The Conspiracy Club

55

Three days after the death of Augusto Graves, during one of several attempts to steal a moment with Angela, Jeremy’s beeper went off.

Seconds later, so did hers.

They were in his office, sitting on the floor, greasy napkins in their laps, takeout burgers in their hands.

A duet of squawks. They cracked up. First time they’d laughed since that night.

“You first,” he said.

She called in. Diabetic coma on Four East, and another patient had reacted adversely to prednisone withdrawal. She was needed stat.

She got to her feet, gobbled a pickle slice, wrapped her quarter-eaten lunch in its wax-paper jacket, placed it on his desk.

He said, “Take it with you.”

“Not hungry.”

“I’ve noticed. I think you’ve lost weight.”

“You haven’t exactly been gorging.”

“I’m fine.”

“So am I. Dude.”

She slung her white coat over her shoulders. Placed her hands on Jeremy’s wrists. “We will talk, right?”

“Not up to me,” he said, smiling. “The schedule.” His beeper went off again.

She laughed and kissed him and was gone.

The call was from Bill Ramirez.

“I’m hearing rumors, my friend.”

“About what?”

“Your being involved, somehow, with capturing that lunatic Graves.”

“Pretty crazy rumors,” said Jeremy. “And he wasn’t captured, he was killed.”

“True,” said Ramirez. “It didn’t sound logical. A quiet guy like you being involved in heroics.”

“Heroics?”

“That’s what’s floating around. That somehow you figured things out for the cops, did your shrink thing, helped them profile the bastard. I’ve even heard a really crazy one saying you were there the night they got him.”

“Sure,” said Jeremy. “I’m dusting off my cape, as we speak.”

“That’s what I thought. Maybe it’s the administration, floating those rumors. It’s been a PR nightmare for them- anyway, I figured you should know- never liked that guy. Arrogant.”

“From what I hear, Bill, arrogance was the least of his problems.”

“True,” said the oncologist. “Speaking of heroics, the reason I’m calling is to give you a little good news, for a change. Our boy Doug has somehow managed to ease himself into a nice little remission.”

“That’s great!”

“I’d never have predicted it, but that’s my line of work- humbling experiences every day. Hard to say if it’ll be long-term or not, his presentation’s been so weird. But there’s no transplant on the horizon, and I’m sending him home, continuing his treatment on an outpatient basis. I thought you should know.”

“I appreciate it, Bill. When’s he being discharged?”

“Tomorrow A.M., if nothing changes. Talk about a cape. To my mind, this kid’s Superman.”

Marika sat next to Doug on the bed. Both of them in street clothes. Doug wore a Budweiser T-shirt and jeans. His prosthetic leg was attached. Both his hands were hooked up to IVs. His color was better. Not totally right, but better. Some of his hair had fallen out. He beamed.

“Hey, Doc. I kicked major-league medical ass.”

“You sure did.”

“Yeah, I told you that motherfucker leukemia was going to see who was the boss.”

“You’re the man, Doug.”

The young man nudged his wife. “Hear that? That’s coming from an expert.”

“You are the man, honey.”

“Right on.”

“So,” said Jeremy, “you’re going home tomorrow.”

“First thing I’m gonna do is get out to the brickyard, find me some nice used ones, put up that wall in my parents’ backyard that I’ve been promising. Put a little niche for a fountain in, too, and run a water line to it. Surprise Mom.”

“Sounds great. Congratulations.”

“Thanks- c’mere, Doc. Gimme a shake, I wanna show you my grip.”

Doug thrust out his right hand. The IV line looped and thrummed. Jeremy approached. Doug grabbed him, squeezed hard.

“Impressive,” said Jeremy.

“Sometimes,” said the young man, “I feel like I can climb walls.”