Anxiety was a foreign concept to James Prescott. But right now he was anxious.
From the day he’d turned thirty, he’d never fluctuated more than five pounds north or south of 180. At his last doctor’s appointment he weighed in at 170. That seemingly insignificant finding had led to a thorough exam, which then led to routine blood tests and eventually a series of CT scans.
Today, he’d be getting the results. His doctor had politely but emphatically declined to provide them to him by phone, encouraging him to come in to discuss them in person, as soon as possible.
Doctors don’t get paid for phone calls; they get paid for office visits, Prescott reminded himself cynically, but he knew deep down that the news couldn’t be good.
And so he waited — alone in the bright, airy, teal and stone waiting room of the Executive Health Clinic of New York-Presbyterian Hospital. Too keyed up to sit, he began to pace, intermittently looking over at the receptionist for some indication he might be on the verge of being called back.
Technically, he was still early. But, they had to know that his time was infinitely more valuable than the doctor’s. Wasn’t that the point of the Executive Health program? That people like him wouldn’t have to wait?
Finally reaching a boiling point, he approached the desk with an uncharacteristically disingenuous smile. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s been nearly fifteen minutes. Is there any way you could page Dr. Timmons?”
Before the receptionist had a chance to respond, Prescott heard the “clack” of the mechanical door to the back of the office unlatch, and the door slowly swung open. Dr. Timmons stepped through into the waiting room and greeted him with his characteristic firm handshake — but not the exuberant, bordering on brown-nosing, smile Prescott had become accustomed to.
They walked in silence, Dr. Timmons in front and Prescott following closely behind, past their customary exam room and down the hall to a small conference room, where two middle-aged women in white coats were waiting, projecting the same deliberate lack of expression Dr. Timmons had. More evidence of bad news in Prescott’s mind. These were clearly colleagues, not assistants. And while “multidisciplinary care” had been an enticing feature in selecting this particular health plan, realizing that he would soon be needing it was sickening.
Dr. Timmons introduced his colleagues, a radiologist and a medical oncologist, offered Prescott a seat, which he politely refused, and then started in a soothing tone, “I wish we had better news for you, Mr. Prescott. But your CT scan of the abdomen was abnormal. There appears to be a mass in your pancreas, and it took up the contrast we gave you. Now, we don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with at this…”
“What do you think we’re dealing with?” Prescott interrupted.
“Well, what we need to do to figure that out is more testing, which is what I was leading up to.”
Prescott was unimpressed. “You could have told me I needed more testing over the phone,” he said pointedly. “In your professional opinion, what do you think we’re dealing with?”
“In my professional opinion — well, in our combined professional opinion — the findings would be most consistent with… with pancreatic cancer.”
Prescott nodded with no change in expression. He knew among cancers that was a bad one. “And is it confined to the pancreas?”
“There was a spot in the liver as well,” Dr. Timmons answered, knowing there was no way he’d be able to get away with sidestepping the question. “But that spot was also non-specific.”
“What kind of life expectancy am I looking at?” Prescott asked emotionlessly.
“Mr. Prescott,” his doctor sighed. “There’s no way to answer that.”
“I’ll have my assistant look it up before I even get back to my office. Just save me the time. What is the life expectancy for someone with metastatic pancreatic cancer?”
“The five-year survival rate is less than five percent,” Dr. Timmons admitted, hanging his head.
One of the women took over from there. “Mr. Prescott, I’m a radiologist who specializes in interventional procedures. The next step toward a definitive diagnosis would be to determine what that mass in your pancreas is for sure, and the only way to do that is by looking at a piece of it under the microscope. It turns out the easiest and least invasive way to get that piece is with a needle biopsy, performed under CT guidance.”
“Alright, when can we do it?” Prescott asked, desperate to know exactly what he was up against.
“That’s up to you. We can certainly be flexible with your schedule, keeping in mind that we shouldn’t sit on this for too long.”
“How long does it take?”
“Thirty minutes or so. An hour max.”
“Is there any recovery time?”
“No, it’s a pretty simple outpatient procedure.”
“Alright then, let’s go. Let’s do it now,” Prescott said decisively.
“Well, the equipment probably wouldn’t be available right now,” the doctor backpedaled, not expecting that response. “And regardless, you’d need to be fasting for the procedure.”
“I haven’t eaten anything today. And with the money I’m paying the hospital, I’m sure you can solve the equipment availability issue. Now let’s hurry up and get to wherever we need to be in this hospital and get this over with.”
Leonard Weinstien exited the baggage claim at Cleveland Hopkins Airport to find Ryan idling at the curb. After receiving the external hard drive in the mail that morning from Dillon, Ryan had spent the last several hours reviewing all of the J’Quarius Jones files. Nowhere had there been any mention of either Weinstien or a biological father.
“Paper files,” Weinstien grunted, as he hoisted an overstuffed suitcase into the back seat and then climbed in the front next to Ryan.
Weinstien was five-six with frazzled gray hair that shot out horizontally from the base of an expansive bald spot. He seemed to be in a constant struggle with a pair of thick-rimmed glasses that were perpetually trying to slide down his nose, away from his reddish-brown eyes that were stuck in a continuous squint. He wore a faded brown suit that obviously hadn’t been upgraded since well before his retirement five years earlier, and his generous gut hung lazily over his belt.
“Ryan Ewing,” Ryan nodded with a forced smile, hoping his skepticism wasn’t too apparent.
“Pleasure. Leonard Weinstien. Ok, then. Now that I’m no longer billing by the hour — or even billing at all — we might as well get straight to business. I’m staying at the Hampton Inn by the way, if you want to head that direction.
“First of all a couple of security questions for you. What school did you go to?
“Hunting Valley Academy.”
“Full name please.”
“Hunting Valley Academy for Math, Science and the Arts.”
“And what was your birth name?
“Ryan Tyler, Jr.”
“How old are you?
“17”
“College and Major?”
“Harvard. Economics.”
“Adoptive parents names?”
“Thomas and Sara Ewing.”
“ATM pin number?”
Ryan glared over at his passenger to see a wry smile materialize on Weinstien’s face.
“OK, well that’s all I’ve got,” Weinstien said, slamming a small notepad shut. “If you’re not who you say you are, I’ll at least give you credit for doing your homework.”
“What kind of law did you practice?” Ryan asked, visibly underwhelmed.