House of Secrets - v4 (23 page)

“Um, if there — I’d really like to find out about the young woman’s condition. Please. Her name is Lindsay.”

“Uh-huh. I know who you’re talking about. They’re working on her now, sir. As soon as somebody knows anything, we’ll let you know. You want to give me a name?”

Andy was confused. “Lindsay. I just told you. I don’t know her last name.”

The comment earned him a look. “I mean
your
name. So we can let you know how your em-ploy-ee is.”

Two red dots rose on the senator’s cheeks. “Andy.”

“Good. Okay. Have a seat, Andy, and we’ll let you know as soon as we can.”

Andy started away from the window, then stopped. The woman seemed to have anticipated that he would.

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering. Lindsay’s personal effects. I mean, her purse. Things she had with her when she was brought in. Where would items like that be kept?”

An eyebrow rose. “You want her purse?”

“I told you, she works for me. She was carrying some important papers.”

“We’ll let you know. There’s nothing back here. You’ll have to talk to a doctor. I can’t tell you what I don’t know. Just have a seat. Please.”

He opted to stand.

A
s Christine and Michelle approached Eleventh Street, Christine asked her daughter if she wanted a cupcake. Michelle shook her head vehemently.

“That’s the morning,” she murmured.

“Well, I know. But you can still have one now if you’d like. A treat.”

They had paused in front of the bakery. Michelle looked in the shop-window. “Would it still count?”

“You mean toward your million? That’s completely up to you.”

“What if it’s cheating?”

“Cheating who? Goodness, you’re not competing against anyone. You’re simply keeping count. It’s a game.”

As Michelle was wrestling with the dilemma, the door to the bakery opened and the sculptor emerged. Instead of his customary paper bakery hat he was wearing a green baseball cap pushed far back on his head. He smiled broadly as he recognized the pair on the sidewalk.

“Well, look who it is! Little Miss Cupcake herself. What are you up to? Trying to slip in an extra one?”

Michelle spun on her mother. “See? It
is
cheating. I told you.”

The man looked quizzically to Christine. “What? Did I just mis speak?”

“No, no. Don’t worry. We were just trying to figure out the wiggle room on this whole cupcake thing. It’s quite complex, you know.”

The man nodded sagely. “Oh, I’m sure it is. It’d be such a drag if the poor thing had to start all over.”

Michelle protested. “I’m not a poor thing! I have ten dollars.”

A look passed between the adults. The sculptor bounced down to a crouch to address the girl. “Well. Ten dollars. That’s a whole different kettle of wax. I had no idea I was dealing with a Rockefeller.”

Michelle looked to her mother for clarification.

“I believe your friend is withdrawing his charge of poverty, honey. He’s decided that you’re filthy rich.”

“I’m not filthy!”

Christine laughed. “Welcome to the Land of the Literal.”

The sculptor pulled off his cap. He ran his hands over his hair and squinted against the low sun at Christine.

“Listen, I’m glad I ran into you two. I wanted to let you know that I’ve just concluded my bakery career.”

“Really?” Christine said. “You’ve quit?”

“Yeah. The thing is, I am not a morning person. But with this bakery thing, I’m up to my elbows in dough before the sun has even come up.” He turned to Michelle. “That’s
flour
dough, hotshot. Don’t go laying that Rockefeller thing onto
me.”

“That’s too bad,” Christine said.

The man shrugged. “Well, yeah. There’s definitely something to be said about being forced out of the studio. You do get to see people.”

Christine laughed. “You make it sound like you’d been a monk.”

“Hey, listen. There are days, believe me.”

Michelle had fallen noticeably silent. The shadow that had been accompanying her since her mother had picked her up from school was moving back in. Christine moved closer to the sculptor, lowering her voice.

“It’s not exactly been the best day for Miss Cupcake.”

“I’m sorry. Is she all right?”

“She’ll live. She’s been rattled, that’s all. But now… I just hope you’re prepared for the death of your fan club.”

“Ouch. That’s harsh.”

“Just saying it like it is. You go breaking little hearts like that, you’ve got to weather the consequences.”

The door to the bakery opened and two young women exited onto the sidewalk. They had
NYU student
written all over them. The more attractive of the two waved at the sculptor as they disappeared around the corner.

“Okay, then,” Christine said, laughing. “Midsize hearts, too.”

“Hey, it’s not as if I’m vanishing from the city. I mean, my studio’s right up on Fifteenth.”

“This would be your studio or your monk’s cave? I’m getting those confused.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a business card, holding it out to Michelle. “Here you go, kiddo. Take this. This is where I hang out. You and your mother can come by anytime and visit me.”

Michelle’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Open invitation.” Michelle accepted the card and the sculptor turned back to Christine. “Seriously, I’d love it if you came by and took a look at what I do.” He pulled out a second card. “Here.”

“Oh. One’s fine,” Christine said.

“No. Take it. You know, in case Miss Cupcake is off at school or something and you decide you want to swing by. She’s got her card, you’ve got yours.”

Christine paused. A touch of mirth tugged at the corners of the man’s mouth. The sunlight was picking up flecks of gold from his eyes.

“Take it. It’s just a card. It won’t bite.”

Christine felt the moment edging toward awkwardness. She took the card, tucking it into her back pocket without looking at it. She reached down and took hold of her daughter’s hand. “Let’s go, honey.”

Michelle was holding the sculptor’s card up to her face. “Your name is Michael!”

He made a small bow. “At your service.”

“My name’s Michelle. It’s almost the same name!”

“You’re right, it is.” He looked over at Christine. “And what do they call you? Besides ‘Mommy,’ I mean.”

She was blushing. There wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

“I’m Christine.”

“Good. I guess we’re all old friends now.”

He put his cap back on his head and reached down to muss Michelle’s hair. “So, Cupcake, tell me. What do
you
think about your mommy’s new haircut?”

Michelle was giggling uncontrollably. The sculptor aimed his smile over at Christine. “Yeah. I agree. It’s a good look.”

J
im Fergus was apoplectic.

“You are sitting in a goddamned emergency room?”

“I told you,” Andy said into his phone. “I got the doctor to squirrel me away in an examining room.”

“Big deal! You’re at a
hospital
, and you’re playing nursemaid to your intern! Andy, is it me? You can tell me. Is it something I said? Sweet Jesus, man. Pull a hat down over that pretty face of yours and amscray right now! This
is
your mother speaking.”

“Listen, Jim—”

But Fergus was on a roll. “No. You listen. Senator rushes to cute intern’s bedside. No, sir. Not on my watch. If you want to commit political hari-kari, give old Jimbo the heads-up first so he can watch the train wreck from the safety of the unemployment line, okay?”

“Don’t you think you’re being just a little bit dramatic?”

Fergus ignored the question. “Look, you’re not a doctor. Your being there is zero help to that girl. I’ll send someone over. Let me get Linda over there. Girl to girl. In the meantime, you find yourself a back door and get the hell out of there. This is no time to start losing your instincts.”

The door to the examining room opened, and a doctor in surgical scrubs stepped in.

“I’ve got to go, Jim,” Andy said into the phone. “Fox News just showed up and they want an exclusive.”

He disconnected the call and fielded an odd look from the doctor.

“Private joke,” he explained. “So, where are we?”

He remained seated. The doctor allowed the door to
shoosh
closed behind him.

“It was pretty much like I thought, Senator. The lung was definitely punctured. I’m seeing five ribs injured. Three broken outright, the other two severely fractured. That’ll hurt, but that’ll be fine. The internal haemorrhaging was bad, but of course we’re fortunate that we got her here so quickly.”

This was essentially the information Andy had received in his first briefing with the ER doctor. He knew he had to be patient. Some doctors prefer the checklist approach. Andy also knew that they saved the worst for last. He felt a trickle of perspiration moving in starts and stops down the very middle of his back.

“I’m afraid it’s the leg, Senator — the leg and the hip.”

“What about the leg? Christ’s sake, just tell me if she’s going to lose it.”

The doctor assured him, “We can rule that out. But there’s going to be scarring. Even with cosmetic work. But it’s the hip I’m more concerned about.”

“Oh, God.”

The doctor continued, “We’ve got a triple fracture. The pelvic plate is a horror. We have to go in immediately and pin this whole mess back together. The last thing we need is bone breaking free.”

“It sounds awful.”

“Pretty it ain’t. There’s really no choice. Damage like this, if we don’t get to it right away she could very possibly never walk normally on that leg again.”

“Jesus.” Andy lowered his head. Nineteen-year-old Lindsay No Name, on a secret mission to retrieve something Andy could only assume was very, very, very damaging. And now she was about to be surgically put back together.

Andy glanced at his watch. “Um. About the other matter?” The doctor looked confused. Andy added, “There was a FedEx package?”

“Oh. I see. You mean the patient’s possessions?”

“I’d like the FedEx, please.”

“Well. Technically, patients’ possessions are not released until—”

“My name is on the package,” Andy said, holding on to his temper. “It was in the patient’s possession, but it is
my
property.” He stood up. “Look, I have to be going. My press secretary is on her way. She’ll take care of things with Miss… with Lindsay. You’ve been very helpful, Doctor. I appreciate your sensitivity. If you could arrange for me to get my package now, I would be grateful.”

“Of course, Senator. You can come with me. We’ll take care of that.”

The doctor pulled open the door, and Andy followed him into the corridor. The doctor paused, turning to Andy. “Oh, I almost forgot. Would you like to see her? She’s groggy, but—”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m just…” He trailed off. He felt completely ashamed.

The doctor took a beat. “Okay, then. Just thought I’d check.”

A
ndy called for a car service and had the driver deliver him to his apartment. He went immediately into the kitchen and poured himself a drink, which he took out to the living room.

He dropped onto the couch.

On the wall next to him was a photograph Andy had taken of Christine during a vacation in Martha’s Vineyard several years before, cuddled in a hammock, asleep. It was one of his favorite photographs of his wife. In it he had managed to capture the beatific serenity gracing Christine’s face. The image never failed to move him, even if only a little. As he took a long sip of his drink and set the FedEx envelope on his lap, the image moved him a great deal. It made him feel like dirt.

He checked the time. A few hours still until he was supposed to call the man he was now thinking of as the Mad Russian. Andy took a long sip of his drink then worked open the stiff FedEx envelope. There was a piece of paper with a note on it. Andy set it on the coffee table, facedown and unread. He was more concerned with the rest of the envelope’s contents.

Andy felt as if all the hair follicles on his body were tingling. He realized he was a little light-headed, experiencing a slight sense of vertigo. He set the three photographs facedown on his lap and placed his hands on them. He would have preferred their images to simply transmit through his palms directly to his brain. He didn’t want his eyes involved. For nearly a full minute he remained still, studying the photograph on the wall next to him. Christine asleep in the hammock. He recalled the vacation, the particular day, the moment he picked up his wife’s camera and snapped her picture. He ached for those days.

What have I done?

Finally, he lifted his hands from the photographs on his lap and looked at each of them. His first pass was eerily cool and dispassionate. He merely gathered in the information represented in each of the three shots, only a vague curiosity rising as to who in the world took these pictures, and how and why. Of course, he knew the basic content. This first look was primarily to confront the shock. It was real now. It was actually happening.