times, emptying the weapon.
After quickly refilling the magazine with ten more cartridges, he moved to the target positioned at two hundred yards. Repeating the process, he found he didn’t have to change the minute of angle to achieve equivalent and impressive accuracy. Moving then out to the three-hundred-yard targets, he again repeated the process, shooting ten more rounds and finding that he did have to make a very slight adjustment as he’d done initially.
Knowing that the range master was impatient to leave and concerned about getting home himself after hearing about Juliette’s latest fever, Brian checked the gun’s breech to be absolutely sure it was empty, removed the magazine, and called over his shoulder that he was done.
“Cease fire,” Mark called out as if there were other people firing besides him. Then he added: “Wow, that was quick. Are you sure you are finished?”
“I am.” Brian stood up and started to repack the Remington MSR back into its shoulder bag. Under normal circumstances he would have enjoyed continuing to put the gun through its paces, but he felt guilty about not getting home earlier. And he felt that with the thirty rounds he did fire, he could give Deputy Chief Comstock a definite thumbs-up about the weapon. In his estimation it was clearly better than the older model, but whether it was worth the increased cost was another question entirely, especially since he didn’t know the details.
“Would you like to go downrange and retrieve your targets?” Mark asked.
“No, thanks,” Brian said. “I could see what I needed to see through the scope.”
From the rifle range, Ted dropped Brian off at the pistol range, telling him that the range master was expecting him.
At the range, he wasn’t alone despite the lateness of the afternoon, sharing the facility with a half dozen other NYPD officers. As a consequence, he couldn’t be quite so efficient timewise, as safety protocols had to be scrupulously followed. Still, Brian managed to go through a full box of fifty cartridges in relatively rapid order. After forty minutes, he was already on his way back to his car, having left the protective equipment with the range master. Climbing in after putting the Remington in the back of the Subaru, he forwent the opportunity to have either gun serviced at the gunsmith, which he’d usually done in the past. Instead, to save time, he planned on cleaning the pistol himself later in his basement, and as for the rifle, it had been used so little he doubted it needed any attention whatsoever.
As soon as Brian could, he put in a call to Camila. Although he hadn’t gotten any call or text from her, he was still uneasy about Juliette. He was relieved when Camila reported that all was quiet.
“Is she still sleeping?” he asked.
“Last time I looked, about a half hour ago,” Camila said. “I have a feeling she’s down for the night as soundly as she is sleeping.”
“I’m on my way now,” Brian said. “I’ll be home in twenty minutes, tops.”
“There’s no need to hurry.”
“Okay, good,” he said, feeling some relief. “In that case, how about I pick up some Mexican takeout from Tijuana Restaurant on my way home?”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Why don’t you call and order for the three of us in case Juliette wakes up?”
“Okay,” Camila said agreeably. “What should I order for you?”
“I don’t care,” Brian said. He actually wasn’t particularly hungry although Mexican food sounded good. “Just double up whatever you want.”
“When you called earlier, I forgot to tell you that your mother and your brothers and sister stopped by after the funeral,” Camila said. “I told them where you were. I hope that was okay.”
“Of course,” he said through gritted teeth. Hearing that his family had come by fanned his guilty feelings about missing the funeral formalities. “They’re probably at my mother’s. I’ll call them when I get back.”
“There was also another request about a possible security gig,” Camila said. “It’s for another potential December wedding. The info is on your desk with the other one.”
“Okay, thank you,” Brian said. He thought it mildly ironic that just when he was seriously thinking about going back to the NYPD, there’d been two requests for security work after it had been so quiet. He couldn’t help but superstitiously wonder if such a coincidence was a kind of subliminal message that he shouldn’t be so quick to abandon Personal Protection LLC.
Traffic was heavy and the driving slow, even stop-and-go in places. Still mystified by Juliette’s recurrent fever, he changed his mind and decided to call Jeanne after all. Although earlier he’d worried about calling her too much and planned on waiting until he was able to check on Juliette himself, he still felt comfortable enough to get her opinion and perhaps ameliorate some of his anxiety that was mounting the longer it took to get home.
“How was your visit to the ESU?” she asked the moment they were connected, dispensing with any traditional hellos. She sounded happy to be hearing from him, which relieved him of his concerns of calling her too frequently.
“The visit couldn’t have gone better,” he said. “The best part is that it made me feel even more inclined to go back to being a cop. At the same time, ironically enough, there’ve been a couple inquiries about security gigs this very afternoon to muddy the waters.”
“Serious inquiries?” she asked.
“That I don’t know until I call them back,” Brian said. “Both involve possible December weddings.”
“I’m not sure if you should count on December weddings,” Jeanne said. “Especially with the coronavirus spike that’s expected.”
“You’re probably right,” he agreed.
“More to the point, it sounds as if your visit to the ESU was a good idea.”
“It was a great idea,” Brian agreed. “I even got a chance to visit the shooting range, which I enjoyed just as much. I hadn’t been able to do that for almost a year.”
“Good for you,” Jeanne said.
“Now to a more important topic: Juliette. I was distressed, to say the least, when Camila told me that her fever had returned, and I wanted to get your take.”
“I’m not completely convinced it was a fever even though she had an obvious chill,” Jeanne said. “It was only a tad over a hundred: certainly nothing like the 102 you saw this morning. But I’ll tell you what surprised me more than the possible fever was how quickly her mood changed. One minute she was enjoying herself immensely, even giggling because she was doing so well with the board game the three of us were playing. But then it was like a shadow came over her face, and she seemed miserable. She didn’t want to finish the game even though she was clearly about to win fair and square.”
“That is strange,” Brian agreed. “It’s not
like her at all. She’s a competitive little thing.” He audibly sighed. “I can’t help it, but I think she’s fighting something off. Whether it’s a cold or flu or what, I don’t know. Luckily it’s unlikely to be Covid, with the way the symptoms come and go, at least according to the MMH ED docs. But I wish they weren’t so quick to label them psychosomatic. It irks me to death that they refuse to do any testing, even a simple blood test, much less a Covid test.”
“Well, in their defense, she certainly has reasons to have a psychosomatic reaction,” Jeanne said. “How is she doing now?”
“Camila just told me she’s still sleeping soundly. I’m actually not home yet. I’m stuck in traffic, but I’ll be home shortly, and I’ll let you know what I think if you’d like.”
“Please do,” Jeanne said. “On another note, I’ve had a chance to look at the list that your friend Grady supplied. Although we suspected as much, I’m shocked at the number of Inwood residents MMH has sued. It’s unconscionable. It’s like they want to suck every last penny out of this neighborhood. I’m looking forward to hearing some of the actual stories and putting together a real exposé. This can’t go on.”
“I agree,” Brian said, but he wasn’t interested in getting into a protracted discussion about MMH at the moment, as caught up as he was with Juliette’s ongoing problems. And then as traffic began to speed up and require more of his attention, he told Jeanne he’d call her back after he’d had an opportunity to check on her.
Unfortunately, after loosening up, the traffic again quickly bogged back down, with some of the worst congestion in Marble Hill, just across the Harlem River from Inwood. By the time he pulled up in front of the Tijuana Restaurant, the trip from Rodman’s Neck had taken over an hour rather than the twenty minutes he’d expected. Less than ten minutes later, with their takeout dinner in hand, he pulled into his driveway.
“Is Juliette still sleeping?” Brian asked as he entered the kitchen and put the sizable bag on the table. Camila had come into the kitchen when she heard his car arrive and was getting out the dishes and flatware.
“To be truthful, I haven’t checked since you and I talked on the phone,” Camila said. “I’ve been in the office again looking at our books.” She grimaced. “I do hope one of these inquiries materializes into a gig. It’s not a pretty picture if they don’t.”
“Tell me about it,” Brian said sardonically. “And the books are going to look even worse when I catch up with the house mortgage, which I should have done today. The longer I wait, the more chance the house will be at risk with the MMH Inwood lawsuit.”
“Both callback numbers are on your desk.”
“Duly noted,” Brian said without a lot of enthusiasm. After his conversation with Jeanne, he wasn’t optimistic that either wedding would take place. Although he was beginning to feel guilty he’d not mentioned to Camila the possibility of his rejoining the NYPD, he was loath to bring up the issue before he was more certain of what he thought was best for him to do.
With Camila busy unpacking the food, he climbed the stairs to look in on Juliette. Soundlessly he pushed open the door. With the blackout curtains closed, the room was filled with a dim half-light, just adequate enough to see the outline of her sleeping form but no details. Moving closer, he silently bent over for a better view. Now he could make out that she was on her back with her slender arms out of the covers and her right hand clutching Jeannot Lapin to her chest. As his eyes adjusted to the near darkness, he could appreciate the cherubic features of her face. To Brian she looked like the most beautiful child in the world, suddenly reminding him of Emma’s verbatim adoration of her that fateful afternoon in Wellfleet, Massachusetts.
The sudden remembrance of his wife’s words caused him to catch his breath. It had been just over two weeks since their fateful barbecue, but it seemed like a lifetime with all that had happened. Pulling himself together with some difficulty, Brian went back to observing Juliette, noticing with relief that her breathing was gentle and rhythmic.
Just to be sure and being careful not to disturb her, he gently placed the palm of his hand against her forehead to feel if it was overly warm or moist with perspiration. To his relief, neither was the case. Removing his hand yet still bending over her, he felt almost intoxicated by parental love and so very thankful that he and Emma had had a child so soon in their relationship. Although Juliette was without a doubt her own person, Brian felt she embodied an essence of Emma that would live on.
Straightening up, Brian tiptoed out of the room, carefully closing the door behind him. Confident her temperature was normal and that she was sleeping soundly, he felt a definite sense of relief. As the foundation on which he intended to rebuild his life, her well-being was by far his primary concern. As long as she was okay, he felt empowered to face the current challenges of dealing with the impending MMH lawsuit, deciding between continuing with Personal Protection or rejoining the NYPD, and otherwise surviving the ongoing coronavirus pandemic. On top of all that, he even felt that by combining efforts with Jeanne, the two of them could possibly do something about the toxic healthcare system that was responsible for her woes, his and Juliette’s suffering, and probably Emma’s death.
CHAPTER 34
September 3
Brian awakened from a vivid dream he was having about effortlessly running through a landscape sprinkled with abandoned vehicles that was visually reminiscent of Rodman’s Neck shooting range. As he opened his eyes, he noticed the streetlight sifting through the white gauzy curtains. As he held his breath to figure out what might have roused him from his deep slumber, he heard a car’s tires complain against the striated pavement. Glancing around the darkened room, he also noticed the curtains were rustling from a soft breeze, but he couldn’t imagine that could have disturbed his sleep.
Turning over, he glanced at the bedside clock, noting that it was 3:25 a.m. Rolling back, he stared up at the ceiling and again listened as the sound of the car out in the street faded, wondering if another mosquito could have gotten inside. He strained his ears for the characteristic whine, but heard nothing. But then he became aware of a rhythmic, distant thumping that he seemed to feel rather than hear. For several minutes his mind tried to place the disturbance, wondering if something could be amiss with the refrigerator or the washing machine way down in the basement, thinking perhaps Camila couldn’t sleep and decided to do a load of laundry.
Unable to come up with an explanation, Brian turned over onto his stomach, putting the pillow over his head in an attempt to go back to sleep before his mind latched on to one of the many problems that had been making sleep impossible lately. Yet despite the pillow, he could still feel the thumping even though it was nearly subliminal. Angrily throwing off the pillow, he sat up and as he became progressively more and more awake, the thumping sound suddenly sounded all too familiar.
“No!” Brian gasped as he leaped to his feet. Clad only in his Calvin Klein pajama bottoms, he rushed from the bedroom, and dashed down the hallway into Juliette’s room. Snapping on the light, he was confronted by his worst nightmare. Juliette was in the throes of a seizure, her back arching and her head rhythmically banging against the headboard. The image was all too familiar.
Screaming Camila’s name, he rushed to the bedside and pulled Juliette’s convulsing body away from the head of the bed. Her face was scrunched into a grimace, but most worrisome of all, her lips were startlingly blue. Quickly he rolled her onto her side, and saliva spilled out onto the sheets from between her clenched teeth.
Camila appeared in the doorway in her pajamas. As she caught sight of Juliette, her face metamorphosed into an expression of horror. “Should I call 911?” she shouted through the hand covering her mouth.
“There’s no time,” Brian shouted back, understanding too well that by the color of her lips, she’d been seizing much too long. “You’ll have to drive us to MMH Inwood.”
As he tried to scoop up Juliett
e, which he found extraordinarily difficult with the strength of her contractions, Camila disappeared. When Brian finally got the child into his arms, he found it equally as hard to carry her through the doorway and particularly down the stairs. Running along the main hallway on the ground floor and into the kitchen, he was relieved to see that Camila had left the door ajar for him. Outside, she had also opened the rear door of the car, and she was now in the driver’s seat with the engine running.
Ducking headfirst into the car while clutching Juliette against his chest, he managed to climb in and collapse back against the seat. Holding the bucking child as best he could, he reached out and pulled the door closed.
“Go, go!” he shouted, making sure Juliette’s head couldn’t hit any surfaces as Camila rapidly backed out of the driveway and accelerated up West 217th Street. Again, when Camila turned left onto Park Terrace East and then right onto West 218th Street, Brian had to use all his strength to keep himself upright and Juliette’s head safe.
Although the ride was just minutes, with Camila merely slowing at red lights instead of stopping, the eight-minute journey seemed to take a lifetime as he held his seizing daughter against his body. “Please stop, please stop,” Brian murmured over and over again until Camila pulled up to the emergency entrance with squealing tires.
Leaping out of the driver’s seat, Camila ran around the car to help open the door for him. It again took all of his strength to exit the car with Juliette in his arms. He then ran for the entrance, impatiently waiting for the automatic sliding door to open enough to run inside.
Despite the hour, there were more than a dozen people in the waiting room. Without the slightest hesitation, Brian ran directly up to the counter. Immediately one of the triage nurses, upon seeing Juliette’s convulsions, waved for him to follow her back into the treatment area. Within seconds she guided Brian at a run into one of the Trauma 1 rooms.
“Put her here on the table!” the nurse ordered, patting the location with a gloved hand.