Sleight of Hand

by Robin Hathaway

  “Lolly can get what you need.”

  “Does she drive?” I realized I was talking to him as if the woman wasn’t there. I glanced at her. Chewing on her lower lip, she seemed unaware of any disrespect.

  “Yeah. She does all the errands. She’s not as dumb as she looks, are you, baby?”

  She smiled at him, as if he had paid her a compliment.

  “Does she have a license?” I asked.

  He ignored this, and a groan of pain escaped him. Lolly started toward him. Again, he waved her back. “Do what the lady says. Get her what she wants. You know where the money is.” He slumped against the press, where he had fallen, still pointing the gun.

  I suddenly felt exhausted. I wished I could sit down. But I addressed Lolly. “I’ll need—”

  “No,” the man shouted. “She won’t remember. You have to write it down.”

  “Can she read?”

  “No. She shows the list wherever she goes. To the grocer, the clerk at the hardware store … They all know her … .”

  “But the things I need are at the hospital. Nobody knows her there. They won’t give her anything. Some of this stuff, they won’t even give me, let alone Lolly. I’ll need surgical supplies, and I’m not a surgeon.”

  “How do you plan to get them, then?” he said angrily.

  “Steal them,” I said simply.

  The faintest glimmer of a smile came and went. I saw him make a quick calculation. “Get them yourself, then.”

  Had I heard right? He’d let me go—alone? My expression must have given my thoughts away.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll come back.” His face took on a cunning expression.

  I said nothing.

  “Because if you don’t—” He aimed the revolver at the barn roof and fired.

  I jumped.

  The bullet ricocheted off a beam and rolled into a dark corner of the barn. The gun was still smoking when he turned it on his daughter. “I’ll shoot Lolly. Won’t I, baby?”

  To my horror, the simple woman nodded—and smiled.

  CHAPTER 5

  Before leaving, I asked the printer his name.

  He hesitated.

  “I like to know the names of the people I operate on,” I said firmly.

  “Max.”

  I waited for the last name.

  “That’s all you need,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of the gun.

  Lolly giggled.

  It would be a long time before I learned the cause for that giggle.

  As I picked my way through the field of soybeans, my feet felt caked in cement. The brief glimpse of freedom I’d been given had been replaced by Lolly’s deadweight. Her life was now my sole responsibility. Not to mention the surgical operation I had to perform, for which I was totally unqualified. I had observed others perform hand surgery in medical school, but the only hand surgery I’d done myself was to remove a splinter from a finger!

  Of course I could call his bluff, I thought. Chances were a hundred to one he wouldn’t kill his own daughter. But how could I be sure? I didn’t know this man from Adam. He could be a vicious criminal. He was definitely hiding something, or why would he refuse to go to the hospital? The only reason had to be that he didn’t want to be identified, have his name go through the system. And why did he have a gun so readily available? Many farmers owned guns. But they were usually rifles for hunting or shotguns for scaring off the occasional nighttime intruder—animal or human. Not revolvers.

  I had just mounted my bicycle and was cursing myself for not having my Honda, when Max appeared at the barn door. He was yelling something and pointing at the dusty maroon Chevy parked in the drive. I dropped my bike and trotted over to him. “Take my car,” he said, and tossed me the keys. I caught them and got in the old car. It was empty except for a very worn teddy bear on the front seat. Lolly’s?

  I checked the gas gauge. The tank was half-full. Enough to get me to the motel, then to the hospital and back. My captor had allotted me only two hours to find what I needed. And it was urgent that I attend to his wound as soon as possible. I decided the best I could do was suture the two mangled fingers, try to preserve the nerve endings, and let them heal. Complete reconstruction of the fingers and cut tendon would have to come later, performed by a specialist with the latest expertise and equipment. Somehow, during the healing period, I would have to gain my patient’s confidence and convince him to go to a medical center.

  My first stop was the Oakview Motor Lodge, which served as both my home and office. Every motel is required by law to have a doctor on call to serve its guests in an emergency. Once a fancy pediatrician working for a high-falutin’ group of M.D.s from a glitzy office in Manhattan, I had sunk to the lowest of the low—a “motel doctor” serving customers in the boondocks of South Jersey.

  I was stopping home to where I could pick up a few medical supplies and my textbook on hand surgery. I owned a copy of this book by accident. Written in 1947, it was still considered a definitive text and referred to by foremost surgeons. The illustrations were especially prized for their clarity and accuracy. As one highly respected surgeon had told me, “Surgical techniques, tools, and medicines change swiftly, but the human body doesn’t. At least not since Neanderthal man. The human hand is pretty much the same as it was a thousand years ago.” This surgeon was Dr. Philip Graham, my teacher and mentor. He thought I had an innate skill for surgery and had tried to convince me to become a surgeon. But I’d balked. I didn’t think it was for me. Nevertheless, when I graduated, he gave me a copy of this book and told me, “If you ever change your mind, this might come in handy. No pun intended,” he added with a smile.

  If I believed in destiny, there was a special reason for this gift.

  In my entire training, I had witnessed only two hand surgeries. One involved a thumb with a cut tendon, impairing the patient’s ability to pinch. Don’t laugh. Pinching is one of the most important functions of the hand, although misused at times. The other hand had been damaged in a fire and required a skin graft to restore its function. As I drove, I tried to visualize those operations, rolling through them step by step, from first cut to final sutures. If only I had a video! I thought they probably did have some in the hospital library, but there was no time for that.

  I pulled into the motel parking lot, jumped out, and ran up the outside staircase, making the iron treads ring.

  My bed was still unmade. I had rushed off for my pleasure ride—without breakfast—before the dew had dried on the asters. There was nothing prettier than a flood of blue asters along the roadside, sparkling in the early-morning sun. Ha! That was an eon ago. In another world. Another life. I scanned my bookcase. There it was—second shelf from the top, third book on the left, with the worn red cover, gold letters embossed on the spine: Surgery of the Hand, and under that, the name Bunnell, and under that, the small imprint of a gold hand.

  I dug the book out and flipped to the table of contents.

  Phylogens and Comparative Anatomy

  No time for that …

  The Normal Hand

  Or that …

  Reconstruction of the Hand

  Operative Technic

  Now we’re talking … .

  Clearing Skin

  Draping and Lighting

  In a barn?

  Keeping Off Skin

  Holding by Assistant

  Lolly?

  Operating

  I flicked to the photographs—black-and-white shots, murky and dark. Damn. So much for 1947 photography. Actually, photography was fine back then, if you had the right photographer. The publisher must have been economizing. Then I saw the illustrations—clear, meticulous, and accurate. An expert had drawn these. I breathed a sigh of relief and glanced at my watch. Holy shit! Where had a half hour gone? Clutching the book to my chest, I headed back to the parking lot. I made a quick detour to my office, housed in a cabin dating from earlier days, when the motel was an “auto court.” I grabbed my medical kit and crammed it w
ith such useful items as surgical scissors, syringes, plastic gloves, gauze, adhesive tape, iodine, and alcohol, then stowed the kit in my backpack. I was getting into the Chevy when I heard a familiar male voice hail me. With dread, I watched Tom, my current boyfriend, jump from his pickup truck and stroll toward me. Another delay.

  “I’ll bet you forgot,” he said as he drew closer.

  The sight of his familiar, reassuring figure jolted me back to the real world, the sane world, where people didn’t make impossible demands on you or wave guns in your face. I was tempted to blurt out the whole story to him, when Lolly’s pale face rose before me and I restrained myself. “What?” I said between stiff lips.

  “Your archery lesson.” He looked hurt because I’d forgotten. And no wonder, since only the night before I had begged him to teach me the sport.

  “I’m sorry. I got an emergency call and it flew right out of my head.”

  “New car?” He looked quizzically at the dusty Chevy.

  “I borrowed it. No time to explain.”

  “Better not hold you up, then. We’ll make it some other time.”

  “Sure.” I glanced at my watch. Only an hour to get to the hospital, locate the supplies I needed, and get back to Lolly before …

  He caught my glance and turned back to his truck.

  “See ya,” I said.

  He kept walking.

  As I turned the key in the ignition, I caught a glimpse of Maggie in the office, seated at the front desk, punching her calculator. And, at the other end of the lot, I saw her husband, Paul, getting into his car, about to take off on one of his daily errands. He waved. How I envied them their normal routines and wished I could follow my own.

  The night before, when I’d stopped by the lobby to pick up my paper, Maggie and Paul had been discussing the body found by the roadside. Maggie had learned about it through the ever-faithful Bayfield grapevine and, in her infinite wisdom, had decided that the odd couple who were renting the Wister place, only half a mile away from the site, had something to do with it. “The husband’s a real recluse,” she said, “and nobody’s seen the wife for years. I think she left him. But their daughter’s always driving around—”

  “She’s a bit dim, isn’t she?” Paul offered, making a circular motion with his finger next to his temple.

  To tell the truth, their gossip had irritated me at the time. Now, with a shock, I realized who they had been talking about! I thought of Max and his gun and the two bullet holes in the corpse only a half mile away. Could there be a connection? Despite my urgent deadline, I idled in the parking lot until my nerves settled down.

  I felt as if I were locked inside a glass box and couldn’t get out. My friends—Tom, Maggie, and Paul—were outside the box, going about their daily business, and they assumed I was going about mine. They had no idea I was in a desperate, life-threatening situation, wanting to cry out to them for help. But if I did, Max might lose the use of his hand, and Lolly might die—and it would all be my fault.

  I drove silently out of the lot.

  CHAPTER 6

  After lunch and before visiting hours is usually a slow time at most hospitals. The major surgery scheduled for the day has been done. Only if there is an emergency—an auto accident, a heart attack, or an in-house patient who takes a turn for the worse—will the quiet solemnity of the institution be disturbed. It would have been better for me if there’d been more activity. I could have gone about my errands with less notice. But I had no choice. I would have to make the best of it. Pulling on the white lab coat from my locker, I made my way to the surgical supply room. It was usually locked unless there was an ongoing operation, but sometimes the staff was careless. Maybe I’d get lucky. I turned the knob. It opened. Squelching my instinct to look up and down the corridor first, I walked boldly inside. There was a squeal and a scuffle as a nurse and a young doctor broke apart.

  “Sorry!” I began to back out, embarrassed at having interrupted their tryst, but they pushed past me and left in a flurry.

  Grinning, I shut the door behind me. For a brief moment, I forgot my own troubles.

  Checking my list, I grabbed what I needed from the shelves and drawers and stowed the stuff in my pockets. Thank god lab coats have roomy pockets. I found everything I needed except what had to be refrigerated—the tetanus vaccine, the antibiotic, and the anesthetic. I would have to beg for those from elsewhere. I left the storage room and headed for the ER.

  As unobtrusively as possible, I scanned the sign-in sheet for a friendly name. Barry Freedman. Whew. A young doctor, a nice guy, and he owed me one. I had covered for him on his son’s birthday the month before. Circulating through the corridors, I poked my head into offices and cubicles. No Barry. Damn. He was probably taking a coffee break. I made for the cafeteria. There he was at a table, surrounded by three young nurses. Great. How could I extricate him? But I underestimated my charms. He spied me and waved me over. One by one, the nurses evaporated. Doctors still had some clout in the medical hierarchy, thank god. I slid into a chair.

  “Coffee?” he asked, starting to rise.

  “No thanks. I need your help.” I tried to sound calm, but the cafeteria clock was staring me in the face, telling me I had only a half hour left. “‘The old Dutch clock it told me so,/ And that is how I came to know.’” Where the hell did that come from?

  “Jo, do you know you’re talking to yourself?” Barry looked concerned.

  “Sorry, Barry. Listen, I need your help badly. I—”

  “Yo, Jo, wadya know?” a voice crooned behind me. I could feel his breath on my neck.

  Carl, the wise-guy surgeon who was always harassing me. I shot him a venomous look as he slid into the chair next to mine.

  “Hmm. You don’t look very perky today, Doctor. Miss your morning bran flakes?”

  Barry grabbed his coffee cup and stood up. “Coming, Jo?”

  “You bet.” I rose.

  “A fine howdya do,” we heard Carl whining as we exited.

  At least he didn’t follow us. Once in the corridor, I latched onto Barry’s arm, afraid he’d get away. “I need some Xylocaine, tetanus vaccine, and antibiotics,” I hissed.

  “Wow. What are you up to?” But after I gave him the dosages, he didn’t wait around for explanations. He disappeared down the corridor at a record clip. God bless him. “I’ll wait here,” I called after him.

  As I hovered in the hallway, trying to look inconspicuous, Arnold Higgins, the hospital administrator, strolled by. Unlike the doctors, nurses, and aides, he was never in a hurry. “Going up?” he asked, nodding at the elevator.

  “No, down,” I replied, lying. I was determined not to go wherever he was going.

  “Me, too.”

  Oh no. Now I’d have to go down, and what if Barry came back while I was gone? Ten minutes had already passed. The elevator arrived. The administrator waited for me to enter ahead of him. There was no one inside, so we had to make small talk.

  “How are things going, Dr. Banks?”

  “Fine. Fine.” I nodded more times than the question required.

  “Getting used to our country ways?” He wore a smirk, and I remembered hearing him rant against cities at the Christmas party last year—in particular, New York City.

  I nodded, staring at the little red numeral 2 in the window above our heads, willing it to change. Beep. A numeral 1 appeared and the door opened. I hurried out and then ducked into the rest room to wait until I was sure the administrator was out of the way. Deciding to take advantage of the moment, I entered a stall. Heaven only knew when I’d get another chance. I slipped out and looked up and down the corridor. No one in sight. I took the fire stairs back to the second floor. As soon as I stepped into the corridor, I saw Barry. He was looking the other way.

  “Hey!” I whispered.

  He darted over and thrust a plastic bag filled with supplies into my hand. It was cold to the touch. “I put an ice pack in there. I didn’t know how long it would be before you could ref
rigerate it.”

  “You’re a prince.” I gave him a peck on the cheek.

  He blushed. “If I can do anything else, give me a call. Do you have my cell number?”

  “Give it to me.” You never know, I figured.

  He scribbled it on the back of a prescription blank. I grabbed it and took off. The clock in the ER said I had twelve minutes. I might just make it.

  Despite the urgency of my errand, I had time to think as I drove. I thought about my patient. Why had he refused to go to a hospital? What dark secret lay in his past? Was he capable of murder? Had he murdered before? I wondered. Was that why he was hiding out in Bayfield? Bayfield was certainly the perfect hideout. Or was it? I had stumbled on Max. I was getting used to the name, although it didn’t fit him somehow. It was too flamboyant for a shabby printer-farmer. His name should have been Sam or Jeb. Maybe he could have lost himself better in a big city. If I was on the run, I’d head for Manhattan. And what about Lolly’s mother? Max had said, “Her mom’s been gone for over six years.” But “gone” could mean a lot of things—she’d skipped town or was incarcerated in a prison or mental institution—as well as died. I could see why someone might want to skip out of that ménage. But what kind of mother would desert a disabled child? The peak of the barn roof rose across a distant field. According to my watch, I had two minutes to go. I didn’t hear any gunshots, but I pressed the accelerator of the old car.

  CHAPTER 7

  While I was away on my little shopping spree, Max and Lolly had moved from the barn to the farmhouse. When I rolled up the drive, one minute late, I was relieved to see Lolly burst out the back door. Nobody used the front door in Bayfield. A front door was only for decoration—the thing you plunked the pumpkin in front of on Halloween, tacked the wreath to at Christmas, and hung the flag over on Independence Day (they still called it that).