Authors: John Locke
FIVE MINUTES LATER I’m standing in my office, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a view few would pay to see, unless they enjoy hospital rooftops and parking garages. Everything is as gray and dingy as my life.
Rose enters the room with a shapely young woman of twenty, who’s wearing an ink-colored dress and matching jacket. She’s that beautiful shade of half-Latin, half-Anglo, with long brown hair and perfectly-manicured fingernails. She has the look of a college graduate, dressed up for a job interview, and seems familiar, like a young Jennifer Lopez, without the big caboose. Though not quite in Rose’s league, this is a gorgeous woman. If Rose were seeking a girlfriend to counterpoint her creamy white skin and raven black hair, this young lady would fill the bill.
“Dr. Gideon Box, this is Miranda Rodriguez.”
“This is awkward,” Miranda says.
“Why?”
“You don’t recognize me.”
I stare at her. I don’t come into contact with that many beautiful women, and when I do, I see them at their stylistic worst, for good reason. Their children are near death. Their features wracked by loss of sleep, worry, and fear. Understandably, hair and makeup is the last thing on their minds. Rose has the most appealing face and body I’ve ever seen. But Miranda is definitely top five.
“I’d remember you,” I say.
“Perhaps I’m mistaken,” Miranda says.
And there it was.
She looks differently now, but her voice and manner of speaking is the same.
I not only know this young lady, I fucked her two years ago.
“Please, sit down,” I say, studying her body, trying to remember what she looked like naked.
Miranda closes her eyes tightly, as if by not seeing me, I won’t see her.
Rose’s jade-green eyes are dancing. She seems amused.
I try to remember that night, two years ago. I’d been stood up by my date, and was so upset I opened a bottle of scotch and called an escort service. I said, “Charge whatever you must, but send the most beautiful woman you’ve got.” An hour later, Miranda showed up at my place.
Only she was going by the name Bailey at the time.
I’d been drinking, so the details were fuzzy the next morning, but I recalled her being wonderful in the sack and was convinced she’d be delighted to see me again. I wanted to enjoy the experience completely sober the next night, but when I called the agency they said Bailey had gone independent. I asked for her contact information, but was told, “We don’t do referrals. It’s a sure way to put ourselves out of business.”
I tried a couple of their other girls, but Bailey—Miranda—ruined me.
“Is this a bad time?” Rose says. “Because you seem distracted.”
“Not at all,” I say, unable to pull my eyes away from Miranda.
Rose says, “You can’t tell by looking at her, but Miranda’s pregnant.”
I frown. “Oh.”
“Something wrong?”
“No, of course not. It’s just—”
“Yes?” Miranda says.
“Should I congratulate you, or—”
“You can congratulate me,” Rose says.
Noting my puzzled look, she adds, “Miranda will be the birth mother of my child. As such, she’s staying with me and will continue to do so until after the child is born and becomes healthy.”
“And you’re telling me this because?”
“Miranda’s baby will be born with serious congenital heart defects.”
“That’s ridiculous. There’s no way to know that at this stage.”
“Nevertheless, it’s why I agreed to work with you. You’re going to help me save my child’s life.”
“You mean Miranda’s child.”
I look at Miranda. “You sold your baby?”
She lowers her eyes.
Rose says, “Don’t go down that road, Gideon.”
Suddenly I’ve become Gideon. But not in a good way.
“There’s no reason to believe Miranda’s baby will have heart issues,” I say.
“Did you hear me? I’ve known this half my life. It’s why I studied all these years.”
“That’s crazy. You can’t predict an unborn child’s medical condition years before it’s born. How would you even know who the father might be?”
“I knew who the father
needed
to be,” Rose says. “But don’t try to understand. It’s completely beyond your capacity. And anyway, you won’t remember this visit any more than you remembered me serving you birch bark tea all night in your home.”
“What? You don’t even know where I live!”
She shakes her head. “What’s important is the seed has been planted. You will accept Miranda’s surgery, and it will be the most important surgery ever performed.”
“That’s particularly dramatic,” I say.
“Just remember Miranda Rodriguez,” she says. “Miranda Rodriguez. And Dr. Box?”
“Yeah?”
“When you operate on my child, there will be no cursing.”
“Because?”
“You don’t want to piss off this baby.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“We have to go now,” Rose says.
“Wait. Miranda?”
She looks up.
“Is there any way you’d consider seeing me again?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Was I really that awful?”
She looks at Rose, then back at me and says, “You’re not a happy person.”
“Are you serious?”
She says nothing. Both women turn to leave.
As they walk out the door I say, “What’s so important about being happy?”
I PRESS THE intercom button. When Lola answers I ask, “Who’s our best oncologist?”
“Probably Dr. Suni or Dr. Mamba.”
“Find out which one knows more about Hodgkin’s lymphoma.”
She hesitates, then says, “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, of course. Just let me know, okay?”
“Will do.”
Thirty seconds later Lola comes back on the intercom.
“Line one,” she says.
“Who is it?”
“Dani Ripper.”
I pick up and Dani says, “Are you ready for your bombshell?”
“Yes.”
“Willow Breeland,” she says.
“What about her?”
“She died five years ago.”
“
What
?”
“Willow Breeland—the
real
Willow Breeland—died five years ago. In a car crash.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple, Dr. Box. Your house guest is an identity thief.”
“THE YOUNG LADY slept with has been posing as Willow for at least three years,” Dani says.
“What’s her real name?”
“I’m not sure. But I’ve narrowed it down to four teenagers who were reported missing three years ago. Wait!”
“Huh?”
“Hang on a second.”
Dani puts me on hold for about a minute.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “I sent her strip club photo to a friend in the police department. By matching it to photos of the missing girls, we’re down to two. If you send me a better picture I can get you an answer within minutes.”
“I’ll take a picture of her on my cell phone when I get home.”
“If she’s still there,” Dani says.
“How much of her story’s true?” I say.
“She’s definitely dying of cancer. And her friend Cameron died in the hospital, though they haven’t determined cause of death yet.”
“That’s more a function of damage control. They’re trying to decide what story will cost them the least in a possible lawsuit.”
“You’d know better than me,” Dani says. “Still, I’m waiting to hear back from one of Cameron’s nurses.”
“Why would
she
speak out?”
“You know that five grand you’re paying me?”
“I know you’re
asking
for five.”
“Well, I have to purchase some of my information.”
“What could the nurse possibly tell you that would make a difference in Willow’s background check?”
“Think of it as a giant puzzle, where Cameron is not just a piece, but an entire section.”
“Cameron? Please! At most, she’s a puzzle piece. And a small one at that.”
“Being a guy, you’ll just have to trust my intuition.”
“You can’t explain it rationally?”
“I can. But you won’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“A woman’s best friend is as big a part of her life as her husband. Even bigger, if she’s single. And remember, both these girls were single.”
“Fine. Whatever. Pursue the nurse. But I guarantee you’re wasting your time.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You said you’ve narrowed her name to two missing kids. What are their names?”
“Amy Huddleston and Andrea Foster. And my money’s on Amy.”
“Should I come right out and ask her about it?”
“I would. She might have a legitimate reason for using a fake name.”
“You think?”
“It’s possible. But if you’re only asking one thing?”
“Yeah?”
“Get her date of birth.”
“Is that the easiest thing to trace?”
“No, but it’ll tell you if she’s eighteen. Because if she’s underage, it could come back to bite you in a major way.
“Great.”
I DIAL MY home number, wondering if Willow’s still there. If she is, I wonder if she’ll answer.
“Dr. Box’s residence,” she says.
“You’re still there!” I say, then realize I don’t have anything else planned to say.
“Hi Gideon! Yes, I’m here. Um…is that okay?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you have a chance to talk to a doctor yet?”
“Not yet, but I’ve narrowed our choices to two.”
“Do you think either will take my case?”
“I’m working on it.”
Willow/Amy/Andrea must have picked up something in my voice because she says, “Is everything all right?”
“You tell me.”
“I have a plan,” she says.
“A plan?”
“If you’re available, I’d like to take you to dinner tonight. My treat. Someplace fun. Dinner, then maybe a club.”
“A club?”
“Not a strip club,” she says.
“Right.”
“So what do you think? Can we go out?”
It would be nice to get her out of her house, away from her gun when I accuse her of being an identity thief.
“Let’s do it!” I say.
My phone buzzes. I put Willow on hold.
“Kathleen Gray’s on line two,” Lola says.
“Who’s that?”
“Addie’s mother.”
“Who’s Addie?”
“The child you’re going to operate on. The brain stem cavernoma?”
“I click back to Willow. I’ve got another call I need to take.”
“Okay, see you soon.”
I spend the next fifteen minutes walking Kathleen Gray through the process. What’s going on in Addie’s head, why we made the decision to operate, what to expect.
I’m on my best behavior.
I agree Addie has had terrible luck in her short life, and explain there’s no particular event that caused her to develop this condition. I want to tell Kathleen that shit happens, but I refrain. I explain what supratentorial and infratentorial cavernous malformations are, and discuss how we’ll monitor median nerve somatosensory and brain stem audio evoked potentials.
But you know what?
She barely follows the conversation. Spends the whole time crying and asking two questions over and over.
First, “How serious is it?”
It’s damn serious. But I’m learning they don’t want to hear that, so I say, “I promise you, this operation will be performed under
standard
microsurgical conditions.”
I emphasize the word “standard” and she takes it to mean routine.
The second question she asks repeatedly is, “Will Addie be okay?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Thank you, doctor,” she says.
“You’re quite welcome.”
I make a mental note not to ask for a blow job later on.
See? I’m learning how the game is played.
BY SPLITTING THE difference between me being too tired to go clubbing and Willow being too bored to stay home, we wind up in a gastro pub that features live entertainment. I take a photo of her in front of the place and send it to Dani Ripper, so she can forward it to her contact at the police station.
We’re sitting at our table, she’s reading the menu.
“You remind me of that cell phone commercial,” she says.
“Huh?”
“A guy and his date are in a restaurant and he’s holding his cell phone under the table, checking the game on it. He pretends not to, but she keeps catching him.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I know you’re distracted. What I asked was do you think I’ll need chemotherapy or radiation treatment?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Will I need an operation?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Does chemo hurt?”
I feel my cell phone vibrate under the table. I glance at Dani’s text message:
WILLOW’S REAL NAME IS AMY HUDDLESTON…
STAND BY…MUCH MORE TO COME!
Willow laughs. “Who’s winning?”
“There’s no game. I’m monitoring a patient, a little girl, who’s coming out of a medically induced coma.”
“Oh my God! Is she okay? I mean, do you need to
be
there?”
“No.”
I like the fact Willow’s concerned. She’s got a good heart.
“The little girl’s doing fine,” I say.
Willow smiles broadly. It’s still a killer smile.
“Thank goodness!” she says. “That’s great news!”
I turn off my phone, place it on the table and say, “I want to concentrate on
you
now. To answer your question, the actual chemo doesn’t hurt. But the after effects are a bitch.”
She bites her lip and says, “I’m afraid of the treatment.”
I look at her. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was the picture of health. That’s changing inside her hour by hour, I suppose, and if she’s as far along as I suspect, she may not have much time to live. For hours I’ve been furious at her for lying to me about who she is, but now that she’s sitting across from me, frightened about the short time she has left and the treatment she might have to deal with, my anger shifts to the shit hand she’s been dealt in life. This is a kid who lost both parents, her boyfriend, her best friend, and is dying of cancer.
It’s not fair. That’s the bottom line.
But I still need to find out who she is and why she lied.
“Willow, we need to talk.”
She grins and says, “What’s up, Doc?”
I smile. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”
“Two days.”
She frowns. “You’re not going to help me, are you?”
“Let me get this out, okay?”
“Okay.”
I take a deep breath and say, “You’re not Willow Breeland.”
She waits for me to say something else. When I don’t, she says, “How did you find out?”
“I hired a private investigator.”
“You did? Why?”
“
Why
? You showed up out of the blue and pulled a gun on me!”
“You showed up out of the blue and pulled a gun on me first! But I didn’t hire a private investigator to check
you
out.”
“You didn’t have to. You knew how to find me.”
“Did your PI tell you my real name?”
“I was hoping you would do that.”
“What difference does it make?”
“I have a right to know.”
“You do? Why?”
“Because you’re going to stay with me.”
“I am?”
“Yes. And you’re going to get the finest medical treatment in the world.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. And I’ll take care of you until you recover.”
“I’ll probably die.”
“If you do, I get to keep your panties.”
“I see,” she says. “You expect me to put out for you.”
“Only until you get really sick.”
“You’re joking right?”
“Yes. Mostly.”
“Why would you do this for me?”
“I owe you. Bobby and Cameron are dead because of me. Plus, it’s sort of fun to have someone to come home to.”
“Are you going soft on me, Doc?”
“What’s your real name?”
“Amy Huddleston.”
“Why did you steal a dead girl’s identity?”
“To keep my uncle from finding me.”
I nod slowly, thinking about it. That makes sense. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.
“How old are you?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“Do I have to answer?”
“Yes.”