by Ann Benson
It wouldn’t be all that difficult to come up with a plausible reason for the retro-search, she realized. “And if I wanted to get information about physicians who’d died during the Outbreaks?”
“Janie. You have to ask? The AMA.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I hate the AMA. They’re the reason—”
“I know. I don’t love them either, and thank God I don’t have to do too much business with them. But if anyone will have physician records, it will be them. Just come up with a friendly-sounding reason for asking.”
“The family of a woman who died of complications of osteoporosis wants to endow a chair with part of her estate, but they want to remain anonymous. So they’ve asked us at the foundation to look into it and come up with the name of an orthopedist, someone who might have gone on to really exciting things after the Outbreaks, if he, or maybe she, was still around.”
“I’d be happy to send you a list, but it’s likely to be rather long … that was a tough time for physicians.”
“It was, wasn’t it? But a lengthy list is fine, we’re happy to do the necessary research as long as all the names are there. We’d hate to overlook someone inadvertently.”
“Our records are very complete. And I’ll be glad to get them to you. But I have a request for you—if you’d just be kind enough to send along the name of the final choice when the decision is made, that would be good.”
“No problem. I’ll be more than happy to let you know who I come up with.”
“Great. We like to keep tabs on our members, even if they’re no longer with us.”
“Yes,” Janie said bitterly, “I know you do.” She gave the AMA’s public relations officer her e-mail address at the foundation.
It came through less than an hour later, bearing a daunting number of promising and prominent orthopedists who’d been carried off by the nasty bacteria that ruled the new millennium, nearly four hundred physicians in all.
And these are just the ones who were still in the AMA then. The one she actually wanted might not even be on the list.
But, she reminded herself with painful cynicism, their records are very complete. She wondered what her own record in the AMA’s files looked like, then decided that such speculation was not a productive use of mind space.
But the list before her was. By a repeated and logical process of elimination based on their specialties, locations, association memberships, and a few other factors, she refined the list to fifteen possible candidates for orthopedists.
But the issue of Patient Zero was not so easily resolved.
Was this what it was like in Europe after World War II, records all a mess, some people trying to reestablish identities, and others trying with equal desperation to wipe out their own? Probably, Janie thought. Much of what went on during DR SAM’s rise to power remained undocumented because people had been far too busy trying to stay alive to worry about recording who had done what to whom and for what reason. Many people had simply disappeared into what had jokingly come to be called the Outbreak Void. Janie suspected that this void was really just ordinary life, under an assumed identity—life being lived by people who had, prior to all the confusion, been marginal, who’d marred their own futures to the point where they’d lost all hope of latching on to the American dream. What better way to start over again than to die as who you were and be reborn in the identity of someone much sounder? It would never all be unraveled.
Schools? Hospitals? Charitable organizations? All would be likely to have records, woefully incomplete, and much of what they did have would have been transferred to Big Dattie, but all of those records would be protected by privacy laws.
At least they were protected from entry by legitimate researchers.
We did it once before.
But it had proved a deadly thing to do; its tragic consequences would color the rest of her life with guilt, and those of Michael and Caroline, as well. Janie could not ask for their help again.
But to ask Sandhaus for help again was another thing entirely. And though he was the true Anti-Nerd, somewhere in his academic bag of forensic criminology tricks would be a vintage hacker, probably the one and only hacker who was not already in jail.
She was not disappointed. “Yeah, I know someone,” he told her, “but he’s a greedy little son of a bitch. Creepy too.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand credits, probably.”
She paused before responding. “That’s pretty steep.”
John Sandhaus shrugged. “It’s cheaper than a car.”
“I’m not buying a car. I just want access to certain information.”
“So get some deep pockets to pay.”
Hesitation. Did he know somehow? He seemed to know everything, all the time. “I can’t even ask until I know for sure what the real cost is going to be.”
“Well, assuming you come up with the money, here’s what you have to do.…”
It was like returning to the scene of a nightmare, one she’d played over and over in her mind, to her mind’s great unhappiness. But there at one end of the chrome-and-wood counter at another dishearteningly similar computer bar was a man who had to be the one John Sandhaus had told her to contact. She picked him out by the tattoo of a cursor on his forearm.
Like some vamp in a B movie, Janie stared across the crowded room at the “gentleman,” who looked like anything but, and flashed him an inviting smile. He looked her up and down with cool amusement as she approached him.
He had pocked skin and more wrinkles than were merited by his age, to judge from his remarkably buff physique. His hair was oily, slicked back in waves, and she expected to find a hand-rolled cigarette tucked brazenly behind one of his ears, because he smelled faintly of tobacco. The near-empty glass of what she took to be Scotch whiskey in his right hand explained the other smell. The overall effect of his contrived appearance was aging cool.
And now, she would have to try to be cool herself, a prospect she found quite annoying. “Hi,” she said, gesturing toward the bar stool next to his. “Is this seat taken?”
He almost chuckled, and shook his head no.
As she slid onto the padded leather seat, Janie couldn’t help but think, This Mata Hari bit is just not going to work, I should just tell him what I want.
But he was quite an agreeable fellow. “I was hoping you would decide to join me. May I buy you a drink?”
It surprised her to hear what she thought was a French accent, which accounted for the tobacco smell and the sailor-in-port charm.
“That would be very nice, thank you.”
He made the slightest dip of his chin and miraculously the bartender appeared. Janie was impressed; it would have taken her ten minutes to get the garçon’s attention.
“What is your pleasure, mademoiselle?” the hacker said.
Oh, you sweet young thing, you just know how us old biddies melt when you call us “miss” … and in a few moments you’re going to pay me some flowery compliment, like how good I smell.
“Pinot Noir, please,” she said to the bartender, “if you have a good one open.”
“Bring a bottle of your best,” the Frenchman said. And when Janie tried to protest, he waved her to a stop. “It is my favorite. How did you know?”
He smiled beautifully. In contrast to the rest of his rough appearance, his teeth were straight and white, and incredibly healthy-looking. Janie thought they probably looked very dashing in the glass on the bedstand at night. She smiled inwardly, his potential hold on her now suddenly loosened by the thought of him toothless.
The bottle came, with two glasses. He tossed down the last of his Scotch in one gulp and poured for both of them. He set one glass ceremoniously in front of her, then raised his own. “To what shall we toast?”
“To the Pinot grape, one of God’s finest creations,” she said. She clinked her glass gently against his, then brought it close to her face to savor the wine’s bouquet. She closed her eyes in pleasure for a
moment, then opened them again and took a slow sip of the clear red liquid.
“Ah … heaven,” she said. “Now your turn. Make a toast.”
“To my lovely companion.” He leaned closer and sniffed the air around her delicately. “Who smells so wonderful.”
By the end of the bottle she had him down to five thousand credits for half an hour of wandering through Big Dattie, a sum she could afford to pay on her own if Kristina’s “agency” refused, a sum she would gladly pay if it would streamline her search to the degree she thought it might. “I just need to be guaranteed that it will be completely anonymous. You can’t use anyone’s ID number.”
“Of course not,” he assured her, his plastic choppers flashing. “Not just anyone’s.”
She wondered what he meant by that, but couldn’t bring herself to ask. She would find out soon enough. They set a time and place for a future meeting, which would take place after her return from Iceland. Janie went home, to work on that list of the things she didn’t know.
19
De Chauliac read the message on the parchment and then looked up at the boy who had delivered it. It was not the lad Chaucer, but a rather more doltish-looking young man, so the elegant Frenchman phrased his response as simply as possible, without the flowery effusions of affection and respect he might have entrusted to Lionel’s more literate page. “Tell Prince Lionel that we shall attend to him this afternoon. And convey my great eagerness to see him.”
The messenger bowed somewhat clumsily and left, and de Chauliac returned to the study. He wore a quizzical expression when he rejoined Alejandro, one that was colored with slight amusement. But when he spoke he sounded a bit annoyed. “Well, it seems that Prince Lionel had a spy in my household when we conspired to treat him together,” he said. “He has just sent this request that we do so.” He placed the parchment on the table.
Alejandro picked it up and read it, then looked up at de Chauliac, hoping that his expression would not betray his excitement.
“As you can see from the note, the page Chaucer was quite taken with you,” de Chauliac said. “Now we are ‘invited’ to attend him at our earliest convenience.”
His heart began to pound. The lad had done it! ”Meaning, I assume, that we are commanded to appear immediately.”
“Exactly,” de Chauliac said. He raised his chin and looked down his long nose. “Really, colleague, one would think there was a conspiracy between you and this young man. Though I think I shall enjoy the practice of medicine with you, I am not entirely pleased to have you out there in view.”
It was only with the greatest effort that Alejandro managed to quell a smile. “Shall I prepare myself, then, for this visit?”
“I suppose you should. I will lend you a proper mantle and cap.”
“It would also be very helpful if I could have my bag.”
“No,” de Chauliac said instantly. “Certainly not.”
“It would be detrimental to your reputation to bring a colleague who lacks implements.”
De Chauliac’s pride got the better of him again. “All right,” he said. “You may have it. But you shall not have the knife.”
They rode through the Paris streets more swiftly than they ought to have, considering the number of pedestrians they encountered. Alejandro was flanked on either side by his usual guards, who were both armed with short swords in fast scabbards. But he made the most of his freedom by taking in the sights and sounds all around him—he had stared far too long at the inside of de Chauliac’s mansion, and handsome though it was, there was only so much to be seen. He did not realize how much his eyes had hungered for a glimpse of real life until he was once again surrounded by it.
Before leaving, de Chauliac had made a point of having the men show Alejandro just how sharp the guards’ swords were and how quickly they might be drawn. “To put any notions of fleeing out of your head” were the Frenchman’s stern words. But Alejandro did not allow this warning to dampen his spirits. He had no intention of trying to escape on this journey abroad, because he felt certain that if this outing went well enough he would have many more opportunities. Eventually, de Chauliac would let down his guard, and he would seize that opportunity. It would not come today, he was sure of it.
It was a great comfort to be astride a horse again, although he missed the familiar broadness of his usual mount’s back. This one was smaller and had a slightly different gait, slower and more plodding, unlike the prancing almost skittish steps of his stallion. He could not predict how this horse would respond were he to slap the reins on its neck and dig his heels into its sides to make it run. Still, he was reassured by the presence of his leather bag, which had been strapped to the horse, behind where he sat. As they rode along, he felt it pressing up against the small of his back as it had for nearly a decade of traveling.
What was most grievously missing on this ride was the company of the child, now a woman, to which he had grown so accustomed.
The Dauphin, who would someday occupy the throne of France if all went according to the plan of his father, King Jean, had a manse far grander than the one in which de Chauliac resided. But when they went inside, Alejandro was put immediately in mind of Windsor Castle by the furnishings, which were more rudimentary than those in de Chauliac’s home. Perhaps, he theorized, Prince Lionel’s own furnishings might have been sent for his comfort, for how better to keep a royal hostage happy than to surround him with his own belongings.
Geoffrey Chaucer led them into the bedchamber, a large room with tall windows and ornate appointments. A massive bed with tall posts and a heavy canopy was situated against one wall; on either side of it were long tapestries in lush colors, depicting this or that saint, working one or another of the miracles that had led to canonization. On this bed, under a heap of fur, they found Prince Lionel, reclining in considerable discomfort. He moaned as he turned his head to face them.
At his side was Countess Elizabeth of Ulster, his wife. The surprisingly young woman wore a worried look and she was inordinately pale, even against the white veil that hung from her headdress. But such is the fashion these days, Alejandro reminded himself. No woman of royal station would allow herself to look as if she had been laboring in the hot sun. He remembered Adele’s creamy ivory skin, and envisioned her raising up the hood on her cloak to keep the sun off her face, lest it color too greatly.
This Elizabeth was not much older than Adele had been, when Alejandro had loved her. And the color of her hair—so similar it made his heart ache.
The countess clutched one of her husband’s hands in her own, as if she feared that he might slip away from her, and whispered a few words of what Alejandro thought would surely be comfort or solace. Then she patted his hand gently and rose up from the bedside.
When she stood up, the silk of her gown rustled. She put a hand demurely to her chest, touching the drape of her veil. “Oh!” she said as she crossed the room, “de Chauliac! I am so glad you have come! When Geoffrey told us that there were other diseases to be considered, I went faint with concern.” She turned back to her prince and said, “Did I not, dearest?”
The prince groaned convincingly from under his fur coverlet, several times in quick succession.
When Alejandro heard the dramatic wailings, he thought, Here is a man who loves his laudanum enough to allow his wife to feel distress over it.
“You see?” Elizabeth said. “He suffers! You must bring him some relief.”
De Chauliac went down on one knee and lowered his head in a bow, and Alejandro quickly did the same. I had forgotten all their silly rituals, he thought as he rose up again. He had not been forced to bow in nearly ten years. I did not much like it then, and I like it less now.
“Of course, when told of this grievous situation, we came straightaway,” de Chauliac said.
“Dear de Chauliac,” Elizabeth crooned. “You are most exceptionally loyal to us, and it has not gone unnoticed.” Then she turned her attention to Alejandro. Her gaze settled on him
first critically, as if simply for the purposes of appraisal, but it soon turned to something else: unmistakable interest, of a nature he could not exactly define. She moved a pace closer and held out her hand. “And this must be your colleague from Spain, the one young Geoffrey speaks so highly of. Welcome. We are most grateful for your attendance.” Her eyes were full upon him, taking in the details. Her lips curled very slightly in a smile.
Though her frank and undisguised stare made him slightly uncomfortable, Alejandro stepped forward quite boldly and took hold of the hand she offered. He pressed it to his lips, lingering just a bit too long. The young woman blushed and put the other hand to her mouth. She drew in a little gasp of pleasure. “Is this a custom of your countrymen?” she said. “If so, I find it delightful. A sweet respite from my worries.”
He detected the lilt he had heard in the voices of Irish people when she spoke to him in French; he found it far more pleasing to the ear than the guttural inflections the English seemed to put upon it. She wore a robe of soft green that complemented her fair coloring handsomely; its sleeves and bodice were decorated with entwined gold patterns in the Celtic mode.
She is only a few years older than Kate.
“Yes,” he answered, “to kiss the hand is our custom. But a jealously guarded one—we employ it only when presented to the loveliest of ladies.” He said it all with a flirtatious smile and a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, monsieur, you shall make my blood boil, and then what?”
“Then I shall be delighted to treat you for that affliction,” he said.
“And no doubt I would be well cared for.” Still holding his hand, she turned her attention back to de Chauliac, who scowled with disapproval. “You shall bring your colleagues around to call on us, de Chauliac, without waiting for invitation. If this gentleman is representative of their quality, then we simply must have more of them.”