“Lord. The cops been any help?”
Will conjured up images of last evening’s embryonic connection with Patty, but couldn’t even manage a smile. For nearly an hour the two of them had sat together on his couch, his arm around her, her head resting on his shoulder. Neither of them was willing to speak or break the mood in any way. Will sensed that their bond was forged as much by exhaustion and frustration as by their attraction to each other, and he was determined not to read too much into the moment. Still, they were together, touching. Then suddenly, having spoken barely a word, Patty had stood, kissed him first on the cheek, then briefly on the mouth, mumbled an apology, and left. Just like that.
“They seem to be doing the best they can, Beano,” Will said, “but the guy is good. He knows handguns, he knows explosives, he knows surveillance electronics. He studies his victims and finds ways to get at them without any witnesses.”
“And why is he doing this?”
“He only shares things with me a bit at a time. It’s like a game. But from what he’s let me in on so far, someone close to him-his mother, it appears-was killed by what he perceives was managed-care policy. I’m guessing she was discharged prematurely from an ER or a psych ward and went ahead and killed herself.”
“She wouldn’t be the first. I’ve lost two clients whom we couldn’t get into a detox because of refusal by their HMO.” Beane donned a padded mitt and helped pour a mountain of spaghetti into a giant colander. “Well,” he said, “I don’t want to make things any worse for you, but there is something I need to talk to you about.” He turned to a gangly teenager who was moving dishes out to the serving area. “Arielle, can you take over for Will, please? Get some help emptying those two other pots into this strainer, rinse the pasta, then fill up two of the deep serving pans.”
“Glad to.”
Beane put his arm around Will’s shoulder and guided him to his office.
“I’m not sure whether or not you know it, Will, but after Grace Davis ran into you at your office, she and her husband, Mark, began coming in here to volunteer. Three times so far, I think. Maybe four. Coming back completed a circle for her. I was seriously considering hiring her part time to help out our counseling staff, as soon as her chemotherapy was over. Although she was before my time when she used to be a client here, her story and the way she carries herself now certainly impressed me.”
“Me, too. I felt terrible having to tell her I couldn’t do her surgery, and even worse having to tell her why.” Beane’s grave expression brought a sudden chill. “Is she all right?” Will asked.
“Her husband called just a little while ago. She had an allergic reaction during her first dose of chemotherapy.” He pulled a pink telephone-message pad sheet from his pocket and read the words. “He said it was shock. Ana-fil-ack-tic shock.”
Will felt ill. Anaphylactic shock was the most fearsome of allergic reactions. Massive histamine release causing hives, precipitous blood-pressure drop due to widespread pooling of blood in dilated vessels, and airway obstruction due to swelling of the membranes in the throat and bronchial tubes. It was a terrifying medical emergency that was often fatal.
“Did she die?” he managed, dreading the answer.
“According to her husband, almost. One of the rescue-squad people performed an emergency tracheotomy in the cancer clinic. She’s in intensive care at your hospital. I’m not sure whether or not she’s regained consciousness.”
“Thanks for telling me. I can call the unit for information.”
“Are you going to go over there?”
Will pictured Sid Silverman, puffed with anger, insisting that he not set foot in the hospital. There was no legal order to back up the demand, but Will had seen no reason to make his situation worse by putting Silverman to the test. Now there was one.
“In the morning,” he said. “I’ll go in and see how she’s doing first thing in the morning.”
Given the choice this night between table cleanup, which was his usual job, and staying behind the counter to serve, Will chose the latter. He was in no shape for much contact with the public. Gina, the full-time staff person in charge of scheduling and deploying volunteers, put him on salads. The line of clients, a number of whom still had their own home but could afford neither food nor fuel, seemed endless. Will recalled the early days when the Open Hearth was more of a food pantry than a kitchen, and marveled at the energy of the place. Tonight, four paid staff were working alongside fifteen or so volunteers, ranging from ten years old to seventy. It was a good bet that none of those volunteers knew Will was one of the founders, and that was certainly the way he wanted it. What he didn’t want, however, was the notion that before long, without a medical license, he and the twins might end up in the line on the other side of the counter.
I’m sorry, Doctor, but you’re a little overqualified for our Burger King trainee program. .
“Hey, there, mister, am I allowed two salads if I pass on the spaghetti and meatballs?”
Patty eyed him from over the food-protection hood. She had on her worn leather jacket and a floppy black and red leather cap that looked perfect on her.
“I would hate to offend the memory of my sainted mother,” he said. “That spaghetti sauce is her recipe.”
“No it’s not.”
“You’re right. It’s not. My sainted mother had trouble boiling water. But she really would have loved that sauce.”
“I still think I’ll pass,” she said, “although I no longer have to be as light on my feet as I was when I was chasing after a certain serial killer.”
“They took you off the case?”
“To all intents and purposes they did, yes.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.” Will glanced at the line, which was starting to build up, and passed across two plastic bowls of salad. “Dressings are over there,” he said. “I highly recommend the ranch and highly don’t recommend the diet Italian. Finish your salad, give me fifteen minutes, and we can blow this joint.”
“I have all the time in the world,” she said.
Along with the hospital and a remarkable antique-car museum, Will considered Steele’s Pond to be among the best things about Fredrickston. Tucked in the woods just west of the city, two miles around, Steele’s had paddleboats, a popcorn cart, and a hot-dog stand in the summer, and picture-book skating in the winter. The air, scrubbed by an afternoon of rain, was crisp and clean-perfect for a walk, Patty said. She followed him to the small parking area at the south end of the pond, locked the Camaro, and walked with him to the water’s edge. After a few silent minutes staring at the dark, still surface, she slipped her arm in his and let him guide her to the rutted dirt track that circumnavigated the pond.
“So,” she began, “sorry I left the way I did last night. My brain was threatening to explode with all that was going on inside it.”
“No problem. I enjoyed spending what time we did together.”
“Me, too. Was it okay for you to desert your post at the salad station? People were still coming in.”
“I’ve always been the last choice to be stationed at salads. Maybe it’s the hand-eye coordination required there. The trainee they replaced me with is already twice as good as I was. Benois Beane, the director, was relieved to see me go.”
“Having spoken with Benois about you, I’ll bet he’s never relieved to see you go. It’s really an amazing place. You must be so proud of what you started.”
“Thanks. It wasn’t just me, but you’re right, I am. There’s no way the little group of us all those years ago could possibly have envisioned what it was going to become.”
“In a way, it made me sad. So much poverty. I kept thinking that maybe someday it won’t be needed.”
“Wouldn’t that be something? Of course, such a world would require a few consecutive federal administrations that actually cared about educating the kids, and making sure they have jobs waiting for them when they finish school, and giving them reasons not to take drugs.”