“Names, and then a poor attempt at literary criticism. And it looks like we have company.”
As Francis and the doctor entered the room, Michael locked down the Shift key and typed in a mad rush.
WHAT HAPPENED TOME?
WHAT AAPPEED TO ME
WHAT HAPPENEND TO ME?
WHAT HAPPENED T
Van Hooten darted across the room and stilled Michael’s hands on the keys. “Oh, look what you’ve done!”
Michael freed his hands and beckoned Francis to come to him, but Francis smirked and gave a slight shake of the head. Francis had diagnosed this doctor as a nutter and was ready to be on his way. He made a Let’s go motion with his thumb. Michael stood reluctantly and shuffled to join his brother.
“You look as if you’ve got your work cut out for you here,” Francis said. “And we really must be going.”
Van Hooten looked from his chessboards to the brothers. This was a bad ending to the examination, and he was suddenly nervous about what his guest might say to the Binghams. Would he say the doctor had treated him rudely? Or that he had been unable to offer a proper diagnosis? Van Hooten couldn’t allow that to happen. It could mean the end of everything.
“Please be sure to give my regards to the Binghams,” Van Hooten said. “And if there’s anything else I can do for you—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I’ll be seeing them on Saturday at the fair,” Francis said, “and I’d be most happy to report any progress you’ve made on my brother’s case.” There had been talk during the examination of specialists—men who studied the ears, the throat, the brain—who could be consulted on Michael’s behalf. Francis wanted Van Hooten to know that he expected this information posthaste.
“The fair?” Van Hooten said.
“Yes. I’m to accompany them to meet Their Royal Majesties.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Francis wondered whether he should have said Royal Highnesses instead. He needed to figure out his formal modes of address before he stumbled into another Earl of Glamis situation.
“Of course,” Van Hooten said. “All of the best families are meeting the royals. Isn’t that just what the Times reported.” It was difficult to tell whether Van Hooten was speaking to himself or to Francis. With each line, the doctor recognized, his voice was growing fainter, as if it had turned inward. Spending so much time alone had made it difficult for him to tell the difference between talking aloud and talking in his head. Often he caught himself midthought and wondered, Did I just say that? Or merely think it?
Right now, all of Van Hooten’s thoughts were focused on Saturday, and the few hours of freedom he would enjoy. The papers had published an exhaustive schedule of all the events around the royal visit; surely he could expect the phone to stay silent for hours. He could go out for lunch, or walk in the park. He could go to a museum. How he longed to wander the galleries of the Metropolitan, to see the bright colors of Titian and Raphael. He had enough dour Flemish shadows right here at home; he wanted color and sunshine, beatific faces that had never known the depredations of time.
“Doctor,” Francis said, and then again, louder. Van Hooten looked as if he’d been shaken from a dream. “You spoke about proper treatment for my brother. Where could such treatment be found?”
Van Hooten stumbled through a list of names, only to realize that it had been years since he had been in contact with anyone in his profession. How many of the doctors he once knew had retired or moved to other hospitals, other cities? With great effort, he tried to put aside the heady prospect of a few hours’ furlough on Saturday—what about a musical? He had read the reviews of every show on Broadway in the past decade—and promised Francis that he would make calls, provide references, and pave the way for them. “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said as the brothers exited his apartment. “And do enjoy yourself on Saturday. It promises to be a great day for your country and for ours—and just a lovely day all around.”
GRAMERCY PARK
GAVIGAN HAD BEEN TROUBLED by strange dreams. He woke in a sweat, stiff-limbed and sore-headed, the sheets in a pasty tangle. Firing up his engine was difficult on the best of days, but on mornings like this he felt just how much this life had cost him. He moved like a man waist-deep in a river whose current was against him. Every day his lungs filled with a vile yellow sludge that could find release only through strenuous fits of coughing. It was a dog’s life, but it was life and that was better than the alternative.
He sat, with no small effort, and tried to bring focus to the particulars of the dream. A waste of time. His dreams always dissolved in the light, leaving an aftertaste that could sour his mood for hours to come. In last night’s shadow play, he had been double-crossed. He didn’t remember how or by whom—not that it mattered. He wasn’t some loon who believed that dreams could give him the straight dope on his waking life, but still, that sense of betrayal clung to him as he extracted himself from the sheets. Nothing rankled Gavigan like disloyalty, and to wake with thoughts of a Judas kiss—that was a hell of a way to start a Tuesday.
At this hour the house should have been ticking like a Swiss watch, steady and almost imperceptible. Helen would be making the porridge and putting the kettle on to boil. In another minute Jamie would ascend the carpet-wrapped stairs to tap at the door with an Anything I can do for ye, Mr. Gavigan? That Jamie was a queer one: he had a sixth sense that alerted him the moment Gavigan opened his eyes. It was never the knock at the door that woke Gavigan, but as soon as he was awake, Jamie was there; he never kept his boss waiting. He was steady, that one. A soldier to the end.