“I don’t think he’s been taking his meds,” Barrett said, not wanting to prolong this. “I have to check. I sent the lab out to do bloodwork.”
“I could just kill him,” Ellen said, exasperated. “He knows the rules. What happens if the results come back and you’re right?”
“It’s not good,” Barrett admitted.
“They’ll send him back, won’t they?”
“Probably.”
“Shit! I’m sorry, it’s just. Damn! What if I talked to him, read him the riot act, told him you’d be checking every week? Every day if you want. Would that work?”
“It might, but it’s not my decision. Any time a rule gets broken, it goes to the board. They have the final say.”
“When will you know … about whether he’s been taking them?”
“I should get the results this afternoon.”
“Could you do me a favor,” Ellen said, clicking open her pocketbook and pulling out her business card. “Call me when you get them. Here, let me give you my cell number.”
As Barrett reached for the card, she noticed that Ellen’s hand was trembling. “Are you okay?”
Ellen shook her head, struggling to keep her emotions in check. She looked at Barrett, her mouth contorted. “No,” and then the tears came. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Ellen sobbed, her shoulders heaving. “I’m so sorry.” She tried to speak, but her throat choked as she looked away, her eyes obscured by her perfectly coiffed blond bob.
Barrett watched, helpless in the face of Ellen’s sorrow, and wishing there was something she could do. She pushed the tissue box across the surface of the desk, “Could I get you some water?”
Ellen nodded, trying to regain her composure.
Barrett stood, “I’ll be right back,” and leaving the door open, she headed to the vending machine.
___
Ellen counted to three, turned her head to be certain that she was unobserved, and reaching into her Prada bag pulled out a digital bug—a kind produced by Klift, a German subsidiary of Martin Industries that in addition to their pricey brushed-nickel kitchen appliances, manufactured munitions and high-tech surveillance equipment. It was this latter business, and its vast potential in third-world markets, that had fueled Ellen’s surreptitious stock acquisition and eventual takeover of Klift eight years earlier. One unanticipated perk had been this easy access to the latest in surveillance equipment, which she’d used on numerous occasions to monitor the activity of competitors. Now, moving fast, she peeled off the double-sided tape and stuck the tissue-thin device to the bottom of Barrett’s phone, where it appeared to be just another inspection label. Her pulse never quickened, even as she caught the sound of Barrett’s return.
Clutching a wadded tissue, she dabbed her eyes, and turned as Dr. Conyors reentered the tiny office. “Thank you,” she said, reaching for the blue-plastic bottle of chilled water. “I don’t know what came over me … actually I do,” she admitted, while again taking stock of Barrett. “I know my brother is mentally ill … I wish to God he weren’t,” she spoke slowly, wanting Barrett to see how filled with emotion she was. She took a careful sip of water, “He wants to have a normal life, but he doesn’t have a clue how to get that. I’d like to see him have that chance.” With tears tracking down her cheeks, she met Barrett’s gaze, “Is that too much to ask for?”
“No, it isn’t.” Barrett held eye contact, “But we both know the rules.”
Ellen nodded, took a deep breath and stood. “I should be going … thank you. And Dr. Conyors?”
“Yes.”
“I will make damn certain my brother is taking all of his pills.”
“Good,” Barrett said, as Ellen reached for her hand.
“Thank you,” and turning toward the door, Ellen felt the giddy light-headed glow of success, like closing a deal, or getting the inside jump on a juicy IPO. Dr. Barrett Conyors had all the right stuff, and before too long, she and little Jimmy would have everything their hearts desired … or at least she would.
___
Barrett felt rattled, confused, and a little sad after Ellen’s impromptu visit. She knew checking Jimmy’s bloodwork was the right thing, but after all the work that Ellen had put into getting her brother released, it was a shame. “Not your fault,” she told herself, picturing the tall blond man, and remembering how being with him had left her frightened and uncertain. She took a deep breath, and turned back to her earlier dictation. A knock came at the door.
“Yes?”
Anton’s balding pate appeared. “Hey Barrett, glad I caught you. You got the Anderson report done?”
“Excuse me,” she said, glancing at her stack of cases still to be completed.
“Please tell me it’s done.” His tone nasal and anxious.
“Not likely, the hearing’s not for another week.”
“It got moved up. I just got a call from the D.A. They need the report like yesterday. Any chance you could fax it to them tonight?”
“I haven’t started it,” she said, realizing that not only wasn’t it started, but it was an extremely complex evaluation involving a twenty-three-year-old man who’d gone into the copy shop that had just fired him, and point blank shot to death his ex-boss and two coworkers. It was high profile, and messy, not the kind of thing that could be dashed off in an hour or two.
“I don’t know what to say, Barrett. I need you to do this, sorry.”
She saw her plans for the night evaporate. “Okay. I’ll do it.” There was no way out. “But they’re not going to get it till the morning.”
“You’re a life saver,” he turned back toward the door.
“Anton?”
“What?”
She wanted to ask why he hadn’t told her that Jimmy Martin had requested her, but as the question formed … “nothing.”
As he left, she wondered why she’d held back. Something about him seemed off, it had for a while, a certain jumpiness and tentative quality. And his springing this late-afternoon bombshell— something wasn’t right.
___
Four hours later, Barrett felt fried as she clicked the mouse on the print key for her fourth and final draft of the Anderson evaluation. It was nine-thirty. She hadn’t eaten since her bagel with Hobbs, and as the pages spilled out, she hunted for the assistant D.A.’s fax number.
She grabbed the completed report, thought about proofing it once more, but couldn’t stand to go through it again. She grabbed a pen and signed and dated the last page. Stepping out of her office, she headed toward the deserted receptionist’s desk. As she fed pages through the fax, she glanced out the windows that faced 1st Avenue. This day had seemed endless, and the thought of returning to her empty condo made her frown. Ralph would be finishing soon with the evening’s performance. What would happen if she called him? “No,” but maybe if he called her—but she sure as hell wouldn’t wait for it. She glanced at the clock, realized that she might still be able to get in a workout. Maybe Justine would be there.
With that promising thought, she grabbed her original from the paper tray—she’d FedEx it to the D.A. in the morning—and headed back to her office.
She pulled her gym bag out of the closet and stripped off her work clothes, hanging up the suit and folding the raw-silk blouse into the knapsack. She noted how many of her clothes had found their way here. Soon all she’d have to do was figure out a way to move a bed in and she’d never have to go home.
She strapped on a black sports bra and a clean pair of sweats. She laced up her Nikes and checked to make sure she’d remembered her kung-fu slippers.
Closing the door behind her, she rattled the knob to make sure it was locked. Then, jogging down seven flights, she headed into the cool spring evening. Pressing against the brick siding of the forensic center, she did a couple deep hamstring stretches, and then sprinted south in the direction of Sifu Li’s 17th Street Dojo.
As she ran against traffic, the lights of the swerving cabs and the signs for restaurants and
Korean delis blurred into a whir of color as her feet pounded a steady rhythm on the sidewalk. As she jogged, she thought about Ralph, and last night’s lovemaking. And that ever since she’d caught him with Carol, in a weird act of rebellion—or maybe fatalism—she’d stopped the pill. And last night he certainly hadn’t been using condoms. She was midway through her cycle—just about time to ovulate. What if … ?
She ran faster and forced herself to think about something else. She replayed her meeting with Jimmy and the coffee with Hobbs. It felt like flirting. Or was that just conversation? And what the hell was she doing thinking about how his eyes twinkled when he laughed, or how strong his hands looked?
“Not good,” she grunted as she pushed herself into a muscle-burning sprint for the remaining blocks, timing her pace to the changing streetlights and keeping a wary eye open to the threat of an unseen bicyclist or red light-running cab.
With sweat beading her forehead, she arrived at the basement studio and walked down the cement stairs. As she’d often done, she paused to read the small plaque beneath the eyehole. It read: “Fear does not dwell in the present. It lives in the past and the future.”
She pushed the door open. The first person she saw was Justine in a navy leotard and matching sweats. Her sister smiled and waved.
She waved back, and then her mood hit rock. “Shit!” There, in the back of the room, was the person she least wanted to see—Carol Gartner, in a tie-dyed purple body stocking with her curly blond hair held back in a ponytail and her large breasts barely contained inside her skin-tight top.
Barrett stayed in the doorway and contemplated her options. She was about to leave when a man’s eager voice called out, “Barrett!”
In spite of her turmoil, she smiled as a short Chinese man in a button-down white shirt and crisply pressed black pants approached her. An unfiltered Camel dangled from the side of his smiling mouth. “I was hoping you would be here tonight,” he said, and then added under his breath, “too boring when you’re not around.” He attempted eye contact.
Barrett avoided his gaze, but Henry Li would not be thwarted. He took her wrist in his hand and his fingers touched down lightly on her pulses. “You are troubled,” he whispered. “Your energy is not smooth. You come to see me and I’ll give you some needles that will help.”
“I will,” she said without conviction. And much as a part of her wanted to be far away from Carol Gartner, a stronger part wasn’t about to run.
“Barrett does not lie well,” the Sifu added. “See me.”
She nodded. Normally, the thought of a visit to Sifu’s Mott Street medical practice would enthuse her. On several occasions she’d gone down there for his electrically enhanced acupuncture needles and found them helpful for various strains, aches, and pulls, although she usually gave a pass to his tissue-paper-wrapped packages of herbs. Nothing against them, but Barrett would have had to be at death’s door to take even an aspirin.
She kicked off her running shoes, unzipped her knapsack, and slipped on her rubber-soled kung-fu slippers. She took up a position in the back, and after a few stretches sank into the pigeon-toed Wing Chun slow form. She turned her focus inward, blocking out the large mirror that gave a clear view of the dozen or so students in the room, including the all-purple Carol Gartner and her buoyant, surgically enhanced breasts.
For the next forty-five minutes Barrett stayed rooted to her square of the wood floor. With her knees touching she sank into the challenging position. Her arms moved slowly through the series of blocks and punches, all performed at a speed that would make her appear immobile to a casual observer. Sweat dripped from her elbows and tracked down her back and between her breasts. When she broke from the form, she felt energy coursing up from the soles of her feet.
Justine tapped her on the shoulder and the two women assumed combat stance for the footwork drill. Along with the rest of the Dojo, they shuffled on flat feet back and forth across the floor taking turns punching and blocking.
For Barrett, who’d been doing martial arts ever since she was in junior high, Sifu Li’s studio and Wing Chun were an essential part of her existence. The form had been developed three hundred years ago by the Buddhist nun, Ng Mui. The movements were efficient and well-suited for Barrett, who preferred speed and finesse to brute force and physical strength.
As her feet slid across the floor her eye caught Carol’s purple silhouette in her periphery. Her thoughts wandered and Justine’s palm slipped past her block.
“Gotcha,” Justine whispered as she advanced on her sister.
“Yeah,” Barrett pulled herself back into the exercise. What did he see in her? Was it just sex? Was it those breasts? Barrett inventoried her own body; she was lean and tall, her breasts a full “B”, firm and symmetrical. But unlike Carol, Barrett rarely dressed to draw attention. Maybe that was a mistake … at least with Ralph. But that wasn’t it, and she knew it. Her problems with Ralph had nothing to do with how she looked. It went deeper.
“Gotcha again.”
Sifu came over to the sisters, and positioning himself perpendicular, he shuffled alongside them.
“Barrett not focused, very bad.”
She nodded and reapplied herself to the exercise.
“Better,” Sifu nodded. “But Barrett still not in room. Where is Barrett?”
“She’s in the room,” Barrett hissed, taking her turn in the forward attack.
“I don’t think so,” Sifu commented, as he touched Justine lightly on the shoulder and took her place across from Barrett.
Sifu’s birdlike arms began by deftly blocking Barrett’s punches. When they reached the wall, they reversed positions and he fired blows, his hands shooting out with blinding speed, as he searched for weaknesses in her defense.
“I no see Ralph in morning class,” Sifu commented as they switched again.
“No,” Barrett replied, her tightly clenched fists punching at her teacher.
“Ah,” he answered. “I did not see. I am very sorry.” At the edge of the room he stopped and bowed to Barrett. She returned the courtesy. The wiry Chinese doctor clapped his hands.
“Barrett in center,” he instructed. “Peter,” he pointed at a tall sweat-drenched soap opera actor, “you go first.”
The handsome man grinned as he took up a position across from Barrett. “Watch the face.”
She returned his remark with a predatory smile as she assumed a catlike offensive. Trying to use his greater reach to advantage, he attacked with a series of rabbit-fast punches. Unfortunately for him, by the time they would have landed on their target, she had dropped to the floor and swept his legs out from underneath him. In less than fifteen seconds he was flat on his back, with her fist planted squarely over his Adam’s apple. Sifu clapped and Barrett released the actor.
“Next victim,” Sifu chortled, pointing his finger at Carol.
Barrett shook her head no and stepped away from the center of the room.
“Interesting,” Sifu commented, looking first at Barrett and then at the honey-blond restaurant manager, who also seemed reluctant to enter the ring. “No?” he asked, never having encountered this particular scenario.
The two women glared at each other across the room. “Oh, why not?” Barrett stepped back into the center. She cocked an eyebrow and lifted her hands into a starting pose.
Carol accepted the challenge. The two women bowed stiffly and began to spar. On a good day, Carol was no match for Barrett. But the psychiatrist usually took this into account, having assumed the roll of Sifu’s second in command. But today Barrett was not interested in furthering Carol’s development as a martial artist.
As the blond woman attempted to pierce Barrett’s guard, Barrett whispered, “Why?”
“Nothing personal,” Carol replied, trying to twist her hand free from Barrett’s imprisoning cross block.
Barrett stepped back and looked at her opponent. She deftly broke through Carol’s defense and placed two fingers on either side of her throat.
>
“Oh,” Sifu Li remarked, clapping his hand, “she dead.”
“Nothing personal?” Barrett whispered, staring into the woman’s eyes.
Carol shook her head nervously, “It wasn’t,” she whispered. “It just happened. Maybe he had a reason. Men who stray usually do. This morning he was telling me …”
Barrett dropped her attack and stared. “This morning?” It was as though Carol had slammed a fist into her gut. “This morning?”
Carol stepped back, “I should leave.” She quickly bowed to Sifu, ran to the edge of the room, grabbed her bag, threw on her coat and fled the studio.
Barrett stood motionless, watching Carol’s retreat in the mirror. This morning, he’d made love to her and then gone to see Carol. It wasn’t a one-time thing. She felt the floor shift, and her vision cloud. All of his words had been lies.
“Breathe, Barrett.” Sifu’s hand on her shoulder. “Okay,” he said turning to the dozen or so students, “class over.”
___
Afterward, Justine walked uptown with her.
“What just happened in there?” she asked.
“What?” Barrett replied, trying to keep her rage and sadness to herself.
“With Carol.”
“That’s who Ralph …” She couldn’t get the words out.
“You’re kidding. I didn’t know,” she said, not needing Barrett to finish the thought. “I’m so sorry … why would she show up?”
“Yeah, well apparently she doesn’t think it’s such a big deal.”
“That’s cold.”
“I can’t think … It’s like up is down and no one bothered to tell me. Maybe it’s normal for married men to screw around. It is, isn’t it? They say that over 50 percent of marriages involve infidelity.”
“And over 50 percent of marriages end in divorce,” Justine added. “Think there’s a connection?”
“She said it’s my fault.”
“That’s bull.”
“Said he wasn’t getting what he needed at home.”
Prodigy Page 10