Brad Aiken: Questioning the Tree

“Even if I had the time to stay on your ass, which I don’t, I don’t believe in entrapment. But I’m not the only one with this information. Consider tonight a friendly warning.”

This kind of friendship I could do without. I felt a chill as the sweat began to cool against my skin.

He stood. “You can see yourself out. I’ve got to get started on those damn reports. That’s the penalty for working with the Federal Health Care Task Force; paperwork’s a killer.” He pointed the way out. “We can have someone drive you home if you’d like.”

“I’ll cab it, thanks.”

“Thought you might.” He started to walk toward a cubicle to the right of the interrogation room, then hesitated and turned. “Be smart, Doctor.”

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Monday morning came, as it inevitably did. I made my way up to the thirty-seventh floor where Ms. Johnson was waiting for me.

“So you didn’t take the bait,” she said wryly.

“No. I did not. You know I don’t go for that sort of thing.”

“I do now, but I could have sworn you’d go for it and I’m usually pretty good at reading people.”

My task had become doubly burdensome. I felt like I was working under even more of a microscope than I had before. But I endured. And I thought about Doug. Constantly.

A couple of weeks later, Mr. Winthorp came by again on a Friday afternoon, still in pain and still begging me to examine his neck. There was nowhere else for him to go; I was his assigned provider. Once again, I turned him down and it ate me up inside.

It was getting harder to look at myself in the mirror, harder to accept what I’d become after seeing that there was another way for those willing to do what needed to be done. Sure, they’d caught Doug, but there were dozens of clinics that managed to stay under the radar, if you believed the blogs. I never had. I desperately wanted to now.

Still, it was tough to ignore Officer Cornell’s warning.

That night, the pros and cons played in my head a hundred times over as I lay in bed praying to be mercifully overtaken by sleep. For once in my life, I had a decision to make for which I wished there was an answer tree to guide me.

At two AM, I awakened with a bolt. “Doc Tramer’s place… of course .” The image was plain as day now, the obituary from last Saturday; my old family doctor, the one who used to see me at the office in his house, had passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-seven. A paragraph of accolades and a statement expressing how sad it was that he had no survivors; his house would be going up for sale.

I pulled up the number of an old realtor friend of mine first thing in the morning, then jotted it down and left it on the table while I made some coffee. As I munched on a bagel and sipped my java, my gaze kept straying from the news on the monitor back to that little scrap of paper.

But they’re watching you.

Bullshit. You really think you’re that important? They don’t have time to bother with you. It was just scare tactics.

You willing to take that chance?

I tilted my cup to get one last rush of caffeine, then started to rise from the table. “Ah, hell .” I spun back and grabbed the note.

The realtor was already waiting in the driveway when I pulled up to the old Tramer place. Doc had been retired for a couple of decades, but his home office was still intact; a veritable shrine to the medical era I grew up in. It looked like he’d taken a lot of pride keeping it that way, until the past few years when he’d undoubtedly had to occupy his time just trying to survive.

It was perfect. The office had been out of commission long before the District Clinic system was a glimmer in the eye of the jackasses who created it. The Feds wouldn’t even know this place existed.

A scent of mold hung in the air and the house looked like hell: faded paper peeling off the walls, archaic appliances, incandescent light fixtures—a realtor’s nightmare. But mostly cosmetic stuff I could deal with myself. I made an offer on the spot. She couldn’t get the contract to me fast enough.

Weekends had always been my cherished time, the outdoors my playground. Whether it was people-watching in town, or escaping to the little park land that remained within commuting distance, I’d spend my days trying to commune with the things that made life worth living.

But now, I had the perfect retreat. The quaint house was nestled next to a neighborhood park, with a beautiful view of the foliage from the second floor master bedroom window. I began spending my weekends there and the renovations went quickly. Within a month, I was ready for my first visitors.

Boredom and security were about to be replaced by fulfillment and paranoia.

I had kept the décor very retro. Faux-oak paneling warmed the walls in the foyer; the leather sofas were real. I admired my handiwork as I prepared for my first Sunday afternoon clinic. Taking a page from Doug’s failed attempt, I was determined to fly solo on this.

Easing back into a well-worn sofa cushion and relishing the faint moldy scent of the period throw rug scavenged at a flea market, I folded back the sports pages of the January issue of the New York Times , the last newspaper still printed in hard copy. The monthly edition didn’t even try to keep up with the kind of breaking news coverage you could get on the Net, but the in-depth human interest stories were compelling, and there was no substitute for the satisfying feel of brittle pages of newsprint crinkling through your fingers.

The nostalgia of a simpler time, a more humane time, soothed my soul.

As I sat enjoying the moment, a mellifluous chime reminiscent of the period redirected my attention to the double front doors, where an adjacent monitor lit up with the familiar face of Mr. Winthorp.

I smiled and buzzed him in.