In theory, with a name, date of birth, employer and so forth, I should be able to find out a lot about my adversary. In practice, I just wasn’t very good with technology. I’d done all my reconnaissance work back before computers. I knew people who could dig this stuff up, but I’d have to come up with a reason to explain why I wanted the info. Leave that until later.
What could he want from me? So far as I could remember, I hadn’t crossed anyone in a long time. I hadn’t knowingly slept with anyone’s wife in years, and I hadn’t killed anyone since Korea. The man I’d healed looked around thirty. For his entire life I’d been laying low, working as a medic. Had I healed someone he didn’t want healed? Had the firefighters’ union gotten sick of my wise-ass remarks and put out a hit on me?
I stopped, reviewed my thoughts.
Mr Doors looked about thirty.
But so did I.
There was no reason to believe I was unique. Well, beyond the usual. Just because I’d never met anyone like me didn’t mean others didn’t exist. And if they hid, if they didn’t advertize, how would I recognize them?
Could I have wronged this man a long way back? It was after I’d healed him that he noticed something. Who had seen me do that? Well, lots of people, but generally they just thought the injury hadn’t been all that bad, and I’d gotten to them quickly.
He maybe looked a bit like that Prussian Baron whose fiancée had run off with me. I’d really done them both a favor. They’d never have been happy together.
Or that Hussar lieutenant whose horse I’d stolen at Borodino. To be fair, I’d stopped him bleeding to death as well, but cavalrymen get touchy about their horses. If you think about it, I’d done the only reasonable thing. He was an officer and a man of means. The kind of man who gets taken prisoner and exchanged or ransomed. The Czarist cavalry would have treated another horse soldier like a brother. It’s not like I left him to the Cossacks. I, on the other hand, was in the uniform of a voltigeur corporal at the time, and the Russian lancers would have spitted me.
I shook my head. If Doors was more or less immortal, like me, he could have any number of reasons for disliking me. No way to know.
Bad form in an immortal, holding a grudge.
I took the knife out of my desk drawer and looked at it. What did those symbols mean? Writing on weapons always has some deep meaning. This wasn’t a presentation blade to hang on a wall. This was a well used utilitarian weapon. The balance, the shape, the spring of the steel. This was to cut people.
Warriors are a superstitious lot. Anything written on a weapon they planned to use in combat would be important. I’d carried a lot of weapons, and marched beside a lot of soldiers. Why didn’t I recognize this inscription? If I’d wronged Doors, I should at least be able to identify his alphabet.
I was sitting on the couch when the phone rang. I let it go to machine, since I was in no mood to work an overtime shift, but picked up as soon as I heard Sarah’s voice. ‘Hi, I’m here.’
‘Screening again?’
‘Ever since my secretary quit on me,’ I replied.
‘Well, if you can find your social calendar without her, see if you’re free tonight.’
‘I’m sure I can find some time. I’ll just cancel with the Prime Minister.’
‘You’re too good to me,’ she laughed. ‘Just get over as soon as you can.’
‘Anything the matter?’ I asked.
‘Nothing terrible. Tough day at work. I was hoping to relax with some takeout and a movie. A little company wouldn’t be unwelcome.’
‘Sounds great. Anything I can bring?’
‘Something alcoholic.’
‘Can do,’ I replied, avoiding the obvious joke about how I was bringing myself anyway. ‘See you in an hour.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
I hung up and jumped in the shower, shaved, dug through my wardrobe for a shirt without an ambulance company logo on it and ran a comb through my hair. There would be time enough to worry about angry foreigners with knives. Tonight a beautiful woman was requesting my company.
‘How do I look, buddy?’ I asked the cat. He raised his head, squinted at me for a moment then lay back down. ‘So, the green shirt is OK, then?’ He ignored me. I did throw a change of clothes and a toothbrush in a bag, just in case. Being male, the polite thing to do would be to leave it in the car. Showing up at the door with a gym bag in one hand was a bit presumptuous. A woman could always pack the essential in her purse, thus remaining subtle. And even if a woman walked into a man’s apartment at the beginning of a date and bluntly asked if there were someplace she could put her toothbrush, spare panties and diaphragm, chances are there’d be few complaints.
I drove over, stopping on the way for a six-pack of a winter warmer: a heavy, very alcoholic beer, almost a barley wine. A good choice for relaxing after a hard day in the middle of winter. It was a bold choice, maybe, but I knew she drank good beer, and it wasn’t bitter. I also picked up a bunch of flowers. I don’t understand the power flowers have on women, but I know not to underestimate it.
I arrived at her building, a nondescript apartment block in the middle-class town of North Andover. I walked to the elevator, noting that the lobby was clean, well maintained but decorated with a nod to 1974. I pressed the button for the third floor, found my way to the door and knocked.
She answered the door dressed in a t-shirt, oversized flannel shirt and blue jeans. She looked a little tired, but still treated me to a kiss and a warm smile that broadened into delight when I presented the bouquet.
‘Flowers,’ she said, ‘you shouldn’t have. Thank you. Come in, come in.’ She gave me a quick tour of the apartment, a simple two bedrooms, one of which had been converted into an office, a comfortable living room and a small but efficiently set up kitchen. Decoration was mostly books, including some old and rare examples, a few photos and some prints of landscapes hung on the walls. A cabinet of curios and knickknacks stood near the front door.
She took the flowers and went in search of a vase. ‘Have a seat on the couch. I’ll be right there.’
I sat and opened two bottles and she returned with a bowl of popcorn and a phone. She set the bowl on the coffee table. ‘Bon appétit,’ she said. ‘After we get comfortable I’ll call for delivery. You feel like Italian or Chinese?’
‘I’m easy,’ I replied. ‘You’re the one who had the tough day. Whatever you’d prefer, unless choosing is too much effort.’
‘No, but thanks for thinking that way. I’m leaning toward Italian.’ She rolled her head, stretching her neck. ‘Too long at the computer today.’
‘Here.’ I dragged an ottoman in front of me. ‘Have a seat and let me take a look at that neck.’
She sat in front of me, and I swept her hair aside and gently kneaded her neck and shoulders. I sensed the tense, knotted muscles deep under the skin, and sent a little energy to relax them. Again, cheating, but nobody’s ever complained.
‘Oh, God,’ she moaned, ‘where did you learn that? If you dated a masseuse, I swear I won’t get angry, so long as you keep doing that.’
‘Nothing so exciting,’ I replied. ‘I just have a knack. So, what’s on your mind?’
‘Eh. Students,’ she sighed. ‘Just when I think I might actually be reaching some of them, they relieve me of that illusion. Nobody’s in class to learn things. It’s about checking a box for a course requirement, or an easy boost to the GPA or that they’re stalking a fellow student. I’m almost no longer horrified when one of them asks if I could please not write in cursive on the board, because they can’t read it. I’ve come to terms with that kind of thing.’
I kept working on her neck, slow and gentle.
‘And, you know,’ she continued, ‘I’m just starting to get cynical enough that it doesn’t bother me anymore. I just tell myself that they’re young, they’re mostly from well off families, they don’t know much about life yet. It’s extended high school.’
‘So what happened today?’ I asked,
kneading her shoulders.
‘Clueless entitled nineteen year olds, them I’m used to. I didn’t expect that level of delusion from parents.’ She shook her head. ‘I got a call from an irate father today. Says he’s not paying forty grand a year so his unique special snowflake of a son can get a C.’
I laughed. ‘You point out he may want to let Junior know he’s not paying forty grand a year for the kid to get a C?’
‘I know. It’s like he bought a defective cell phone. Or like the transmission in his Audi is slipping and he expects me to make it right.’
‘Well, I’m sure he’s not the first important man to expect things to be handed to his sons,’ I said.
‘He’s an entitled yuppie douchebag,’ she agreed.
‘A species that thrives in temperate suburban climates.’
‘How do you do it?’ She turned her head to look at me. ‘You must see stupidity and repeat customers all the time.’
‘Yep. I don’t want to brag, but I’m on a first-name basis with half the drunks and addicts in the Greater Philips Mills area.’
‘Doesn’t it ever frustrate you?’
I shrugged. ‘Not really. You need to want to do it. The pay’s lousy. It has to be its own reward.’
‘The tragedy and stupidity don’t wear you down? How do you keep from smacking them or cutting your wrists?’
‘A lot of medics burn out,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t feel that coming any time soon. I mean, you can’t focus on the bad outcomes. People die, people get hurt. You can’t save everybody, and you certainly can’t help people who won’t be saved. Once in a great while a call does bother me. If it’s kids or when you watch a patient you’ve gotten to know slowly fall apart. Mostly I look at it like dinner theater.’
‘Dinner theater?’
‘Seriously. Where else can you get called out by the cops to evaluate the injuries of the John and the she-male hooker who got into a broken bottle fight over the quality of the crack tendered as payment? And get paid for it!’
She laughed. ‘OK, but what about the drunks and addicts? You don’t think it’s futile, when they’re just going to overdose again?’
‘You can’t think of it that way. We can enjoy a great meal right? But we’re going to be hungry again in the morning. That doesn’t make the meal futile, or diminish it in any way. It’s never futile to alleviate suffering, even temporarily.’
‘You make it sound noble.’
‘Only by accident. I think of it as being in the moment. Life is fleeting. Enjoy what you have while you have it. Don’t just eat, suck the marrow and lick your fingers.’
I rubbed a bit harder with my thumbs, loosening a cramped muscle. She groaned and hung her head. I ran my fingertips up her neck, through her hair, massaging her scalp. I leaned in and kissed the back of her neck, still flushed and warm from the massage. She sighed and leaned back against me.
‘I’ll give you no more than an hour to knock that off,’ she threatened.
‘Or what?’ I breathed between kisses.
‘I shall have to ravish you, kidnap you and force you to spend your days slaving in my kitchen and bedroom.’ She twisted around, wrapping her arms and legs around me and kissing me. ‘Now, your first order is to carry me to my bed. I wish to learn more of this marrow sucking, finger-licking approach to life.’
‘As you wish,’ I replied. I was always capable of following orders. Provided they were what I wanted to do anyway.
I was gentler and slower this time. I could tell she was still tired and wanted to relax, not try and wake the neighbors. I took my time, paid attention to her cues, prolonging and luxuriating in the moment. The first night, we’d both been like people stumbling onto an oasis after starving in the wilderness. This time I savored her like dessert.
Hunger of a more mundane sort eventually got us out of bed and dressed. We ordered food from Giovanni’s, a better-than-average Italian takeout joint, and settled on the couch. I got us two new beers to replace the ones that had gone warm and flat while we were in the bedroom.
‘I never seem to finish my beer around you.’ She smiled.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I try to do the gentlemanly thing and get you drunk before taking advantage of you, but you keep dragging me into the sack before I can.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘I’m too slutty to be a good tramp. It’s really embarrassing.’
After our food arrived, we settled down and she turned on the TV.
‘So, what are we watching?’
‘A romantic comedy,’ she replied, hitting a button on the remote.
I resigned myself to sit through whatever was coming. Anything would be bearable so long as I had this beautiful woman beside me and a good dinner in front of me. I sat up suddenly once the film started.
‘The Three Musketeers!’ I exclaimed. ‘The good version!’
‘Of course it’s the good version. My degree is in literature, you know,’ she replied. ‘Plus, Richard Chamberlain was gorgeous back then.’
I put my arm around her and smiled. ‘I think I could adjust to the life of your kitchen and bedroom slave.’
Chapter 15
I WALKED INTO THE AMBULANCE BASE, dropped my bag in the day room and headed out to the garage. On the way through the kitchen, I noticed the deep utility sink full of assorted debris. The whiteboard where the daily assignments were written had been taken off the wall and put there, as had one of the old, unreliable portable radios. I shrugged and continued out to the truck.
Pete was standing by the open side door, going through the checklist, a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand.
‘Morning,’ I said.
‘Hey,’ he muttered. ‘How’s it hangin’?’
‘Listing to starboard. What’s up with the slop sink?’
He chuckled. ‘Oh, that. Marty got a hair across his ass about people leaving dishes in the sink. I guess he wants us to wash up before running out the door when we get a call or something. He posted a memo saying “Anything found in the sink after five PM will be thrown out”. I threw the chore board in, Nique got fed up when P20’s portable wouldn’t hold a charge and tossed that in. We tried to wrestle Burton in, but he’s a scrappy little fucker.’
I laughed. ‘Think I can drive Ambulance 18 into the sink?’
‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘If the tranny doesn’t drop out halfway there.’ He took a sip of his coffee, made a face. ‘Jesus, is Dunk’s trying to hire the dumbest employees they can find or does it just happen? No fucking sugar.’ He opened the drug box, rummaged around and came out with a prefilled syringe of dextrose solution. He popped the cap off, injected about ten cc into his coffee cup, then tossed the syringe into the trash. ‘Thank God D50 isn’t a controlled substance.’
‘That’d stop you?’
‘Nah, but I’d need you to perjure yourself as a witness in the drug log.’
‘Let’s get this checksheet done and get out of here before the boss gets in,’ I said. ‘Then I’m gonna go get a decent cup of coffee.’
‘Where you gonna do that in this town? Half the employees at Dunkin Donuts don’t speak enough English to understand “cream and sugar”.’
‘Yo quiero un café medio con crema y dos azucares,’ I replied. ‘If they still don’t get it, just talk really loud.’
‘See, I knew that worked.’
‘Anyway, let’s hit the Korean doughnut shop.’
‘What the hell do gooks know about doughnuts?’
I shrugged. ‘Dunno where they picked it up, but the coffee is good and they put Dunk’s pastry to shame. I’m sure they still use lard in the dough.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘And it’s convenient to Park Street, for all your heroin and crack cocaine needs.’
‘One-stop shopping for the discriminating addict?’ asked Pete.
‘Pretty much.’
We drove over and I bought a coffee and a raspberry turnover with a flaky, dense, buttery crust that would harden an artery at ten paces.
I pulled out of the parking lot of the doughnut shop and raised my coffee to my lips when the radio squawked.
‘P20, respond to 135 Overlook Heights for the possible sudden. PD is responding.’
‘Possible sudden,’ mused Pete. ‘That mean it might be a gradual?’
For reasons beyond my humble understanding, a patient found in cardiac arrest was often dispatched to us as a “sudden death” or “sudden”.
‘20. Responding.’ I flipped the lights on and set off toward the address. Overlook Heights was a wooded hill sitting above a curve of the Merrimack River. It was where the mill owners built their homes back when the city was planned. As promised, it had offered a sweeping vista of the bustling, thriving immigrant city that the textile industry built. Now it offered a sweeping vista of the abandoned brick mill buildings, leaning three deckers, hourly-rate rooming houses, low-income housing projects and the shiny, tricked-out sports cars that the heroin industry built.
We pulled up in front of a nicely renovated old Victorian house, two SUVs in the driveway, and even under a foot of snow I could see more than six months of my rent’s worth of money sunk into landscaping. The engine crew was leaning on the truck, laughing with the two cops. Even with my too-often-justified dim view of their clinical skills, I figured that meant the patient was beyond any urgency.
‘Hey, guys,’ Pete said as he ambled up. ‘What’ve we got?’
The assembled crew traded winks and snickers. One of the police officers beckoned us aside. I knew him from doing some calls together. Tony Angelo, promoted to detective as far as I remembered.
‘Hi guys,’ he said quietly when we were away from the group. ‘OK, this guy basically hung himself. Accidentally. While... well... you know. The wife is horrified and in denial. I kept the Bad News Bears out here. You guys just need to go in, confirm he’s dead and bang out a quick report for the ME.’
‘I think we can handle that.’
‘And, please, when you see him, keep it professional. For the wife, OK?’
‘You know, Tony,’ Pete said, ‘you’re insulting me. When have I ever been anything but professional?’
Out of Nowhere (The Immortal Vagabond Healer Book 1) Page 10