Т Паркер - The Room of White Fire

“That’s Veronique. She mourns for her husband, who died young and tragically.” Evan drew thoughtfully on his cigarette holder, squinted his eyes as the smoke rose.

“How did he die?”

“She poisoned him. That old story. Small doses over months, until he became tolerant. When the dose got high enough, Veronique cut it down to nothing and he died within days. Extreme agony. No trace of poison in his system, of course. Acute renal failure. Possibly hereditary. A natural cause. Much later, tormented by her conscience, she told his family. Guilt is a stern confessor.”

Veronique and Morpheus looked like old friends as they talked. While she chatted away, Morpheus checked his computer tablet, then thumbed the combination lock on the pill case and opened the lid. He fingered through it, front to back, deftly removing and opening a bottle, shaking pills into one of the small paper containers. Capped and replaced each bottle before taking out another. By the time he was finished, Veronique was about to take five different kinds of pills. He set them in front of her. Veronique continued her narrative as Morpheus opened a small green apple juice can from the plastic tub and set it beside the pills.

“His name tag says ‘Donald T.,’” said Evan. “Staff last names are confidential so we maniacs won’t know much about them. His last name is Tice, if you’re interested.”

Tice looked over as if he’d heard us, even though Evan’s voice was a whisper. Veronique spilled all the pills into her mouth before raising the can and chasing them down in two long gulps. Tice turned back to his partner.

“Why do you and Clay call him Morpheus?”

“It’s his nickname from the war.”

“From White Fire.”

Evan looked at me, raised one eyebrow, and tapped his cigarette. “Clay never said those words to me. He implied a house of detention of some kind. Or perhaps worse. In Romania. The men running it gave nicknames to themselves. For... anonymity, said Clay. Morpheus was the medic in charge of drugs. For both prisoners and keepers. He prescribed everything from antibiotics for infections to amphetamine-adrenaline injections that kept detainees conscious during long and painful ‘procedures.’ For the Americans, he had black-and-red capsules they called bliss bullets. It was a titrated opioid combined with the antipsychotic medication ziprasidone. The bullets would let you sleep and have pleasant dreams. They were extremely popular. The sleep it brought on was relatively light sleep, too. So Clay could be rousted at any hour to work or fight or evacuate.”

I watched Veronique nod at Donald T., then adjust her prim black hat and veil. She ate something off the snack platter. “What was Clay’s nickname in Romania?”

“Asclepius. The Greek god of healing and medicine. Asclepius healed a divine snake, which gave him secret knowledge. He brought people back to life. Zeus killed him for meddling in the underworld. A shame.”

“Why ‘Asclepius’?”

“Obviously Clay saw himself as a healer.”

“In a place like that?”

Evan shot me a skeptical look, then pulled the candy cigarette from his holder, ate one half of it, then the other, crunching quietly. From his pocket he brought out fresh candy, carefully working it into the holder. “I was struck by that irony, too.”

Morpheus opened his pill locker again and reached far back. He removed a bottle and dropped the pills into a fresh paper cup and handed it to the old woman. She took an overly casual look over one shoulder before lifting her green can.

“Evan, it looks to me like Morpheus is up to his old tricks again — handing out goodies.” I wondered what bonus meds he supplied to Clay. Morpheus still slips me some of the good stuff.

“As an ‘H,’ Clay went to Morpheus’s table every day,” said Evan. “Personally, I try to keep my own meds to an absolute minimum. I am down to two antipsychotics, an antianxiety medication, one anticonvulsant, a daytime sedative, and a light sleeping aid.”

Veronique set down the can and paper cup and stood. A dapper older man pulled out her chair. He was dressed for golf. He pulled a flower from the bouquet and handed it to her. She worked the flower between her hat and hair and strode away. The dapper man took her place.

“I should go get mine,” said Evan, standing.

I looked up at Evan’s blue eyes, which struck me as remote and resigned. “Did Clay ever mention the dolls he brought home?”

“Dolls? Never.”

“Thanks again for the Waterfront tip,” I said.

“Glad to be of help.”

I had a thought. “Are you going to read that newspaper?”

“Be my guest,” said Evan, holding it out to me. “Please do contact me when you’ve located Clay. I worry about him. The world is too hard a place for his gentle spirit.”

“I’m more worried about the people around him.”

I wandered the Lyceum for the next few minutes, security goons surveilling impassively, Alec DeMaris keeping an eye on me. I mingled among various patients, most of whom looked briefly at my visitor badge, then at my face, then away. The old ballerina sobbed to one of the all-whiters. Evan sat at the O — S table, legs crossed, puffing thoughtfully, nodding to his staffer. Rivers and Hoffman stood near the middle of the room, face-to-face, in intense discussion, Rivers with his helmet under one arm and his hair plastered to his head.

As I worked my way over to them, they fell silent and watched me approach.

“Any luck finding Clay?” asked Rivers.

“Not yet.”

“He’ll be in the last place you look,” said Hoffman. The two men laughed, and Rivers backhanded his friend in the ribs, not hard.

“Hope you don’t feel harassed by us,” said Hoffman. “Like Alec said.”

“He can’t stand us,” said Rivers.

“Or your teams,” I said. “He told me the Chargers are nothing but a billionaire’s toy, and the Padres are strictly triple-A.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“That’s just...”

“Exactly what I thought,” I said. “Forget where you heard it.”

We tapped fists and they wandered slowly away, leaning close together as in a huddle or a pitcher-catcher conference. Tapping the folded newspaper against my leg, I wondered what kind of strategy they might be cooking up, hoping it would fit in with mine.

I came to Donald Tice’s table, from which another satisfied customer had just departed. Morpheus eyed me with a pugnacious expression. He looked younger up close than from a distance. His hair was blond and thinning and he wore a stainless steel Rolex.

“Any progress on Clay?” he asked.

“Some progress, no Clay.”

“Get him back here. Or he’ll freak out and do something bad.”

“Any idea what?”

Tice closed the pill box lid, spun the combination lock absently with his thumb. “The trouble with psychotropic drugs is, you can tolerate them and they can help stabilize you for a certain period of time. Then that period is over. But no one knows when. It can happen fast.”

I put on a thoughtful expression. “How long have you known Clay?”

He drummed his fingers on the pill box, looking up at me. I could almost hear him weighing his answer. “I was hired to open this hospital and Clay was one of our first partners. So, three years now.”

“Did you sense that he might make a run for it?”

“You’re always ready for it in a place like this. But, no. I saw nothing that pointed to an escape.” Tice glanced at his watch.

“What drugs was Clay taking?”

He looked at me with contempt. Huffed and nodded, as if he’d been waiting for me to ask such an impossible question. “Come on, man. His formulary is confidential information. You of all people should know that.”