Dr. Knox (36 page)

We'd been in touch three times since that afternoon in her uncle's office.

The first time was two days after, in the hushed offices of her lawyers, where I went after hours with Anne Crane to work out the details of Elena's and Alex's money, and of my own. Mandy was all business then, scrupulous in her attention to detail, and in fulfilling the terms we'd agreed on days earlier, but otherwise too absorbed in the stream of messages, e-mails, and calls she received on her many cell phones to do more than wink at me once.

The second time was six weeks later, after Elena and Alex had flown away, after I'd gotten my cash and the title to the clinic building, after Mandy had seized her empire. She'd called from Van Nuys Airport.

“I'm wondering if you want to have another drink,” she said.

“It's two in the morning, Mandy.”

“I'm in from Hong Kong, so for me it's cocktail time. And besides, it's Saturday, isn't it? Tell me I woke you up.”

“You might have.”

“But I didn't. So—what do you say, doc, a drink? I could swing by on my way home, and pick you up.”

“It's not on your way.”

“Everything's on the way when somebody else is driving.” Mandy's Mercedes SUV pulled up forty-five minutes later. She mixed two Sazeracs and raised the partition, and her engagement ring was nowhere in sight.

I didn't return to my place until late Sunday afternoon, when a taxi dropped me off in front. I was bleary-eyed, trembling, sore, rubbed raw, and queasy—and not just from the hangover. I went upstairs and spent half an hour in the shower.

The last time we'd spoken was not quite two months ago. It was around ten in the evening, and she'd called to tell me about the stroke.

“It happened three days ago. The chief of neurology said it was a
basilar artery dissection.
” She was calling from Palms-Pacific, and her voice was tired and without emotion. “He said it was a rare kind of bleed.”

“Jesus.”

“Apparently, it was a big one. Like, huge. The neurologist said it's left him in something called a
pseudocoma.
”

I sighed. “Locked-in syndrome.”

“Yep—that's the other thing he called it—
L-I-S.
He's paralyzed from the neck down, he's mute, but he's not vegetative. The doctor says he's aware of what's going on, at least to some extent—enough that he can answer yes or no questions by blinking his eyes.”

“Have they given you a prognosis?”

“They've given me stats, which I guess is easier than actually talking to me. When I wade through the numbers, the takeaway is pretty grim. Regaining speech or gross motor skills is a highly improbable outcome—like winning-the-lottery improbable. Most likely, he's going to be a paperweight for as long as he lives.”

I sighed. “Jesus, Mandy.”

“My aunt is in with him now, and my parents, too. I called Kyle down in Mexico the day it happened, and he's been MIA ever since. Which maybe is for the best.”

“It's…it's a horrible thing to have happen. To anybody.”

She laughed bitterly. “Even to him, right? You know, I've been trying to dredge up some warm thoughts about him, some nice memory, but…” She sighed. “My corporate communications guy should be here soon, to work on the press release. Maybe he can come up with something. Anyway, I thought you'd want to know.”

She hung up after that, and I stood looking at my phone for a long time, thinking of Harris Bray's massive head and brutal face, and hearing Nora's voice saying something about justice.

I stood in my towel, sipping beer, while my phone rang and then stopped ringing. Mandy didn't leave a voice mail. There were five Stellas left in the fridge, and after I pulled on jeans and a tee shirt, I carried them to the roof, along with the joint I'd rolled the night before.

The sky was a supersaturated orange in the west, and still full of heat. The downtown towers were bright, and Friday night traffic was beginning to thicken on the streets. There was a parking lot a block away, where a charred storefront had been a month back, and it was full every weekend night. A gluten-free bakery was opening next to it next week. The tide of progress, still pushing relentlessly eastward, still driving the poor and sick and luckless before it. I stretched out on a lawn chair, and my bones felt suddenly like lead. I sighed, and opened another beer.

I'd been lucky, I knew—to have survived Siggy and the Brays; to have survived Elena; to have survived with the clinic intact; to have survived at all. Nora had said it, so had Sutter, and I knew they were right. I knew it, but somehow—even at a distance of five months—I didn't feel it. Maybe it was the cost of my luck—the price paid in fear and danger by people I cared for. Maybe it was the price I was still paying, in relationships that were strained or damaged or gone altogether. Or maybe it was the fact that a pile of money—no matter what height—could never undo what had been done to Elena and Alex. That it was all, finally, just another holding action.

I shook my head at my own bullshit, took a sip of beer, and dug in my pocket for my phone. I scanned through my music but couldn't choose, and put it on shuffle. Miles came on, and I hung the joint at the corner of my mouth and patted my pockets for a match. I'd just found one when my phone burred again.

“You have plans tonight, brother,” Sutter said, “or are you up for a house call?”

I sighed. “You know, my cash flow is better, right? Without rent to pay, the clinic supports itself.”

He laughed. “You remind me every time I call lately, but still you don't say no. The alley, in fifteen?”

“Make it twenty,” I said. I tucked the joint behind my ear, and hauled myself upright.

Much gratitude to the many who helped while I was writing this book: Denise Marcil, for her unwavering enthusiasm and support; Drs. Spiegelman, Miller, and Glucksman, for their various consultations with Dr. Knox; Nina Spiegelman, for another early read; Sonny Mehta, for—yet again—vast patience and invaluable feedback; and Alice Wang for…well, you know.

Peter Spiegelman is the author of
Black Maps,
which won the 2004 Shamus Award for Best First P.I. Novel,
Death's Little Helpers,
Red Cat,
and
Thick as Thieves.
Prior to becoming a full-time writer, Mr. Spiegelman spent nearly twenty years in the financial services and software industries, and worked with leading banks and brokerages around the world. He lives in Connecticut.