A Place of Hiding

You know many things you think you don’t know, son. You can do anything you want.

But with this? What was there to be done? The only buildings associated with Mr. Guy that Paul knew about were his hotels, his home at LeReposoir, and the museum he and Mr. Ouseley talked of constructing. The only women associated with Mr. Guy that Paul knew about were Ana?s Abbott and Mr. Guy’s sister. It seemed unlikely that the message Mr. Guy wanted Paul to have had anything to do with Ana?s Abbott. And it seemed even more unlikely that Mr. Guy would send him a hidden message about one of his hotels or even his house. Which left Mr. Guy’s sister and Mr. Ouseley’s museum as the core of the message. Which had to be what the message itself meant.

Perhaps the book on the woman’s lap was an account she was keeping of the museum’s construction. And the fact that Mr. Guy had left this message for Paul to find—when he clearly could have given it to anyone else—comprised Mr. Guy’s instructions for the future. And the inheritance Paul had been left by Mr. Guy fit in with the message he had been sent: Ruth Brouard would keep the project going forward, but Paul’s was the money that would build it.

That had to be it. Paul knew it. But more, he could feel it. And Mr. Guy had talked to him more than once about feelings. Trust what’s inside, my boy. There lies the truth.

Paul saw, with a jolt of pleasure, that inside had meant more than just inside one’s heart and soul. It also had meant inside the dolmen. He was to trust what he found inside that dark chamber. Well, he would do so. He hugged Taboo and felt as if a mantle of lead had been lifted from his shoulders. He’d been wandering in the dark since he’d learned of Mr. Guy’s death. Now he had a light. But more than that, really. He had far more. Now he had a good sense of direction.

Ruth didn’t need to hear the oncologist’s verdict. She saw it on his face, especially on his forehead, which looked even more lined than usual. She understood from this that he was fending off the feelings that invariably went with imminent failure. She wondered what it must be like to choose as one’s life work bearing witness to the passing of countless patients. Doctors, after all, were meant to heal and then to celebrate victory in the battle against illness, accident, or disease. But cancer doctors went to war with weapons that were often insufficient against an enemy that knew no restrictions and was governed by no rules. Cancer, Ruth thought, was like a terrorist. No subtle signs, just instant devastation. The word alone was enough to destroy.

“We’ve gone as far as we can with what we’ve been using,” the doctor said. “But there comes a time when a stronger opioid analgesic is called for. I think you know we’ve reached that time, Ruth. Hydromorphone isn’t enough now. We can’t increase the dosage. We have to make the change.”

“I’d like another alternative.” Ruth knew her voice was faint, and she hated what that revealed about her affliction. She was meant to be able to hide from the fire, and if she couldn’t do that, she was meant to be able to hide the fire from the world. She forced a smile. “It wouldn’t be so bad if it simply throbbed. There’d be that respite between the pulsing, if you know what I mean. I’d have the memory of what it was like...i n those brief pauses...what it was like before.”

“Another round of chemo, then.”

Ruth stood firm. “No more of that.”

“Then we must move to morphine. It’s the only answer.” He observed her from the other side of his desk, the veil in his eyes that had been shielding him from her seemed to drop for an instant. The man himself appeared as if naked before her, a creature who felt too many other creatures’

pain. “What are you afraid of, exactly?” His voice was kind. “Is it the chemo itself ? The side effects from it?”

She shook her head.

“The morphine, then? The idea of addiction? Heroin users, opium dens, addicts nodding off in back alleyways?”

Again, she shook her head.

“Then the fact that morphine comes at the end? And what that means?”

“No. Not at all. I know I’m dying. I’m not afraid of that.” To see Ma-man and Papa after such a long time, to see Guy and be able to say I’m so sorry...What, Ruth thought, was there to fear in this? But she wanted to be in control of the means and she knew about morphine: how at the end it robbed you of the very thing you yourself were gallantly attempting to release on a sigh.

“But it’s not necessary to die in such agony, Ruth. The morphine—”

“I want to go knowing I’m going,” Ruth said. “I don’t want to be a breathing corpse in a bed.”

“Ah.” The doctor placed his hands on his desk, folded them neatly so that his signet ring caught the light. “You’ve an image of it, haven’t you?