The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (198 page)

She stopped, crossed her legs, leaned back on her hands. “But in this case, something of a quandary has developed. The importance of confidentiality is bumping up against the welfare of my patient. For me, the quandary is easy to resolve. The Hippocratic oath trumps all. I’m not a lawyer or a priest. My priority must be to save the life, not protect confidences. My guess is that I’m not the only doctor that feels that way.

Perhaps that’s why we have no contact with the donors. The blood center—in your case, the one in East Orange—does everything. They harvest the marrow and ship it to us.”

“Are you saying that you don’t know who the donor is?”

“That’s right.”

“Or if it’s a he or she or where they live or anything?”

Karen Singh nodded. “I can only tell you that the national registry found a match. They called and told me so. I later received a call telling me that the donor was no longer available.”

“What does that mean?”

“My question exactly.”

“Did they give you an answer?”

“No,” she said. “And while I see things on the micro level, the national registry has to remain macro. I respect that.”

“You just gave up?”

She stiffened at his words. Her eyes went small and black. “No, Mr. Bolitar, I did not give up. I raged against the machine. But the people at the national registry are not ogres. They understand that this is a life-or-death situation. If a donor backs out, they try their best to bring them back into the fold. They do everything I would do to convince the donor to go through with it.”

“But nothing worked here?”

“That seems to be the case.”

“The donor would be told that he’s sentencing a thirteen-year-old boy to death?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Myron threw up his hands. “So what do we conclude here, Doctor? That the donor is a selfish monster?”

Karen Singh chewed on that one for a moment. “Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps the answer is simpler.”

“For example?”

“For example,” she said, “maybe the center can’t find the donor.”

Hello.
Myron sat up a bit. “What do you mean, ‘can’t find’?”

“I don’t know what happened here. The center won’t tell me, and that’s probably how it should be. I’m the patient’s advocate. It’s their job to deal with the donors. But I believe they were”—she stopped, searching for the right word—“perplexed.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Nothing concrete. Just a feeling that this might be more than a donor with cold feet.”

“How do we find out?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do we find the donor’s name?”

“We can’t.”

“There has to be a way,” Myron said. “Play pretend with me. How could I do it?”

She shrugged. “Break into the computer system. That’s the only way I know.”

“The computer in Washington?”

“They network with the local centers. But you’d have to know codes and passwords. Maybe a good hacker could get through, I don’t know.”

Hackers, Myron knew, worked better in the movies than in real life. A few years ago, maybe—but most computer systems nowadays were secure against such invasions.

“How long do we have here, Doctor?”

“There’s no way of telling. Jeremy is reacting well to the hormones and growth factors. But it’s only a question of time.”

“So we have to find a donor.”

“Yes.” Karen Singh stopped, looked at Myron, looked away.

“Is there something else?” Myron asked.

She did not face him. “There is one other remote possibility,” she said.

“What?” Myron asked.

“Keep in mind what I said before. I’m the patient’s advocate. It’s my job to explore every possible avenue to save him.”

Her voice was funny now.

“I’m listening,” Myron said.

Karen Singh rubbed her palms on her pant legs. “If Jeremy’s biological parents were to conceive again, there is a twenty-five percent chance that the offspring would be a match.”

She looked at Myron.

“I don’t think that’s a possibility,” he said.

“Even if it’s the only way to save Jeremy’s life?”

Myron had no reply. An orderly walked by, looked in the room, mumbled an apology, left. Myron stood and thanked her.

“I’ll show you to the elevator,” Dr. Singh said.

“Thank you.”

“There’s a lab on the first floor in the Harkness Pavilion.” She handed him a slip of paper. Myron looked at it. It was an order form. “I understand you might want to take a certain confidential blood test.”

Neither of them said anything else as they walked toward the elevators. There were several children being wheeled through the corridor. Dr. Singh smiled at them, the pointed features softening into something almost celestial. Again the children looked unafraid. Myron wondered if the calmness spawned from ignorance or acceptance. He wondered if the children did not understand the gravity of what was happening to them or if they possessed a quiet clarity their parents would never know. Such philosophical queries, Myron knew, were best left to those more learned. But maybe the answer was simpler than he imagined: The children’s suffering would be relatively short; their parents’ would be eternal.

When they reached the elevator, Myron said, “How do you do it?”

She knew what he meant. “I could say something fancy about finding solace in helping, but the truth is, I block and I compartmentalize. It’s the only way.”

The elevator door opened, but before Myron could move he heard a familiar voice say, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Greg Downing stepped toward him.

Too much history. Again. The last time the two men had been in the same room, Myron was straddled over Greg’s chest, trying to kill him, punching him repeatedly in the face until Win—Win of all people—pulled him off. Three years ago. Myron hadn’t seen him since, except on highlight films during the evening news.

Greg Downing glared at Myron, then at Karen Singh, then back at Myron as though he expected him to have evaporated by then.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked again.

Greg was clad in a flannel shirt over some waffle knit you’d buy at Baby Gap, faded jeans, and preternaturally scuffed work boots. The Suburban Lumberjack.

Something sparked hot in Myron’s chest, ignited, took flight.

From the day they first battled for a rebound in the sixth grade, Greg and Myron were the pure definition of cross-town rivals. In high school, where their competitive cup truly runneth over, Greg and Myron met up
eight times, splitting the games evenly. Rumor had it that there was bad blood between the budding superstars, but that was just standard sports hyperbole. The truth was, Myron barely knew Greg off the court. They were killer competitors, sure, willing to do just about anything to win, but once the final buzzer sounded, the two boys shook hands and the rivalry hibernated until the next opening tap.

Or so Myron had always thought.

When he accepted a scholarship at Duke and Greg chose the University of North Carolina, basketball fans rejoiced. Their seemingly innocent rivalry was ready for ACC prime time. Myron and Greg did not disappoint. The Duke-UNC matchups drew fantastic television ratings, no game decided by more than three points. Both had spectacular college careers. Both were named first-team All-Americans. Both were on covers of
Sports Illustrated
, once even sharing it. But the rivalry stayed on the court. They would do battle until bloody, but the competition never overlapped into their personal arenas.

Until Emily.

Before the start of senior year, Myron broached the subject of marriage with Emily. The next day she came to him, held his hands, looked into his eyes, and said, “I’m not sure I love you.” Bam, like that. He still wondered what happened. Too much too soon, he guessed. A need to spread the proverbial wings a bit, play the proverbial field, what have you. Time passed. Three months, by Myron’s count. Then Emily took up with Greg. Myron publicly shrugged it off—even when Greg and Emily got engaged just before graduation. The NBA draft took place right about then too. Both went in the first round, though Greg was surprisingly picked before Myron.

That was when it all unraveled.

The end result?

Almost a decade and a half later, Greg Downing was winding down an All-Star pro basketball career. People cheered him. He made millions and was famous. He
played the game he loved. For Myron, his lifelong dream had ended before it had begun. During his first preseason game with the Celtics, Big Burt Wesson had slammed into him, sandwiching Myron’s knee between himself and another player. There was a snap, crackle, pop—and then a hot, ripping pain, as though metal talons were shredding his kneecap into thin strips.

His knee never recovered.

A freak accident. Or so everyone thought. Including Myron. For more than ten years, he’d believed that the injury was merely a fluke, the fickle work of the Fates. But now he knew better. Now he knew the man who stood in front of him had been the cause. Now he knew that their seemingly innocent childhood rivalry had grown monstrous, had feasted upon his dream, had slaughtered Greg and Emily’s marriage, and had in all probability led to the birth of Jeremy Downing.

He felt his hands tighten into fists. “I was just leaving.”

Greg put a hand on Myron’s chest. “I asked you a question.”

Myron stared at the hand. “One good thing,” he said.

“What?”

“No transportation time,” Myron said. “We’re already at the hospital.”

Greg sneered. “You sucker-punched me last time.”

“You want to go again?”

“Pardon me,” Karen Singh said. “But are you guys for real?”

Greg kept glaring at Myron.

“Stop it,” Myron said, “or I’ll wet myself.”

“You’re a son of a bitch.”

“And you’re not on my Christmas card list either, Greggy-poo.” Greggy-poo. Very mature.

Greg leaned closer. “You know what I’d like to do to you, Bolitar?”

“Kiss me on the lips? Buy me flowers?”

“Flowers for your grave maybe.”

Myron nodded. “Good one, Greg. I mean, ouch, I’m wounded.”

Karen Singh said, “Just because this is a children’s floor doesn’t mean you two have to act like ones.”

Greg took a step back, his eyes never leaving Myron. “Emily,” he spat suddenly. “She called you, right?”

“I have nothing to say to you, Greg.”

“She asked you to find the donor. Like you found me.”

“You always were a bright boy.”

“I’m calling a press conference today. I’m going to make a direct appeal to the donor. Offer a reward.”

“Good.”

“So we don’t need you, Bolitar.”

Myron looked at Greg, and for a moment they were back on the court, faces drenched with sweat, the crowd cheering, the clock ticking down, the ball bouncing. Nirvana. Gone forever. Snatched away by Greg. And by Emily. And maybe most of all, when he looked at it honestly, by Myron’s own stupidity.

“I’ve got to go,” Myron said.

Greg took a step back. Myron moved past him and pressed the elevator button.

“Hey, Bolitar.”

He faced Greg.

“I came here to talk to the doc about my son,” Greg said, “not rehash our past.”

Myron said nothing. He turned back to the elevator.

“You think you can help save my boy?” Greg asked.

Myron’s mouth went dry. “I don’t know.”

The elevator dinged and opened. There were no good-byes, no nods, no further communication of any sort. Myron stepped inside and let the doors close. When he reached the first level, he went to the lab. He rolled up his sleeve. A woman drew his blood, untied the tourniquet, and said, “Your doctor will be in touch with you about the results.”

Win was bored, so he drove Myron to the airport to pick up Terese. His foot pushed down on the gas pedal as though it had offended him. The Jag flew. As was his custom when driving with Win, Myron kept his eyes averted.

“It would appear,” Win began, “that our best option would be to locate a satellite marrow clinic in a somewhat remote area. Upstate maybe or in western Jersey. We would then break in at night with a computer expert.”

“Won’t work,” Myron said.

“Por qua?”

“The Washington center shuts down the computer network at six o’clock. Even if we were to break in, we couldn’t bring up the mainframe.”

Win said, “Hmm.”

“Don’t fret,” Myron said. “I have a plan.”

“When you talk like that,” Win said, “my nipples harden.”

“I thought only the real thing aroused you.”

“This isn’t the real thing?”

They parked in JFK Airport’s short-term parking and reached the Continental Airlines gate ten minutes before the flight touched down. When the passengers began to appear, Win said, “I’ll stand over in the corner.”

“Why?”

“I wouldn’t want to cast a shadow on your greeting,” he said. “And standing over there affords me a better view of Ms. Collins’s derriere.”

Ah, Win.

Two minutes later, Terese Collins—to use a purely transportational term—disembarked. She was casually decked out in a white blouse and green slacks. Her brown hair was up in a ponytail. People lightly elbowed one another, whispering and subtly gesturing, giving her that surreptitious glance, the one that says “I recognize you but don’t want to appear fawning.”

Terese approached Myron and offered up her breaking-to-commercial smile. It was small and tight, trying to be friendly but reminding viewers that she was telling them about war and pestilence and tragedy and that maybe a big happy smile would be somewhat obscene. They hugged a little too tightly, and Myron felt the familiar sadness overwhelm him. It happened to him every time they hugged—a sense that something inside of him was crumbling anew. He sensed that the same thing happened to her.

Win came over.

“Hello, Win,” she said.

“Hello, Terese.”

“Checking out my ass again?”

“I prefer the term ‘derriere.’ And yes.”

“Still choice?”

“Grade A.”

“Ahem,” Myron said. “Please wait for the meat inspector.”

Win and Terese looked at each other and rolled their eyes.