The Last Surgeon

CHAPTER 14

Second Chance was asleep on the love seat in the study in his favorite position-on his back, with all four spindly legs pointing straight up at the ceiling. Nick had showered, dressed, and shaved, and was ready for the night’s rounds in the RV, but mentally he was still scouring the city streets for Manny Ferris.

Initially, the possible breakthrough in his search for Umberto had dropped his SUD score to a rare two: A little bit upset, but not noticeable unless you took care to pay attention to your feelings, and then realize, “yes” there is something bothering me. Now, frustration had pushed his number up to a five.

Posters had been taken down, and maps of Washington, D.C., and Baltimore covered a good portion of the floors and walls of the study. In two days of dedicated searching, he had canvassed all of the most unsavory neighborhoods, back alleys, flophouses, and cardboard villages where Manny Ferris might be found. Dotting his maps were carefully placed color-coded pins, each representing a city street that needed to be searched again. He used a highlighter to trace the miles of pavement he covered, questioning every store clerk, loitering kid, and homeless person along the way. Nothing. Ferris was either the most determined hermit in the world or, in the four years since making his big announcement to Matt McBean, he had traveled on.

But to where?

Detective Don Reese had fared no better, even though he had given up his fishing trip to search.

“Manny Ferris is not in D.C.,” was his terse conclusion.

That was when the bounce in Nick’s mood had leveled off and begun to slip. To his dismay, the Department of Veterans Affairs was as tight about disclosing last known addresses of their vets as it was about paying out PTSD benefit claims. They would not even comment on the status of the Marine.

Nick respected the agency’s commitment to safeguarding personal information, given the PR fiasco and millions paid in damages after several highly publicized thefts of classified laptop computers. Even so, to keep vets from finding each other, when friends from combat might be crucial to a soldier’s or sailor’s well-being, seemed irrationally protective.

For some reason, Nick could not shake the feeling that Manny Ferris was alive. In a spiral-bound notebook, he kept a detailed log of every call he made to chief medical examiner offices in major East Coast cities, as well as to morgues in D.C., Virginia, Delaware, and Maryland. There were two instances of recorded death certificates for Manuel Ferris, one for a man in his eighties, the other a nineteen-year-old killed in Iraq. He even paid fifty dollars to a Web site purported to be a favorite among private investigators. The site searched newspaper articles and a multitude of court records, including incarcerations and name changes, but it was wasted effort.

Nick checked the time. He and Junie would be on the road in thirty minutes. He peered out at the pink-and-gold-cast sky, wondering if such sunsets would ever feel anything but empty to him.

The ever-present curse of PTSD was that everything reminded him of something he had lost-his bed of a restful night’s sleep, the sun of his fiancée, the maps on the wall of his missing friend. Feeling another episode of melancholy coming on, Nick closed his eyes and balled his hands into tight fists, but relaxed them when he heard his front door open.

“Come in, it’s open,” he called out as Junie was halfway down the hall.

Chance, perhaps knowing the woman represented no possibility of play, remained in his upside-down-table position.

Junie entered the room, her broad smile fading the moment she saw Nick.

“Goodness, love, I guess I’m just stating the obvious, but you look like hell.”

“Thanks for the compliment. I checked myself in the mirror and thought at worst I looked like heck.”

The nurse spent a moment studying the maps tacked to the walls.

“That’s a lot of walking you’ve done in two days,” she said.

“Say, maybe, just maybe, that’s why my feet are killing me. You know, Junie, truth is I didn’t even consider not being able to find Manny Ferris. It’s all a bit disheartening.”

“It hurts me to see you so discouraged. I admire your dedication to finding out what happened to Umberto, but maybe it’s time to let it rest.”

“The man saved my life. I owe it to him.”

“You owe it to yourself to live your life to the fullest, too.”

“Well, maybe finding Umberto will let me do that.”

“I’m worried you’re chasing ghosts, Nick.”

“What if he’s not a ghost?”

“Then we better find him fast.”

“We?”

Junie nodded and placed a comforting hand on Nick’s shoulder.

“The night you learned about Manny Ferris, I don’t think I’ve seen you so happy in all the time I’ve known you. I don’t want to go on watching you suffer the way you have been. If finding our friend Umberto is going to take you even one step closer to health and happiness, I want to do everything I can to make it happen.”

“Thank you, Junie. You’re doing that. I honestly believe Manny Ferris and Umberto are connected. I’ve searched every street corner, morgue, and veteran’s organization from here to Detroit, but I’m going to keep at it.”

“Well, I know one person we haven’t used who might help you.”

“Oh, and who’s that?”

“Reggie.”

“Our Reggie? My football buddy Reggie? You-can’t-ride-the-RV-if-you-don’t-finish-your-homework Reggie?”

“The same. I promise that if anyone can help you find your Manny Ferris, he can.”