“A follow-up assessment related to a recent concussion. It was scheduled at the time of my discharge from Parker Hospital in Harbane.”
She took a black pen from the pocket of her white coat and held it poised over the top page in the folder. “I will ask a series of questions. You can answer yes, no, or sometimes. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Since the injury, do you have headaches?”
“Sometimes.”
“Their average intensity, on a scale of one to ten?”
“Six.”
“Dizziness?”
“If I stand up too quickly.”
“Ringing in your ears?”
“Yes, but at a volume low enough that I can generally ignore it.”
“Fatigue?”
“I feel tired more frequently than I used to. A minor inconvenience.”
“Double vision?”
“No.”
“Blurred vision?”
“No.”
“Depression?”
“No.”
“Anxiety?”
“No more than usual.”
She’d been making check marks on a sheet in her folder after his answers, but now she hesitated. “Anxiety is a frequent emotional state for you?”
“I’m in an anxiety-producing line of work.”
“Namely?”
“Criminal investigation.”
She frowned and made a short note on the sheet before going on.
“Any changes in your sense of taste or smell?’
“No.”
“Anger?”
“Sorry?”
“Have you found yourself becoming angry, impatient, irritated more frequently since your injury?”
That was the first question he had to think about.
“More frustration than usual, but with considerable justification.”
That seemed to produce a hint of amusement, or maybe it was just a tic at the corner of her mouth. She made another note on the sheet.
“Any increased sensitivity to light?”
“No.”
“Increased sensitivity to loud noises?”
“No.”
“Any injury-related pains, other than the headaches?”
“Yes, in my neck and upper back.”
“On a scale of one to ten?”
“Between four and six.”
“Any change in your sense of balance?”
He hesitated. She looked up from the sheet, pen poised.
“It’s possible,” he said. “But very slight.”
She pursed her lips, conveying that a slight loss of balance might be serious. “Stand up.”
He got to his feet.
“Stand on one leg.”
He stood on his right leg.
“Now the left leg.”
He tried it, staggered a bit to the side, caught his balance, staggered a bit to the other side, caught his balance, tottered, then remained upright but unsteady.
“Sit down.”
He did. She made another note.
“Medications?”
“Acetaminophen, sometimes ibuprofen.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “Nothing else?”
“Nothing else.”
She rose from her chair, laid the folder on the desk, stepped over in front of him, and held her pen up vertically. “Follow it with your eyes without moving your head.”
He did so, as she moved the pen slowly to the right and left, then up and down.
She laid the pen aside and held up two fingers off toward the edge of his peripheral vision. “Look straight ahead and tell me how many fingers you see.”
She did this several times, holding up one, two, or three fingers in various positions to his right, left, up, and down. He told her what he saw. She showed no reaction to his answers. She turned her back to him.
“Cat mat bat sat hat,” she said and asked him to repeat what he’d heard.
He did so.
She went to the desk, made a longish entry on one of the pages, and closed the folder with a note of finality.
“So,” he said with a polite smile, “what’s the verdict?”
She made a little sucking sound through her teeth. “You’ve suffered a traumatic brain injury. You have ongoing symptoms that indicate a need for rest and additional monitoring. I recommend an MRI in thirty days if the symptoms are not resolved, sooner if they become more pronounced. Any questions?”
“Is there anything you suggest I do or not do?”
“Rest. Avoid exertion. Avoid stressful situations.”
As if to punctuate the end of their meeting, she produced a split-second smile.
If he’d blinked, he would have missed it.
59
DOWN IN THE PARKING LOT, HE SAT FOR A WHILE IN THE car, feeling disoriented. He knew where he was, he just wasn’t sure who he was.
Seeing himself as a patient, limited by a condition that might not improve and for which the only palliative was to stop doing the things he needed to do—seeing himself as Dr. Lyn Clavin saw him—filled him with a jarring sense of vulnerability. The hardy detective had been transformed into the impaired middle-aged patient of a cold-eyed neurologist.
The ringing of his phone kept him from sinking any deeper into self-pity. The name on the screen was Emma Martin.
“Gurney here.”
“David, something has happened. I need to speak to you as soon as possible.”
“I’m listening.”
“Not on the phone. In person. Are you at home?”
“I’m in a parking lot in Albany. Where are you?”
“About fifty miles west of Albany. We could meet in Roseland, which is halfway between us. There’s a small Catholic church there that’s always open and empty. Saint Peter’s, on the edge of town. Would that be alright?”
“I can be there in half an hour.”
“Thank you.”
The half hour drive was uneventful but far from relaxed, as Gurney was continually checking his mirrors for any signs of followers. Dark, anonymous sedans drew his particular attention, but none stayed with him long enough to prompt evasive action.
ON A LIST of all the misnamed towns in the world, Roseland would surely be in the top ten. Its central feature was a huge stone quarrying operation, complete with the mammoth machines that grind boulders into gravel. The cliffs surrounding the excavation bore the vertical scars of holes drilled for the dynamite charges used to blow the mountainside apart. Machinery, dump trucks, prefabricated office structures, vehicles, everything in sight was covered with gray stone dust. The air seemed to vibrate with the grinding roar of the rock-crushers.
The town that radiated out from this hellhole grew quieter as the distance from the machinery increased. St. Peter’s was on one of the last residential streets before the modest homes gave way to farmland. The neighborhood was almost free of dust and almost quiet. The church was a white wooden structure with a modest bell tower. It had a lawn on one side, dominated by an ancient apple tree, and a parking area on the other side.
Gurney tried the front door of the church, found it unlocked, and went inside. The image of the quarry evaporated in an oasis of stillness and soft light. The sense of smell had an evocative power that he found nowhere more powerful than in a traditional Catholic church. The unique mixture of incense, flowers, burnt candle wax, leather-bound prayer books, and dry wood never failed to transport him to the church of his childhood.
He sat in the last pew and slipped into recollections of his altar-boy days—of lilies on a linen-draped altar, shining gold chalices, satin vestments, unsmiling priests, dark confessional booths full of whispered transgressions.
His reveries were interrupted by a movement at the edge of his vision. He looked up and saw Emma standing next to the pew. She was wearing the same loose, cape-like coat she’d worn the day she came to his house with the request that began his investigation. But now there was a deep sadness in her eyes.