Robin Cook - Seizure

Under the circumstances of having to run for the plane and worrying about the potential New York City traffic, Carol couldn’t help but be impressed with Ashley’s apparent equanimity. Of course, he had her to do his worrying for him, but had their roles been reversed and she had been facing what he was potentially facing, she would have been inordinately anxious, to the point of finding concentration difficult. But certainly not Ashley! Despite a slight tremor the individual pages of his memoranda were being rapidly scanned and flipped back in swift succession, suggesting his legendary reading speed had not suffered due to his illness or to the events of the previous twenty-four hours.

Carol cleared her throat. “Senator, the more I think about this current affair, the more surprised I am that you haven’t asked my opinion. You ask my opinion about most everything else.”

Ashley turned his head and gazed at Carol over the tops of his heavy-rimmed glasses that had slid down to perch on the very tip of his nose. His broad forehead was wrinkled condescendingly. “Carol, dearest,” he began. “You do not have to tell me your opinion. As I indicated last evening, I am already well aware of it.”

“Then I hope you are aware that I think you will be taking too big a risk with this supposed treatment.”

“I appreciate your solicitousness, no matter what the motivation, but my mind is firm.”

“You’re allowing yourself to be experimented upon. You have no idea what the outcome will be.”

“It may be true that I do not know the outcome for sure, but it is also true that if I were to do nothing in the face of my progressive, otherwise incurable neurological degenerative disease, I know exactly what the outcome would be. My daddy preached that the Good Lord helps those who help themselves. All my life I have been a fighter, and I am surely not going to stop now. I am not going out with a whimper. I will be kicking and screaming like a bagged polecat.”

“What if the cardinal were to tell you what you are planning is inadvisable?”

“Such a response is hardly likely, since I have no intention in the slightest of informing the cardinal of my intentions.”

“Then why are we coming here?” Carol said in a tone that was close to anger. “I was hoping His Eminence could appeal to your better judgment during your discussions.”

“We are not making this pilgrimage to the seat of North American Catholic continental power for counsel but rather merely to arrange for a piece of the Shroud of Turin as a hopeful hedge against the uncertainties of my therapy.”

“But how do you intend to get access to the shroud without explaining why?”

Ashley held up one of his hands like an orator quieting an unruly crowd. “Enough, my dear Carol, lest your presence be more of a burden than assistance.” He shifted his attention back to his papers as the plane headed for landing.

A flush of heat spread across Carol’s face at being summarily dismissed. Such degrading treatment was becoming all too common, as was her associated irritation. Concerned her feelings would be apparent, she faced back out the window.

As the plane moved toward the gate, Carol kept her attention directed outside the aircraft. Up close, New York was no longer jewellike, thanks to a smattering of litter and scattered piles of dirty snow lining the taxiway. As befitted the dark, bleak scene, she fretted about her conflicting emotions and her guilt concerning Ashley’s plan to deal with his infirmity. On the one hand, she was legitimately fearful of its experimental nature, while on the other hand, she thought the therapy might work. Although her initial reaction to Ashley’s diagnosis had been appropriate sympathy, over the course of the year she’d come to see it also as her opportunity. Now the fear of a bad outcome competed equally with the fear of a good one, even though she had trouble admitting it to herself. In some sense, she felt like a Brutus to Ashley’s Caesar.

The transition from the plane to the limo, which Carol had arranged, was effortless. But forty-five minutes later, they were bogged down in a sea of cars on the FDR Drive, whose flow of traffic had come to a halt since they’d passed overhead in the plane.

Aggravated at the delay, Ashley tossed his pages that he’d been studying aside and switched off the reading light. The sedan’s interior reverted to darkness. “We are going to miss our window of opportunity,” he growled in a voice devoid of accent.

“I’m sorry,” Carol offered, as if it were her fault.

Miraculously, after five minutes at a dead stop and a number of expletives from Ashley, the traffic began to move once again. “Thank the Good Lord for small favors,” Ashley intoned.

By exiting at Ninety-sixth Street, the driver skillfully used a back route to head downtown and was able to deposit the senator and his aide at the archbishop’s residence on the corner of Madison and Fiftieth Street four minutes before the scheduled meeting interval. The driver was instructed to circle the block, as they planned to be on their way back to the airport within the hour.

Carol had never been to the residence. She eyed the non-imposing three-story, gray-stone, slate-shingled house that huddled in the shadow of the city’s skyscrapers. It rose up from the sidewalk’s edge without a strip of grass to soften its severity. A few prosaic window air conditioners blemished its façade, as did heavy iron bars on the ground floor. The bars gave the building the appearance of a small jail rather than a residence. A glimpse of Belgian lace behind one of the windows was the sole softening touch.

Ashley mounted the stone steps and gave the polished brass bell a pull. They didn’t have to wait long. The heavy door was opened by a tall, gaunt priest with a strikingly Roman nose and red hair cropped short. He was dressed in a priestly black suit with a white clerical collar.

“Good afternoon, Senator.”

“And to you as well, Father Maloney,” Ashley said while entering. “I hope our timing is opportune.”

“Most decidedly,” Father Maloney answered. “I am to deposit you and your aide in His Eminence’s private study. He will be joining you momentarily.”

The study was a spartanly furnished room on the first floor. The decoration was a formal framed photo of Pope John Paul II and a small statue of the Holy Mother carved in pure white Carrara marble. The hardwood floor was without carpet, and Carol’s shoes clicked loudly against the varnished surface. Father Maloney silently withdrew and closed the door behind him.

“Rather austere,” Carol remarked. The only furniture was a small, aged leather couch, a matching leather chair, a priedieu, and a small desk with a straight-backed wooden chair.

“The cardinal would like his visitors to believe he is not interested in the material world,” Ashley said, as he lowered himself into the cracked leather chair. “But I know better.”

Carol sat stiffly on the edge of the couch with her legs tucked to the side. Ashley sat back as if he were visiting a relative. He crossed his legs to reveal a black sock and a patch of pasty white calf.

A moment later, the door reopened and in walked the Most Reverend James Cardinal O’Rourke followed by Father Maloney, who closed the door behind them. The cardinal was dressed in full regalia. Over black pants and white neckband shirt, he wore a black cassock enhanced with cardinal red piping and buttons. Over the cassock was an open, scarlet cape. Cinched around his waist was a broad scarlet sash. On his head was a cardinal-red zucchetto skullcap. Around his neck hung a bejeweled silver cross.

Carol and Ashley rose to their feet. Carol was taken by the spectacle of the cardinal’s sumptuous attire, accentuated by the harshness of the room. But once standing, she realized the powerful prelate was shorter than her own five-foot-six, and next to Ashley, who was by no means tall, he appeared decidedly short and plump. Despite his regal trappings, his benignly smiling face suggested a humble priest with soft, blemish-free turgid skin, shiny red cheeks, and rounded pleasant features. His sharp eyes, however, told a different story and one more consistent with what Carol knew of the powerful prelate. They reflected a formidable and canny intelligence.