Carefully, lovingly, he drew out the handkerchief. It had been his mother’s. Draping it over his knees, he reached his other hand into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out his set of picks: four fingerpicks and a thumbpick. They were coated with blood and matter and had lost their characteristic gleam.
He took one of the bottles of springwater, cracked it open, and dampened a paper towel with it. Then he arranged the picks before him, one by one. Long ago he had given them names, calling them after mythological deities, and now as he cleaned each one in turn he pondered its name and the individual personality of that pick. Pinkie: Ao Guang, dragon king of the east sea, who had once unleashed chaos onto the sinful world. Ring: Fei Lian, Flying Curtain, god of the wind. Middle: Zhu Rong, god of fire. Index: Ji Yushyu Xuan, god of the endless outer darkness. And master of them all, the thumbpick, Lei Gong, “duke of thunder,” tasked with punishing mortals who strayed from the true path.
Nodding Crane used the thumbpick to anchor the windpipe of his victims as the others did their slicing work; this last pick was particularly dirty and required a second application of water to clean satisfactorily.
At last the picks shone brilliantly again, their peace and equilibrium restored through loving attention. They would rest now, in preparation for fresh exercise to come. And Nodding Crane would follow their lead.
He carefully wrapped the picks in his mother’s handkerchief and placed them in a small wooden box. Then, stretching out on the futon, he quickly fell asleep amid the fitful night sounds of the Ant Farm.
56
Where are the legs?” Gideon rarely lost it, but he lost it now. He was beside himself, absolutely furious.
The aide came running in. “Hey, man, take it easy—”
“No one told me! No one asked my permission!”
“Look, stop shouting—”
“Fuck you! I won’t stop shouting!” His voice echoed and re-echoed down the stark corridors. There was the sound of running feet.
“You can’t shout in here,” said the aide. “I’m going to call security if you don’t calm down.”
“Go ahead! Call security! Ask them who stole the — my lover’s legs!” Even in his fury, he had to remain in character.
Another aide burst through the double doors, followed by a security guard. Gideon turned on them. “I want to know where Mark’s legs are!”
“Excuse me,” said a man, pushing his way in through the stupefied group. He had the air of authority, of calmness in the face of panic. “I’m a med tech. Sir, you’ve got to calm down.” He turned to the aide. “Go get the deceased’s medical records.”
“I don’t need the medical records, I need the legs!”
“The medical records will tell what happened to the legs,” the man said. He laid a steadying hand on Gideon’s arm. “You understand? We’re going to find out what happened to them. I suspect—” He hesitated, then went on. “—they may have been amputated.”
The word amputated hung in the air like a bad smell.
“But…” Gideon stopped. He realized immediately this was what must have happened. The legs had been crushed, ruined, beyond medical repair. They would have been amputated as part of the effort to save Wu’s life. He should’ve realized it the moment he first saw the X-rays.
The aide returned, followed by the blond receptionist, holding a freshly printed sheet of paper. The med tech took it, scanned it, handed it to Gideon.
It confirmed that the legs had been amputated a few hours after the accident, no doubt shortly after the X-rays were taken. Gideon scanned the sheet again. That had been almost a week ago. Now they were gone forever. He swallowed. The disappointment was so crushing that he was temporarily unable to speak.
“I think we’ve got everything under control here,” said the med tech. The others began to disperse.
Gideon recovered his voice. “What…what happened to them?”
The med tech continued to steady Gideon with a kindly arm. “They would have entered the medical-waste stream. Been disposed of.”
“Medical-waste stream? And what happens to that, goes into a landfill or something?”
“No. Medical waste is disposed of by burning.”
“Oh.” Gideon swallowed. “And…and how long does it take for it to be burned?”
“They don’t let it sit around, obviously. Look, I’m really sorry, but the legs are gone. I know it must’ve been a shock, but…well, your friend is dead.” He waved down at the body. “What you see here is just a discarded shell. Your friend has gone somewhere else, and where he is now he won’t be missing his legs. At least that’s what I believe, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“No. No, I don’t mind. It’s just that…” Gideon fell silent. He couldn’t believe it was over. He had failed.
“I’m very sorry,” the man said.
Gideon nodded.
“Can I help you with anything else?”
“No,” said Gideon wearily. “I’m done here.” He zipped up the bag, slid the drawer shut. He wondered what Eli Glinn would have to say.
As they turned away, he noticed, for the first time, a very large and imposing African American woman standing in the doorway, wearing surgical scrubs, her mask pulled down. She cleared her throat. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said. “I’m Dr. Brown, one of the MEs around here.”
The med tech greeted her, and there was a silence.
Dr. Brown began to speak, very gently. “What was your name again, sir?”
“Gideon Crew.”
“I have some information, Mr. Crew, that might give you some small comfort.”
Gideon waited for another exposition of religious views.
“Mr. Correlli here is correct that it is standard procedure in this country for body parts from surgery to enter the medical-waste stream. But in this case, that would not have happened.”
“Why not?”
“Here in New York City we have an unusual system, perhaps even unique. When a limb is removed in surgery, if the patient doesn’t have specific directions for its disposal, that limb, after it leaves pathology, is placed in a box and delivered to New York’s potter’s field for burial.”
Gideon stared at her. “Potter’s field?”
“That’s right. It’s the place where the indigent are buried. The name comes from the Bible, the field where Judas was buried.”
“New York City has a potter’s field?”
“Correct. When a person dies and the body isn’t claimed, or if the family can’t afford a burial, the city buries the remains in their potter’s field. Same thing for, ah, unclaimed limbs. That’s where your friend’s legs would be buried.”
“And just where is this…potter’s field?”
“On Hart Island.”
“Hart Island?” Gideon repeated. “Where’s that?”
“As I understand, it’s an uninhabited island in Long Island Sound.”
“And the legs were buried there?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Is there a way to…relocate them?”
“Yes,” the ME said. “After going through pathology, all the bodies, limbs, and so forth are placed in numbered, labeled boxes and buried in such a way that they can be retrieved for pathological or forensic reasons. So you needn’t worry. Your friend’s legs received a decent burial.”