“Humphrey, you look pooped. Why don’t you cool your heels while I look around in here?”
Atwood readily agreed.
She passed the checkout desk and entered a room full of students crowded around computer terminals. She found the rare book room and browsed the shelves, stopping to study a glass display case that contained medical artifacts, including a Roman scalpel, corroded but easily recognizable, from the fourth century AD. She sketched it in her notebook, then found a metal stairway that spiraled down into the stacks, which were several dimly lit floors containing bound journal collections.
They obviously never threw anything out around here. The first volume she peered at was called Acta Anaesthesiologica Scandinavia, Vol 245, 1896, with subsequent years running down the shelf and around a corner. The stacks were deserted except for a young woman scanning old journals page-by-page into a computer.
Zellie pulled out a huge green-bound book. Written on its spine in white ink was Journal of the American Medical Association, 1938, January-May. Leafing through it, she came upon a full-page advertisement. A young physician stood next to an examination table, a mirror on his forehead. He wore a short-sleeved white smock and was holding up a pack of Lucky Strikes. The caption read: “Luckies, The Brand Recommended Most Often By Physicians For Its Purity.”
Except for the curly black hair, the doctor was a close facsimile of Jack Forester.
Smiling, Zellie showed it to the girl.
“How can I get a copy of this?”
“Just tear it out and keep it,” she said. “We don’t scan ads, and once this issue is in the computer, it’ll be thrown out. Can you believe they used to do that?”
Zellie thanked her, carefully removed the page and slipped it into her notebook. Climbing the stairs, she passed a fluttering moth.
* * *
Humphrey Atwood had gone to the gift shop while she was gone. He handed her a copy of the current issue of Coast-to-Coast and his pen. Though she had no work in that issue, Zellie wrote across the face of Angelina Jolie on the cover For Nancy Atwood, with Warm Wishes, Zelinda Andersen.
A few minutes later, he dropped her off at the dean’s suite, in plenty of time for the meeting with Greta Carpenter Witner had told her he’d arrange. But Greta was gone, her desk tidy. Maybe she’d stepped away for a moment.
A hand on her shoulder startled her. She whirled around.
“So, you’re done,” Witner said.
Her breathing returned to normal. She took a step away from him.
“Where’s Dr. Atwood?” Witner continued.
“He had to work. I came to see Greta. I thought we had a meeting.”
“I’m afraid she’s already gone for the day. A family situation or something. I couldn’t catch her in time.”
She watched his face. He doesn’t mean that. I’m being played.
“You’ll be happy to know the procedure went perfectly, and Brenda is doing fine. I just called over. Not a hitch.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“When are you heading back to New York?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Very good. Well, we can’t thank you enough, Ms. Andersen, and I look forward to reading your article. If you have any more questions, I’ll be working in my office tomorrow. Saturday is my catch-up day. Just give me a ring.”
“Thank you, Dr. Witner. It was a pleasure. My coat?”
Witner helped her into it and extended his hand. It felt as cold as stone.
Walking back toward the main entrance, where she could catch a cab, Zellie decided the only person she’d met that day she’d care to meet again had been Jack Forester. Might his claim of knowing her have been more than just a pickup line? She was starting to think he was telling the truth. Maybe she did have a double.
Her route took her through the old lobby, which was quiet, dim and empty. Motes of dust hung in a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight.
* * *
Jack climbed out of the truck, closed the garage door and strolled to the barn, swinging his briefcase. Tony had headed back to the woods, and Arbus lay where the tent had been pitched. The dog trotted over, looking up with expectation.
“That’s right, I promised a walk. Let me change. Why am I talking to a dog? Because there’s nobody else around.”
By the time they returned, it was dark. Jack went down to the basement. Lying on the exercise bench, he lifted weights and let his mind drift back to Zellie Andersen. He knew the only way to recover the memory, if ever he could, would be to take his mind off her and stop trying. Easier said than done.
“Frustration, Arbus,” he said to the dog. “I’m probably having temporal lobe seizures.”
Arbus stopped gnawing on his nylon bone and looked at him. Jack slowly set the weights down.
“Wait a minute.”
Moments later, he was upstairs pawing through a bookcase that occupied a full wall in the spare bedroom that served as his study, and a few moments after that he let out a whoop.
He stared at the photo on the back of the dust jacket, then opened to the cover blurb.
It’s always remarkable when a debut novel is so wise and well written, so strong and poignant. That such a book flowed from the pen of a 21-year-old simply astonishes. Burning Down the Boardwalk tells the story of Craig Timberlane, who grew up an orphan in Morganton, North Carolina, and became a marine in the first Gulf War. When Timberlane tries to settle into his old life, he discovers his family is unraveling, and Timberlane must decide where his true loyalties lie. Bubbling with insight and humor, Burning down the Boardwalk is an unforgettable journey.
He turned back to her photo and shook his head in amazement.
She was standing on a beach, either in the early morning or at dusk. Half-turned toward the camera, her face and figure were unforgettable. There must have been a breeze, because the gauzy white dress was hugging her legs and a strand of hair had wafted across her forehead. Her face was every bit as striking still as in real life.
He’d read it eight years ago, during a break from internship when he’d spent a week on the Monterey Peninsula, having found it in a little bookshop in Salinas. He clearly remembered liking the first page, then turning to the back photo and buying it. Hiking the next day along the ocean, he’d read more than half of it in a single afternoon, sitting with his back against an oak. That’s where the memory of trees and surf came from. His high opinion of the book was confirmed by the fact he’d never given it away or traded it in.
Arbus nuzzled Jack’s knee. He lowered the photo for the dog to view.
“Is that loveliness or what, boy?”
A string of saliva dripped from Arbus’ jowls.
Jack laughed.
“You’re a swine, but that’s alright. I forgot to feed either of us. So, I shall. Then it’s a nap for me because I work the night shift. Tomorrow, I will write a letter to her in care of the publisher, which will probably be a waste of time because they never forward them. Unless, of course, she might still be in town. I could try calling the hotels. It’s probably hopeless.”
Arbus barked.
“Okay, you be the optimist.”
XV
Letter From The Postman
James Gavin buttoned his overcoat and stepped out into the cold night, which felt good after the stuffiness of Nelson Debussy’s office. He never understood why some people kept their thermostats turned up so high.
It had been, all-in-all, a very discouraging meeting. He’d expected more objectivity from Debussy, but Witner obviously had the man in his pocket. In retrospect, it wasn’t surprising. Debussy was focused on the university’s shaky financial state, and Witner’s Medical Media program could become a windfall, increasing their referral base and stimulating alumni donations. Debussy wasn’t going to bite the hand that fed the coffers. It was clear in the way his eyes glazed over when Gavin had tried to talk about Witner.
As for Gavin’s request to join the search committee, Debussy had smiled politely a
nd changed the subject.
He looked up at the lights marking the windows of Debussy’s office. He and Witner were probably on the phone right now. Good, let them talk. It might make Witner nervous. Tomorrow was Saturday, and he was going to meet with Chief Bedford. Things would start rolling then.
His route back to the hospital took him down a tree-lined path that led through the undergraduate campus to the footbridge over Beech Avenue and the medical center. The air was cold and damp. Street lamps silhouetted the bare branches and cast a maze of shadows. The pathways were full of students, most of them bareheaded and dressed in clothing more appropriate to spring. He and Betty had come this way hundreds of times from the hospital to meet friends for lunch or dinner at the faculty club on the undergrad campus.
Chief Bedford was a solid, smart man who would take this matter seriously and knew how to conduct a proper investigation. Gavin felt inside his jacket. Lester Zyman’s letter was in his breast pocket. It would be the key.
He walked faster. Having skipped the media circus at the hospital, he’d caught up on his sleep, and his legs felt strong. Past the main quad and nearing the footbridge, he was alone yet had the odd sensation someone was trying to get his attention. He stopped and looked around. Nothing.
He continued. Nearer the footbridge, he felt it again. He didn’t stop this time but strode more quickly. He continued through the grove of trees along the iron fence bordering Mt. Seneca Cemetery. Then he was on the footbridge, cars sizzling by on the wet pavement twenty-five feet below.
He was a third of the way across when he heard someone behind him.
The footsteps approached at a jogger’s pace, and the back of Gavin’s neck tingled. He stopped and turned. The man coming toward him wore a black sweatshirt with the hood drawn tightly around his face.
A potent chill crept up Gavin’s back. He turned and hurried toward the hospital end of the narrow bridge, but it was still fifty feet away and the footfalls were closing.
* * *
The ringing of the phone interrupted Witner as he was making notes in the Society journal. He glanced up at the clock and smiled. After the third ring, he lifted the receiver.
Nelson Debussy’s voice was somber.
“Jim just left my office, Bryson, and I’m afraid you’re right. He is not the same man.”
Witner sighed loudly.
“It breaks my heart to see him suffer, Nelson.”
“I understand, my friend, and I’m grateful you discussed it with me.”
“As much as anything, I wanted your opinion. I need to make sure I’m not overreacting.”
“No, I don’t think you are.”
“This certainly puts a damper on today’s success.”
“So goes life, Bryson. But today was wonderful, and you should be very proud. I don’t think things could have gone any better.”
“The production crew was very pleased with the footage they shot. They’re already on the way back to California for editing, and Brenda is spending the night here for a good rest.”
“Splendid.”
“So, how did it go with Jim?”
“It was just like you said it would be. He told me he has reasons not to trust you, which he couldn’t discuss, and he believes you should not be the permanent dean. He wants to be on the search committee. I told him it was probably too late, but he wasn’t satisfied. As for the Medical Media program, according to him, we might as well sell ourselves to MGM.”
“Yet, the emails he sent me from Brazil—as recently as two weeks ago—were completely positive. He praised me, and everything I’ve tried to do here. I welcomed him into my office yesterday expecting the same friend and mentor as always, but it was the difference between day and night.”
“You mentioned possible Alzheimer’s when we talked earlier.”
“I’m not a psychiatrist, Nelson, but everything points toward it. Early on, patients often develop intense paranoid delusions.”
“Do the symptoms come on this suddenly?”
“They can, but, you know, I’m remembering an email he sent me a couple of months ago where he mentioned something about the CIA planting a listening device in his car.”
“Oh, boy.”
“And he made a remark about Norman Scales and the Mafia. Again, I brushed it off as a joke. So, here we have an elderly man, no more family left, by himself in a foreign country. His entire life revolved around this medical center, Nelson, and now he’s no longer in charge—which may explain why I’ve become the focus of a delusion.”
“Because the baton was passed to you.”
“Exactly. Then comes the death of Lester Zyman. I think this may have accelerated the disease process.”
“What can we do, Bryson?”
“He needs a psychiatric evaluation, even if it means an involuntary commitment. Without treatment, suicide is a risk—especially in people who’ve been functioning at such a high level as Jim. They realize what’s happening and want to end the slide before they lose control.”
“You think he may be suicidal?”
“When we were talking yesterday, he mentioned being tired of seeing things change, that he felt the world might be better off without him.”
“This is not good.”
“Damn it, Nelson, I should have done something earlier. I’ve been in denial.”
“Bryson, you’re only human.”
“I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens before he gets help. Was he headed home after he left you?”
“I don’t know. I assume so.”
“Then I’m going to his house immediately.”
* * *
Gavin reached the end of the footbridge and was about to start down the steps when a hand grabbed the collar of his overcoat. He reached out and caught hold of the railing.
“You’re coming with me.”
“The devil I am,” Gavin braced his feet and gripped the railing now with both hands.
“Suit yourself.”
“If you want my wallet, I’ll give it to you. Let me go.”
The man tore his grip from the railing. A hand clamped over his mouth. He was dragged toward the middle of the bridge.
A car whizzed along the pavement two stories below. His assailant stopped and crouched. When the noise of tires had faded away, Gavin was lifted. He flailed with his arms and kicked out, but the man was powerful, and he felt a sickening sense of weightlessness that seemed to have no end.
He became aware of a strange white crackling noise.
Korea. He was lying outside the hospital tent, his face in the grass, the explosion of the shell ringing in his ears. The tent was gone, and so was the young soldier he’d been sewing up. He felt something warm run into his left eye.
Or had he simply tripped and twisted his ankle? He would get up, brush himself off and apologize to Betty for being clumsy and embarrassing her in public.
A terrible pain shot through the left side of his chest when he tried to move. He touched his left eye, and there was moisture, and then he smelled blood, or was it tar?
What was he doing in a tar pit?
Would the North Koreans drop another shell in the same place? Or were they up against the Chinese this time. So much for the big red cross on the tent. The world was going insane, and where was that young soldier? He had almost finished taking care of his wound, and there were other cases waiting. He shouldn’t be lying here like a fetus. They’d think he was drunk…Up and at ’em. You’re in the Army now and not behind a plow.
He tried to work his elbow underneath him, but that stunning pain in the left side of his chest struck again, and he sagged back.
Nelson Debussy, a pompous ass if ever there was one, had been sitting in front of him only a moment ago, but now it was dark.
No, it was mud he smelled, not tar.
The pain was making it hard to breathe, so he lay still and he thought of his wife and his son.
He sat next to Betty on the bleachers watching Colin play foo
tball. The boy was a fine little quarterback, aggressive and fearless. But he wouldn’t listen to anybody. A wave of fear for his son’s life passed through him.
Now there were voices nearby. Stop mumbling and come to the point, Colin. Have I ever been unfair to you? When are you going to wake up and smell the coffee?
He blinked. Something up there was glowing. Yes, it was the top of the New Canterbury caduceus, all lit up. So be it. He was at work, and that was all right.
* * *
“He must have fallen from the footbridge,” said one of the bystanders, pointing up.
The medic knelt and began assessing the old man while his partner carried over a green blanket and an orange tackle box. Another medic came jogging with a wooden backboard shaped like a coffin lid.
“I don’t know how long he’s been lying out here,” said a man. “I was driving by and noticed some movement.”
“Can you hear me, old fella?” said the medic.
“Yes. Help me up, would you?”
“No, you lie still. Can you remember what happened?”
“I stumbled, and I’ll be fine.”
“What day is it?” said the medic.
The old man thought for a moment.
“How about the year?” said the medic.
The old man thought about this, too.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Looks like you fell off the footbridge, sir,” said the medic. “You’re lucky you hit the median and not the pavement.”
“There’s the median, the mean and the mode,” the injured man muttered, his voice slurring. “Which one do you really want?”
“Who are you, sir?”
The response was indistinct.
“Did you say Dean? No, sir, please don’t try to move. We’re going to slip this collar on to protect your neck, okay, old buddy? Listen, where all do you hurt?”
“What happened?”
“You fell.”
“Where’s Colin? Did the others make it? Damn those Chinese.”
“Please hold still, sir.”
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