Flashback

CHAPTER TWENTY

It was after two in the morning. The fine, misty rain drifting over the valley for hours had sapped most of the warmth remaining from the day. Zack lay sprawled on his living room floor, staring at nothing in particular. The only illumination in the room was from half a dozen candles and the red and green lights on his stereo receiver. For the two hours since his return from the hospital, he had been listening to Mendelssohn and Mahler, talking almost nonstop to Cheap dog, and drinking-at first several beers, then beer plus shots of Wild Turkey, and finally, the 110-proof Wild Turkey alone. "I didn't ask mush, y'know, Cheap?… Peace and quiet, some rocks to climb, a place to do my work without any hassles, the chance to make a difference… Don't look at me that way. I know I said that before. So what?… You're the dog, so you just have to sit there and listen… That's the way it is …"

Zack could count on the fingers of one hand the number of major league drinking bouts he had ever had, but he felt determined to add this night to the list. Beau Robillard had survived his cardiac arrests on the operating table, only to experience several more arrests in the recovery room. Zack had called off the resuscitation after intensive efforts failed to bring back any functional cardiac activity. In retrospect, given the extent of the cerebral contusion and hemorrhage Zack had discovered during surgery, it seemed that the die was cast for Robillard the moment the side of his head had connected with whatever it had.

Unfortunately, in the heat of battle, with no time to spare and a life on the line, there was simply no way for him to know that ahead of time.

You know what medicine's like, boy?'s like you come to rely on this wonderful woman who has promised you that if you treat her right, she'll always be there when you need her… So you do… You study, and no matter how exhausted you are, you don't take any shortcuts… And then, when you need her the most, when your own goddamn father's involved, you follow the system and use your clinical judgment, and do just what you're supposed to do, and poof! She's gone… Gone! Damn women…

Damn medicine…"

Zack had pronounced Beau Robillard dead just as John Burris was completing the removal of a jagged chunk of rusty metal from deep within the muscles of Clayton Iverson's back. Although there was no evidence that the fragment had pierced the dural lining of the spinal canal, apparently there had been some impairment of blood flow to the cord, because the Judge's paralysis had progressed and was now being regarded by Burris as total paraplegia. Whether the condition was permanent or not, Burris would not speculate, although both he and Zack knew all too well that the prognosis following such a development was not good. Word of Zack's decision, the Judge's paralysis, and Beau Robillard's death had spread through the hospital like wildfire. That Robillard's blood alcohol level had come back well below that of legal intoxication, while the Judge's was above the 0. 1 cutoff, was a fact lost in the rumors and the stories of the accident, and the virtually universal condemnation of Zack's disloyalty to his father. Suddenly, it seemed, there was not a soul in all of Ultramed-Davis who did not have a bone or two to pick with Beaudelaire Robillard, Jr., nor one who had not been helped at one time or another by Judge Clayton Iverson. Throughout the hideous evening, which ended with a tense, one way conversation at his father's bedside, Zack did not hear so much as one word of support from anyone for the difficulty of his position or the rightness of his decision.

With Suzanne and Owen Walsh watching Toby, and John Burris staying the night in the guest room at the hospital, there was no reason for him to stay around. And there was every reason to come home and get drunk. In the morning, he would in all likelihood pack up and leave. If only there were some way he could take off for parts unknown without bringing himself along. With the heat turned off, and no fire in the hearth, the house had begun to absorb the chill of the night. Zack pushed himself up and shuffled to the bedroom for a sweater. He was surprised that although he had had more to drink over a shorter period of time than he could ever remember, he felt quite steady on his feet. There was a certain irony that on this particular night he was unable even to do a decent job of getting drunk. Returning to the living room, he laid a small fire, put on a slightly less morose album, and sipped another ounce of Wild Turkey. He could understand the Judge's stony castigation of him, and even his mother's. They had every right to be upset. But Suzanne's reaction was a bitter pill. She was a physician, to say nothing of being his lover. Even if no one else did, she should have had some compassion and understanding for his predicament. He poured another ounce. Years before, in the very beginning of his training, he had wrestled with the issues of making decisions in medicine, and had chosen to adopt the careful, objective, by-the-book approach over any of the more flamboyant, headline-grabbing tactics embraced by many of his surgical colleagues. The decision had not been that difficult. He was a second child, a plodder. He had done his best with what tools he had.

Why couldn't Suzanne understand that? Frank was the buccaneer in the family. He was a scholar. Frank danced on the wind. He needed a system.

The room was growing stuffy and uncomfortably warm. If he closed his eyes for any length of time, it began to spin. His stomach felt queasy, his head like modeling clay. Perhaps he had had enough to diink. Perhaps it was time to… Zack fought the unpleasant feelings, crossed to the window and opened it a slit. The cool air felt wonderful. Toby Nelms about to be shipped off to Boston… The Judge, paralyzed… The man he had chosen to treat instead, dead… He himself anathema at the hospital. Could things have possibly turned out any worse?

There are such things in this world as love and loyalty. They're allowed … Suzanne's words. He should have listened to her. He was simply too stiff, too inflexible. Connie had told him that more than once, before she had checked out of his life. Now, Suzanne was trying to tell him the same thing. Too many rules. Not enough person. He gazed out across the glistening yard, past the low thicket, to the wall of jagged rock that he had named There, hoping someone, someday, would ask him why he climbed it. The granite face, perhaps three hundred feet up and five hundred across, was the single aspect of the house that had most appealed to him when the Pine Bough realtor was first showing him around. Sloping upward at seventy-five to eighty degrees, the face crested at a broad plateau with a better than decent view of the valley.

The climb, though somewhat tricky, was one he had already made several times. But always, he suddenly realized, he had climbed in the sunlight and with equipment. Always, he had done it by the rules… He negotiated a few heel-to-toe steps without any difficulty, and stood on one foot for several seconds. The alcohol would be no problem, he decided. Probably he hadn't even drunk as much as he thought. Rules… systems… Zack strode to the hall closet, pulled on his rubber-soled climbing shoes and his windbreaker, and stuffed a small but potent flashlight into his pocket. It was time to stop being a second ehild..

.. Time to loosen up and shatter the mold… Time to break some rules … "Because it's There, " Zack cackled as he slipped out the back door and into the chilly night. "Just because it's There."

What in the hell other reason did he need?

The air held little more than a hint of the fine, black rain, but it was still cool and heavy. Several times as Zack crossed the yard and thrashed his way through the dense thicket, he swore he could see his breath. By the time he reached the base of the rock face, his climbing shoes were soaked through. Climbing alone, at night, after a few drinks, in the rain… how many more rules could he think of to break?

Perhaps, he mused, he should go up blindfolded as well. No reason to do things halfway. After a brief debate, he rejected that notion. What he was doing was quite enough for the moment-the first in a series of steps that would ultimately lead to his transformation as a person and a physician. He moved laterally through the tall grass until he located a decent starting point, and then peered upward along the ebony granite.

Above the rim, the heavily overcast sky was only slightly less black than the stone itself It was going to be a hell of a climb. And when it was over, when he had proven what he needed to prove, he would lie beneath the trees on the plateau overhead and watch as dawn floated in over the valley. The exhilaration of the adventure coursing through him, Zack reached out and pressed his palms against the damp, cool stone.

Then, with a final glance above, he was off. Five feet… ten… twenty… forty… The climb, even with the alcohol and the darkness and the rain, was a piece of cake. Fifty… sixty… seventy…

Every time he needed a sound hold, his fingers found one. He was zoned "-climbing with a beautiful smoothness and synchrony. If he had wanted to, he could have done it blindfolded. Below-now far below-he could see the candlelight flickering in the windows of his house. His street, the winding road toward the river, the occasional car, the night lights of town, with each new hold, each upward step, his vista broadened. It was a magnificent climb, he told himself… Absolutely magnificent…

Connie was right… So was Suzanne… He should have been breaking rules like this long ago… While it had been reasonable to operate on Beau Robillard-reasonable and medically sound-in the final, metaphysical analysis, perhaps it might not have been right. Ninety feet… one hundred… maybe more… Below, the steeply sloping rock had no features. Above there was only blackness. His progress was slower now, but steady still. The wind had picked up a bit, and a fine spray was, once again, spattering him through the night. Minute by minute, Zack began feeling his breath becoming shorter, his grips not quite as firm.

Foul-tasting acid started percolating into his throat and up the back of his nose. How much, exactly, had he had to drink?

Concentrate, he begged himself Use your adrenaline, your experience, and focus in… The handholds became more slippery, smaller, and more difficult to find. He was traversing more as he searched for safe leverage, ascending less. His fingers were beginning to stiffen up.

Behind him, nestled in the gloom, was his house-so tantalizingly close, so incredibly far. Without lines, descent in the dark and the rain was simply out of the question. Then, without warning, he slipped. His foot went first, skidding off the edge of a niche he thought was safe.

Instantly, his grips gave way as well. He slid ten or fifteen feet, slamming his elbow against a small outcropping and skinning his knee and his chin. He reacted instinctively, using technique and years of practice to stem the fall. Clawing and kicking at a shallow crevice, he was able to bring himself to a stop. Then, gasping, he clung to the rock until, inch by inch, he was able to work himself to a more secure spot.

His elbow and his knee were throbbing, but not broken. His lungs were on fire. Waves of cramping pain had begun to shoot from his stomach through to his back. I He looked below him. The rock face, what little of it he could discern, seemed almost smooth. It was ascend or find some way to Strap himself in where he was, and remain there until morning. Then he remembered the flashlight. How could he have forgotten it?

He loosened his grip and gingerly reached down and patted his windbreaker pocket. The light was gone-probably lost during the fall. At that moment, searing pain knifed through his gut and he vomited, retching again and again. Foul, whiskey acid poured through his mouth and out his nose, spattering onto his clothes and shoes and cascading down the rock. For five minutes, ten, he could only hang on and struggle for breath. He was in trouble. He had broken the rules, and he was in more trouble, more danger, than he had ever been in his life. Gradually, his head began to clear, and his gasping respiration slowed. He was at least a hundred fifty feet up, he guessed, maybe more. Certainly, he was more than halfway. He could use his jacket or his belt to secure himself against the rock, but in the dark, there was no real spot he could count on. His only option was to climb, and to pray. Once again, hold by hold, inch by inch, he started upward. The rain and the wind were real factors now, making every grip more treacherous, every ledge less dependable.

The taste in his mouth and throat was abominable, the stiffness in his fingers, elbow, and knees worsening every second. Still, he climbed. It was all so stupid. He had taken on the cliff to… to what? He couldn't even remember. All that was clear was that he had taken a bad situation and made it much, much worse. He glanced behind himself. His house was a toy, a shadow, vaguely discernible against the glow of a nearby streetlight. Peering up the rock face, through the rain overhead, he could almost swear he saw the edge of the plateau. The pitch seemed steeper, the handholds even smaller. Zack scanned the rock face to his right, looking for a traverse that would set up the last segment of his climb. Damn, but he needed that light.

It had been stupid, arrogant, and careless not to have tied it on.

Stupid, arrogant, careless… That thought brought the wisp of a smile.

Before his great decision to break free of his personal constraints, he had been none of the three. One limb at a time, he worked his way across the rock, searching with his fingertips for the changes that would, once again, guide him upward. Almost there, he urged himself on… Almost there… Almost… Before he could adjust or even react, his right foot missed its plant and skimmed off the rock. His arms snapped taut.

His hands, both with reasonable grips, held, but they were already stiffened and weak. Straining his head back and to one side, he looked down. His feet were dangling a foot or so below the nearest purchase. Oh God, was all he could think of at that moment. Oh God… Oh God…

Reluctant to put any additional pressure on his fingers by struggling, he lifted one foot, gingerly scraping it along the rock, searching for a ledge or a crevice. Below him, at a pitch that was almost sheer, the granite face disappeared into blackness. Oh God, please… Oh God…

His foot caught the edge of a minuscule ledge. On a dry day, the tiny space would have been a virtual platform for him-more than enough. But now, there was no way to tell. Desperate to take some of the pressure off his fingers, Zack planted the toe of his shoe on the ledge and carefully shifted his weight to the foot. Hold, damn you… Please hofor a moment, the foot felt solid. Then, as he added more of his weight, it slipped off the edge, tearing his right hand free of the rock. For five seconds, ten, his left hand held. Then, with a painful snap, his fingers gave way and he was falling, tumbling like a rag doll, over and over again down the sheer rock, screaming as he hurtled against granite outcroppings, shattering one bone after another… "Nooooo!"

His final scream, the howl of an animal, echoed in his mind, and then blended with another sound… a voice… Suzanne's voice. "Zack? For God's sake, Zack, can you hear me?"

He felt a cool, wet towel sweep across his face. Slowly, he opened his eyes. A cannon was exploding in his head. He was on the living room floor, soaked in fetid vomit. The lights were on. Suzanne was kneeling over him, concern darkening her eyes. Nearby, resting on its side, was an empty bottle of Wild Turkey. Across the room, watching intently, sat Cheap dog. "NEVER AGAIN. I swear it. Not a drop. Not ever."

Over the span of two and a half hours, with Suzanne as guide, Zack had wandered from the terror of his alcohol-induced hallucination, through a valley of tearful self-deprecation, across a brief stretch of cheery self-deprecation, and finally into an abysmal hangover. "Never again?" she asked. "Do you want me to put that in writing? You can sign it and hang it on the wall."

Zack pressed against his temples. "Write whatever you want, " he said,

"as long as the pen doesn't scratch too loudly on the paper. I just hope you can tell that I'm a total amateur at abusing my body like this."

"Oh, I can tell." He did not clearly remember the shower, or the shampoo, or the first sips of tea, but he knew that Suzanne had taken him through each. Now, although his head still transposed each heartbeat into mortar fire, his thoughts had cleared enough at least to carry on a workable conversation. He risked a deeper swallow of tea, and nearly wept with the realization that it was going to stay down. "You've done an amazing job of putting me back together again, " he said. "Thanks."

She smiled sadly. "No big deal. Unfortunately, my ex-husband gave me a lot of practice."

"Great. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was bad, but like everything else, it came to pass…"

"Have you been up all night?"

"Uh-huh. Helene's with Jen." She handed him a cool washcloth. "Here, wipe your face off with this. You want some aspirin?"

"Soon. How are things at the hospital?"

"No real change-at least as of half an hour ago. Toby's still in coma.

His temp's around 102. Walsh thinks he'll have a bed for him at either Hitchcock or Children's by noon."

"And my father?"

"No change either, as far as I know. I think that neurosurgeon from Concord-what's his name?"

"Burris. John Burris."

"Yes, well, I think John Burris is planning to have him transferred later today as well."

"What a mess."

Suzanne pulled back the curtain. Across the backyard, the first hint of dawn was washing over the face of There. "So, " she said, motioning toward the granite escarpment, "the dreaded scene of your midnight climb."

"That's not so funny, Suzanne. I died on that rock. I really did."

"Well, I certainly hope so. Because from what I've been able to extract from your babble these past two hours, I don't think I would have much liked the guy who crawled up there in the first place. Confused, self-loathing, arrogant, the perennial victim-too close to Paul Cole for my taste."

"Hey, come on. I was just seeing things the way they are. There wasn't a single person in that hospital who had one encouraging word for me.

Fifty thousand Frenchmen and all that… Well, those particular fifty thousand Frenchmen were saying that I screwed up. And don't forget, you were one of them."

"I know. I'm sorry for that. "Don't apologize. You were right-all of you were right. I did screw up. By the time I got home, I couldn't stand who I was. And hallucination or not, when I went up on that cliff back there, I was honestly trying to break free of myself, to… to become more, I don't know, more flexible, more human in my approach to medicine. And to everything else, for that matter."

"I understand that."

"And?"

"And I was wrong for saying the things I did. Zachary, you have no reason to change. You're an excellent surgeon, a decent, caring son, and a wonderful friend to me. And I had no right to insinuate that you were otherwise. It was selfish and cruel of me. And it was wrong-very wrong.

That's why I called in the first place-to tell you that. I felt so guilty for what I said to you at the hospital-for leaving the way I did that I couldn't sit still. Then, when you didn't answer, I got frightened. That's why I drove out here."

"I'm glad you did, " he said. "But there was no need to feel guilty. You were right."

"I was wrong, dammit!

Stop saying that… She took a deep breath to calm herself and rubbed at the shadowy strain that enveloped her eyes. "Zachary, as I told you, Paul was… a very sad, very sick man, totally lacking in any center to his life, any perspective. He never, ever put me or Jen ahead of himself, or his booze, or his drugs, or his other women. Never.

I still have trouble believing that I could have misjudged anyone so badly. That's why I've been so reluctant to get involved with you.

But those things I said in the hospital last night-about loyalty, about what if it was me lying there-what I didn't appreciate until after you left was that I was really saying them to a man I was trying not to fall in love with, not to another doc with a terrible decision on his hands.

I was punishing you for being the first man since Paul that I wanted to trust. I was wrong, and I'm sorry." Zack stared down at his hands.

"Thanks, " he said. "But you weren't wrong. The truth of the matter is that my father is crippled, and I probably could have prevented it."

"Zack, the truth of the matter is that you did what you thought was right. You didn't cripple your father, an automobile accident and a piece of metal did. Can't you see that? You did all you ever will be able to do. You did your best."

Zack could only shake his head. Hadn't he once said precisely the same thing to Wil Marshfield? Why couldn't he believe it now, hearing from her? "… Doing what we do for a living isn't easy," Suzanne was saying. "Nobody ever promised us it would be. Nobody ever told us that everyone we took care of would get better, or that every decision we made was going to turn out to be the right one. Medicine isn't a board game with a set number of cards and answers. Every situation is different."

Zack looked over at her glumly. "How in the hell am I ever supposed to trust my own medical judgment again? " he asked. "Can you answer that for me?"

"God, " she groaned. "Listen, Zachary. Have another cup of tea. Then try a cold shower. Then, if you want to continue to castigate yourself, maybe you can try really climbing that wall out there. Do it with your hands tied behind your back, though. Put razor blades in your shoes. No sense in making it easy for yourself."

"Hey, there's no reason to snap at me like that."

"Yes, there is, " she said, sounding close to tears. "There are plenty of them." She snatched up her jacket and purse. "I came over to make sure you were all right, to tell you I was sorry, and to let you know that I was falling in love with you. I've done all that. It hurts too much to stick around and watch you sink out of sight in your own little bog of selfpity. So if you'll excuse me "Wait."

She turned back to him. Her eyes were dark and filmy, and as drawn and sad as he had ever seen them. "What is it? " she asked wearily. "I. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me, Zack, " she said. "What you're doing, you're doing to yourself. You've got nothing to apologize to anyone else for.

"I'm sorry for not listening to what you're trying to say. How's that?"

"Whatever."

"Suzanne, you don't understand."

"Don't I? You forget that I was married to the master of melancholy.

Unfortunately for you-for us-I understand too well.

I feel terrible about what happened to your father. I would no matter who he was. And I don't blame you for being upset-but it should be at the situation, Zack, not at yourself… at the vagaries of life and of medicine, not at the fact that you're not perfect. I'm sorry, but after all those years of Paul, I have no patience for this kind of talk.

Life's too short. I simply have no patience for this at all."

She headed for the door. "Suzanne, please. Don't go." He crossed to confront her. "I don't like the way I've been sounding, either. Really I don't. But I've never had anything backfire on me like this before, and "And what? " She was keeping her distance. "And… nothing. I understand what you're saying. Let's leave it at that. It's all beginning to sink in. And… and I'm going to be okay. Really I am…

Could you stay? Just for a bit?

" She eyed him warily. And then, for the first time all morning, she smiled. It was a tired, five A. M. smile, but it was vintage Suzanne Cole. "Sure, Doc, " she said. "I can stay for a bit if you want me to.

You know, what goes around comes around. That definition of friend you once wrote for me cuts both ways, the one who helps you find the tools when you can't seem to find them for yourself."

She led him to the couch and laid his head on her lap. "You've got to face it, Zack, " she whispered, stroking his forehead. "No matter how much you want to take off, no matter how much you're hurting, you've got to gp back into that hospital, pick up the pieces, and get on with business. There's too much at stake not to. Way too much."

"Way too much, " he murmured. Slowly, his eyes closed. His breathing grew deeper and more regular. In seconds, he was out. "Please, Zachary, " she urged softly. "Please don't run."

She lowered his head onto a pillow, brought his clock radio in from the bedroom, and set it for nine. A call to the O. R. would delay or postpone anything he had scheduled, and one to his office nurse would buy him time there as well. The next move would be up to him. She was gathering her things when she spied a copy of one of her favorite pieces of medical writing, Davenport's classic treatise on the principles and art of clinical medicine. The slim monograph was wedged on the bookshelf between several huge surgical tomes. She opened it to a passage that she had read enough over the years to know nearly by heart, marked the page for Zack, and then slipped out the front door into the cool, hazy July morning. Provided Toby Nelms was reasonably stable, there was still time to have a cup of coffee with Helene, to get Jennifer dressed and off to day camp, and to shower, before making rounds. She was nearing twenty four hours without sleep, but as she so often told her anxious patients, nobody ever died from lack of sleep. "Hello, Whitey?… Frank Iverson here. I'm glad I found you in. I know you're due to open in a bit, so I won't keep you… Yes, well, I guess everyone in Sterling knows about it by now. Goddamn Beau Robillard. Never did a single decent thing his whole life, and now, he can't even die without hurting someone… The Judge is doing okay, itey. John Burris, the neurosurgeon who operated on him, is sending him down to Concord early this afternoon by ambulance … Well, I'm afraid you heard right. As things stand, he's paralyzed from the waist down. But Burris isn't making any predictions, and we're all hopeful as hell this is just a temporary condition. The Judge is tough, as we both well know. If anyone can beat this thing, he can…

Say, Whitey, actually there're two reasons I'm calling. First was to touch base with you about the Judge, and second was to tell you that I spoke to Sis Ryder in dietary about next month's meat order.

She's agreed to try allowing your place to handle the whole thing rather than going through the Ultramed purchasing office. Just to see how it all works out… Oh, you're welcome. You deserve the chance. Oh, listen, there is one other thing. Needless to say, the Judge is in no shape to make that meeting this morning… No, I'm afraid there's no way to delay the meeting. The contract calls for the sale to be finalized at noon unless there's a buy back vote by the board. I did speak briefly with him a few minutes ago, and he seemed content just to let each board member vote his conscience on this thing, and let the chips fall where they may. But Whitey, since you'll be running the meeting, there's one big favor you can do for me. I'd really appreciate it if that vote later this morning could be by closed ballot… I know that's not how you usually do it, but don't you think that would be the fairest way? Do this for me, Whitey, and I promise you that dietary contract will be just the beginning… Excellent, excellent. Hey, then, I'll see you at the meeting. And Whitey, thanks."

Frank replaced the receiver in its cradle, sipped his morning coffee, and then drew a careful line through Whitey Bourque's name on the block-printed list of business he had to attend to that morning. Before becoming administrator of Ultramed-Davis, Frank had never in his life made a list of things to do. Lists were for morning people, for grinds and drudges, for catchers and linebackers, not for quarterbacks. They were for draught horses, needing to know in advance precisely where they would be clopping to and when, not for thoroughbreds. However, four years of exposure to the efficiency and effectiveness of Ultr'nia's data banks, plus the pressures of juggling a dozen or more difficult situations at once, had changed him. Now, he began each day with a carefully drawn-up menu. Frank liked to look on his emergence as a list-maker as one of the more visible manifestations of his adaptability and maturity. And of all the lists he had ever made, the one for this morning was easily the most exciting. He scanned the roster of members of the board to assure himself that everything was in order for the meeting. It had taken a hell of an effort, but with the Judge's influence virtually neutralized, he had used the promise of a closed-ballot vote, plus certain other inducements, to capture the additional members he had needed to block the buy back. The votes-six in all-had not come cheaply, but he had done what he had to do. The sudden turn of events had him giddy. The whole thing was unbelievable-absolutely incredible, Zack teetering on the edge of oblivion at Davis, waiting only for the smallest nudge, the Judge eliminated from attending the decisive board meeting. He couldn't have scripted it better if he had tried. With Mainwaring due back from Georgia any time, everything had fallen into place everything, that is, but one minor exception. After brief thought, Frank took a black magic marker from his drawer and eliminated Call Lisette from his list. "Fuck her, " he muttered. The woman deserved neither the call nor the apology he had considered making. In fact, if there were to be any apologies, they would come from her. She would see the truth on her own-come to understand what she had pushed him to do-or she would lose out. The house, the car, even the children. She would lose out big. He had more than enough friends in high places to ensure that she paid for her desertion. This was simply not the day for dealing with a whiny, passive bitch like Lisette. This was a day of triumph. If she didn't choose to be available to share it with him, that was her problem. He took his list and carefully added, Check with A. D. re, tonight. Perfect, he thought. Annette Dolan was the ideal choice to help celebrate the remarkable turn of events. He keyed the intercom. Moments later, Annette knocked softly and slipped into his office. She was wearing a tight plaid skirt and a beige, short-sleeved angora sweater that seemed to be straining to cover her breasts. "G'morning, " he said. "Morning, yourself."

She stood primly beside his desk, her hands folded in front of her skirt, her arms pulled tightly downward, lifting her breasts together in a way that made them look even more spectacular. "I… um… I have some Xeroxing I need done, " Frank managed. He passed some papers across to her. "Twenty copies. No, make that thirty. You ah… that's a great sweater."

"Thanks."

"Do you think you might be able to wear it to work tonight? Say at eight?"

"Oh, Frank, I don't know. My mom's not feeling too well."

"I'm sorry to hear that…"

He hesitated, and then reached into his desk and brought out the iamond necklace he had planned to give Lisette for her birthday, "… because I was kind of hoping you'd wear this at the same time."

Annette's eyes widened. "Oh, Frankie, it's beautiful, " she said. "It's the most beautiful necklace I've ever seen. You're so good to me."

"That's because you're so good to me, About tonight? She ran her fingers over the piece. "How could I say no?"

"I don't know… How could you? " He pulled her to him and kissed her, sliding his hand over her skirt and then up to her breast. "Annette, honey, I don't want to wait until tonight. Just a little, Right here.

Right now."

"Fraank, please, " she said. "You've got to wait. I have work to do, and all that Xeroxing, and that door isn't locked. And besides, he might hear us."

"Who might hear us?"

"Why, your brother, of course. Didn't I… T' She held her hand to her mouth and looked at him sheepishly. "Oh my. I was about to tell you.

Frank's expression darkened. "How long has he been out there?"

"Just a few minutes. I'm sorry, Frank."

"Hey, no need to apologize, " he said, giving her breast a squeeze,

"Just wear that sweater tonight… and your necklace. Okay?"

"S-Sure."

"Perfect. Tell my brother I know he's here, and I'll be with him shortly."

"Okay. I'm sorry."

"Actually, now that I think about it, he couldn't have come at a better time."

The receptionist brightened noticeably. "Really?"

"Really," Frank said. "This will be the icing on the cake." He patted her behind as she turned to leave, and followed it with his eyes as she sashayed from his office. Then he added another item to his list in the same, perfect block print as all the others, Fire He paused, studying the notation thoughtfully, and then drew a small happy face next to it.