The First Victim

CHAPTER 52

Fall was a time of dying, the annual ritual of transition from summer’s lush wealth to winter’s bleak bankruptcy. Volunteer Park sat poised behind an affluent neighborhood’s three-story colonial homes. The park housed the Asian art museum and a stone water tower. At night it played host to hard-core drug use. All walks of society appreciated a good view.

Boldt met his wife in the museum’s parking lot from where the hill spilled down and away from them toward the intrusion of high-rises and the gray-green wash of the Sound. Late afternoon, the first day of September, it was busy with in-line skaters and baby strollers. Boldt smelled fall in the air. It brought a pang of anxiety. He didn’t need any more change right now. Liz’s invitation to meet away from downtown implied trouble. She knew it was more difficult for him, especially midday.

‘‘Everything okay?’’ he asked.

She made every effort to return the weight savaged by the chemotherapy, but all these months later, she still looked the same-a piece of dried fruit, the juice of life sucked out. He loved her, appreciated her, and yet did not accept her as fully healthy in part because of her appearance, in part a resistance to the idea of sharing management of the family with her. Her sickness had put Boldt in charge of the kids, the schedule, even the meals and menus. And though he welcomed the relief from his duties, he also felt a bit like a dictator, unwilling to recognize the democracy.

‘‘Where are you?’’ she asked accusingly.

‘‘I’m here.’’

‘‘You were off somewhere else.’’

‘‘I’m right here, Liz.’’

‘‘You’re slipping back into it, you know? The twelve-hour days. The leaving before they’re up and coming home after they’re asleep.’’

She had brought him to Volunteer Park to lecture him on old habits dying hard?

‘‘I’m working on stuff,’’ he confessed. ‘‘Trying to work things out.’’

‘‘Living with my being healthy,’’ she stated. ‘‘It’s hard for you.’’

‘‘I’m working stuff out,’’ he repeated.

She took his hand. Hers was icy. There was never any warmth in any of her extremities, as if she’d just gone for a swim in a cold lake.

‘‘Dr. Woods’ office called,’’ she said.

Boldt swooned. The world seemed to slow to a stop, all sound replaced by a whining in his ears, his vision shrinking. He managed only a guttural, ‘‘What?’’

‘‘The tests. My annual. There’s evidently a newer, more sensitive test they can run. They want me to book an appointment. You’re a part of that decision.’’

‘‘I appreciate that,’’ he said.

She stared out at the water.

‘‘It’s not that I don’t respect your faith. It’s that I don’t understand it.’’

She explained, ‘‘They say they want me in for an early flu shot. They say they’re worried about me getting the flu. But I know Katherine. It’s about the tests.’’

‘‘Which is it? Flu shots or the tests?’’ Something teased his thoughts: the container victims had been exposed to a flu. Could he use that now?

‘‘They mentioned both. The excuse to get me in there is the flu shots.’’

‘‘It’s your decision, Liz: You want to skip the tests,’’ he said, ‘‘I’m with you.’’ But he wasn’t with her; he felt distracted.

She offered, ‘‘You have to be fully behind this. I need-’’

‘‘My faith?’’

She smiled. ‘‘I don’t expect miracles.’’