Chet.
He’d managed to persuade him to return to school before the boy even got out of bed that very first morning. “Hey, there wasn’t so much as a peep about me on the radio news in the taxi coming from the airport,” he reassured his mortified son. “Nobody remembers that kind of smut for longer than it takes to move on to the next scandal anyway.”
“I do!” came his surly reply.
“Any friend who’s worth having won’t ride you over it.”
“No, but people who aren’t my friends will. My name will be a joke.”
“Chet, who cares about them? A good woman died, took her own life because she lost her son to a filthy disease and couldn’t find any reason to go on living. Anybody gives you a hard time, remind them of that. What happened won’t be a joke anymore.”
“Gimme a break, Dad!” he snapped, glowering at him with a sullen hard stare. “I can’t say that to a bunch of kids.” But by seven-thirty he’d packed up his books and, his young jaw set with determination, left for his first class.
In subsequent conversations Steele found the answers increasingly hard to provide.
“Why did you go with that woman?” Chet had demanded over dinner that night.
“I liked her—especially talking with her. And she seemed to like me.”
“Don’t you think Mommy would be angry with you?”
“I think she’d be more angry if I kept moping around the way I have been and didn’t get on with my life.”
Chet gave a start and swallowed a few times, then said, “She still wouldn’t approve of what you did in Hawaii.”
“Chet, the only thing I think she’d disapprove of is my not being alert enough to stop that poor woman from taking her life. That’s what I blame myself for. As for my being interested in the lady sexually, your mother would probably think, ‘It’s about time!’ ”
The boy’s eyes nearly fell out onto his plate. Steele had never given him so frank a glimpse of his father before. The revelation that a parent, especially his own, could harbor such doubts and desires obviously came as a shock to the youth. For the rest of his meal he talked mainly with Martha and only about school, but occasionally, his normally smooth forehead corrugated like the brow of a perplexed puppy, he would sneak a glance at Dad. After that Steele trod lightly whenever they talked.
Just before Fiftieth Street he slowed his pace in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral while a funeral procession under a double row of umbrellas descended the massive gray steps. Like some black centipede, it deposited its cargo in a hearse waiting at the curb, and he picked his way through the stragglers, reaching the corner where, pivoting left, he began the three-block trek to Lexington. There were fewer pedestrians here, and as he picked up speed the exertion felt good.
Covering the distance in no time, he glanced at his watch and saw that he still had over an hour before Martha would have supper ready. Instead of turning south toward Thirty-sixth and home as usual, he continued in the direction of the East River, deciding to swing around to the hospital and pick up some insurance papers that his secretary had left in his office for him. Increasing his stride, he went on thinking about Chet.
After their encounter on his first night back, the boy had begun to hang around the table following meal-times, at least long enough to keep Martha filled in about the happenings in his life. A school concert he’d be playing guitar at, how his preparations were going for final exams, that he didn’t yet have a date for his end-of-year class party—Steele listened in on it all, grateful for at least having been granted the privilege of observer status. In the last few days, however, Chet had begun to direct some of the conversation toward him. They’d even had a brief discussion about renting a cottage somewhere on the ocean for a few weeks that summer, but left the plan comfortably vague for the moment.
“It’s a start,” Martha had said approvingly one evening after Chet had gone back upstairs.
Steele turned his thoughts to how he might best enter the hospital to avoid meeting anyone he knew. Since returning from Hawaii he’d stayed away from the place completely, having no stomach to endure the inevitable snickers and stares. By going to his office now, at the end of the day, he hoped to escape seeing anybody in the administrative wing of his department. He figured with a little luck he could evade everyone else if he went in through a back door and stuck to the staircases.
He especially didn’t want to run into Greg Stanton. As good a friend as he’d been, Steele knew him to be a consummate politician whenever it came to his role as dean of medicine. “A particularly mean son of a bitch,” he’d heard others put it when it came to anyone interfering with the flow of endowments to the faculty. And Steele could believe it. He’d heard the man rage on about “tenured parasites” often enough. Better let the dust settle awhile, he figured, having no doubts that his blast of bad publicity had already made Greg’s life difficult with the money counters in the rest of the university. The decision about whether he’d resume his work as Chief of ER wasn’t due for a month, and he hoped by then they’d all have moved on to new problems and that the embarrassment he’d caused would be less of an issue.
He also didn’t want to encounter Kathleen Sullivan. Although he knew her visits to the hospital would normally be fewer than Stanton’s, his secretary had advised him that she’d “dropped by a few times hoping to catch him in.”
The thought of facing her filled him with embarrassment. What could he say, after giving her opponents, the Sydney Aimeses of the world, more ammunition to broadside her cause than they ever could have mustered on their own? Yet she seemed overly determined to speak with him. There were more messages from her on his machine again today, insisting he call her back. Except this time she’d tried to bait him, hinting at having “important new developments” she wanted to discuss with him. Yeah, right, he thought, figuring she must simply be trying to make him feel useful by keeping him in her loop. He found the idea that she would go out of her way to show him kindness annoying. “I won’t be anybody’s damn charity case!” he muttered while waiting for a red light to change at First Avenue. As he stood there fuming, he allowed that maybe when he got back to work, and had regained at least that status, he’d give her a call.
Getting the green arrow, he crossed the busy thoroughfare, turned south again, and passed in front of the United Nations Building. The crowds were fuller here, a mix of sightseers rushing through the front gates in an attempt to catch the last tour and delegates from every country in the world streaming out of the place, unable, it seemed, to vacate the building fast enough. Steele always enjoyed the snippets of conversation he could pick up here.
“. . . don’t know if he’s CIA or the dumbest agriculture advisor they ever sent me . . .”
“. . . of course, we’re officially at war in counsel meetings, but declare peace in bed every night . . .”
“. . . you protest the arms sale, I’ll deny it ever took place, then we’ll be done in time for the Rangers game. The Germans gave me their seats . . .”
At Forty-second he turned left, entering an end piece of the infamous street that couldn’t be more desolate or at odds with its reputation for sex and glitter. Lined with nothing but windowless redbrick walls, a dozen shabby doorways, and the loading docks of a few run-down factories, it had little to attract anybody except for a fenced-in dog run halfway up the block. An abundance of weeds sprouting up between the cracks of the deserted sidewalk gave prolific testimony to how little human use it saw. Even the noise of the city didn’t enter here. The traffic from midtown behind him and the FDR Drive up ahead sounded mute compared to the echo of his steps.
Following his New Yorker’s instinct not to get caught alone in an isolated place, he made a beeline for the opening under the elevated driveway that gave access to the East River Esplanade Park. From there he could walk along the water’s edge amongst joggers and bicyclists all the way down to Thirty-third and the hospital.
A few taxis passed him en route
to the freeway, the windows rolled up and streaked with drizzle. A truck rattled after them, headed for the same destination. Then the street fell silent again as he hurried along. A few seconds later, a black van drove slowly by, its motor so quiet he didn’t hear it until the vehicle drew abreast of him. He became instantly alert, wondering what the driver wanted, watching him pull to a stop in front of the dog run about forty yards ahead. Two men dressed in gray uniforms with peaked caps climbed out and released a pair of German shepherds big as timber wolves from the back of their vehicle. Steele instinctively slowed when he saw the animals weren’t leashed. But one of the owners gave a curt command, and the two dogs eagerly ran through a double gate leading to the fenced-in area where they proceeded to romp about.
Must be security guards, he thought.
The man who’d issued the order proceeded to take off his jacket and throw it along with his cap back into the van. Pulling his shirt out of his waistband, he picked up what looked like a tool kit and ran off toward the park access half a block away.
Listening to the slap of the man’s leather shoes against cement, Steele found it an odd outfit to go running in.
The companion entered the enclosure, where he proceeded to lounge on a bench with his back to the street, watching over the two animals as they lunged at each other in playful mock battle.
When Steele drew closer, the dogs broke off the workout they’d been giving each other and sat side by side in the middle of the pen, silently eyeing him, their large pink tongues flicking nervously over black lips. He found himself estimating the height of the fence and wondering if they could jump out. It had to be at least five feet, he figured, but it didn’t take much imagination to picture those massive brutes easily clearing it in a single bound. Thank God they seemed obedient, he reassured himself, scurrying up the street while feeling their pitch-dark stare on his back every step of the way.
The passage under FDR Drive leading to the esplanade always reminded Steele of a giant dungeon. It stretched over eighty feet wide as well as long and had iron bars its full height on either end with no interior lighting. Completing the impression of a massive holding cell, the concrete ceiling arched across the entire space at little more than ten feet above the stone floor.
From a narrow gateway he peered into the dark interior before entering, paying special attention as usual to the shadowy corners where he figured someone could lurk unseen. Even though New York was a whole lot safer than it used to be, he felt this dimly lit place practically begged for trouble. It also stank. The clammy air reeked of urine and worse, making him revert to breathing through his mouth, a trick he used for dealing with similar aromas in ER. Otherwise the area seemed empty.
He glanced behind. Neither the dogs nor the man were paying him any heed. Chastising himself for feeling so skittish, he stepped inside, striding briskly through the gloom, making for the exit, and light, at the other end. He went the length of the passage in less than thirty seconds. But when he arrived at the far gate, he found it chained shut with a padlock.
“What the hell?” he muttered, the chamber amplifying his voice to a shout. The echo pulsed throughout the low cavern a few times before blending in with the hollow roar conducted through cement and steel from the steady traffic overhead. Puzzled, he started to turn back the way he’d come when a new sound insinuated itself into the general noise. He froze. Out of the darkness behind him rose a low sustained growl, its volume undulating ever louder, its echo adding to itself and swelling it further still. A second snarl joined in. Slowly turning his head he saw two pairs of eyes glinting over the flash of white fangs.
He didn’t breathe, didn’t even blink.
He strained his eyes as far around in their sockets as they’d go, trying to see if the owner had come with them.
No one.
They must have escaped the pen, he thought, expecting any instant to hear the man call them off.
Nothing.
The growling intensified.
Should I scream at them? he thought, panic flooding through him. Or will that trigger an attack?
Out of the corner of his eye he saw one animal hunch down and take a step closer. The other followed, its jaws half open, its lips pulled back, the guttural sounds issuing from the back of its throat more savage than ever. He felt locked into their stares, paralyzed by the blood lust he saw in their molten pupils, and read in them a hunger as primeval as that of any jungle beast. An instant later he saw the haunches of the one closest to him ripple.
Time to move.
“Help!” he screamed, leaping forward, grabbing the iron bars, and scrambling up them as fast as he could.
The first dog jumped and seized his left calf as he climbed the barrier. Shrieking with pain he kicked and shook the animal free. The other missed him entirely, springing a second too late and striking only where he’d been a moment earlier.
“Help! Help me!” he continued to roar, his voice reverberating loudly as its echo bounced around. He got himself horizontal on the bars, continuing to pull himself upward, hand over hand, leg over leg. But the drizzle had covered the metal with moisture. Before he could reach the top, his palms, already wet, lost their grip, and the soles of his shoes couldn’t get traction. He started to slip.
The dog that had missed on the first leap gathered its legs into a crouch and launched itself straight up, grabbing a mouthful of raincoat. It hung on and, weighing at least a hundred pounds, dragged Steele down farther. The second one joined in, and the two of them dangled below him by their teeth, spinning like canine trapezists.
“Let go, damn you!” Steele screamed as he clung there, his arms shaking with the strain of the added weight and his feet running in place against the bars. One by one the buttons started to pop off his coat, letting it burst open a little at a time, but the material held, and each lurching drop of the animals tugged him down a few inches more.
In seconds his lower limbs were higher than his shoulders. He felt the blood pouring from his wound begin to run up his leg, having already soaked his shoe, and the dark stain on his trousers spread toward his groin. He increased his screaming and cursing, not caring what he said as long as someone heard him. But when he glanced outside he couldn’t see a soul.
One of the dogs dropped off, only to leap up again, this time snapping at his head. Jerking his neck forward he only just evaded the massive jaws, feeling their teeth graze his scalp and hearing them click shut inches behind his ears. Fear drove him to pull his upper body higher despite the weight of the other creature still hanging off him. With yet another leap, the first one rejoined the second, once more latching on to cloth and pulling him down again with the added load.
Steele knew he couldn’t hang on much longer. He’d have to shed the coat. Getting a tighter grip with his left hand, he let go with his right, grabbed the lapels, and tried to shake the garment free of his shoulder. But the dampness glued it to him, and as he struggled, he steadily lost his hold on the bar. Reaching below him he pounded on the head of the dog in easiest reach with his fist. It gave a snarl, let go of the coat and, twisting in midair to bite at his wrist, fell to the ground. The second beast made a similar try for him and missed. Free of their weight, he scrambled the rest of the way to the top of the bars. There wasn’t enough space to slip through, but he had room to hook his legs and arms over the railing and give himself a secure perch.
Below him, the animals twirled, snarled, and leaped, writhing with gnashing teeth at the height of each jump, yet they never quite reached him. Enraged, they started barking, making such a din that Steele felt certain someone would soon hear the ruckus. But outside the drizzle had graduated to rain, and as he scanned the walkway, so tantalizingly close, it remained empty. He turned his attention back toward the other end of the passageway where he could see Forty-second Street through the bars. His fear giving way to anger, he hollered, “Hey, you with the dogs! Get them the fuck off me.”
Only the echo of his shout replied.
&
nbsp; “Goddamn it, are you crazy! Call them off!”
Still no response.
He saw cars drive by on the other side of the bars and shouted some more, but their windows were closed against the rain.
He tried to get a look at his leg. The bleeding hadn’t let up any, completely soaking the left side of his pants, and the pain felt worse by the minute. Again clinging to the bars with one hand, he managed to pull up the cuff far enough to expose where the dog had taken a chunk out of him. By the bit of daylight that streamed in from outside he saw a long U-shaped mash of serrated flesh and strands of torn muscle awash in dark red blood. Mostly venous, he thought, reaching to apply pressure to the wound using the material of his trousers as a pad. Such a basic violation of sterile technique made him cringe almost as much as the pain. I’m going to need a truckload of antibiotics, he lamented, knowing his chances of infection were now certain. But as the porous cloth sucked up the hemorrhage on the surface, he realized he had an even more immediate problem.
A bright jet of scarlet the diameter of a pencil spurted up from deep within the gash. “Shit!” he exclaimed out loud. Without hesitation, he reached into the wound with his fingers. The burning instantly trebled, and he screamed through clenched teeth, swallowing heavily to fight back the sudden waves of nausea that ripped through him. Still he continued to probe, following the warm stream by feel toward its source, keeping track of the anatomy as he pushed between the slippery bellies of the gastrocnemius muscles and crying out in agony as he sent them recoiling into spasms with his touch. But catching his breath, he went deeper, ticking off yet more landmarks as he slid through them—veins, ligaments, even a nerve that announced itself with a shot of electricity into his foot when he inadvertently trapped it against underlying bone. His breathing started to come in hot gasps, sweat broke out over his entire body, and his head swirled to the point he thought he’d pass out. Yet he stayed focused on the pulsing flow against his fingertips until it guided him to the pumping vessel at the site of the hemorrhage. Bracing for what he knew would hurt, he clamped down hard with his thumb, pinning the slithery torn artery to the back of his tibia at the exact place of the tear. Emitting his loudest shriek yet, he had to fight once more against throwing up as volley after volley of searing pain erupted in his leg and the fangs below him continued to snap the air around his head like a pair of demonic castanets.
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