Michael Palmer - Flashback

"Frank, we can check. A hundred or so calls, and we can see if anyone's having-"

"No!"

"But-"

"Jack, I've tried to be patient with you, but now I've just about had it … Frank snapped a pencil in two for emphasis. "Mainwaring's going to finish presenting Serenyl to his partners, and he's going to come back here, and he's going to give us each… half a million dollars, and we're going to give him the drug. That's how we planned it, and that's what we're going to do."

"But-"

"No fucking buts, Jack. If you don't want to believe me when I tell you that kid is just a coincidence, that's your problem. But I'll be damned if you're going to make it mine. Now listen, and listen good, if you say one word about all this to Mainwaring or anyone else, one fucking word, the Akron authorities will be here to scoop up what's left of you quicker than you can blink. I got them off your back, and I can get them back on. Clear?"

Pearl wiped his nose with the handleerchief he had used on the coffee spill and lit a cigarette. Frank Iverson had him between a rock and a hard place. It was a spot he knew well. "C–Clear, " he said. "It had better be." Frank shook a finger at him as he spoke. "Because I'm telling you, Jack, I want that drug sold, and I want that money in the bank. Don't fuck with me on this one."

"I won't," Pearl said. "But "But what?"

"Frank, what harm would it do to make a few calls? If there's a problem with Serenyl, I can fix it. I know I ca-" Frank sprung around the desk, grabbed the anesthesiologist tightly by the shirt, and pulled him up onto his tiptoes. "Dammit, Jack, I said no!"

He shook the little man like a terrier breaking a rat, and then slammed him back into his seat. Pearl cowered before the onslaught. "Okay, okay,

" he whined, shielding his face. Why did his life always come down to scenes like this? ny? "That's better, " Frank said. He patted Pearl on the shoulder. "That's much better…" He returned to his desk chair.

"Hey, buddy, don't look so glum. Like I said, the kid is just a coincidence. That Serenyl of yours is just as perfect as you told me it was."

"What about your brother?"

"You let me worry about my brother. Just stay away from him. If he tries to confront you again, tell him to speak to me or… or to call your lawyer.

Here… here's a name to give him. But unless you want a long-term vacation in Akron after your long-term stay in an ICU, that's all you give him, right?… Well, right?… That's perfect, Jack. Just like that little anesthe ic of yours-absolutely perfect."

"Okay, Frank, " Pearl said, stubbing out his cigarette and shuffling to the door, "you win."

The door opened and closed, and Pearl was gone. You win… That's right, Frank thought excitedly. I do. He had handled the distasteful little pervert brilliantly. After tough go-rounds with Leigh, the Judge, and the two board members, it felt splendid to be back in control again.

All he had to do now was keep Zack at bay and off balance for another week. And whatever it took to accomplish that, he would do. Meanwhile, some well-placed pressure on a couple of weak trustees, and the future of Ultramed-and of Frank Iverson-at the hospital would be secure. After that, he would be in a position to deal in a more definitive way with both his goddamn vindictive brother and Pearl… Frank, Frank, he's our man. If he can't do it the intercom crackled on. "Mr. Iverson, it's Annette again. There's a Mr. Curt Largent on three. He says he's a neighbor of yours."

Major Curtis Largent, US ARMY, Ret. was the way the aging war hero had painted his mailbox. Confined to a wheelchair by an errant piece of shrapnel during a battle for some village or church in Italy, Largent was the unofficial security guard of Frank's neighborhood, surveying the area for hours at a time from his upstairs porch and noting down in a book all suspicious comings and going, as well as virtually every license number of every car he did not know. Twice over the years his vigilance actually had thwarted crime-in one case the theft of a bicycle, and in the other, the illegal dumping of some landfill off the end of the turnaround. "Hello, Major, it's Frank Iverson." The last words of the cheer were still reverberating in this thoughts. "What can I do for you?"

Largent, despite a college education-engineering of some sort, Frank thought-still spoke with a pronounced down-east accent. "Well, Frank," he said, "I called mostly cause I hadn't hud anythin' about yoah movin'."

"That's because we're not."

"Well, that's strange, that's very strange."

"What, Major? What are you talking about?"

"Well, I'm up he-ah on m' po-arch. You know, where I like to sit?…

Well, down the street, right in front of yo-ah house, is a truck. And a couple of young bucks been loadin' stuff into it for more'n an ow-ah now. "Are you sure it's our place, Major?"

"Do bay-ahs shit in the woods? Course I'm shu-ah."

"Do you see any sign of Lisette around?"

"Nope… Wait now, maybe I do… Let me get my bi-nocs just to be certain… Oh, it's her all right. She's with them cute little ones of yo-ahs, right by the truck, watchin' em load."

"Major, thank you, " Frank said. "Thank you for calling me."

He hung up and dialed home. Twenty or more rings brought no answer.

Fifteen minutes later he brought the Porsehe screeching around the corner and up the hill to his house."… Fucking Lisette," he had kept muttering throughout the trip home. "Goddamn, fucking Lisette…"

Lisette, the children, and the truck were gone. Most of the house was still intact, but she had taken her jewelry, the microwave, the largest television, hers and the twins' bureaus, their toys, bicycles, and beds, and had left all the liquor bottles she could find smashed to bits in the kitchen sink, including the two-hundred-dollar bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild he had given her on her birthday and was saving to celebrate the Serenyl sale. The note, carefully printed on Lisette's lavender stationery, was pinned to a pillow on their bed. You will never hit me again. Please do not try to find us. I'll contact you when I'm good and ready… Was it worth it?

Frank slapped the bedside lamp to the floor and then balled the note in his fist and threw it across the room. "You'll see, " he muttered angrily. "A million fucking dollars from now, you'll see what was worth it and what wasn't, you disloyal bitch."

He started for the liquor cabinet, but then remembered the mess in the kitchen sink and, instead, stormed from the house and drove off. As he spun out of the driveway, from the corner of his eye Frank caught a glimpse of Major Curtis Largent, U. S. Army, Ret., sitting on his upstairs porch, rocking and watching. The afternoon felt as close to normal-as close to the way afternoons once were-as any Barbara Nelms could remember. Sunlight was streaming through the bay windows in the living room and kitchen, bathing a house that was spotlessly clean.

Stacked on the dining room table were the dishes she would use to serve dinner to the first company she and Bob had invited over in more than half a year. Toby lay on his belly on the living room carpet, leafing through the pages of a glossy, coffee-table book on the history of aviation. On an impulse, Barbara had stopped and bought the book on the way home from the boy's outdoor session with Dr. Iverson. That impulse had proven to be inspired. Over the days that had followed, Toby had spent hours quietly examining the photographs and paintings. And more importantly, he had not had a single seizure since then. Predictably, Bob had wanted to rush right out and buy a model kit to begin building with their son, but she had cautioned him to go slow, and for the moment, to leave well enough alone. Even the psychiatrist, Phil Brookings, had been a help. Although he had declined to see Toby until after Dr. Iverson had finished his evaluation, he had seen Barbara herself for two sessions and was encouraging her to bring Bob in for some family counseling as well.