Робин Кук - Brain

Forty-second Street provided the anonymity Philips needed. Six hours earlier the area had been alien and threatening. Now, the same aspects were comforting. These people wore their psychoses up front. They didn’t hide behind a facade of normality. The dangerous people could be recognized and avoided.

Martin bought a large fresh orange juice and polished it off. He had another. Then he walked down Forty-second Street. He had to think. There had to be a rational explanation for everything. As a doctor, he knew that no matter how many disparate signs and symptoms there were in an illness, they could invariably be traced to a single disease. Nearing Fifth Avenue, Philips walked into the little park by the library. He found an empty bench and sat down. Pulling the dirty chesterfield around him, he made himself as comfortable as possible and tried to go over the events of the night. It had started at the hospital...

Martin woke with the sun almost overhead. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching him. There were lots of people in the park now, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. It had gotten warm and he was sweating heavily. When he stood up he was aware of his heavy ripe smell. Walking out of the park he glanced at his watch and was shocked to learn it was ten-thirty.

He found a Greek coffee house several blocks away. Balling up the old coat, he put it under the table. He was famished and he ordered eggs, home fries, bacon, toast and coffee. He used the tiny men’s room but decided not to clean up. No one seeing him would ever guess he was a doctor. If he were being sought he couldn’t have a better disguise.

As he finished his coffee he found the crumpled list he’d made of the five patients: Marino, Lucas, Collins, McCarthy, and Lindquist. Was it possible that these patients and their histories were related to the bizarre fact that he was being pursued by the authorities? But even so, why would they be trying to kill him; and what had happened to these women? Had they been murdered? Could the affair be somehow related to sex and the underworld? If so, how did radiation fit in? And why was the FBI involved? Maybe the conspiracy was national, affecting hospitals all across the country.

Getting more coffee, Martin was certain the answer to the puzzle lay in the Hobson University Medical Center, but he knew that was the one place the authorities would expect him to go. In other words, the hospital was the most dangerous place for Martin, yet the only place where he had a chance to figure out what was happening. Leaving his coffee, Philips went back to use the pay phone. His first call was to Helen.

“Doctor Philips! I’m so glad you called. Where are you?” Her voice was strained.

“I’m outside the hospital.”

“I guessed that. But where?”

“Why?” asked Martin.

“Just wanted to know,” said Helen.

“Tell me,” said Martin. “Has anybody been looking for me... like... the FBI?”

“Why would the FBI be looking for you?”

Martin was now reasonably certain that Helen was under observation. It was not like her to answer a question with a question, especially an absurd one about the FBI. Under normal circumstances she would have simply told Martin he was crazy. Sansone or one of his agents had to be there with her. Philips hung up abruptly. He would have to think of another way to get the charts and other information he wanted from his office.

Martin next called the hospital and had Dr. Denise Sanger paged. The last thing he wanted was for her to go to the GYN clinic. But she did not pick up her page and Martin was afraid to leave a message. Hanging up, he placed a final call to Kristin Lindquist. Kristin’s roommate picked up on the first ring, but when Philips introduced himself and asked about Kristin the girl said she could not give him any information and that she’d prefer he didn’t call. Then she hung up.

Back at his table, Philips spread the list of patients in front of him. Taking out a pen he wrote: “strong radioactivity in the brains of young women (? other areas); Pap smears reported abnormal when they were normal; and neurological symptoms something like multiple sclerosis.” Philips stared at what he’d written, his mind racing in crazy circles. Then he wrote: “Neurological — GYN — police — FBI,” followed by “Werner necrophilia.” There didn’t seem to be any possible way all these things could be related, but it did seem as if GYN was in the middle. If he could find out why those Pap smears were reported abnormal, maybe he’d have something.

Suddenly a wave of desperation swept over him. It was obvious he was up against something bigger than he could possibly handle. His old world with the daily headaches no longer seemed so terrible. He would gladly put up with a little boring routine if he could go to bed at night with Denise in his arms. He wasn’t a religious person, but he found himself trying to strike a bargain with God: if He would rescue him from this nightmare, Martin would never complain about his life again.

He looked down at the paper and realized that his eyes had filled with tears. Why would the police be after him, of all people? It didn’t make sense.

He went back to the phone and tried again to reach Denise, but she wasn’t answering her page. In desperation he called the GYN clinic and spoke to the receptionist.

“Has Denise Sanger had her appointment yet?”

“Not yet,” said the receptionist. “We expect her any minute.”

Martin thought quickly before he spoke. “This is Doctor Philips. When she arrives tell her that I canceled the appointment and that she should see me.”

“I’ll tell her,” said the receptionist and Martin sensed she was genuinely bewildered.

Martin walked back to the small park and sat down. He found himself incapable of any sensible decision. For a man who believed in order and authority, not to be able to contact the police after being shot at seemed the height of irrationality.

The afternoon passed in fitful sleep and wakeful confusion. His lack of decision became a decision in itself. Rush hour started and reached its crescendo. Then the crowds began to dissipate and Martin went back to the coffee shop for dinner. It was a little after six.

He ordered a meatloaf plate and tried paging Denise while it was being prepared. Still she didn’t pick up. When he was through he decided to try her apartment, wondering if the police knew enough about him to stake her out.

She picked up the phone on the first ring.

“Martin?” her voice was desperate.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Thank God! Where are you?”

Martin ignored the question and said, “Where have you been? I’ve been paging you all day.”

“I haven’t been feeling well. I stayed at home.”

“You didn’t let the page operator at the hospital know.”

“I know I...” suddenly Sanger’s voice changed. “Don’t come...” she yelled.

Her voice was choked off and Philips could hear a muffled struggle. His heart jumped in his throat. “Denise!” he shouted. Everyone in the coffee shop froze; all heads turned in Philips’ direction.

“Philips, this is Sansone.” The agent had picked up the phone. Martin could still hear Denise trying to shout in the background. “Just a minute, Philips,” said Sansone. Then turning away from the phone he said, “Get her out of here and keep her quiet.” Coming back on the line Sansone said, “Listen, Philips...”

“What the hell is going on, Sansone,” cried Philips. “What are you doing to Denise?”

“Calm down, Philips. The girl is fine. We’re here to protect her. What happened to you last night at the Cloisters?”

“What happened to me? Are you crazy? You people wanted to blow me away.”