Nerve Damage (28 page)

“I'm awake,” Roy said. It came out funny. He cleared his throat, tried again. It came out better this time.

The man entered, wheeling a gurney. “How are you feeling?” he said.

“Good,” said Roy. “Who are you?”

“The night PA,” the man said, coming to the side of the bed, looking down.

“What's PA?”

“Physician's assistant.”

“Why are you wearing a mask?” Roy said.

“Just came from the OR,” said the night PA.

“Oh,” said Roy.

The night PA checked the tubes; actually, Roy noticed, there was now only one still connected.

“I'm a little hungry,” he said.

“We can stop by the snack machine on the way down,” said the night PA.

“Down where?” Roy said.

“Radiology,” said the night PA. “The doctor's ordered up some tests.”

“Dr. Chu?”

The night PA nodded, at the same time hooking the IV bag to a post on the gurney.

“Now?” said Roy. “In the middle of the night?”

“The machines go twenty-four/seven.”

“Dr. Chu never mentioned anything,” Roy said.

The night PA unhooked a clipboard from the end of the bed. “It's on the chart,” he said.

“Okay,” said Roy.

The PA pushed the gurney against the bed. He bent over Roy. “I'll just slide you over,” he said.

“That's all right,” Roy said. “I can do it myself.”

A simple little thing, shifting his body a foot or two: but he'd forgotten about his left arm.

“Let me—”

“I can do it,” said Roy. And he did; the only drawback being that the effort awoke the demon. Roy felt no pain, was just aware that the demon was up and around.

“Comfortable?” said the night PA. Green light from one of the beeping machines reflected in his eyes.

Roy nodded.

“Then we're off.”

The gurney started moving, out the door, down a hall, into an elevator, out. Roy watched different ceilings go by: water stains all over the place, like the whole place was leaking noxious-colored stuff. The gurney came to a stop.

“Snickers, M&M's, Doritos, Twizzlers,” said the night PA.

“Snickers,” said Roy. “And maybe the Doritos, too.”

Change clanked into the machine.

“I'll pay you back,” Roy said.

“My treat.”

Snacks thumped into the receptacle. The night PA handed them to Roy.

“Can I eat now?” Roy said.

“Why not?”

“I thought maybe with the tests…”

“Not these kind,” said the night PA.

They rolled on, around a corner and into a poorly lit hall, then through a door that opened with a pneumatic hiss and into a big space, dim and cold, concrete ceiling. Kind of like a parking garage, Roy thought as he unwrapped one end of the Snickers bar and took a bite.

“Good?” said the night PA.

“Good,” said Roy, taking another bite. “Want some?”

They stopped again. The night PA knocked on something. Roy raised his head, craned around to look. They were a few feet from the rear doors of an ambulance. The doors opened.

“But—” Roy said.

“PET scan's in the annex,” said the night PA.

“What's a PET scan?” said Roy.

A man in the ambulance said, “On three. One, two, three.”

The gurney rose, slid into the ambulance. The doors closed.

“All set,” said the man in the back of the ambulance, a doctor, perhaps: he wore a nice tweed jacket.

“What's a PET scan?” Roy said again.

The ambulance started up, drove into the night. The man in the tweed jacket turned to him. For a moment, the fight went clean out of Roy, leaving him hollow.

The man said: “I believe it's a powerful scanning tool.”

Roy didn't say anything at first. His insides recovered a little. He said: “Do you even have a real name?”

“Tom Parish is real enough for now.”

Roy's chart lay on the gurney. Tom Parish picked
it up, gave it a quick glance, then sat in a built-in seat in the sidewall and went over the whole thing page by page. It was quiet in the ambulance, nothing to hear but pages turning and rain pitter-pattering on the roof. After a while, eyes still on the chart, Tom said, “What does
unresectable
mean?”

“Look it up,” Roy said.

Tom glanced at him, an interested sort of glance, as though Roy had made a mildly unexpected remark, then went back to his reading. “You're right,” he said, almost to himself. “Former classics major gets lazy. Let's see,
resect
must derive from the past participle of the Latin
resecare,
‘to cut out,' and therefore”—a proud smile flitted across his face—“
unresectable
refers to that which cannot be cut out, in layman's terms, inoperable.” Now his gaze moved to Roy. “Where the heck did you come in contact with all that asbestos?”

“
Inoperable
doesn't mean nothing can be done,” Roy said.

Tom waved the chart in the air; a page fell out, wafted to the floor. Tom didn't seem to notice. “I understand that,” he said. The ambulance sped up. “Anything can be tried, at least.”

“Pick that up,” Roy said.

Tom didn't appear to hear him. He kept reading, sighing once or twice. “I'm starting to get this,” he said. “Amazingly bad run of luck, all around, this sequence of events. Like serendipity in reverse.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We didn't know what the hell was going on,” Tom said. “There's nothing more unsettling.”

“Who is we?” Roy said.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Tom said.

“Let's hear it from you.”

Tom went back to the chart. His eyes moved back and forth. Roy checked the IV bag—still about one-third full. No one had actually said he was on the cocktail, but Roy knew, just from how his strength was coming back. Tom, still sitting with the chart, crossed his legs, got more comfortable. That maddened Roy.

“Who stabbed Paul Habib?” he said.

Not looking up, Tom said, “Now how would you know to ask a question like that?”

Roy didn't answer. A siren sounded in the distance. It grew louder and louder. His first thought: Dr. Chu. A brilliant man, much smarter than Tom Parish: Wasn't it possible that Dr. Chu had reacted this quickly? Now the siren was blaring, right on top of them. Tom didn't seem concerned, didn't even look up from the chart. All that proved was his arrogance and stupidity. In a second or two, the ambulance would be pulled over. Roy readied his story:
You can start by arresting him for kidnapping, but there's much more. And it goes high up, all the way to
—

Then came what Roy wasn't ready for—a Doppler effect—and the siren moved on. After a minute or two, he couldn't hear it at all. There was just the rain on the roof, and maybe some faint music.

“No need to answer,” Tom said. He stuck Roy's chart under his arm and rose. “The only real question is how long it will take you to die of this thing.” He opened the door to the front of the ambulance. The music grew louder:
Why block the road? It's open country
—Bob Marley,
Rebel Music,
one of Roy's favorites. Tom climbed through, paused,
turned his head: “When I say I understand how we got here, it doesn't mean I'm happy with you,” he said. “Lenore won't be easy to replace.” He closed the door. Bob Marley faded away.

Roy lay on the gurney, watching the level slowly dip in the IV bag—an almost indiscernible flow. Probably a good sign, this slowness: he pictured his body so full of Dr. Chu's microscopic warriors that reinforcements were all jammed up, couldn't get through, like a crush of fans at the turnstiles for a big ball game. But he felt better with every fraction of every lowering millimeter. How could feeling better be faked? It either was or wasn't. And feeling better, regaining strength, was his secret weapon: like Samson, with his hair growing back. He took a deep breath—yes, deep, to the bottom of his lungs—and realized that nothing was actually holding him down to the gurney.

Roy sat up. That took longer than he would have thought, and he was a bit breathless for a moment or two, but wasn't all that from being flat on his back for three days? He shifted around on the gurney, got his feet on the floor. Not just three days on his back, but three days utterly lost and gone. He couldn't let that happen again.

Roy placed his hands on the gurney, braced himself, pushed off, rose. Things went cloudy at once, and he felt much too tall. He swayed back and forth, reached out frantically for a handhold—the motion so violent and clumsy it ripped the IV out of his arm—and caught himself on the gurney. Roy clung to it. After a moment or two, his head cleared. He listened for sounds from the front of the ambulance, sounds of movement or alarm, heard nothing but the rain. Roy straightened up and stepped away from the gurney.

Down a goal in hockey, there was always that tough question of when to pull your goalie for the extra attacker. Most coaches in Roy's experience, hoping to avoid the risk of that empty net, waited until a minute or less remained, but way back in the PeeWees he'd had a coach—Mr. Blenny, of Blenny's Hardware—who sometimes made the switch with even seven or eight minutes left on the clock. Mr. Blenny would tap his big red nose.
I smell the way this is goin', boys, and it stinks.

Roy smelled the way it was going. He looked around for some sort of weapon, but the first thing his gaze fell on was the sheet of paper that had dropped from his chart. He stooped—his body stiff, like an old man's, but whose body wouldn't be after three days supine?—and picked it up. The page was mostly blank. His name was typed at the top, along with the date of one of those lost days. Other than that there was nothing but a short handwritten notation, signed
C. G. Chu, MD
. The notation:
Re coma: if patient emerges, make aware of DNR protocol.

DNR protocol? What was that? And:
if patient emerges? If?
Plus:
coma?
He'd been in an official coma? Roy glanced over at the IV bag, the line now dangling free, the needle just touching the floor. If he had been in an official coma—and Roy didn't really believe it—the fact that he was now on his feet, strength returning by the minute, was due to Dr. Chu's cocktail. It had the power to keep him alive, maybe not forever, but for long enough.

Roy moved silently to the back of the ambulance, peered between the slats of the blinds that covered the window, hoping to see where he was, or at least gauge the speed. He saw nothing—not night and darkness, but nothing. It took him a moment or two to realize that the glass was painted black. Blinds over a blacked-out window: that summed things up pretty well.

Two cabinets stood along one side of the ambulance. Storage cabinets, probably full of bandages, medicine, oxygen bottles: unreasonable to expect scalpels, say, but not scissors, and scissors would do. Roy turned the latch on the nearest storage cabinet, pulled it open.

The cabinet was shallow, all the shelves empty except for the top one. Three little objects lay there, all familiar, Exhibits A, B, C: Paul Habib's pay stub; the Operation Pineapple photo; and the photo of Habib with Calvin Truesdale. They'd broken into his truck: no surprise.

Roy opened the second cabinet, found just a single object, up high. A pewter urn: the remains of Paul Habib. The implications froze him for a moment or two:
Now how would you know to ask a question like that?

“You're up.”

Roy wheeled around. Tom was back, the door to the front now open.
“Must have misread the chart,” he said. “I didn't think this was a possibility.”

“Everything all right?” called another man, up front.

“Yes,” said Tom. “Just drive the goddamn thing.” He closed the door. “You're not supposed to be capable of getting up.”

Roy said nothing.

Tom glanced at the urn. “Know what she said when we came?”

“No.”

“‘I was starting to believe this would never happen.'” Tom shook his head, as though moved. “Not her fault,” he said. “I don't feel particularly good about that. But Paul was that special kind of weakling who can't keep his mouth shut. He failed to protect her. She ended up knowing too much, and, since she was smart, knowing that she knew too much, all these years.”

“As opposed to me,” Roy said.

“As opposed to you formerly,” Tom said. “You knew nothing.”

“Because Delia protected me?”

“Oh, yes,” Tom said. “She was very protective of you—haven't you cottoned on to that yet? But now is different—chain of bad luck, as I mentioned.”

“I don't believe she worked with you,” Roy said. “Or anyone like you.”

“That's a testament to her value,” said Tom.

Roy still didn't believe. “I want to hear it from her.”

Tom gave him a funny look. “I'm sure that would be nice,” he said. “But, among other things, you're in no position to make demands of any kind.”

The ambulance went around a bend. The urn bumped against the wall, then settled. “Tell me about the fiasco,” Roy said.

“Fiasco?”

“Operation Pineapple.”

“What would be the point?”

“Meaning you're afraid to tell me,” Roy said.

“I wouldn't go that far,” Tom said. A few tiny pink spots appeared on
his face, as though a blush were trying to break through. “Call it a habit of caution.”

“That's the way you see yourself?” Roy said. “Cautious?”

“Very much so—that's the whole point of everything we do,” said Tom. “Why not climb back on the gurney?”

Instead, Roy took the Operation Pineapple photo off the shelf. “Where is this place? North Africa?”

Tom watched him.

“Is it a fort?” Roy said. “Or maybe a prison.”

Tom smiled, a faint smile, not happy and quickly gone. “You're good, Roy. Maybe you missed your calling.”

That annoyed Roy. He went to stick the photo in his pocket; at that moment, realizing he wore hospital pajamas. But there was a chest pocket. He slid the Operation Pineapple photo inside.

“The gurney, Roy.”

Roy didn't move. “What happened at the prison?” he said.

Without turning his back, Tom tapped on the door to the front of the ambulance.

“Whatever it was involved a helicopter,” Roy said.

“Oh?”

“According to Westie,” Roy added. “Helicopters are big in this story.”

Tom's face darkened. The door opened. A hand reached out, passed Tom a gun; like the others—short barrel, wooden grip—as though they'd bought in bulk, qualified for a discount.

“The preferred outcome,” Tom said, “would be death from this…mesothelioma—am I pronouncing that right?”

“If it was a prison,” Roy said, “were you trying to get someone out? Someone else who worked at the Institute, maybe from an earlier fiasco?”

“That's the artistic imagination at work,” Tom said.

“Or…” Roy thought of the Mad River Fair. “Or was it the other way around?”

“The other way around?” Tom said.

Roy didn't want to voice it.

“Go on,” Tom said. “You've got my attention.”

And just from that, Roy knew he was on the right track: not a friend in the prison yard, but an enemy. “Was there someone down there you wanted killed?” he said.

“What kind of someone would that have been?” said Tom.

Roy didn't know. Were the North African countries considered allies or not? And the prisoners of those countries, whose side were they on?

“See how intricate this gets?” Tom said. “Let's just say he's a very bad guy.”

“The helicopter flew in over the prison yard and Delia was the…” What was the word: shooter? assassin?

“Exactly,” said Tom. “But the failure of the mission had nothing to do with her. She was, as they say, a consummate professional.”

“You're lying,” Roy said.

“Lenore to the power of ten,” said Tom.

That brought back the icy-cold anger. “She was an economist,” Roy said.

“And a fine one,” Tom said. “But her role grew.”

“I'll need to hear that from her.”

“You believe in the afterlife?” Tom said. He gestured with the gun. “Lie back down on the gurney, Roy. I'm asking nicely.”

Mr. Blenny was right. If you were going to lose, then at least lose on the attack. Roy moved toward the gurney. It stood in the middle of the ambulance, one wheel set against a rubber block. Roy put his hands on the back end of the gurney, toed the rubber block out of the way with a tiny movement of his foot. Then he gathered himself, like a weak, sick person about to try something physically taxing. That took very little acting on his part.

“Need some help?” said Tom.

“No,” Roy said. He bent his knees as though to boost himself up, breathed in.

“Sure?” said Tom.

Roy nodded. He drew the gurney a few inches toward his chest. A quick glance at Tom: he had the gun down now, wrapped up in Roy's struggle to get on the gurney, a spectator's expression on his face. Roy didn't like that. He shoved the gurney forward with all the strength he had.

The gurney didn't fly across the floor, but at least it moved. Plus Roy caught a bit of luck: the ambulance braked suddenly, knocking Tom off balance just as the gurney struck him. He fell. Roy, coming as hard as he could after the gurney, fell, too, but right on top of Tom.

Tom still had the gun. Roy grabbed his wrist, tried to grab it with both hands, but his right arm was all tangled up in something—the IV tube. And his left was no good. The next thing he knew Tom had flipped him over, like he weighed nothing at all, had the strength of a child. Roy hit the floor. The impact knocked what breath he had right out of his body. Tom crouched over him, straddling Roy's chest. He raised the gun.