“There’s a very strong logic to what you say,” Brad broke the silence.
He believed that—believed that, at least from Charlie’s context, there was only one road to take.
“But I have to be honest with you, Charlie,” Brad continued, using the Indian’s first name for the first time this morning. “I’m still not sure I believe any of it.”
“No one can force you to believe.”
“No.”
“Faith comes from inside. It cannot be willed.”
Brad found that he was wringing his hands. Avoiding eye contact with Charlie.
“As far as my daughter goes, I—I can’t do it.”
Charlie was not surprised. He was disappointed but not surprised. “You will do me one favor?” he asked when Brad had stood to leave.
“Just ask.”
“You will think again about these matters?”
“I will.”
“You will not close your mind?”
“No.”
“That is all I can ask.”
Brad did not get far. Did not even get back to the hospital. He got as far as his house, where he stopped, got out of his car, and went inside. Driving from Charlie’s, he’d remembered that they didn’t have a Christmas tree yet.
Two days till Christmas, he’d thought, marveling at how fast time can fly. Better get moving or there’ll be nothing left.
He walked into the house, uncomfortably empty, and made his way into the living room. The four shopping bags full of Barbie dolls and accessories were still piled in a corner, untouched and unwrapped.
There. Where that couch is. That’s where we’ll have our tree. I’ll set the alarm to be up before her, and I’ll be waiting here, a fire going camera ready, to catch the look on her face!
Except there was not going to be any Christmas morn here in their house. Wasn’t going to be any ecstatic look on Abbie’s face. Abbie’s face was a study in sickness. Abbie was dying. Reality roared up again on Brad and this time refused to let him go.
Charlie was waiting. “Come in,” he said.
Brad did not sit. He launched right in to what he had to say: “I’ve thought about it, just like you asked. And I’ve decided that I . . . that I don’t have too many choices anymore. I guess the truth is I don’t have any. Abbie is going to—to . . .”
He could not bring himself to pronounce that word, even now. “Abbie’s going to get sicker and sicker unless something happens soon. Unless someone comes up with an answer.”
“You are right.”
“I don’t believe anymore that the doctors are going to be in time.”
“No.”
“This one is beyond them.”
“I wish it were otherwise.”
“I guess you could say I’ve lost faith.” Brad smiled weakly. “Anyone would, wouldn’t they? After all this?”
“Yes, they would.”
“I love her, Charlie,” Brad said, tears in his eyes, “more than I have ever loved anything or anyone. She’s all I have. You—you don’t have any children. I’m not trying to denigrate you, but it’s impossible for you to know exactly how I feel.
“I don’t know if every parent is like me, but my love for Abbie—it hurts, for God’s sake. Even when things are going great, when that great wheel of life is turning without a squeak, I can feel it—a numbness down inside me somewhere. It’s frightening, the strength and depth of that love. The love between a man and a woman—it’s different. No less real, but different. God,” Brad said, wiping his eyes, “listen to me blubber.”
“It’s not blubbering,” Charlie said. “It’s a father in great pain, pouring his heart out. You have nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, you should be proud of your love.”
Brad looked at Charlie, and for one microsecond the irony of this whole scene was revealed to him. Not two months ago Charlie was set to kill him. Brad would gladly have returned the favor. Now—now he was baring his soul to him.
“I guess it’s up to you,” Brad said. “I—I’ll do whatever you want. You have my full cooperation.”
Charlie was not gloating. If the Indian felt any sense of vindication, he didn’t let on. He seemed . . .
. . . genuinely concerned about the children.
He seemed . . .
. . . genuinely concerned about the parents, Brad in particular.
He seemed . . .
. . . to feel as if this were his chance to take a stand against evil. Almost as if he believed he’d been anointed.
“You understand in detail what I am proposing?” Charlie said.
“Thomasine has gone over everything with me.”
“And you understand?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“You’re absolutely certain you’re willing to go ahead with this?”
“Do I have any other options?”
“No,” Charlie said gravely. “You don’t.”
“When should we begin?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Today?”
“That would not be too soon. Before we start, it will be necessary for all of us to meet. To plan.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll supply the vehicle and whatever other equipment we will need.”
“Yes.”
“And I’ll bring the spear. I know where it is. It’s only a question now of . . . getting it.”
“Yes.”
“All you will have to do is bring your daughter. Dr. Bostwick can assist you with that.”
On and on Brad listened, replying mechanically. What he was hearing was madness, but it was past the point where it seemed mad. Once he had taken the initial leap—once he’d agreed that Abbie was going to participate—the rest really wasn’t so crazy.
The rest really was only detail.
But as he drove back to the hospital, doubt began to creep back into his head again.
Am I doing the right thing? Last-gasp, desperate—but still the right thing, the only thing?
Or have I lost my mind?
He didn’t know if he could distinguish anymore between madness and desperation. All he knew was that he loved his daughter with a brilliance and intensity that could make him do anything.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Tuesday, December 23
Late Morning
Brad stopped at the paper for five minutes and was back at the hospital by noon. He had been away a little more than three hours. Abbie was gone.
Her bed, like the one next to it, was freshly made and empty. There was no indication anyone would be returning to it: no portable monitor, no IV poles, no personal belongings, no magazines scattered about, no flowers, no get-well cards. This obviously was a room awaiting a new patient.
I must have the wrong room.
That was his first thought, and there was a welcome sense of relief in it. He knew all three stories of Abbie’s wing had roughly the same floor plan; he must have pushed the wrong button on the elevator. That was exactly the kind of stupid thing he’d been doing with disturbing regularity lately.
Except he hadn’t pressed the wrong button. There it was: the correct room number, 223, on a tag over the door.
He thought: Charlie’s taken her.
But that made no sense. That was sheer lunacy. Hadn’t he and Charlie come to an agreement just an hour ago? Weren’t they in the same life raft now, rowing together, not pulling apart?
She’s dead.
Passed Away.
And they’ve already taken her body.
The thought stunned him.
“I imagined you’d be in New York by now, Mr. Gale.” A female voice interrupted him. Brad pivoted. A middle-aged nurse he’d seen only once before was standing in the hall, smiling but seeming a bit perplexed, as if she hadn’t expected to find him here. She was a floater, employed throughout the hospital to fill in for vacations and sick days.
The first mention of New York blew by Brad. “Where . . . is . . . she?” he asked.
A look of substantial bewilderment crept across the nurse’s face.
“I—I . . . suppose she’s halfway to New York by now.”
“New York? New York City?”
“That’s right.”
“Then she’s . . . alive?”
“Of course she’s alive.”
Brad was overjoyed—and dumbfounded. “What—who took her to New York?”
“Your wife.”
“Heather?” The word exited him like a curse.
“Yes.”
“Holy Jesus,” Brad moaned. In a flash he understood. Heather had taken Abbie. Heather had cooked up some crackbrained scheme, driven to Massachusetts, marched into Berkshire Medical, and now she had their daughter, to do with as she pleased. The realization hit him like a punch, dead center in the gut.
“She said you two had decided to have Abbie treated in New York,” the nurse chirped, “and you had already left—to get there ahead of time, that is, to take care of some arrangements, you know, like admission and everything I guess. She was a very attractive woman, and she had a doctor with her—”
“Chinese?”
“Yes, and they had an ambulance and a set of signed doctor’s orders, signed by you, too . . . at least that’s what it seemed . . . and, well . . .”
“I’m not married.” Brad interrupted.
“You’re . . . not married?” the nurse repeated dumbly. Her face had the unmistakable look of someone realizing she’s committed a colossal error.
“No. That was my ex-wife. I have sole custody of our child.”
“Oh, Lord!” the nurse exclaimed. “Oh, Lord!”
“My daughter was kidnapped.”
“Oh, Lord!”
“You let her be kidnapped.” Brad’s relief was rapidly giving way to rage.
“Oh, Lord! I’m terribly sorry.”
“Why wasn’t Bostwick called?” Brad thundered. “Didn’t anyone wonder why her mother was showing up only now, after so long?”
“We called Dr. Bostwick,” the nurse stammered, tears forming, cowering. She was honestly afraid Brad was going to strike her. “He was . . . on a house call. And we—I . . . usually don’t work this floor. She seemed very concerned, Mrs. . . . Heather . . . this woman . . . We . . .”
Brad didn’t wait for her to finish. He raved down the hall, shouting and swearing, completely out of control. He ran down the stairs, stormed into the lobby, passed a pay phone, considered using it, and realized she wouldn’t be back in New York yet . . . if that’s even where she and her M.D. sidekick were heading. He ran to the parking lot.
He sat in the Mustang, trying to control his anger before his brain exploded out of his skull.
Now what?
It was the most important question he’d ever asked, and he didn’t have a clue to the answer.
Now what?
His anger was rapidly fading to another emotion—an empty, scared feeling, as if the last reason he’d had for living had been stolen away. There was no telling what Heather was up to. No telling how far she might go.
Now what?
He didn’t have a clue.
Despairing, he drove for home.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Tuesday, December 23
Evening
After trying every ten minutes, he finally reached Heather. It was six o’clock.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
“Why, it must be Brad, my heroic ex-husband!” she exclaimed. “Sherlock Holmes, tracking the Dragon Lady to her lair! Congratulations! You found me!” She sounded incredibly overjoyed. She sounded incredibly drunk.
“Where is she?”
“Now, who could you mean, Mr. Big-time Editor? Who on earth could you mean?”
The conversation was an ironic reversal from their last one, Brad thought—a thought that angered and frustrated him beyond containment. And she can put you up shit’s creek simply by hanging up, he reminded himself. Don’t take the bait. Do what the cops do to when the local psycho’s on the top of the bridge, threatening to jump: Be firm but calm. Sympathetic, if that’s what it takes.
“Where’s Abbie, Heather?” he repeated.
“Abbie? You mean our daughter? Our daughter?”
“Where is she, Heather?”
“She needed quality medical care, and she wasn’t getting it in Hooterville Hospital. To quote you, everything’s taken care of.”
Brad stifled the impulse to rage. “I can understand your concern,” he said calmly. “We’re all concerned about Abbie.”
“Oh, bullshit. You’re too wrapped up in your goddamn career to be concerned. I never believed all that shit about you and bonding with your offspring and crap that came out in court, you know. Not one lousy bit of it. I saw that for what it was: a chance to get at me through her. You’re transparent, my friend. You care about you, and that’s it. You. Y-O-U. If that weren’t the case, you never would have given her such second-rate care, watching while she—she rots. All because your career was there. I think it’s criminal what you’ve done! So does my boyfriend, and he’s a doctor. “
“Where is she, Heather?” Brad repeated, amazed at how deeply her words cut. She was reopening too many old wounds, ripping the scabs off, exposing raw tissue.
“Where is she?” She snickered. “Safe and sound.”
“Is she there?”
“Here? In my apartment? See what I mean about your judgment? It’s worse than I thought.”
“Is she in the hospital?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“I hope to God it’s a hospital, Heather, or I’ll—I’ll . . .”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll have police at your apartment in ten minutes,” he raged. “I mean it. I can do it. I still have friends on the force.”
“Well, whoop-de-doo. And what are your friends going to charge me with?”
“How’s kidnapping?”
“Please, Brad,” she said. “That doesn’t scare me. You know how much New York police like to get involved in a domestic dispute. We found that out through our own personal experience, now, didn’t we? Or have you forgotten?”
“I’ll ask one more time politely, and then I’ll—”
“What? Scream? Throw a tantrum? Let me save you the trouble,” she said.
Brad heard the click on the other end. He still had the phone to his ear when the dial tone returned.
Brad had always collected phone books. He found his Manhattan yellow pages at the bottom of a bookcase, turned to hospitals, and began calling each one, asking for patient information, and giving Abbie’s name.
Abbie didn’t turn up anywhere.
He would not let himself panic. Not yet. Although there was an outside possibility that Heather had dropped Abbie off somewhere outside New York, he seriously doubted it. She was too much a city animal to do that. Too much even to know about a hospital outside New York—at least one where she could arrange admission without a flurry of questions from a very suspicious staff.
No, in the absence of better information, he had to assume Abbie was in New York. He had to assume she was in a hospital, not a clinic or trauma center. He couldn’t imagine any place but a hospital that would accept responsibility for a child so sick.
He had tried unsuccessfully to reach the Times medical writer, an old colleague, when he decided to look at a map of Manhattan. Maybe that would help. He laid the map on the kitchen table and ran his finger over it, matching the neighborhoods with a mental picture of the prominent buildings.
His finger was rubbing through Chinatown when it hit him. Of course, New York Infirmary-Beekman Downtown Hospital. Right around the corner from City Hall. The Times profiled it a couple of years back. Small institution, probably not hip enough to consider advertising in the yellow pages, but big enough and good enough to have a growing reputation. Serves a mostly, but not exclusively, Asian population.
Of course. Her boyfriend is Chinese. He’s probably on the staff. That would make admissio
n a breeze.
How could it have taken so long to think of it?
He reached Manhattan information, got Beekman’s number, and dialed it. He could feel his heart inside his chest.
“Patient information,” he said.
“Patient’s name,” the operator droned.
“Gale. Abigail.”
“One moment.”
“Thank you.”
“Critical,” the voice said perfunctorily.
Brad took a shot. “Is she still in intensive care?”
“Yes.”
And another: “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Are you a family member?” the operator said suspiciously.
I’m her father, he wanted to say, but didn’t. There was no telling if Heather’s friend had slipped him a ten or a twenty to call him the second any “relatives” inquired.
“No,” Brad said.
“Any further information will have to come from the patient’s physician,” the operator said. “Thank you for calling Beekman.” Brad replaced the phone. For a moment, he was ecstatic. I’ve found her, he thought jubilantly. Fuck you, Heather, and the horse you rode in on. I’ve found her!
But a darker thought soon edged his joy aside.
Her condition was critical. Wasn’t that what the operator said? It had been serious at Berkshire Medical, and now it was critical. Had it worsened from the ride? Or would it have worsened anyway?
The distinction didn’t matter.
If she dies, he vowed, I’ll kill you, Heather.
It was a vow he intended to keep.
The four of them, huddled over Brad’s kitchen table. The four of them, drinking terrible black coffee and tracing routes on maps of New York and Morgantown. The four of them, compiling lists. The four of them, consulting phone books and a library book on spelunking that Charlie had borrowed. The four of them, unsmiling, too exhausted to care. They could not have been more somber if the fate of the world had been in their hands.
Only once was there a moment of levity. It came when Charlie suggested that for authenticity’s sake, Brad and Thomasine dress in white uniforms.
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