Noble Vision: A Novel

by Gen LaGreca

  He pulled his car up to her building and got out. Hearing the slam of the door, Nicole opened the locked gate of her residence.

  “Is that you, Mike?” she said.

  David shoved his way through the gate. He pinned her arms behind her and gripped both of her wrists with one hand. He gagged her mouth with the other, suppressing cries of pain and fear. He dragged her into the bushes lining the verdant entrance. Hidden by tall shrubs, he pushed her into the side of the building and pressed his body against her. She felt cold bricks scraping her back and a warm body squeezing her chest and thighs. Her sightless eyes saw terror. Sandwiched between the building and the body, Nicole’s desperate efforts to scream, to pull away, to kick, to scratch were fruitless against his iron grip. She was horrified.

  “You crazy kid! It would be so simple to hurt you!” he said at last.

  “David!” she murmured through his hand. At the sound of his voice, the fight drained from her body. She stood limp in the arms of a man she had no capacity to fear. He eased his grip on her.

  “You scared me to death! And you hurt me! David, how could you?”

  “No one saw me. You couldn’t identify me. I could rob you, rape you, murder you!” He shouted angrily, shaking her by the shoulders.

  Hands still trembling from her scare curled around his neck. She felt firm muscles through his thin shirt. “You loved him. From the way you spoke of him, I know he once meant a great deal to you, David.”

  “Goddamn it, you were running away again!”

  “You loved him for all he once gave you.”

  “You could’ve been hurt!”

  “And you’re horrified by what he did to you and to himself.”

  He sighed painfully, his anger yielding to grief. “Yes,” he whispered, his arms wrapped around her, his head buried in her neck, his lungs breathing the maddening scent of her perfume. She held him close, consoling her assailant.

  “You loved him before he changed,” she whispered.

  “I did.”

  “And he loved you.”

  “He did.”

  Her arms tightened against a shuddering pain that left him speechless. For a long moment that was a memorial to something sacred, he held her tightly in what had become their first embrace. Finally, his body steadied and he lifted his head.

  “David, I’m . . . devastated . . . by what happened today . . . by the way I’m wrecking your life.”

  “You mustn’t think that. You’re the only thing not wrecking my life.”

  “But I . . . my case . . . killed your father.”

  “My father . . .” He paused painfully, his voice unsteady. “. . . thought he was drinking the nectar of the gods, but it turned out to be poison. He learned that men don’t need gods after all; it’s the gods who need men. That’s what killed my father.”

  Hearing a car approach, he released her, gently brushed some twigs from her hair, and straightened her clothes. She submitted to his grooming, the feel of his body still lingering on hers. He took her hand and led her out of the bushes. He in a wrinkled suit, his tie loosened and hair disheveled from the day’s harrowing activities, she in wool slacks and sweater, still dazed from his attack, they walked the few steps to the gate enclosing her building.

  “Ms. Hudson? It’s Mike from Reliable Car Service,” said a man at the gate.

  David recognized the young driver who had previously refused a tip. “Ms. Hudson won’t be needing your services after all. She’s not going anywhere.”

  The driver paused for Nicole’s confirmation.

  “I’m sorry, Mike, but I’ve had a change in plans,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere . . . tonight.”

  With the side of David’s body touching hers, she could feel him turn to her sharply on the last word.

  “No problem. Have a good evening,” said Mike.

  When the driver left, David grabbed her by the arms, his anger returning. “Why were you running away?”

  “CareFree ruled against us. You can’t do the second surgery, so the case is closed.”

  “I promised you from the beginning that I’d do the surgery. I never said it would be legal.”

  “And I never said I’d let you destroy your career by operating illegally. But you’re crazy. You’ll knock me out and drag me to this surgery. And you’ll lose your license! That’s why I have to run away.”

  “Do you think you’re doing me a favor by keeping me in medicine today? Why would I want to practice under CareFree? It destroyed my father, and it’s destroying . . . someone else . . . in my life. I’m not going to let it take you.” He lifted her hands to his chest. “Nicole,” he whispered excitedly, “I’m in a bind. I can’t raise false hopes. But if your surgery’s a success, no one will dare touch me! I ardently want to take this chance. It’s more than your surgery. It’s what medicine means to me: my work and my life out of anyone else’s grip. Do you know what you convey to the audience when you dance and why people love your show? You’re their dream of a boundless freedom. That’s what real medicine means to me, with its endless secrets to explore and discoveries to make. I don’t want to dream about it. I want to do it.”

  “You once said that you saw my show.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you feel those things, watching me? A . . . boundless freedom?”

  “I know why the Phantom needs you. He needs you desperately, you know.”

  “David,” she said, her voice trembling, “I’m in a bind, also. To save myself, I risk destroying you. And to save you, I destroy myself.”

  “Don’t let them pit us against each other. Think of the surgery as helping me to fulfill my dream. Will you?”

  She had no reply.

  He squeezed her hands and pulled them tight against his chest. “Nicole, the timing of the second surgery is critical. You must be around when it’s time. Swear that you won’t run away.”

  She lowered her head, weighing the matter, then looked up. “Swear that you won’t do the surgery illegally.”

  He dropped her hands disappointedly. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  Knowing every subtlety of his moves, she folded her cane, preferring to walk with his guidance exclusively. As he carried her suitcase, she tucked her hand under his arm and used her finely honed awareness of his body to lead her.

  They opened the door of her apartment to loud, rhythmic snoring from an alcove off the kitchen. The unconscious Mrs. Trimbell was slumped on an armchair with her legs spread open ignobly.

  “What did you do to her?” asked David.

  “What do you mean?” Nicole replied innocently.

  David grabbed the bottle of sleeping pills that he had left in the kitchen and counted them. “Never mind. I know the answer.”

  They walked into the living room, where a nippy breeze from the balcony signaled the approach of autumn. The wind swayed through a bouquet of balloons. Since Nicole had first perceived color, David had kept her supplied with bright bundles of balloons, which she fastened to the end table and gazed at by the lamplight.

  “Okay, you win for now,” said David, facing her. “We’ll try to find a way to do your surgery legally. We have about six weeks before I need to operate. Let’s blitz the media and attempt to muster popular support. The election is in seven weeks, so Burrow will be highly sensitive to public opinion. I’ve already scheduled an appearance on Insight. My father’s . . .”—his voice broke painfully—“fall . . . could damage Burrow. We’ll try to pressure him to permit the surgery. How’s that for a plan?”

  “Perfect!”

  “I don’t know about that. The public is drifting. They may like our ideas momentarily, but then they’ll be afraid of losing their so-called entitlements and clamor for Burrow to stay in power. We can’t fix our course on driftwood.”

  “But we have to try to reach the public, David.”

  “We can try. And it’ll keep you from running away. But if that doesn’t work, we’re back to my plan.”

  “We’ll
discuss it.”

  “By the way,” he asked, the anger creeping back into his voice, “who told you the news?”

  She did not respond.

  “I called Mrs. Trimbell before I came here. She said you hadn’t listened to the news yet, and she wouldn’t let you hear it from anyone but me. Did someone call you?”

  “I’m not saying.”

  The day’s tragic events had sapped his emotions. He felt impatient with an opposing will as strong as his own. He grabbed her by the arms and shook her. “Was it the same person who frightened you in the hospital and made you run away then?”

  “David, you’re hurting me.”

  “Someone’s frightening you. I want to know who it is!”

  “I’m not saying.”

  She pressed her hands against his chest, pushing free of his grip. The force of her movement threw her back a step, tangling her in the balloons. She lost her balance and almost fell over the lamp on the end table. David steadied her.

  “Easy now,” he said more calmly. With darkness approaching, he switched the lamp on. “Are you okay?”

  Nicole was not listening. She was looking at the balloons, holding them against her face, one by one, with the lamp under them.

  “David,” she said fearfully. “They’re all gray. These beautiful balloons . . . have turned . . . gray. I can’t see the colors anymore.”

  Chapter 25

  Close Friends

  “Wigged out” was the way the governor’s staff described Malcolm Burrow on the last Monday of September. Although he had gained weight, Burrow scolded his tailor when his new suit would not button. Although he had jerked his head during a haircut, Burrow roared at his barber for nipping his ear. Although he had arrived an hour late for a scheduled luncheon, he reprimanded his chef for serving overcooked chicken. The governor had been acutely wigged out since his approval ratings had plummeted after Warren’s death the preceding week. “Damn you, Warren,” he mumbled to himself whenever he saw the decedent’s picture on television.

  In public, however, Burrow lamented: “I was shocked and saddened to learn of Warren Lang’s untimely accident. He was a noble man who gave unceasingly of himself to serve the public interest. His passing is a terrible loss.”

  The coroner found that Warren had suffered a heart attack, but he could not ascertain whether it occurred first and caused the fall or whether the fall came first and precipitated the coronary. The governor’s press secretary gave the administration’s interpretation: “Last Thursday afternoon, the secretary of medicine felt ill and left his office early to rest at home. It appears that he was on his balcony when he suffered a heart attack, causing him to lose his balance and fall.”

  David Lang explained the sequence of events differently. “My father jumped because he was driven to desperation from being double-crossed,” he told the press.

  “Who was double-crossing your father?” questioned a reporter.

  “Ask the governor.”

  That Monday afternoon, campaign manager Casey Clark discussed the political implications of the tragic event with Burrow at the governor’s mansion.

  “When Warren died, your rating fell ten points! People are uneasy. Sixty-two percent of those polled believe David Lang’s charge that you double-crossed his father and drove him to desperation,” said Casey, pacing on the Oriental carpet in Burrow’s office. “People are wondering what dirt the hotshot will have on you and CareFree when he appears on Insight next Sunday. And remember how the opinion meters registered approval when the guy spoke for himself about his own cause?”

  Burrow slammed his fist onto the mahogany desk and swore, shaking his droopy jowls. He stood up, rolled his morning newspaper, and clubbed the desk with it in cadence with his words: “I’ve got six weeks to the election, goddammit! What am I gonna do?”

  Burrow beseeched his young devotee for help the way the ancients had consulted their soothsayers.

  Clark stopped pacing, the lace curtain of the window making a white frame around his dark suit. “The way I look at it, insanity means repeating the same behavior and expecting different results.”

  “I’ve got to do something different. But what?”

  “David Lang must be stopped.”

  “I’ve got to shut his trap. But how?”

  “There’s the carrot and the stick, but you already tried the stick.”

  Burrow bristled. “That leaves us with the carrot—his new surgery. But I can’t cave in on that.”

  Clark’s questioning face seemed not to agree.

  “I can’t, Case. I won’t!” The governor pouted, his bottom lip protruding petulantly, his shoulders slouching, his hands in his pockets nervously jiggling his keys.

  “Let’s not say cave in, Governor. Remember, a tragedy occurred. You may want to intervene in a special circumstance, as an act of mercy.”

  The governor’s keys stopped rattling. His face brightened with the only radiance it knew: that of finding a crafty scheme. “That might play.”

  “It will. And you’ll position yourself as the friend of science. The doctors and the people want research. It’s in CareFree’s charter to support that. What better time to create an institute for medical research than when the issue is hot and we can get maximum press impact?”

  The governor stood in the center of the room, waving his hands as if on a podium. “Mack Burrow, friend of science, hears the voice of the people and announces a new initiative, a way for medical researchers to breeze through the regulatory process and gain speedy approvals.”

  “Scientists can apply, and friend of science Mack Burrow will ensure that noteworthy projects bypass red tape and get quick approvals from the state,” added Clark.

  “In the same spirit that an intervention was made for Abraham in the Bible, I will intervene for another man who put a higher good before his own. I’ll lift the suspension on Secretary Lang’s son so that he can apply, too.”

  “And when he does, we’ll push his application through. If his new treatment is successful, you’ll be the hero for making it happen. If it’s not, he still was fined twenty-five thousand dollars and suspended for two months, so no one can say he got off easy. You’re covered both ways.”

  “That might just play, Case.”

  “If David Lang dares to criticize CareFree, who would take him seriously after the state found a legal way for him to move forward? You responded to a snag in the system and corrected it. That takes the wind out of his sails.”

  “If we act now, he’ll never appear on Insight next Sunday.”

  “That would be imperative, Governor.”

  “But what about all the other researchers who’ll want to bankrupt the system and undermine our authority?”

  “They’ll apply. We’ll stall things for a while. After the election, you’ll see what you can do. Then we won’t need to support some of the things we support now, so the priorities will change. When we toss everything in the air after you’re reelected, we’ll see how research shakes out.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Think about it, Governor.”

  As Clark turned to go, Burrow buzzed his secretary. “Mary, who’s my next appointment?”

  “John Slater,” a pleasant voice from the phone’s speaker replied. “After that, Tess Olson. And someone arrived without an appointment—”

  “I’m not seeing anyone unscheduled.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask Dr. Randall Lang to leave.”

  “Who?”

  “Secretary Lang’s son Randall, the hospital administrator.”

  Burrow and Clark looked at each other, surprised. A curious grin formed on Burrow’s face.

  “Send him in, Mary. I’ll see Dr. Randall Lang after all.”

  * * * * *

  Randy sat in the governor’s outer office, staring vacantly at a painting of the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam. Little sleep and a long drive from Manhattan to Albany, following a stressful weekend of memorial services for his father, made staying awake a
challenge. Restless with worry, Randy had awakened at 4:00 that morning. As he had sipped coffee in the kitchen, his wife had entered, wearing a black silk robe, her red hair tousled.

  “I didn’t want to wake you, Beth.”

  “What’s wrong, honey?” she had said, throwing an arm around his shoulders, sitting on the stool next to him at their breakfast bar.

  “My job has become an exercise in being a person who’s not me.”

  “I hate seeing you unhappy. I wish you could quit.”

  “Not until Victoria gets her skating lessons, Stephen his piano training, and Michelle her private grade school, and not until we put all three of them through college.”

  Beth had nodded. Their three children were gifted, and also expensive.

  “Policing David to keep him out of the OR hasn’t made my job more pleasant.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “David’s going to do the second nerve-repair surgery. I don’t know how or where, but he’ll do it. Unless his experimental procedure is an unqualified success in its first human trial, he’ll lose his license, and no other state will accept him. It’ll be the end of my brother.”

  “Now that he’s talking to the press, maybe public pressure—”

  “The public are whores. They’ll respond to David one minute, then they’ll demand more of Burrow’s programs to take care of them. The only thing that can save David is something he won’t do—play Burrow’s game.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we have to be whores, also, to get concessions from the BOM.”