know what the hell was going on. I heard a sound come from
inside the apartment, a soft moan that chilled my blood.
“Jack, goddamn it, open up!”
I heard a lock disengage, then the door opened a crack.
It didn’t open any farther. I approached the door, pushed
it open wider.
“Jack? Where are…?”
My breath caught in my throat when I could see what
was behind the door. Jack was lying in a puddle of what
looked like vomit. His undershirt was covered in green
chunks, and the whole apartment smelled like a rotted distillery. Flecks were stuck to the man’s beard.
“Oh, Jesus, Jack.”
I shoved the door open and pushed in, gathering the old
man in my arms. He was heavy and essentially dead
weight, but I managed to drag him over to the couch. The
white leather was covered in odd stains. Empty bottles
littered the floor, tossed about like they were nothing more
than discarded paper clips.
“Jack, come on, talk to me.” I patted his cheek, laying
him on the couch. Then I rushed into the kitchen, found
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where he kept his dishes and poured a glass of water. I
jogged back, tilted his head up. Raised the glass to his lips.
When I poured, the water ran down the sides of his mouth,
pooled in the folds of his pants.
“Come on! ”
I tried again, this time opening his lips with my fingers.
When the water entered his mouth, he began to sputter and
cough. His eyes flickered open as he wiped the liquid
from his lips. He blinked a few times, his eyes red, lids
crusty.
“Henry?” he said.
“I’m here, Jack,” I replied, cradling his head.
“Forgot to call in sick today,” he said, before going
slack in my arms.
26
I sat by the side of the bed, thinking about how much time
I’d spent in hospitals recently. Jack had been taken to
Bellevue, where he was diagnosed with acute alcohol poisoning.
I’d heard sketchy things about Bellevue, some of which
were confirmed upon seeing several men clad all in inmate
orange walking handcuffed through the halls. I just prayed
the doctors here understood how important this patient
was, and had passed their medical board exams with flying
colors. Unfortunately, I was getting used to white hospital
walls. The antiseptic smell. The forced, sad smiles on concerned friends and family members.
My ex-girlfriend, Mya, was finally at home after recovering from several surgeries after her body was shattered
by a ruthless sociopath earlier in the year. I’d stayed by
Mya’s bed for weeks, comforting her mother when we
didn’t know if Mya would pull through, then comforting
Mya when she went through the agony of rehabilitation
and coping with the murder of her father by the same man
who’d tried to end her life.
When you give yourself to someone, you carry the
responsibility of not just being a friend or confidant, or
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even a lover, but giving yourself to them when they need
it most. I knew Mya had desired for us to get back together,
and perhaps the most difficult part of those weeks was
being a friend while keeping my distance. Physical pain
went away, or could be stunted through medication. It
broke my heart to deny her my affection when she
probably needed it most. But she would have been hurt
more later knowing my heart still belonged to another
woman.
Seeing Jack lying in bed made me wonder just what I
could, or would, give the man. Perhaps I’d been too emotionally reserved. Or perhaps not given enough.
The doctors had measured Jack’s blood alcohol level at
an astonishing .19, well over double the legal limit in New
York.
An IV was hooked into his right arm, tubes in his nose
pumping oxygen, his breathing slow and steady. A bag
dripped fluids into his veins as they attempted to flush out
Jack’s poisoned system. The doctors also informed me
they would be testing for cirrhosis of the liver. They
guessed—correctly—that this kind of drinking binge was
not limited to last night.
A doctor entered the room. He was middle-aged, wore
thick glasses on his thin nose. His eyes were red, tired. He
flipped through the chart at the foot of Jack’s bed, then
checked out the readings on the monitors by the bedside.
He scribbled in the folder, then placed it back.
“How is he?” I asked. “Dr.…”
The doctor turned, then said with a faint smile, “Dr.
Brenneman. I’ve seen worse.”
“You didn’t see him before they cleaned him up.”
“There’s always a worse, trust me. But he’s lucky you
found him when you did. The biggest danger with alcohol
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poisoning is aspiration and asphyxiation. He could have
literally choked to death on his own vomit.”
“Ordinarily, I’d say he owes me a drink for saving his
life, but…”
“I don’t think that’s the wisest course of action,”
Brenneman said.
“When will he wake up?” I asked.
“Well, that’s all up to him. We’re going to keep him for
a few days and monitor his fluid levels, make sure his liver
functions are all up to par, but he’s not unconscious or
anything like that. Just sleeping.”
“Got it. Thanks, Doc, I appreciate it. And I’m sure Jack
does, too.”
He waved his hand, dismissing any gratitude. “I’m
actually a fan of Mr. O’Donnell’s work,” he said. “I
followed his reportings on the mob wars a few years back.
All that violence with Michael DiForio and his murder, it’s
all so tawdry and terrible, but I just couldn’t turn away.
They never did find the man who killed DiForio, did
they?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“Scares you to think there’s someone out there walking
the streets dangerous enough to kill the head of a major organized-crime family, and slippery enough to get away with it.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “So did you recognize
Jack right away?”
Brenneman laughed. “Are you kidding? The man’s a New
York legend.” Then his brow furrowed, as concern melted
into his features. “To be honest, that’s what upsets me the
most. I’ve been around enough alcoholics not to judge, but
you never expect to see such a, well, legend suffer like he has.
To do to his body what he has. For some reason, and forgive
me for saying this, but I guess I expected more from him.”
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“Yeah,” I replied. “I guess we all did.” Brenneman
nodded, turned to leave. “Hey, Doc, mind if I ask you one
more question?”
“Absolutely,” he said, clutching his clipboard to his
chest.
“What could cause a person to lose their memory? Not
permanently, but, like, a c
hunk of it. A few years. What
could punch a hole in someone’s life?”
“Well, a few things. I assume you’re referring to a kind
of anterograde amnesia. Most of the time amnesia is the
result of some traumatic damage to the brain, specifically
the hippocampus and the medial temporal lobes. Anterograde, in which there is usually what’s called a ‘hole’ or
‘blackout episode,’ happens as the result of a chemical imbalance. It’s commonly referred to as Korsakoff syndrome.”
“What happens when someone is a victim of Korsakoff?”
“Basically, it’s a degenerative brain condition that’s
brought on by a severe lack of thiamine—or vitamin B1—
in a person’s brain. Thiamine helps metabolize fats and
carbohydrates in the body.”
“Thiamine—is this a natural substance? Does the body
produce it?”
“No, it’s like any other vitamin, it has to be absorbed
in the system from outside. There’s vitamin B1 in dozens
of everyday foods, from bread to meat, vegetables, dairy.
You’d almost have to go out of your way to deprive
yourself of it.
“Is there any way this chemical imbalance—or Korsakoff syndrome—could be induced?”
“Absolutely. Have you heard of GHB or GBL?”
“Date-rape drugs, right?”
“That’s the lay term for them, yes. In effect, what
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those drugs do is induce a form of retrograde amnesia.
Ironically, GHB is sometimes prescribed to help combat
alcoholism.” Brenneman looked at Jack. He figured I was
asking these questions because of him. “GHB and
Rohypnol, especially when mixed with alcohol, can be a
potent and often lethal mixture.”
“But aren’t the effects of those drugs pretty shortterm?”
“Assuming they’re not ingested in lethal amounts, yes,
they generally only cause memory lapses of four to ten
hours. And though that’s not a tremendous amount of time,
in the grand scheme of things, people who use them for nefarious purposes can accomplish an awful lot of evil in that
time.”
“What about long-term anterograde amnesia? Are there
any ways to induce Korsakoff syndrome in a way that
could affect the brain for months or even years?”
“In severe cases, people either born with dangerously
low levels of thiamine, or whose levels are brought down
to a certain level, can experience a form of long-term anterograde amnesia. The damage is done to the medial
thalamus, and if left untreated, if thiamine levels are left
below a certain level, the memory loss can be long-term,
or even permanent.” Brenneman eyed me. “Ironically
again, alcoholism is one of the most common causes of
long-term anterograde amnesia.”
Again he eyed Jack. And while Jack would face a tremendous struggle in his battle against the bottle, the more
pressing fight was to uncover what had happened to Daniel
Linwood and Michelle Oliveira. Jack was in good care. I
couldn’t say the same about Girl X.
Suddenly I heard a buzzing sound, and Brenneman’s
hand went to his coat. He took out a small pager, clicked
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it, then said, “I’ve been summoned. Nice to meet you,
Mr.…”
“Henry Parker,” I said.
“Mr. Parker.” He looked at Jack. “Please, take care of
him. More important, get him to take care of himself.”
Then Brenneman left.
I stayed with Jack for another half an hour. I just
watched him breathe, waiting for him to wake up. Half
wanting to go over there, shake his drunken ass until his
eyes opened, letting him have it about how he was
throwing his life’s reputation away. How he was in danger
of throwing his legacy away. Instead I sat there, watching
the tubes drip, the machines beep, thinking about how the
man who single-handedly brought the New York Gazette
to prominence had to be carted out of his house like a
derelict.
After half an hour I couldn’t sit there any longer, so I
left and called Wallace from the street.
“How is he?” the man said.
“About what you’d expect, only worse.”
“I knew Jack was drinking, more than usual, but I had
no idea it was this bad.”
“So you knew he was developing a problem.” I was this
close to screaming at my boss, and I didn’t care.
“Yes, but he was still turning his stories in on time and
he was still a valuable member of the team here.”
“Wallace, we both know his stuff hasn’t been top-notch
in a while.”
“So Jack’s lost a little off his fastball. But he’s still
faster than most reporters, and he’s got enough smarts,
contacts and writing chops to make up for anything he’s
lost.”
“He doesn’t have to lose anything, it’s being taken from
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him, bottle by bottle. He’s worked for you for what, thirty
years? And you repay him by turning a blind eye?”
“Watch it, Parker,” Wallace snapped. “You haven’t been
here long enough and you haven’t known Jack long
enough to judge either of us. We’ll get O’Donnell the help
he needs. Right now your only job is as an employee of
this newspaper. Assuming you still want to be.”
“Of course I do,” I said. “More than ever.”
“Good. Then show it.”
Wallace hung up. I felt a great anger surge through me.
Both at the runaround I was getting on the Linwood/Oliveira
kidnappings, and now this. I’d looked up to Jack for so many
years, spent so much of my childhood idolizing this pillar
of a man, to see him reduced to a lump under a hospital throw
rug was like seeing a baseball bat taken to fine crystal. That’s
one thing I’d learned in my years as a reporter. Every person,
no matter the pubic perception, had demons. And the higher
regard in which you held them in, the greater the disappointment when you realized their demons were as common
as anyone else’s. I refused to believe that Jack O’Donnell
was a common alcoholic. The kind of guy who scrounged
around his cabinets for that one drop of Knob Creek he
knew was left. Jack had a gift that defied all of it. And once
he got help, he could polish that crystal back to a shine.
I took a cab back to my apartment. Last night I couldn’t
wait to get to the office. Today I couldn’t bear to spend
another minute there. I needed a respite, if only brief.
I threw my stuff on the couch, went into the kitchen and
found a Corona nestled behind a jar of pickles. The beer
tasted flat, but I didn’t care. It had alcohol and that’s all I
wanted right now. I needed a moment to feel oblivious,
blissfully ignorant, to have that feeling all alcoholics must
have when they pop the first top of the day and know that,
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pretty soon, the world outside wouldn’t bother them for
much longer.
Before
I could get to the second sip, my phone rang.
The caller ID read “Amanda.” I picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Henry, everything all right? I’ve been trying to reach
you all day.”
“Not really. Jack was admitted to the hospital this
morning. Alcohol poisoning. I walked in on him sitting in
a pile of his own vileness.”
“Oh, God. I remember a while ago you thought he was
drinking too much.”
“Yeah, I just never thought it would get this bad.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. I called you at the office, and
got worried when I couldn’t find you. After the past few
days my mind’s been all out of whack.”
“I’m at home now. Having a beer. Feel the same way
as you.”
There was a pregnant pause, and then Amanda said,
“Mind if I come over?”
Without waiting, I said, “No. That’d be nice.”
“Be there in half an hour.”
After we hung up, I got up and poured the rest of the
beer into the sink. Then I sat on the couch and waited.
I wondered: Would Dmitri Petrovsky still be alive if we
hadn’t followed him? Possibly. But what the hell was he
mixed up in?
I still didn’t know exactly what his link was to Danny
and Michelle. He was their pediatrician, but somehow he
was connected to my friend the Chesterfield-chainsmoking sociopath. One more trail to follow. I needed to
know who that man was, who lived in that house, and what
Dmitri Petrovsky knew that made necessary his permanent
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silence. One thing was for certain, my digging had opened
a can of worms someone very badly wanted kept closed.
I looked around my apartment. Humble even by
humble’s standards. I knew when I moved to New York
that it was one of the most expensive cities in the world,
but nothing prepared me for three-dollar cups of coffee or
twelve-dollar movie tickets. I was paying about sixty
percent of my income to a landlord I never met, who took
longer to fix my air-conditioning than it would have taken
me to install a hot tub into a Buick Skylark. I had no idea
how long it took Jack to make a decent living, but I hoped
it wasn’t too long in the waiting.
Twenty-five minutes later my buzzer rang. I peeked
out the window, saw Amanda standing on the street. She
looked up at me, waved. I let her in.
She came upstairs and sat down across the couch from
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