Repairman Jack [07]-Gateways (14 page)

Jack nodded. “No change.” He debated whether or not to ask her about the can on the stick behind his father’s headboard but decided to save it for later. “Are you going over?”

She nodded. “I thought I’d sit with him for a while.”

What a grand old lady. “I’ll give you a lift.”

She waved him off. “I’ve already called a cab.” She turned to go. “I’ll be back later. Cocktails at five, if you’re available.”

He couldn’t turn her down twice. “It’s a date.” Jack thought of something. “By the way, who’s the head honcho around here?”

“You mean Gateways?”

“Yeah. The general manager or acting director or chairman of the board of whatever you call him. Who runs the show?”

“That would be Ramsey Weldon. You can find him at the administration building. You can’t miss it. It’s mostly glass and right on the golf course. Why?”

“We need to have a little tête-à-tête,” Jack said.

8

The administration building was pretty much as Anya had described it: a small, cubical structure sheathed in mirrored glass. As Jack got out of his car he saw a tall, distinguished-looking man unlocking the door to a classic-looking four-door sedan. He looked fiftyish, had longish black hair, graying at the temples, and wore a milk-chocolate brown lightweight silk suit that perfectly matched the color of his beautifully restored car: two-tone—white over brown—with wide whitewall tires.

“Am I dreaming,” Jack said, “or is that a 1956 Chrysler Crown Imperial?”

The man’s smile was tolerant, and his tone carried a hint of impatience.

“It’s a Crown Imperial, all right, but not a Chrysler. Everyone makes that mistake. Chrysler spun off the Imperial into its own division in 1954. This baby came out two years later.”

“It’s beautiful,” Jack said, meaning it.

He ran a hand along the crest of the rear fender to one of the stand-alone taillights, sticking up like a miniature red searchlight. The chrome of the split grille gleamed like a gap-toothed grin; the flawless finish threw back his reflection.

God, he wished he could use something like this for his wheels. But it was too conspicuous. The last thing he wanted was people to notice him as he drove around. That was why he’d finally given up Ralph, his old ’63 Corvair convertible. People kept stopping him and asking about it.

“You restore this yourself?”

“Yes, it’s a hobby of mine. Took me two years. Fewer than eleven thousand Imperials were made in ’56 and only a hundred and seventy were Crowns. This one has the original engine, by the way—a 354-cubic-inch Hemi V-8.”

“So it cranks.”

“Yes, indeed. It cranks.” He looked at Jack. “Visiting, I assume?”

“Yeah, in a way. My father’s in the hospital in a coma and—”

“You’re Tom’s son? Poor man. How is he?”

Jack was surprised at the instant recognition. “Not great. You know him?”

He stuck out his hand. “Ramsey Weldon. I’m director of Gateways South.”

“Isn’t that something,” Jack said, shaking his hand. “I came here looking for you.”

“I bet I know why, too. I got a call from one of our sales team. It seems she was given false information about your father. The initial word from the hospital was that he was DOA. I’m terribly sorry about the misunderstanding.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “I can see somebody getting the wrong information, but where did she get off showing the place to prospective buyers?”

“Because she thought—erroneously—that the place belonged to Gateways.”

“Where would she get an idea like that?”

Weldon’s eyebrows rose. “Upon the death of the owner—or owners—the house reverts to Gateways.”

“You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “That’s the arrangement. It’s not unique. Plenty of graduated-care senior communities have similar arrangements.”

“I can’t believe my father signed on for that.”

“Why not? His purchase of the home and the bond guarantees him not only a place to live, but quality care from the moment he signs to the moment he goes to meet his maker, no matter how long it takes. Members of a Gateways community will never be a burden on their families. ‘What do we do with Papa?’ or ‘Who’s going to take care of Mom?’ are questions that will never arise in their families.”

A smooth pitch, delivered with the timing and conviction of a lifelong salesman. Jack could see how powerful that pitch could be to someone like his father who had a lot of pride and had always been an independent sort.

“At no point,” Weldon went on, “will your father be a burden on his children. And at no point will you have to feel guilty about him, because you can rest assured that he’s being well cared for.”

“Maybe it’s not so much guilt I’m feeling as—pardon me if I sound paranoid, but it seems to be to your advantage to have a quick turnover in housing.”

Weldon laughed. “Please, please, we’re asked that all the time. But you have to remember, this isn’t a Robin Cook novel. This is real life. Trust me, it’s all been amortized and insured and reinsured. You can check our financials. Gateways is a public company that posts an excellent bottom line every year.”

He noticed that Weldon was starting to sweat. But then, so was Jack. It was like a steam bath out here on the macadam.

“Then I’m not the first to raise the question.”

“Of course not. Our society is conspiracy crazy, seeing dark plots wherever it looks. I assure you, Gateways takes excellent care of its citizens. We
do
care. And our caring is what makes our citizens recommend Gateways to their friends and relatives. That’s why we have waiting lists all over the country and can’t build these communities fast enough. Just one example is the availability of free annual exams I instituted last year to catch medical problems early when they’re most treatable.”

“Really? Where are they done?”

“Right there in the clinic.” He pointed to a one-story structure a hundred yards away across a dead lawn. “It’s attached to the skilled nursing facility.”

Jack guessed that was Gateways-speak for nursing home.

“Do you think I could speak to the doctor about my father?”

“Please. Go right ahead.” He glanced at his watch. “Oops. Going to be late for my meeting.” He thrust out his hand again. “Nice meeting you, and good luck to your father. We’re all pulling for him.”

He slipped into his car and started it up. Jack listened to the throaty roar of its V-8 and, again, wanted one.

He watched him drive away. During all that talk he’d tried to get a bead on Ramsey Weldon but couldn’t get past the smooth all-business, all-for-the-company exterior. If his father’s accident hadn’t been hit and run, he wouldn’t have bothered. But since it was…

He shook his head. Maybe he was just looking for something that wasn’t there. He knew there was plenty going on out there where no one could see. He didn’t need to be inventing a conspiracy around here.

9

The doctor working the clinic today was named Charles Harris. He wasn’t too busy at the moment so Jack got to see him after only a short wait.

A nurse led him into a walnut-paneled consultation room with a cherry wood desk and lots of framed diplomas on the walls. Harris wasn’t the only name Jack saw, so he assumed other doctors rotated through the clinic. Dr. Harris turned out to be a young, dark, curly-haired fellow with bright blue eyes. Jack introduced himself by his real surname—a name he hadn’t used in so long it tasted foreign on his lips—and then added: “Tom’s son.”

Dr. Harris hadn’t heard about the accident but offered his wishes for a speedy recovery. Then he wanted to know what he could do for Jack.

“First off I’d like to know if my father had a physical here recently.”

Dr. Harris nodded. “Yes, just a couple of months ago.”

“Great. Dr. Huerta is his neurologist at the hospital—”

“I know Inez. Your father’s in good hands.”

“That’s comforting. But I’m wondering about his medical condition before the accident.”

Jack thought he sensed Dr. Harris recede about half a dozen feet. “Such as?”

“Well, anything that might have contributed to the accident, or might explain what he was doing driving around at that hour.”

Dr. Harris leaned forward and thrust his hand across the desk, palm up.

“Could I see some ID?”

“What?” Jack hadn’t seen this coming. “What for?”

“To prove you’re who you say you are.”

Jack knew he couldn’t. All his ID was in the name of John Tyleski. He owned nothing with his own surname.

“I’ve got to prove I’m my father’s son? Why on earth—?”

“Patient privilege. Normally I wouldn’t under any circumstances discuss a medical file without the patient’s permission, even with a spouse. But since this particular patient is incapable of giving permission, I’m willing to make an exception for a close relative—
if
that’s what you are.”

Since Jack couldn’t show ID, maybe he could talk his way around this.

“If I wasn’t his son, why would I care?”

“You could be a lawyer or someone hired by a lawyer looking for an angle to sue.”

“Sue? What the hell for?”

“On behalf of someone injured in the accident.”

“But my father was the only one injured.”

Dr. Harris shrugged. “I don’t know that. I know nothing about the accident. I do know that people in these parts sue at the drop of a hat. They’re caught up in some sort of lottery mentality. Malpractice insurance is through the roof. People may not be able to figure out a presidential ballot but they damn sure know what lawyer to call if they stub a toe.”

He could see Dr. Harris was getting steamed just talking about it.

“Look, I assure you I’m not a lawyer. I can’t even remember the last time I spoke to one—that is, if you don’t count my brother who’s a judge in Philadelphia.”

Maybe that’ll mollify him, Jack thought.

It didn’t.

“On the other hand,” Dr. Harris said, “you could be a con man looking to pull some kind of slimy scam.”

“Like what?” Jack was interested in hearing this.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, but Florida’s got more con men per square mile than any other state in the union.”

“I’m not a con man”—at least not today—“and I’m concerned about my father. In fact, you’ve got me worried now. What’s wrong with him that you won’t tell me? What are you hiding?”

“Not a thing.” Dr. Harris wiggled the fingers on his still outstretched hand. “We’re wasting time. Just show me some ID and I’ll tell you what I know.”

Shit.

“I don’t have it with me. I left it at my father’s place.”

Dr. Harris’s features hardened. He shook his head and stood up. “Then I’m afraid I can’t do anything for you.” He hit a buzzer. “I’ll have the nurse show you out.” “All right,” Jack said, rising. “But will you at least call Dr. Huerta and tell her what you know?”

Dr. Harris obviously hadn’t expected that one.

“I…well, of course. I can do that. I’ll call her this afternoon.”

As frustrated and worried as he was, Jack had to respect this guy’s ethics. He forced a smile and thrust out his hand.

“Thanks. Nice to meet you, doc. You could be classified as a real pain in the ass, but I’m glad my dad has someone like you looking after his privacy. My doc at home is the same way.”

Of course, Doc Hargus was a different case. His license to practice had been pulled, so no one was supposed to know he even
had
patients.

Jack didn’t wait for the nurse. He left the thoroughly befuddled Charles Harris, MD behind and headed for the clinic exit.

Along the way he paid close attention to the windows and the walls—especially the upper corners near the ceiling—and the door frame as he stepped through it. No alarm contacts or release buttons, no motion detectors.

Good.

10

“Is it workin’?” Luke said. “Can you see?”

Semelee sat on a bench in the galley of the
Bull-ship
. Some of the clan was in town, beggin’, while others was ashore, dozin’ in the shade. She and Luke were the only ones aboard. She wished he’d get away and stop hangin’ over her shoulder and leave her be. But his heart was in the right place and so she bit her lip and kept her voice low.

“Just give me a minute here, Luke,” she said as she adjusted her one remaining shell over her right eye. “Just give me a little space so’s I can see if I can get this to work.”

It was so different with only one shell. With two she could focus right in. With one…

With only one eye-shell she could still get into the heads of higher forms like Dora, but the lower forms…they were hard even with two. They didn’t have much goin’ for them brainwise, and that meant she had to concentrate all the harder. If only she had that other shell.

“I could take a few of the guys and hop the fence and watch him ourselfs. We—”