"Well then, I guess that's it," Eric said.
"I hope I've been of some help to you gentlemen," Donald Devine said, extending a hand that felt as if it had been kept in a meat locker.
"You've been a great help," Eric said. He was thinking of how pleasant dinner with Laura Enders was going to be, now that he had no bad news for her.
Devine again formed his phalangeal steeple.
"Think nothing of it," he crooned. "At the Gates of Heaven, service is our middle name."
"Nice slogan," Subarsky muttered thoughtfully.
"'Service is our middle name." I like that."
They thanked the mortician. Then, to the strains of muted string music, they departed.
Although the lobby of the Hotel Carlisle was badly in need of refurbishing, the lighting was so subdued that Eric actually had an impression of opulence as he crossed the frayed Oriental carpet in the lobby and settled into a cracked blue leather easy chair near the elevators. He was ten minutes early, and Laura had asked him to wait.
The prospect of spending time with her was appealing for reasons even beyond his initial attraction. She would be the first woman unassociated with medicine he had dated in longer than he could remember.
Buoyed by thoughts of the evening, he had enjoyed a day as peaceful, productive, and close to normal as any he had had in some time. The morning, which Verdi had ushered in with an aria that might have been from Madama Butterfly, had been spent paying bills and writing some long-overdue letters. In the afternoon he had played racquetball with a friend and attended grand rounds at the hospital.
Normal. After thirteen years of study and training, of ungodly hours and one sacrifice after another in his personal life, he wasn't even sure he knew what the word meant. what he did know, however, was that change was in the wind for him, with or without the appointment as associate director of the E.R.
It had been a full week since the search committee meeting. For three of those days he had worn the caduceus pin, but so far no one had made contact with him. Still, all three members of the committee had seen the pin on his clinic coat, and he sensed that before much longer Caduceus would make its requirements known to him.
A pretty blonde in spike heels and a skintight red dress caught his eye and sashayed over to him.
"Hi. My name's Wendy. You looking' for a date?" she asked.
"Huh? Oh, no. That's a really nice invitation, Wendy, but no thanks.
I'm waiting for someone."
"She this hot?" The woman gestured to her body.
Beneath her excessive makeup, Eric saw, was a girl still in her mid-teens.
"Maybe not," he said, stifling the urge to ask her the what's-a-nice-girl-like-you question, or to lecture her on the importance of safe'sex. "But tonight I think she's all I can handle."
The prostitute struck a pose and folded down her lower lip in an exaggerated pout.
"Your loss," he said. "You're real cute. I could give you a hell of a time at a hell of price."
"Thanks, Wendy, but no thanks."
"Suit yourself."
She scanned the lobby and set her sights on a man who was buried behind a newspaper.
"Hi, friend," Eric heard her say. She pushed down the top of the paper with one finger and peeked over.
"Looking for a date?"
"Beat it." The man, wearing sneakers and a tan windbreaker, snapped the paper back over his face.
"Suit yourself," Wendy said.
The prostitute retreated to her post just as the elevators opened and Laura stepped out. She had on a long gmy sweater over jeans, and carried a trenchcoat over one arm. Her sable hair was tied back with a clip, and she moved with the ease and grace of a natural athlete. She was even lovelier than Eric had remembered.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said.
"No problem." He stumbled getting up from his chair. "You look great."
"Thanks. It's amazing what twenty miles a day of tless walking can do."
"No success?"
"Not unless you count a hundred or so 'hey, baby's," ten requests for dates, and two proposals of marriage.
"Don't get discouraged."
"I'm not. At least not yet."
"Good. You still up for a slice of Armenia?"
"You bet. The thought got me through half a dozen hotels, two hospitals, a few computer stores, and a sleazy reporter who suggested that there might be a way to run a story about Scott in his paper if I was willing to come by his place tonight for an interview."
"Never underestimate the power of the press. Tell me something, Laura.
With all these people coming on to you, what made you say yes to me?"
She thought for a moment.
"Actually, I was quite surprised to hear myself doing that," she said.
"And to tell you the truth, I really haven't tried to figure out why I did. But it's better that way, yes?"
Eric helped her on with her coat and they started across the lobby. As they passed the reception desk Windy winked at him, gave him a thumbs-up sign, and mouthed the words, "Not bad." Laura caught the exchange.
"Friend of yours?" she asked.
"Her name's Wendy."
"She's been here every night. She's so pretty, it makes me sad to think of what she has to do."
They waved to Wendy and then pushed through the glass doors into an evening that smelled and felt like spring. Behind them, the man in the tan windbreaker quickly folded up his paper and followed.
Pariegam was a gritty little place on a back street just off Watertown Square. Every month or two Eric managed to stop by for dinner, and invariably a significant proportion of the other patrons were relatives of his.
His parents each had three married siblings, all still living in Watertown; each of those couples had children who, in Turn, had in-laws and another set of aunts and uncles.
Only once before had he taken a date to Paxiegam, and that night had been a disaster. The woman, a social worker at the hospital, had been so intimidated by the crush of relatives fussing over him and unabashedly sizing her up that she had spilled a glass of wine in her lap. Bringing Laura here was a calculated risk, but he loved the place, and suspected she would too.
"There's still time to change your mind about this," Eric said at the door.
"Is it going to be that bad?"
"That's hard to predict. At best, I think you can hope that only half the patrons in there are related to me. It's highly doubtful we'll be able to slip in and out unnoticed."
"I'm sure they're proud of what you've done with your life, and they have a right to be."
"I'm glad you understand. Armenians have been persecuted as much as any people in the history of the world. Life is very precious to us, and success in life means all the more because of what we've had to overcome to attain it."
"And for the ultimate in success read: physician."
"That's the way a fair number of Armenians feel especially those my parents'age."
"Well, I promise I won't embarrass you," she said.
"Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so pomPous."
"Nonsense. All you're saying is that being a doctor is important to you. I hope someday I find a,career that makes me feel that way.
Now, if I don't get some dolma and yalanchee in me soon, I could get mighty testy." Eric stared at her, genuinely impressed.
"You know, I think I like you," he said.
The restaurant, which was always crowded and noisy, was more so than usual this night. The small bar was packed three deep, and every table was filled.
At one end of the place, on a small raised stage, a second or third cousin of Eric's was playing the oud, accompanied by a percussionist who was snapping out remarkable rhythms on dumbeg.
"I think you chose well," Laura said.
"I hope so, t)because from the look of things, we may not get a table for a while."
"Hey, Doctor Eric!"
A short, portly man with a checked apron pushed his way
to them through the crowd.
"Hello, Arem," Eric said. "Ench bes es?"
"Not bad. I hear you're going to be the director of your hospital.
Congratulations."
"God. Arem, it's just- the emergency service, not the hospital.
And it's only the associate director's job, and I haven't gotten it yet.
Otherwise, your information is perfect."
"Hey, that's exciting," Laura said.
"If it comes through it will be. Laura, this is Arem Bozian.
Pariegam is his place. Arem, this is Laura."
The proprietor took Laura's hand and kissed it.
"This is quite a guy you have here, young lady," he said. "Quite a guy.
The best doctor in the city of Boston.
"Yesterday a man at the hospital told me the very same thing," she said-.
"You a doctor too?"
"No, I'm a diver."
A shadow of confusion crossed Bozian's round face.
"She leads scuba-diving trips in the islands," Eric explained.
"It's a good job, Arem, believe me. A very good job. How long a wait is there for a table?"
"For you? None." Bozian turned to a small table in the corner where two old men were sipping raki and talking. "Hey, Tomas, Peter, up!" he called out.
"You two have been chattehng long enough. The doctor here is hungry, and so is his beautiful friend the diver."
The old men exchanged a few sentences in Armenian and then drained their glasses and stood up.
In minutes the table had been cleaned and reset for two.
"That's some service," Laura said as they settled into their seats.
"it was you who got them to get up, not Arem or me."
Me.
"They talked it over, and decided that even though you were an odar, you were pretty enough to make way for."
"An odar?"
"That's any woman who isn't Armenian," Eric said.
They ordered dolma and yalanchee-stuffed grape leaves and stuffed cabbage-and chicken with pilaf. By the time their first course arrived, two couples of cousins had stopped by the table for introductions.
Laura heard the word odar several times as they spoke to Eric in Armenian.
"You're a celebrity," she said when they finally had some time alone.
'Nomlty might be a better word."
"I understand. This isn't anything I'm too proud of, but when I was in college I entered and won a beauty pageant. Miss Bain Hocks or something like that. For a time I was a celebrity. Everyone made a fuss over me. I didn't like it very much.
"Well, by now I'm used to it here in Watertown," Eric said. "gut all the attention I get has been really hard on my younger brother."
"There's just the two of you?"
"Uh-huh.-'George dropped out of high school.
He's been in trouble with drugs and alcohol ever since.
"That's terrible. Is he okay now?"
Eric shook his head.
"Are you two close?"
He thought for a time.
"No. Not really," he said. "We're just too different, I guess.
Our parents always held me up to him as an example of how he should-be, and eventually he came to resent everything about me."
"Things can always change, you know."
"Maybe they will some day. I don't think about it much anymore, but hearing you talk about the relationship you have with your brother made me sad that George and I don't get along better."
"I owe a lot to Scott," Laura said.
"Do you want to tell me about him?"
Two glasses of raki arrived at their table as Laura recounted some of the background of her life, and the events leading to her decision to leave Little Cayman.
She took a sip of the clear, oily liqueur, and sputtered.
"You actually drink this?" Her eyes began to water.
"Unless we can put it to better use, like lubricating tractors.
Tell me something. Do you have any evidence, besides the postcards, that indicates your brother's in Boston?"
Laura shook her head.
"Nothing, except… You're probably going to think this is stupid, but several times since I left Cayman, I've felt this really intense closeness to him.
Once was in Virginia at the company he used to work for; once was two nights ago, while I was walking across Boston Common; and once was when you and I met in the emergency room. That time was the strongest of all."
"Are you prone to that kind of experience?"
"Psychic, you mean? Not really. Never that I know of. The feelings are so hard to describe, and they never last long-a minute, two or three at the most. But they're very real, and they help me know I'm doing the right thing."
"I'd like to help you search for him," Eric said. "I could take over canvassing the hospitals."
"That would be wonderful."
"You know, when I called you yesterday I actually thought I might have some information. The picture of Scott on your poster got a rise from one of our nurses."
Laura stiffened. "What kind of a rise?" she asked.
Eric motioned calm with his hands.
"It didn't pan out," he said. "Back in February, I tried but failed to resuscitate a derelict who was found face down in the snow in an alley.
One of the nurses who worked with me that night-her name's Tern Dillard-thought Scott's picture reminded her of the guy.
"A derelict? That doesn't make any sense. Scott earned a really good salary. Besides, I don't ever remember seeing him drink more than a beer or two."
"I told you, the guy wasn't him."
"How do you know'?"
"I know because I went to the funeral home where the body was taken, and saw the identification papers drawn up by the medical examiner, the death certificate, and the order for cremation. He turned out to be a guy from Illinois named Thomas Jordan."
Only then did Laura sink back in her chair.
"Thanks for going to all that trouble," she said. "I… I'm relieved it wasn't him."
"Me too. Believe me." Eric flashed on Thomas Jordan's E.K.G tracing, and on the heart rhythm he had chosen to discount. You don't know how relieved, he thought. "Listen, Laura, if your brother's in Boston, we'll find him. You said the police weren't any help.
Have you considered a private detective?"
Laura told him about her session with Bernard Nelson.
"Did he tell you what to put on your flier?" Eric asked when she had finished.
"As a matter of-fact, he did. Why?"
"Actually, I think the poster is okay, but I wish you had put a few more things on it."
"Like what?"
"Like special interests-sports he played, — distinctive hobbies or habits he might have had."
"I… I told you, he didn't share that much of his life with me — especially over the past few years."
"Was he gay?"
I mean, I don't really know."
"I understand. How about any distinguishing marks-scars or tattoos?"
"No scars that I remember, but he did have a tattoo."
"Well, that's the sort of thing you might add to the poster if you do a second printing. A tattoo, huh.
Somehow that doesn't exactly jibe with the image you've given me of your brother."
Laura smiled wistfully.
"He got it when he was fifteen," she said. "Our parents were very strict, and Scott was sort of… not really wild, but independent-very independent.
Once, after a big blowup, he ran away and hitchhiked to St. Louis for three days. They were absolutely frantic while he was gone.
Anyhow, when he came back, he had a tattoo. He had it done way up on his hip so our parents wouldn't see it when he had a bathing suit on.
The one time he showed it to me, he threatened to cut off all my hair if I ever said anything to them. It was seven or eight more years before they died, and I don't think they ever found out. Isn't that funny?…
Eric?"
> Eric had propped his forehead on the heel of his hand, and was staring down at his plate. Slowly, he looked up at her. His eyes were cold and hollow.
"The tattoo," he said hoarsely. "What was it of?"
"Roses. Why?"
"Three roses."
"That's right." She looked at him strangely.
"With writing underneath each one."
Now Laura paled.
"Mom, Dad, and Laurie," she said. "Eric, what's going on?"
Eric ran his fingers through his hair.
"It doesn't make sense," he said.
"What? Please, Eric, what?"
"That derelict, Thomas Jordan. He had that tattoo.
I'm sure of it."
They left the restaurant without finishing dinner, and walked in numb silence through Watertown Square and down along the Charles River.
Overhead, through the hazy reflected glow of the city, flecks of stars dotted the spring sky. Laura slipped her hand into the crook of Eric's arm and pulled him close to her.
"You're really certain?" she asked finally.
"I see a lot of tattoos, many on people I would never have expected to have one. They interest me, so I remember a fair number of them anyhow.
And that one was unique because of where it was, and also because it was beautifully done. It struck me at the time because, frankly, there wasn't anything else the least bit appealing about the man who had it."
"Scott was one of the most appealing men I've ever known," she said. "He has a wonderful face, and the most expressive eyes.
Couldn't the tattoo just be a coincidence?"
"Of course it could."
"You don't believe that. I can tell."
Eric shrugged helplessly.
"Tern Dillard, the nurse who felt she recognized Jordan as Scott, is a pretty sharp person. The scientist side of me is prepared to consider one coincidence, but now this would be two."
"But the funeral director… the fingerprints… the death certificate. It doesn't make sense. How could the medical examiner have misidentified the body?"
"I don't think he could have," Eric said grimly.
"He lied?"
"Either he did, or Donald Devine."
"But why?"
"I don't know. I've heard that medical schools pay a hell of a lot for bodies. Maybe they've got some sort of scam going."
"How can we find out?"
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