Painkiller

66

Laramie was trying to get oriented. She found she was coming awake in a hospital bed someplace where the sun shone through her window. Palm trees swayed and flipped in an easy breeze. An anesthesiologist, and then a surgeon, visited her, each examining her before informing her she was doing just fine. She asked the surgeon where she was, and he told her she’d been brought here to South Miami Hospital by the U.S. Navy. When she asked why they’d brought her to Miami, he told her it was because of his expertise-that the navy relied on him for such things. When she asked what his area of expertise happened to be, he told her he was pretty good at repairing internal damage from bullet wounds, but that she didn’t need to worry, since the bullet they’d been concerned with had failed to exact any long-term toll on its path through her lower back and upper hip.

She asked him whether there had been anyone else the navy had sent to him for treatment, and he told her there hadn’t been, at least not recently. Laramie thanked the surgeon and he left.

She fell asleep the moment he was gone.

The sun was still out, though more orange than yellow, when she woke up again to see a nurse standing in the doorway of her room. The nurse apologized for the intrusion, but informed her there was a visitor who had been waiting in the lobby for some time, and was quite insistent on seeing her. When Laramie asked who it was, the nurse told her that the man had identified himself as Jacob Bartleby.

Laramie tried to shrug but found this to be unexpectedly challenging and discovered they’d put a splint on her right arm. It kept the arm pinned against her body.

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” she said, “but I suppose you can send him in.”

A moment later, a short man wearing a navy blue business suit entered through the doorway, smiled curtly, and said, “Thank you for seeing me. I understand you’re recovering from surgery, and so, will be brief.”

“Thank you.” Laramie felt vaguely woozy.

The man set a briefcase on the table beside the bed, opened it, withdrew a manila folder, and shut the briefcase.

“Please allow me to introduce myself-as the song goes,” he said and smiled at his own joke. Laramie nodded dutifully.

“I represent a real estate investment firm incorporated in the Cayman Islands,” he said. “From time to time my clients make strategic investments in exotic resort properties and related recreational assets.”

“Recreational assets?”

“Deep-sea charter vessels, SCUBA training schools, tropical-”

“How can I help you? Excuse me, but I’m very tired.”

“Of course.” He withdrew a notarized sheet of paper from the manila folder and turned it around so Laramie could see it.

“As I understand it,” Bartleby said, “this is the deed to your condominium property in Falls Church, Virginia. I’ll leave this on the table for you, or would be happy to arrange storage in a safe-deposit box at the bank of your choosing.”

“Deed-what day is it?” Laramie attempted to sit up and look around for a wall calendar but found she could neither sit up nor find a calendar, so she gave up and said, “The payment couldn’t be that late, could it?”

“You’re not late at all. Allow me to explain: my clients have paid off your mortgage.”

“Excuse me?”

“My clients understand you to have been suspended without pay by your employer. And while my clients believe it unlikely the suspension will hold once the independent counsel submits its report on the matter to which your suspension relates, they have nonetheless arranged for your utilities, auto loan, health insurance, and gym membership to be paid in full for a two-year period beginning on the date of your discharge from the hospital. The U.S. Navy is apparently somewhat more appreciative of your recent activities than your employer, as they are footing the bill of your current hospital stay.”

Bartleby withdrew a second sheet of paper to which a small blue rectangular slip had been stapled. Laramie watched, wondering whether the odd words coming from this man’s lips meant that she was still asleep.

“My clients are periodically in need of research consultants-a scout, I believe they call the role-and a source has identified you as a candidate for one of these positions.” He turned the sheet of paper around, and Laramie could see that the smaller slip of paper was a check. “This is an independent consulting agreement which you would need to sign, or can execute by deposit of the attached cashier’s check. The mortgage payoff and utilities advances are in no way contingent upon execution of this agreement. Incidentally, the check is made out in the sum of one hundred thirty-one thousand dollars.”

Laramie blinked and said, “Two years of my salary.”

“I believe that is how the figure was calculated.”

Bartleby stacked the contract, check, and deed on the bedside table, withdrew a pen from the breast pocket of his jacket, set the pen on the contract, then removed another item from the folder: a thin, colorful paperback book.

“You would be required to travel extensively but would receive a per diem and be entitled to first-class travel and accommodations. All such arrangements would be subject to your approval, and paid by my clients on a direct-billing basis.” He held up the book, which Laramie saw was called Caribbean Hideaways. “Your assigned scouting duties would include the list of resorts described in this publication. You would be required to submit a report on each resort at the conclusion of your stay. My clients will provide you a notebook computer with wireless Internet access for this purpose.”

He set the book on the table.

“If the terms of my clients’ offer are acceptable to you, sign the consulting agreement at your leisure and fax the executed agreement to the number provided. And I apologize,” he said, “but I nearly forgot to mention that you would of course not be expected to travel alone, and may bring a guest. My clients would pay the travel expenses of your guest as well.”

Laramie narrowed her eyes, deciding it must have been the anesthesia that had made her a little slow on the uptake. “Mr. Bartleby,” she said. “One question on the guest that you mention. Are you saying I can bring anybody of my choosing?”

“Anybody? Yes. Oh. Well, anybody but one, apparently.”

“And that would be-?”

Bartleby nodded noncommittally. “I was told that an individual by the name of ‘Professor Eddie Rothgeb’ is not permitted as a guest on your assignments.”

“Ah,” Laramie said.

“But anyone else is fine.”

“Of course.”

Bartleby offered his curt but pleasant smile one last time. “Thank you again for your time, Miss Laramie,” he said. “Speedy recovery.”

Then he left.

Laramie got about halfway through the complicated series of actions required to crane her neck and get a look at the book and short stack of papers; then she stopped in mid-crane and slumped back into her mattress.

Considering there was a good chance that the odd visit from the little man in the blue suit had occurred only as part of a postsurgery dream, the only thing she figured it made sense to do was to go back to sleep. Yes, she thought, that’s what I will do: sleep. And when I wake up again, I’ll take another look at the papers on the bedside table.

If, after I’ve slept, the papers remain stacked where the man in the blue suit left them, I will consider the possibility that the man, and his papers, and his pen might have been something more than a figment of my imagination.

Decision made, Julie Laramie closed her eyes, tilted her head into the pillow, and fell back to sleep.