Jonathan Kellerman - Blood Test

He stood impassively, as if in a trance, a serene look in the hooded eyes.

Raoul saw me and stopped his harangue.

“He’s gone, Alex.” He pointed to the plastic room where I’d played checkers less than twenty-four hours ago. The bed was empty.

“Removed from under the noses of these so-called professionals.” He dismissed the trio with a contemptuous wave of his hand.

“Why don’t we talk about it somewhere else,” I suggested. The black teenager in the unit next door was peering out through the transparent wall with a puzzled look on his face.

Raoul ignored me.

“They did it. Those quacks. Came in as radiation techs and kidnapped him. Of course, if anyone had possessed the good sense to read the chart to find out if radiologic studies had been ordered, they might have prevented this — felony!”

He was boring in on the fat nurse now, and she was on the verge of tears. The tall man came out of his trance and tried to rescue her.

“You can’t expect a nurse to think like a cop.” His speech was just barely tinged with a Gallic lilt.

Raoul wheeled on him.

“You! Keep your damned comments to yourself! If you had an iota of understanding of what medicine is all about we might not be in this mess. Like a cop! If that means exercising vigilance and care to insure a patient’s safety and security, then she damn well does have to think like a cop! This isn’t an Indian reservation, Valcroix! It’s life-threatening disease and invasive procedures and using the brain that God gave us to make inferences and deductions and decisions , for God’s sake! It’s not managing a reverse isolation unit like a bus terminal, where people come in and out and tell you they’re someone they’re not and whisk your patient away from under your lazy, sloppy, careless nose!”

The other doctor’s response was a cosmic smile as he zoned back out into never-never land.

Raoul glared at him, ready to pounce. The gangly black boy watched the confrontation, eyes wide and frightened, from behind his plastic screen. A mother visiting her child in the third module stared, then drew the curtains protectively.

I took Raoul by the elbow and escorted him to the nurses’ office. The Filipino nurse was there, charting. After one look at us, she grabbed her paperwork and left.

He picked up a pencil from the desk and snapped it between his fingers. Tossing the broken pieces to the floor, he kicked them into a corner.

“That bastard! The arrogance, to debate me in front of ancillary staff — I’ll terminate his fellowship and get rid of him once and for all.”

He ran a hand over his brow, chewed on his mustache, and tugged at his jowls until the swarthy flesh turned rosy.

“They took him,” he said. “Just like that.”

“What do you want to do about it?”

“What I want is to find those Touchers and strangle them with my bare hands and—”

I picked up the phone. “You want me to call Security?”

“Ha! A bunch of senile alcoholics who need help finding their own flashlights—”

“What about the police? It’s an abduction now.”

“No,” he said quickly. “They won’t do a damned thing and it will be a freakshow for the media.”

He found Woody’s chart and leafed through it, hissing.

“Radiology — why would I schedule x-rays for a child whose treatment is up in the air! It makes no sense. Nobody thinks anymore. Automatons, all of them!”

“What do you want to do about it?” I repeated.

“Damned if I know,” he admitted and slapped the chart on the desktop.

We sat in glum silence for a moment.

“They’re probably halfway to Tijuana,” he said, “on a pilgrimage to some damned Laetrile clinica — did you ever see those places? Murals of crabs on filthy adobe walls. That’s their salvation! Fools!”

“It’s possible they haven’t gone anywhere. Why don’t we check?”

“How?”

“Beverly has the number of the place they’re staying. We can call and find out if they’ve checked out.”

“Play detective — yes, why not? Call her in.”

“Be civil to her, Raoul.”

“Fine, fine.”

I beckoned the social worker away from a powwow with Valcroix and Ellen Beckwith, who gave me the kind of look usually reserved for plague carriers.

I told her what I wanted and she nodded wearily.

Once in the office she avoided looking at Raoul and silently dialed the phone. There was a brief exchange with the motel clerk, after which she hung up and said:

“The guy was real uncooperative. He hasn’t seen them today but they haven’t checked out. The car’s still there.”

“If you’d like,” I offered, “I’ll go there, try to make contact with them.”

Raoul consulted his appointment book.

“Meetings until three. I’ll cancel out. Let’s go.”

“I don’t think you should be there, Raoul.”

“That’s absurd, Alex! I’m the physician! This is a medical issue—”

“Only nominally. Let me handle it.”

His thick brows curled and fury rose in the coffee bean eyes. He started to say something but I cut him off.

“We have to at least consider the possibility,” I said softly, “that this whole thing may be due to a conflict between the family and you.”

He stared at me, making sure he’d heard right, purpled, choked on his anger, and threw up his hands in despair.

“How could you even—”

“I’m not saying it’s so. Just that we need to consider it. What we want is that boy back in treatment. Let’s maximize the probability of success by covering all contingencies.”

He was mad as hell but I’d given him something to think about.

“Fine. There’s no shortage of things for me to do anyway. Go yourself.”

“I want Beverly along. Of anyone she’s got the best feel for the family.”

“Fine, fine. Take Beverly. Take whomever you want.”

He straightened his tie and smoothed nonexistent wrinkles in the long white coat.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, my friend,” he said, straining to be cordial, “I’ll be off to the lab.”

The Sea Breeze Motel was on west Pico, set amid cheap apartments, dusty storefronts, and auto garages on a dingy slice of the boulevard just before L.A. surrenders to Santa Monica. The place was two stories of pitted chartreuse stucco and drooping pink wrought-iron railing. Thirty or so units looked down upon an asphalt motor court and a swimming pool half-filled with algae-clogged water. The only breeze evident was the steaming layer of exhaust fumes that rose from the oily pavement as we pulled in beside a camper with Utah plates.

“Not exactly five star,” I said, getting out of the Seville. “And far from the hospital.”

Beverly frowned.

“I tried to tell them that when I saw the address but there was no convincing the father. Said he wanted to be near the beach where the air was good. Even launched into a speech about how the whole hospital should move to the beach, how the smog was harmful to patients. I told you, the man is weird.”

The front office was a glass booth on the other side of a warped plywood door. A thin, bespectacled Iranian with the numb demeanor of a habitual opium smoker sat behind a chipped, hinged plastic counter poring over the Motor Vehicle Code. A revolving rack of combs and cheap sunglasses took up one corner, a low table covered with ancient copies of throwaway travel magazines squatted in the other.

The Iranian pretended not to notice us. I cleared my throat with tubercular fervor and he looked up slowly.

“Yes?”

“What room is the Swope family in?”

He looked us over, decided we were safe, said, “Fifteen,” and returned to the wondrous world of road signs.