Caller unknown, p.22
Caller Unknown, page 22
One morning he told her he was going for a drive to clear his head. Instead, he went to the Civic Center Public Library. He spent an hour or so leafing through the phone books, picking those states he knew the Cuervos at the funeral and the wedding lived in. There were Cuervos, sure; it wasn’t that uncommon a name, but did the initials and addresses match those of the people he’d met on those two occasions?
Next, he put in a request for the Miami Dade syllabus on microfiche. When it arrived, he rolled the film through the reader until he came to the Romance languages section. The course prospectus made much of the exchange program with the Sorbonne in Paris. So that, at least, stacked up.
Someone had helpfully microfiched information on the Sorbonne course and the participating professors and tutors. There were even photographs. As he scrolled through the list, there, suddenly, was the picture of Alex Leroy: he was just as Ed had imagined him. A guy in his early thirties: a suavely handsome Gallic face with fashionable stubble and piercing eyes stared back at him. The accompanying description of Leroy’s credentials was, of course, in French and Ed knew little of that language. But right at the end of the bio there was a personal faculty phone number. Some imp of the perverse made Ed jot it down. His eyes went to the bank of phones across the library foyer. It was not yet eleven; still working hours in France. He felt in his jacket pocket for change. There was not much, and international calls were charged at $3.60 a minute. But he had enough for a short call; he decided he just wanted to hear Leroy’s voice.
He rose stiffly and went across the hall to a booth. He lifted the receiver and slotted every last bit of change he had into the machine. Then he dialled 011, then 33 and the number on the prospectus. There was a pause, then the curious, short double burst of the French ringtone, followed by a pause, then a repeat. Half of him wanted no one to pick up.
The ringtone was abruptly cut short. “Oui?” a male voice said at the other end of the line. The coins dropped abruptly into the body of the machine.
“Is this Alex Leroy?” he heard himself say, without asking whether Leroy could speak English.
“Yes, this is Alex Leroy. Who is speaking?”
Ed thought quickly. The name of his friend from Merriweather’s came to mind: “My name is Gordon Robertson. I am an American attorney in Miami.”
“Yes, Mr. Robertson, how can I help you?”
“I’m trying to trace a former exchange student who was with you in Paris—Sarah Cuervo.” He paused, then added, “I gather you knew her well.”
There was silence for a beat at the other end of the line, then Leroy said, “Why are you interested in Sarah? Has something happened to her?”
“As I said, I’m trying to trace her—she’s gone missing. Has she been in touch with you?”
There was another pause, maybe an intake of breath, then Leroy said, “Listen, Mr. Robertson, I don’t know why you think she’d be in touch with me after all this time. I barely knew her; she was very unhappy in Paris. After the incident she dropped out of the course and, as far as I know, went back to America.”
Ed went cold. “What incident?” he asked.
“Surely you know, Mr. Robertson? Sarah tried to take her own life. An overdose. The doctors got to her just in time. I assumed that’s why you’re calling. She has disappeared and you’re worried she may have made another attempt?”
“Do you know why she tried to commit suicide?” Ed asked.
“As I said, she was unhappy: depressed, introverted; not the sort of student I would have recommended for an exchange in a city like Paris. Now, I think I’ve given you as much information as I can properly give. If you have any further questions, I suggest you contact the dean.”
Was he being edgy? Defensive? And had Leroy described the Sarah he, Ed, had first met in the Over and Under?
Just at that moment a series of warning beeps sounded, telling him his credit was running out. When they cleared, there was just the continuous, ready-to-dial tone on the American side. Leroy had hung up. Ed cradled the receiver. A single 10-cent piece tinkled into the coin return.
The sickness he was faking to keep away from work was becoming a reality. Suspicion, or maybe something else, was reducing him, bit by bit. Sleep was difficult. He was prone to sudden flares of rage; the same rages as in his childhood.
He decided to seek medical help. Merriweather’s had excellent medical insurance and there was a battery of experts at his disposal.
He needed Benzema to sign off on the insurance and he wasn’t sure how she would react when she saw it was for a shrink. For this, too, he would have to go back to the office. Would his colleagues see through the feigned illness? But when the day came she was all sympathy, laid a carefully manicured hand on his sleeve. She confided that many of the junior associates were the same. Needed a little help with the hours. Maybe a little prescription to ease things along, she said with a wink. She knew a good doctor. No questions asked. The senior partners didn’t need to know.
“Look after yourself, Martin,” she said, exerting a little more pressure on his sleeve.
The doctor gave him drugs to help him sleep, but the drugs didn’t ease the problem. He found himself still pacing his study into the small hours, Sarah long since in bed.
He was burned out. He got back to work, but his hours suffered, he filed less. His career was on the rocks; no more trips to the Caribbean. Making partner looked an impossible prospect.
A week later the bombshell fell. The doctor had referred Ed for some “Routine tests: just to see if there is any underlying cause for the insomnia.” It began with a head X-ray. Whatever the doctor found, he didn’t like it; Ed was referred to a specialist called Godin. However cold the atmosphere in Lenox had been in the last few weeks, the ice broke with the referral. Sarah’s fear of him was replaced with concern. She returned to the bedroom.
There was a lot of hugging the day of the appointment at Baptist on North Kendall. The name of the clinic was enough to freeze the blood: the Department of Neuro-oncology. Godin’s was an impressive office: tasteful leather furniture, cherrywood desk, family pictures in silver frames, and several diplomas on the wall. Through the plate-glass window was a palm-fringed reflecting lake. Godin resembled a kindly monk: about sixty, a bald, wrinkled, unassuming man with a gentle smile, expressive hands with long fingers, like a concert pianist, and caring gray eyes that seemed to carry all of human wisdom inside them.
At a hidden switch, the surgeon’s expression morphed from polite and welcoming to empathic and concerned. He showed them the X-ray of the cranium, a small mass pressing down on the frontal lobe that, amongst other things, he said, was affecting Ed’s sleep patterns. The growth was possibly malignant. A biopsy would be required. If Godin’s suspicions were proven, an operation and then radiotherapy must follow.
Godin explained that Ed would need a general anesthetic for the biopsy as a trepanation would be required to remove the sample tissue. Results would be available in two days. He urged Ed to schedule the procedure as soon as possible. He insisted it take place before Christmas; with the uncertainty of the diagnosis, time was of the essence. If it was cancer, as he suspected, it was not necessarily fatal, yet. If the biopsy confirmed what he suspected, the trepanation hole would be used again in the ensuing operation. The operation itself was safe, the prognosis was good, the scarring would be light and invisible, soon to be covered with hair. He expected a complete recovery but he warned that Ed might exhibit headaches, nausea, impaired speech, behavioral issues, mood swings, and memory problems, but these symptoms would gradually ease in time. He suggested that Ed not have any visitors for a couple of weeks after the operation; the quiet would aid his recovery. Ed would be back to his old self within the month, he assured Sarah. All that remained was to schedule the trepanation.
Ed squeezed Sarah’s hand and smiled as best he could and said, “Sure, Doc. Sarah and I’ll discuss the schedule and get back to you.”
Perhaps Godin’s forehead creased a little, as if he were a tiny bit displeased that a mere patient should be dictating his schedule, but his kindly smile re-formed a moment later.
“Of course,” he said. “Take your time. But not too much time, young man. It’s a serious but curable issue.” He stood and gave Ed a handshake, Sarah too.
“Why didn’t you want to schedule right away? Is it about the money?” Sarah asked Ed as they walked out into the lot.
He stopped and glanced back at the facade of the oncology building. “We have Merriweather’s insurance,” he answered.
“So, what’s the matter?” she asked.
“I want a second opinion,” he said.
“But the doctors at Baptist are the best in Miami,” she said.
Something raw began to burn in him, as raw as the sun beating down on the parking lot. “Just humor me, will you?” he said brusquely and strode off across the baking asphalt to the car.
As if in sympathy with Ed’s medical troubles, Sarah had begun to suffer severe stomach cramps. She elected to visit Baptist as well. They recommended X-rays. Ed agreed to pick her up in the car after the exam. By now the corridors of the hospital were familiar to him and he made his way without even looking at the overhead signs, his face moody, his eyes downcast. He was surprised when he reached the familiar radiology waiting area to find Sarah not seated with the dozen or so people sitting inside on the waiting room chairs but standing just outside the doors. She was clutching in one hand a white and blue plastic object shaped like a pen.
“Did you already have the exam?” Ed asked.
“No,” she answered.
“Why not?”
She looked away. “Ed, there’s a certain class of person they don’t allow into X-ray suites, unless there’s an emergency. I’m one of them,” she said.
“What’re you talking about?”
She held up the stick. He saw it had a little panel set into the side. In it there was a heavy blue line to the right and a faint purple one on the left.
“What is it?” he asked, though he had a good idea.
“The radiologist asked me if I could be pregnant and—well, I guess the penny suddenly dropped. I excused myself and went to the pharmacy and bought one of these home pregnancy kits. This is what showed up.”
“You’re pregnant?”
She nodded.
“How?”
“I think you can guess how, Ed.”
He was silent for a beat. “We discussed this, Sarah.”
“Yes, Ed, we discussed it, but talking isn’t everything. Sometimes accidents happen, and you know what?” Heads were turning in the waiting room and she lowered her voice a little bit. “Of all the crappy things that have happened these last few months, this could be a good thing. The only good thing, Ed.”
He stared at her, and then at the people back in the waiting room, who, under his gaze, went back to looking at magazines or staring at the wall.
“Let’s discuss this elsewhere,” he said.
“Good idea,” she replied.
They were silent on the way home. Ed felt afraid, yet lifted out of himself too. He surprised himself by getting out of the car quickly, hurrying around and opening the car door for her. She gave him a sideways look as they went up the steps.
“You OK with this?” she said.
“Let’s get inside,” he said. And that was the last they spoke about it that day. In fact, the last they spoke about it for a week.
He took another medical leave. Benzema seemed to know all about Godin’s diagnosis, despite doctor–patient confidentiality. Merriweather’s, after all, were paying for the opinion. She told him to be back the Monday after Thanksgiving.
He told Sarah he would go alone to Dr. Cusemano’s surgery for the second opinion. He also told her it wouldn’t be covered by the Merriweather insurance. The checking balance was going to take a hit. Just as it had done with his impromptu plane charter.
It seemed a very long wait for the results of the new blood work and X-rays.
Cusemano called the home phone the day before Thanksgiving. Ed had told Sarah he would prefer to receive the news alone. She had gone off in her Cavalier.
“There’s good news and bad news,” Cusemano said. “The big one is the X-rays show no occlusion to the frontal lobe—in other words, there’s no brain tumor.”
Ed, who had been standing upright with the phone clenched in his fist, sat down abruptly on his study chair. “What? No tumor?”
“Correct,” Cusemano answered.
“How could the Baptist people be wrong?” he asked.
Cusemano was silent for moment. “Mistakes happen, Mr. Cruz.”
“Not like this, they don’t,” Ed answered.
“It’s not for me to comment on another physician’s work,” Cusemano answered primly. “My job is to give you the best advice possible. If you are unhappy with the previous advice, I suggest you file a complaint with Baptist.”
Ed didn’t really hear. His head was spinning. He had stared at death. Now the reprieve. He felt like laughing and weeping all at once. The emotions stuck there as cold fact took over. He had seen Godin’s X-rays—still had them in his briefcase. It seemed they must have been switched with another patient’s. How? As he had said to Cusemano, mistakes that big didn’t just happen.
He realized Cusemano was waiting for him to respond. “Sorry. You said there were two things.”
Cusemano took a deep breath at the other end of the line. “Just as it’s not my job to criticize another practitioner, it’s not my part to discuss patients’ private choices either…” He paused.
“But?” Ed prompted.
“But what I see in the toxicology report, Mr. Cruz, may suggest the origins of your recent state of mind.”
“Tox report? What about it?”
“Mr. Cruz, there are high levels of methamphetamines in your blood. Enough to suggest serious use.”
“That’s impossible,” Ed answered.
“As I said, I don’t pass judgment on my patients. But, on exam, I noticed a certain dilation of your eyes, weight loss, gum retraction… You had an elevated heart rate and what I can only describe as signs of hyperactivity. You wouldn’t be the first. I see many patients who take substances to help them through their day. But methamphetamines take their toll: not just physically, but when the system doesn’t react to the stimulation any more you enter what we call a tweaking phase. I would suggest you have reached that stage, Mr. Cruz. The psychological symptoms of tweaking present just as yours: anxiety, insomnia, mood swings, paranoia, and hallucinations.”
“I have never taken speed,” Ed answered, but with a hitch in his voice. He had never knowingly taken the drug—but had he been given it? How? When? Cusemano was suggesting use over a long period. Had he been systematically doped?
Cusemano said, “The first stage of addiction is denial, Mr. Cruz. I can recommend you a clinic if you wish. And, of course, this report is confidential and will not be referred to any other parties. I’ll mail it along with my bill. Please let me know if you have any further questions.” And with that the good doctor abruptly hung up. It was the day before the holiday, after all. No doubt he had an urgent appointment on the golf course.
He was going to live. The shadow that had hung over him since the first meeting with Godin was gone. It was like dazzling sunlight poured into a dark cell. The momentary happiness was total. Then came a switch. He reached down into his briefcase and pulled out Godin’s report. There it was in black and white. His mood abruptly switched. Suddenly he found he doubted Cusemano.
His mood swung back and forth, then settled back on his original thought. Cusemano was right. Godin had lied. Why? He wanted to operate. Wanted to mess with Ed’s brain, like one of those mild-aspected Nazi doctors in the Second World War with their human vivisections. When brain function was tampered with, behavior was altered. Was that what this was about?
Why would a doctor want to manipulate him? There was only one explanation: Typhon had found him.
In a country of 250 million, they had found him.
Realization settled on him like a lead sheet. It all added up. The fake diagnosis, the drugs, the passport issue, even the ease with which he had gotten the position at Merriweather’s…
Why was it so cold in the study? The air con was only cranked halfway, but he was shivering.
He looked around the room. Maybe the phone was bugged—maybe the house was bugged.
If they had found him, what were they waiting for? The code of conduct was clear: should Cusemano’s report ever find its way into the hands of an oversight committee, Ed would be disbarred immediately. That would be the end of Merriweather’s, his career, Lenox Avenue, possibly even his secret identity. Prison beckoned. And what of the baby, this unplanned kid?
Maybe Typhon was waiting because they wanted him alive, biddable, trapped.
The periphery of his vision crowded in. He was as helpless as the nine-year-old boy he had once been. He stared sightlessly over the green lawn toward where he had buried his memento box. Maybe his little insurance wasn’t as clever as he thought. If they knew everything else, they might very well know about that as well. The attorney he’d interned with had had a Merriweather connection. Perhaps he’d opened the letter already? And even if he was on the level, Ed was sure that after he was gone the box would disappear before his attorney could arrive to retrieve it.
On impulse he stood and went out the back, took a spade and dug up the mud-spattered tin. He cracked it open. All was as he had left it.
He’d had a sprinkler system set up a week or two back. It suddenly burst into life, sending arms of spray around the garden, spraying him and the contents of the tin. The morning light caught the spray and a rainbow showed. He hurried into the house, discarded the tin and put the Bible, notebook, and papers in his bedside drawer next to the abandoned cell phone.
He went back into his den and brooded. He needed somewhere else to hide his insurance. Hell, he needed to plan an escape.
