Michael Palmer - Flashback

Again, there was no response. Slowly, Brookings released his grip on Toby's belt. The boy, still breathing heavily, did not move. "What was it? " Barbara asked. "Pardon? " Brookings's shirt and the knees of his tan trousers were stained with grass, and he, too, had not yet caught his breath. "Dr. Brookings, Toby saw something out your window-something that frightened him. This wasn't one of his attacks."

She turned to her son. "It wasn't, was it, honey?"

Tears glistening in his eyes, Toby stared up at her. Then he shook his head. "Can you tell us what it was?"

This time there was no answer. Phillip Brookings rubbed at his chin.

"Mrs. Nelms, I don't know what to say. I saw Toby staring out my window, and I followed his line of sight. But there was no one there, nothing."

"Nothing?"

Brookings shook his head. "Just a big oak tree, a parking lot, and beyond it the emergency ward of the hospital. Nothing else. I'm sure of it."

The emergency ward. Barbara Nelms saw her son stiffen at the words.

"Toby, was that it? Was it the emergency ward?"

The boy remained mute. "Dr. Brookings, what would you suggest? " she asked. "Can you help us?"

The psychiatrist looked down at Toby. "Perhaps, " he said. "Perhaps with time I can. But I would like to insist on something before I begin."

"Anything."

"I want Toby to have a CT scan and a clean bill of health from a neurologist. As near as I can tell from reviewing the material you sent me, he has had neither. Correct?"

"I… I guess so."

"Well, if his attacks are some sort of seizure disorder, I think a neurologist should be involved, don't you?"

"Doctor, I told you when I first called, we're willing to do anything.

Absolutely anything. Is there someone you can recommend?"

Brookings nodded. "There's a new man in town. Yale Med. Trained at Harvard hospitals. He's a neurosurgeon, actually, but he's doing neurology as well. His name's Iverson. Zachary Iverson. I'll give him a call and then get back to you."

Barbara stroked her son's forehead. There was nothing in his expression to suggest he had followed any of their conversation. For a moment, studying the sunken hollows around his eyes and the tense, waxy skin over his cheeks, she felt as if she were looking at a corpse. "Please, Doctor, " she said, "just one thing."

"Yes?"

"Do it quickly."

Brookings nodded, and then rose and returned to his office. Barbara took her son by the hand and led him back to their car. Desperately, she searched her thoughts for any unpleasantness or difficulty he had encountered at Ultramed-Davis or in any other emergency ward. There was none. Nothing but a gashed chin when he was five and, of course, the incarcerated hernia operation last year. But Barbara Nelms knew-as the surgeon, Dr. Mainwaring, had told her-that the whole hernia affair had been as routine as routine could be.

Suzanne Cole and her six-year-old daughter, Jennifer, shared an isolated, narrow two-story north of town with a fat, yellow cat named Gulliver ("… because," Jennifer explained, "he likes to travel") and a black Labrador retriever who seemed oblivious to any name. The rooms in the modest place were cluttered and warm. Snow shoes, ski poles, tennis rackets, and even a pair of old stethoscopes hung on the smoke-darkened pine walls, interspersed with prints and original oils representing all manner of styles. There was a Franklin stove in the living room and a loom in one of the back bedrooms, as well as a battered spinet ("Mommy used to play a lot, but now she can only play Deep Purple' ") and dozens upon dozens of books. The spaghetti dinner, Zack had been proudly informed, was largely Jennifer's creation, and she served it with a charm and enthusiasm that made almost as deep an impression on him as did her mother. She was a tall girl for her age, with an elegant nose, straight auburn hair that hung midway down her back, and Suzanne's magical eyes and smile. She talked of school and animals and ballet, and seemed quite pleased to show off her collections of rocks and stuffed animals. In return, Zack had promised to introduce her to Cheap dog and to teach her to fly his radio-controlled plane. He even completed a relatively smooth, Italian-style thumb palm and transfer, although when he was finished, Jennifer had smiled earnestly and said, "That one could use a little more practice, Zack. I could see the coin."

By dessert-chocolate brownies with ice cream-what self-consciousness he had arrived with had long since vanished, and he found himself feeling more like a friend of the family than a guest. E If there was an uncomfortable edge to the evening at all, it was due to Suzanne, who seemed, at times, distant, distracted, and content to let Jennifer keep the conversation afloat. But unwilling to find any fault with the woman, Zack read into her mood swings an introspection and vulnerability that only made her that much more interesting and attractive. She was returning to the table with some coffee when Jennifer hopped up and announced that she was leaving to watch TV* and wash her hair. "There's only one thing that troubles me, " the girl said as she shook Zack's hand. "What's that?"

"Well, it's your dog. I've heard of sheep dogs, but never a name like Cheap dog."

"Well, " Zack said, "they're sort of the same thing." From the corner of his eye, he saw Suzanne stop and lean against the wall, watching. "You see, I was walking on the beach one morning in a place called San Diego.

Do you know where that is?"

"In California?"

Zack nodded. "They have a great zoo out there and a killer whale who does advanced calculus and prepares his own tax returns. Well, there was this man on the beach-he was Mexican, but he was sort of… sleazy. Do you know that word? Well, it means, like, sneaky. Not all Mexicans are that way, by any means, but this guy sure was. "Anyhow, there he was, with this big cardboard box, and in the box were a bunch of puppies-scruffy little mongrel puppies. He reached in and pulled this little fur ball up by the back of the neck. Like this. And he held him up for me to see. "Sefior, he said, how would you like to buy this leetle fellow.

I geeve you my word, sefior, he is purebred, ol' Eengleesh cheap dog.

His papers are een my safe at home. Buy him now, and I breeng them to you tomorrow. Si?"

"That means yes, " Jennifer said. Si. XS "And you said?…"

"Si." The three of them said the word together, and laughed. "And that's how Cheap dog got his name."

"Isn't there any old English sheep dog in him at all? " Jennifer asked.

"There must be some, " Zack said, "because every time Princess Di or Prince Charles comes on the television, he stands up."

"That's silly." She thought for a moment, and then added, "I like that story." Again, she formally shook Zack's hand. Then she turned and raced up the stairs. "Thanks again for dinner, " he called out after her. "I like that story, too, " Suzanne said after the footsteps overhead had died away. "And I really liked the way you talked to Jen.

Person-toperson, not grown-up to child. No condescension. And believe me, she appreciated it, too."

"Thanks. That girl doesn't encourage anything approaching kid talk, believe me."

Suzanne nodded somewhat sadly. "She's had to do a lot of growing up in a fairly short time. My marriage and divorce were a bit-how should I say-turbulent."

"Oh?"

For a moment, she looked as if she might want to expand on the remark, but then she shook her head. "Fodder for another evening, " she said.

She chewed at her lower lip, rested her chin on one hand, and stared into her cup of coffee. There was a sadness in her eyes, but there was also, Zack observed, something else-a restlessness, perhaps, a tenseness in the set of the muscles in her face and neck. "Is anything the matter? " he asked. Suzanne hesitated, and then pushed away from the table and stood up. "I think we'd better call it a night, " she said. "I have a really busy day tomorrow, and I have a lot of things to sort through before I go to bed. You've been great company-for both of us-but I guess I just need some time alone."