The Doctor Rocks the Boat

by Robin Hathaway

  “You’re very talented,” Jennifer said, sipping her crème de menthe. “Where did you study?”

  “The Pine Lake Conservatory,” Burton said, a sly glint in his eye.

  “You mean you’re self-taught?” Fenimore said.

  He nodded. “I’ve played with native woods since I was a boy. Later, when I could afford it, I imported more exotic types.” He stroked the sorrel neck of the deer. “This is from Tanganyika,” he said. He moved over to the bear. “And this mahogany is from the forests of Brazil.” He knelt beside a hare. “And the wood for this little fellow came from Hawaii.”

  “Amazing,” said Fenimore.

  “You see, choosing the perfect wood to match your subject is an art in itself. Making the right choice can determine whether your work is mediocre or a masterpiece.”

  “Do you exhibit your work?” Jennifer asked.

  “Occasionally.”

  “In Philadelphia?”

  He winced. “No. New York, London, Paris.”

  Fenimore was suddenly struck by the doctor’s metamorphosis from the boring, hail-fellow-well-met Burton had portrayed in his office, to the distinguished artist he was presenting tonight. How many personalities did this man have tucked away? he wondered. But Fenimore shouldn’t have been too surprised. He knew some doctors wore a protective mask with their patients, preferring to keep their private lives to themselves. He had never felt the need to do that.

  Beneath the smell of wood smoke and the lingering aroma of their gourmet dinner, Jennifer detected another, less appealing odor. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Then it hit her. Zoo! Like the distinctive smell of nursing homes, you can’t completely hide the smell of live animals in captivity.

  “How do you sculpt your subjects?” Jennifer asked demurely. “From photographs?”

  Burton hesitated, then said, “No. I sculpt from life.”

  “In the woods?” asked Fenimore. “That must be a problem. How do you get them to stand still?”

  He smiled. “Would you like to see?”

  His guests nodded. Burton led Fenimore and Jennifer through the rambling house. On the threshold to the kitchen, they paused. Furnished with two state-of-the-art stoves, a walk-in refrigerator, a massive freezer, and all the latest culinary apparatus, it was every chef ’s dream. The center of the room was dominated by a thick wooden table that had been meticulously polished to show off its fine grain. To Jennifer, it looked like a chopping block—for a giant.

  When they finished admiring the kitchen, Burton ushered them through a door into a large cinder-block room resembling a garage. But there were no cars in evidence, and the odor of animals, not automobiles, permeated the air. The walls were lined with cages, varying in size and strength. Only one cage was occupied by a small gray lump with a pink hairless tail. Jennifer identified a possum. The largest of the cages had heavy steel bars and could have easily housed the live model for the mahogany bear in the living room.

  Fennimore reached out and shook the cage. It remained rooted. “Sturdy enough,” he said with wonder.

  “But is it humane?” Jennifer couldn’t help blurting.

  Burton’s eyebrows shot up. “I treat my animals very well. A sick or dead animal is of no use to me,” he said dryly. “And their confinement is only temporary.” He reached into the possum’s cage and chucked it under the chin. The small mammal remained motionless. “Why even Beatrix Potter, the famous children’s author, kept her mice and rabbits confined in her room while she sketched them.”

  Confined, but not caged, Jennifer thought. On their return trip through the kitchen, she eyed the chopping block apprehensively. What a perfect place to dismember a rabbit or a deer before preparing it for a gourmet meal—after it has served its artistic purpose.

  Back in the living room, the fire had dwindled to a few red coals, and in the semi-darkness the sculpted animals cast out-sized shadows on the walls. The aura of a pleasant wooded glen had been replaced by the more sinister feel of the forest in Hansel and Gretel or Snow White. Fenimore and Jennifer felt heavily drowsy. The result of good food, wine, fire, and mountain air, Fenimore diagnosed.

  “It’s getting late,” Burton, the perfect host, said. “I’ll take you to the lodge. It’s only a short walk from here.”

  Collecting their overnight bags, the small party made its way down the path, through the woods. The exercise roused the guests and they became aware of their surroundings. There was no moon and the darkness crowded in on them like thick cloth. The only illumination was the slender ray from Burton’s flashlight. The dense darkness seemed to smother sound as well as sight. There was no murmur of birds, no buzz of insects, or shuffle of beasts. Everyone seemed to have been anesthetized for the night.

  The lodge was completely dark when they entered. “No electricity,” Burton said, “or running water,” he added, as if these were points in its favor. But it had its own stone fireplace and all the necessary ingredients for building a fire had been provided—newspaper, kindling, and logs. Burton, an expert woodsman, assembled them quickly with the aid of his flashlight. “It gets cold in the mountains at night,” he said, “even in the summer.” Striking a match, he held it under the kindling until it flared.

  “You’ll find more blankets in the closet,” he said, dusting off his hands, “and if you need anything else, I’m just up the path.”

  Fenimore wondered how he would be able to find his way “up the path” without a flashlight. But before he could ask for one, the door had closed. He and Jennifer were alone with the glow of the fire. Fenimore took Jennifer in his arms and held her close. After a minute, to his dismay, she said, “I’m falling asleep on my feet.”

  “Shall I make some coffee?” he asked hopefully, forgetting about the lack of water.

  With a drowsy smile, she said, “I’d need a whole pot to keep me awake tonight. It must be that mountain air.”

  Fenimore felt unusually tired himself. A few minutes later they were both sleeping soundly under the patchwork quilt.

  CHAPTER 41

  Fenimore wasn’t sure what woke him. The fire had died. The cabin was pitch black—and cold. He sat up. There was something else. His eyes smarted and he began to cough. Smoke? He reached out for Jennifer.

  “What’s up?” Waking at his touch, she too began to cough.

  “I think there’s a fire somewhere.”

  Jennifer sniffed. “My God!”

  Fenimore slipped out of bed and felt his way to the door. “It’s locked,” he said.

  “Well, unlock it.”

  “I can’t see.”

  Jennifer stumbled over her own shoes as she made for the fireplace. “Do you know where he put the matches?”

  “No.” Fenimore broke into a spasm of coughing. When he recovered, he said, “I think you’re supposed to keep low. Smoke rises.”

  Ignoring this advice, Jennifer felt for the matches on the rough mantel. No luck. She searched the hearth. “I can’t believe I’m looking for matches in the middle of a fire!” What began as a laugh ended in a paroxysm of coughing.

  “Come over to the door,” Fenimore ordered.

  Giving up on the matches, she crawled toward him.

  “Lie down and put your face against the base. There’s a crack. I can feel the draft.”

  She did as she was told. “But we have to get out,” she muttered, her mouth against the crack. “What about the lock?”

  “I think it’s locked from the outside.”

  “What?”

  “Did you see a window when we came in?”

  “Yes. Above the bed. But it’s too small for us to climb through.”

  “We could break the glass and at least get some air,” Fenimore gasped. “And maybe if we yell, Burton will hear us.” He crawled back to the bed, piled the pillows up, and stood on top of them. Now he could reach the window, but when he tried to raise it, it wouldn’t budge. Back on the floor, he felt for his shoes. Finding one, he again climbed up, coughing the whole tim
e. He hit the window with the heel. Unlike in the movies, the glass did not break at the first blow. He tried again. Nothing.

  “That would work better with a foot in it,” Jennifer croaked.

  “What?”

  “Wait a minute.” On hands and knees, Jennifer crossed the floor to the other side of the bed, fumbled for one of her clogs, shoved it on, and climbed onto the bed next to Fenimore.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Can you lift me?” she asked.

  “Sure, but . . .”He grabbed her around the waist and raised her a little.

  “Higher.” When her feet were level with the lowest window-pane, she cried, “Watch out!” and kicked with all her strength.

  There was a sharp crack, followed by the sound of falling glass.

  “Nice save!” Fenimore cried, almost dropping the star goalie in his excitement. They pushed their faces up to the small opening and inhaled the feeble trickle of cold air that filtered through. “Let’s yell,” Fenimore said. “Maybe Burton will hear us.”

  Fenimore’s yell was husky; the smoke had made him hoarse. Jennifer tried to yell too, but her voice was almost gone. The chances of Burton hearing them while he slept were next to zero. If only I could locate the source of the smoke, Fenimore thought. There didn’t seem to be any flames. And he felt no heat. The smoke was thicker near the fireplace. Maybe the fire was contained in the chimney. But even if he found the fire, he had no way to put it out. There was no running water, Burton had stated proudly. “To hell with rustic living!” Fenimore said in Jennifer’s ear, trying to keep her spirits up.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Jen?”

  No response.

  With a shock, he realized the only reason she was still standing was because he was holding her.

  Bang! bang! bang! “Fenimore! Are you in there? Open up!”

  Slowly Fenimore recognized the voice. Not Burton. Charlie Ashburn.

  He shook Jennifer, but she remained inert. Fortunately she weighed little. He carried her down from the bed and over to the door. He croaked to Charlie, “It’s locked from the outside.”

  “Christ!”

  A few seconds later he heard a key scrape in the lock and the door flew open.

  Fenimore staggered out with Jennifer in his arms.

  “Let me have her,” Charlie said.

  Fenimore insisted on carrying her himself.

  “Come on.” Charlie guided them through the woods with his flashlight.

  “Where’s Burton?” Fenimore asked after taking gulps of the cold fresh air.

  “I don’t know. He wasn’t home and I smelled smoke. I followed the smell to the lodge. I have a key because Burton and I come here to hunt every fall.”

  When they reached the house, Burton was just pulling up in his Land Rover. He jumped out. “What’s going on?”

  Charlie told him.

  “My God!” He looked stricken. “I must have locked the door on the outside out of habit. My God,” he repeated, staring at Jennifer.

  At that moment she opened her eyes and began to cough.

  “The cold air must have brought her around.” Burton’s relief was palpable.

  “Let me down,” she said grumpily.

  “Are you sure?” Fenimore asked.

  She nodded.

  He let her down, but kept his arm around her.

  “Better call the fire department,” Charlie told Burton, “if you want to save the lodge.”

  They all went inside while Burton made the call. Fenimore grabbed a throw from the sofa and wrapped it around Jennifer, who was shivering. It wasn’t until they were seated and sipping straight whiskey from paper cups that anyone thought to ask Charlie why he was there.

  “It’s Caroline. She’s asking for you, Fenimore.” He revealed that he had called Mrs. Doyle, waking her in the middle of the night, to locate him. When he didn’t get an answer he decided to drive up.

  For the first time, Fenimore looked carefully at Charlie, and was struck by how much he had aged since he had last seen him.

  “She tried to take her own life tonight,” he said.

  Fenimore studied his old classmate and his former animosity dissolved. “How?”

  “Pills. She keeps saying she has to talk to you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, what’s holding us up?” Fenimore stood.

  Burton came back from his call.

  “We have to go,” Charlie said. “I’m sure your volunteers will soon have everything under control. I’ll help you rebuild the lodge, if it comes to that.”

  “Sure, but don’t you want to stay? I have plenty of room.”

  “No,” Fenimore said quickly, “but thanks for your hospitality.” He wasn’t being sarcastic. He was muttering banalities because he was too exhausted to do anything else.

  Looking bewildered, Burton walked them to their cars. Jennifer, still clasping the throw around her, started to peel it off.

  “Keep it. Please.” Burton thrust it back at her and helped her into the car.

  Charlie backed up his Chrysler, turned it around, and took the lead. Fenimore followed in his Chevy. The two cars sped toward Philadelphia.

  CHAPTER 42

  While Fenimore drove, Jennifer slept. He wasn’t sleepy anymore. As soon as he began to drive he woke up. His mind was sharp, and he was beginning to see things clearly for the first time. Why had he agreed to visit Burton? He had sensed there was something phony about his invitation from the beginning. Partly to get Jennifer out of town, but also to find out more about Burton. And he had learned more about the doctor. He had a luxurious spread, more than most country doctors could afford, and he indulged his fine tastes in food, wine, and travel. Not to mention his expensive wood carving hobby. Then there was that private zoo he maintained.

  There’s no crime in any of that, Fenimore.

  Unless you acquire the means for this affluent life illegally, he answered himself, by doing unnecessary medical procedures, for example.

  He would like Jennifer’s opinion. He glanced over at her. Head tilted back, the moonlight flickering across her face, a faint smile on her lips, she looked so vulnerable. He couldn’t bring himself to disturb her. She had been through a lot and needed to rest.

  What if Charlie hadn’t come? He gripped the steering wheel. That didn’t bear thinking about. Why had the door been locked from the outside? Was that really an accident? None of this would have happened if Rafferty hadn’t planted that seed of doubt in his mind. Suggesting that Jennifer might be getting tired of him!

  With a sigh, Jennifer turned her face away from him, toward the window.

  The entrance to the Northeast Extension loomed ahead. Following Charlie, he eased into the E-ZPass lane. Once on the turnpike, his thoughts returned to Burton. He went over his contacts with him, from their first meeting—when he had gone to see him for a checkup. The doctor had seemed competent and professional. He had taken his time, but he hadn’t dawdled, supplying the right amount of innocuous small talk. Fenimore had been the one in the wrong. He had come under false pretenses—and he had rifled the doctor’s files. But the knowledge he had uncovered had soured his opinion of Burton. What kind of hanky-panky was he involved in? Why had he diagnosed Chuck as an SCD candidate when there were no clinical signs he had such a condition? Had he based his diagnosis on a mere genetic possibility? Because Chuck’s father was SCD prone? To recommend an ICD implant on such flimsy evidence was highly unorthodox. Then, to hide the truth from Chuck’s mother . . .

  At the Valley Forge interchange, Fenimore passed a lumbering oil truck to keep on Charlie’s tail. When he caught up with the Chrysler, his thoughts flipped back to Burton. When had he last seen him?

  At that cardiology meeting at HUP—the day Chuck collapsed. He had spotted Burton at the back of the room. Knowing he was Chuck’s doctor and an old friend of the Ashburns, he had gone over—against his better judgment—and told him about the boy. He had seemed genuinely upset, and he had plan
ned to go to the CCU after the lecture to look at Chuck’s lab tests. But the lecture had been long, and when it was over Burton had decided he had to get home. Fenimore had thought it a little odd at the time. . . . And when Fenimore had returned to the CCU, he had found Chuck had died.

  A screech of brakes behind him. In his rearview mirror, Fenimore saw an angry trucker shaking his fist and cursing. Jennifer woke up briefly and immediately fell back to sleep.

  Fenimore had slowed down, to the consternation of the trucker, because he had a new thought. A disturbing one. Could Burton have left the lecture—and come back later?

  Why not? The lights were out. He was sitting in the back. He could have slipped out and gone to the CCU. The lecture had gone on for over an hour, plenty of time for Burton to find a white coat, a syringe, and some potassium. Doctors were always moving in and out of the CCU. No one paid any attention. For someone who knew what he was doing, it would take only a few seconds to inject something into an IV line. Then all he had to do was drop the syringe into a trash can, stash the coat in a closet or rest room, and hightail it back to the lecture. It would be tight, but it could be done. A vivid picture of Burton came back to Fenimore: standing up, giving a big yawn, relaying his opinion of the lecture.

  Could he have yawned after killing Chuck?

  It had never occurred to Fenimore to suspect Burton, because he had the perfect alibi. He was at the lecture with him! His mind moved with lightning speed now, jumping from one conclusion to another. What about the masked man—his own attacker? Could that have been Burton too? But why would Burton want to kill him? Could he have found out I’d been into his files? His nurse seemed suspicious. But how would he have known I planned to go rowing that day?

  Because you told him, jackass!

  With horror, Fenimore remembered casually mentioning that a row on the river might clear his head. The goldfish was rapidly turning into a shark!