Tampa Burn

TWENTY-ONE

There was an old, blind, black carney who lived in the trailer park, and who owned a utility van that had once been a phone truck. He’d bought it so neighbors could drive him places when he needed to go. Lourdes used the van to get around Tampa, and the old carney stayed with the boy when he was away.

On Sunday afternoon, Prax had driven through Tampa, then across the bridge onto exclusive Davis Island, where Tampa General Hospital was located. It was a huge complex, eight stories or so high, a pink-looking color, with helicopter pads and a multistory parking garage. The hospital was right there by the water, and within easy jogging distance of lots of older, classy-looking million-dollar homes.

He’d spent some time driving the streets, getting to know the area in daylight so he’d be comfortable there at night, looking at the mansions set back on shady lawns, all the rich assholes probably out playing golf or tennis or some other bullshit game.

On Monday, he’d come to the same area, but in the 22-foot Boston Whaler Outrage he’d bought for cash and kept at a marina on the Alafia River, which was just down the road from his trailer. Nice boat with twin 150-HP Yamahas, and the bastard could fly.

He’d cruised back and forth by the hospital, then cruised the canals looking at the mansions again, wondering which one was owned by his e-mail pal, Dr. Valerie. He kept his face covered with a bandana-not unusual for fishermen with skin cancers in Florida.

That was the afternoon he was pretty sure he spotted her. Her e-mails hadn’t given him any information about where she lived or her personal life, but she’d mentioned a couple times that she was close enough to the hospital to jog to and from work. So Prax had idled around the car bridges pretending to fish when, a little after sunset, there she was: a fit-looking, middle-age woman in fancy turquoise and black running tights, wearing a pink visor. She came jogging out from what seemed to be the back of the hospital, across the parking lot, then took a left toward the island’s cozy little business district.

She looked smaller than he had imagined her to be. In fact, Dr. Valerie looked tiny. It was weird how fame always seemed to make people look smaller in real life.

Prax had gotten the boat up on plane, trying to follow along in the general direction. The last he saw her, she’d turned down what he found out was Magnolia Street, which led to a handful of the island’s largest homes, all right there on the waterfront.

He was pleased. That narrowed things down.

HE spent Wednesday in a rental boat, charging around Miami Beach. Now, on Thursday afternoon, he drove the van once again, but this time straight to the hospital and parked in the parking garage, third level. He had his face expertly wrapped with gauze bandages, one of his hands, too, and he was wearing a green hospital gown over his shorts and T-shirt, as if he were a patient.

Screw it, if someone stopped him, asked him any questions, he’d just say he was a burn victim who wanted to take his own private tour of Tampa General’s famous burn center.

What’s the worst they could do?

He entered the hospital’s East Pavilion wing, walking through the bricked patio-people were eating at the outdoor tables there, blackbirds whistling above them in a tree. It seemed more like a modern shopping center-Christ, there was even a McDonald’s, along with other kinds of shops and crap.

Inside, he found a directory on the wall, then took the elevator to the sixth floor. He stepped out into a wide, well-lighted hallway to see a black sign with white lettering

that read: WELCOME TO TAMPA GENERAL REGIONAL BURN CENTER.

Visiting hours were listed below, followed by: BURN ICU VISITORS MUST CALL BEFORE ENTERING.

Prax decided to try and get into the ICU area anyway, just to see how far he could take it.

He did, too-but only long enough to take a quick look. He saw the nurses’ station-counter and walls done in blue pastels-with staff sitting and standing, talking or hurrying past, everyone wearing surgical scrubs and sometimes plastic, elastic hair coverings. Behind the counter, above a computer monitor, was a glass case filled with personal photographs: sons and daughters and grandbabies.

It gave the place a personal touch that made Lourdes oddly uneasy.

Beside and behind the nurses’ station, in a separate but open room, was one of the things he’d come hoping to find. It was an entire wall of medicines and medical supplies, everything stored in tall metal lockers, on shelves faced with glass so that you could see what was inside.

Prax realized that he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting into the room unnoticed and stealing the drugs he wanted. Even if he pulled the fire alarm and caused a panic, there were too many security people roaming around.

A disappointment.

Something that didn’t disappoint, though, was the surgical schedule he found on a clipboard that was hanging on a wall. This was down the hall, near a far less busy Nurses’ Station C3.

He read: Thursday: Dr. Santos, 2000 hrs, Operating Room II.

He scanned down to read also: Thursday: Dr. Santos, 1400 hrs, Operating Room II.

So maybe the famous lady was in the hospital right now, working her magic?

He followed the signs until he was outside the double doors of Operating Room II, looking at signs that warned he could not pass through the electronic doors without being scrubbed.

Coming through those doors, from inside the room, he could hear music playing. Loud music. Some kind of opera-sounding stuff, which always sounded like make-believe tragedy to him and which he hated. But maybe someone famous and sophisticated like Dr. Valerie would like opera.

So maybe she was in there. Judging from the schedule, it looked like she’d be in the same operating room that night, too, working late. Would probably have to jog home alone in the dark.

He wondered if she’d take a break, go home between surgeries, or just stick around the hospital.

Prax returned to his van, drove to the little business district, and waited. At 4:15 P.M., Dr. Valerie jogged by; waved to people eating at outdoor tables, a big smile on her pretty face. Seemed to know everyone.

Yeah, she was tiny. A little miniature woman who photographed like a full-sized fashion model.

He gave it a couple of minutes, then followed her down Magnolia Street to a pale yellow three-story mansion, with columns and fountains and a black wrought-iron fence. He watched her stop, still jogging in place, and punch in some kind of code before opening the gate. It took a while.

Hillsborough Bay was right across the quiet street, with a cement seawall to knock down waves if it was blowing.

Micki, the pushy freighter captain bitch, had called him earlier that day and told him she and her boat would be back in Tampa Bay tomorrow, Friday, and would probably return to Nicaragua very early Saturday morning, or during the day on Sunday.

“But stay on your toes,” she’d added. “If they get us loaded and on the transit schedule, we could be casting off earlier. And for me to get your weirdo special cargo aboard’s gonna take us a little time. So have everything all set.”

They’d already discussed it. The fat captain knew what he was planning to bring-not who, but what-and how to make it work.

She would have two empty 50-gallon drums waiting.

But the jump ahead in schedule had made him feel tense, rushed.

Not now.

Prax could picture his Boston Whaler tied to the seawall in the darkness next to the doctor’s house, and the miniature surgeon having to stop to punch in a code at the gate.

He thought, Perfect.

Later that afternoon, Lourdes rushed back to the trailer park, where he put duct tape, a big pillowcase, and a rope into the back of the van. He also loaded a fresh gas canister into a mini-blowtorch. He’d bought the thing at Sears. It wasn’t much bigger than his hand.

There was something else that he hid in the glove box: a small bottle of ether, wrapped in a hand towel.

After that, he brought the kid inside the trailer with him again. The skin of his cheeks was already on fire, and he could feel the first shock wave of pressure that preceded his headaches.

If Dr. Valerie had the operating room scheduled for eight P.M., there was no telling how late she’d get out. Even so, he wasn’t going to risk screwing this up. He wanted to be right there in the boat waiting outside her house, no matter how early or late she was.

Even so, he still had time for a couple of drinks and to lie down on the couch. The combination sometimes made the pain disappear faster.

As he walked toward the living room, the kid said to him, “Let me get on the computer, there’s something I’ve been thinking about. Something I want to show you. I found it yesterday, but you didn’t give me time to follow up.”

Prax screamed at him, “Fuck off! It’s getting so you’re starting to give the fucking orders around here, which is bullshit!”

But then Prax remembered that he had to let the kid on the Internet. He’d told the kid’s stubborn asshole father that he’d get a personal e-mail from the boy. So, a short time later he watched Laken sign online.

He felt like slapping the boy out of his seat. The smug little prick always seemed to get his way.

After a few minutes squinting at the monitor and typing fast, the kid stood and said, “Have a look at this.”

His head pounding, his skin screaming, Prax sat and read: Trigeminal neuralgia, often associated with burn scarring, is among the most terrible of chronic pain conditions. The trigeminal nerve is the fifth cranial nerve, and has three branches that are designated as 5-1, 5-2, and 5-3. This nerve supplies sensation to the face. Neurogenic pain is awful, of a burning quality, and incapacitating. It is also sometimes associated with cluster headaches. Medications may lessen attacks, but seldom work.

The article then went into specific detail.

When Prax had read it through twice, he leaned back and said, “Shit, I think that’s exactly what I got. I had a doctor in Masagua, a plastic fucking surgeon he called himself, and he couldna figured it out in a hundred years. The stupid damn quack!”

The man tended to get louder and more animated as his pain increased.

Now he slapped at the screen. “But what fucking good does it do me to know? It says right here medications don’t work. As if I haven’t tried every fucking pill on earth! Why’d you even bother me with this bullshit?”

The more furious he became, the calmer the boy always seemed to get. He was very calm now as he said, “That’s where you might be wrong. There’s a whole new class of drugs, they haven’t been out long. They were developed as anticonvulsion medications, but doctors are finding all kinds of ancillary benefits. They’re finding out that the medicine changes the chemistry of the brain in some way-it’s hard to explain-but these new meds can stop chronic pain. Back pain, pain from scars, that sort of thing.”

Christ, now the smug little son-of-a-bitch was talking down to him, like he was stupid.

“I’ve got a fuckin’ brain, asswipe! If you can understand how a pill works, I sure as shit can understand how it works. For all I know, you’re making this bullshit up.”

The red color had flooded in behind Lourdes’ eyes, and he was thinking: If the little prick talks back to me one more time, I’ll drag him down to the river and set his shirt on fire.

Still very calm, the kid said, “I’m not making it up. This new drug is also helping people who have severe emotional problems-chemical imbalances in the brain. I have a friend who has some problems like that. I’m trying to get her to try them. I think you ought to give it a try, too.”

With the kid looking over his shoulder, Prax found information on the Internet about the new class of drugs. He spent half an hour reading.

Son-of-a-bitch if the brat wasn’t right!

After that, Prax let the kid write the e-mail to his father. But he read it carefully several times to make certain the smug little bastard didn’t sneak in any clues about where they were.

When he was convinced that he hadn’t, Prax sat at the desk and sent the kid’s e-mail to Nicaragua so it could be forwarded.