Thomas Perry - Dance for the Dead

Jane had to step into the light to take her glass. Carey clinked it gently with his, then followed her into the living room.

"So why are you working the emergency room?" she asked as she curled her legs under her on the couch. "Finally piss somebody off?"

A change came into his voice as it always did when he talked about his work. "I decided I needed a refresher course, so I took over the evening shift a couple of weeks ago. If Jake asks, I've still got plenty of time to check my regular patients for suspicious moles."

"Why does a young quack like you need a refresher course? Doze off in medical school?"

"I guess I should have said 'a reminder course.' It's basic medicine. The door at the end of the hall slides open, and in walks Death. You get to look him in the eye, spin him around, and kick his ass for him. It's exhilarating.

Besides, the regular guy asked me to help him out. E.R. doctors last about as long as the average test pilot, and he's approaching the crash-and-burn stage. They don't always win." He seemed to notice her listening to him. "You look awful, by the way."

"Sweet of you to say so. That's how women look when you wake them up."

He turned his head to the left to call to an invisible person. "Nurse! More light!" Her eyes involuntarily followed his voice, and he turned on the lamp above him with his right. "Wow. Pretty good contusions and abrasions. Finally piss somebody off?"

She knew she wasn't going to get the car accident story past Dr. Carey McKinnon. "I was mugged outside my hotel."

"I'm sorry, Jane." he said, tilting his head to see her more clearly. "What happened?"

"It was nothing, really. He came out from behind one of those pillars in the garage under the hotel to grab my purse. I yelled and the parking attendant came. He got away."

"Is he all right?"

She frowned. "Why would anybody say that?"

"Your hands."

"Oh," she said. "Well, I did resist a little. I'm not dumb enough to die for a purse, but he scared me."

Carey was already on his feet and moving toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I left my bag in the car. I always have one with me in case there's a chance to bill somebody."

"You're a dear friend, but I like you because your big feet tromp my snow down in the winter so I can get my car out. Who said I wanted medical treatment from you?"

"I just need to bring it in. Old Jake probably recognized my car, and he's handy enough to break in for the drugs."

Carey stepped outside. She heard his trunk slam, and then his feet coming back up on the porch. In a moment he was inside, the black bag was open at her feet, and he was sitting beside her turning her head gently from side to side. He took a bottle out of his bag and poured something out of it onto a ball of cotton. He swabbed her face with the cold liquid and then stared into her eyes with a little flashlight. He took her hands in his and studied them, then bent her wrists a couple of times, staring as though he could see through to her bones.

"Doctor?" she said. "Just tell me, will I be able to play the piano?"

"Heard it. You couldn't before." He didn't smile. "The wrist is only a mild sprain," he said. "It'll be okay in a few days. The lacerations on the knuckles look good already - probably because you didn't put makeup on them. You're lucky. Human teeth are an incredible source of infection." He took a small aerosol can out of the bag and sprayed her hands. It felt colder than the disinfectant, but as it dried, the pain seemed to go away. He lifted her hand and kissed the fingertips. "I just like the taste of that stuff." He looked at her cheerfully. "You want to know the truth, it helps things heal. We don't tell people that, of course."

Jane couldn't think of a retort. In all of the twelve or thirteen years she had known Carey McKinnon, they had been buddies. They had kissed hello and goodbye, but he had been the friend she could call so she didn't have to go to a movie alone or eat at a table for one. The champagne was a pleasant surprise, but the roses brought with them a new ambiguity, and it was growing and getting more confusing.

"Stand up," he said. She stood up. He moved her arms and felt the elbows, pressed the radius and ulna between his fingers. He put his big hand under her rib cage and poked her a couple of times with the other. "Does that hurt?"

"Uh! Of course it hurts. Cut it out," she said. At another time she would have poked him back, but now he was being a doctor - at least she thought he was.

"Your liver didn't pop loose, anyway," he said. "You can have champagne without fear of death."

"Oh?" she said. "How long have I got?"

"What do I care?" He sipped his champagne. "I'll have been dead for twenty years. You pamper yourself like a racehorse, and women handle the wear and tear better than men." His eyes swept up and down her body with a frankness that she wasn't positive was detachment. "It's just a better machine."

"Then you must really be walking around in a piece of junk," she said. She stretched her sore arms and rubbed her shoulders.

"That's only muscle pain," he said.

"Well, don't sound disappointed. It's the best pain I can manage right now."

"A big shot of adrenaline comes in and your muscles go from rest to overperformance in a second or two, and they feel the strain. In two days you'll be back out there teaching truck drivers to arm wrestle, or whatever it is you do."

"Consulting."

"Insulting them - whatever," he said. He started to close his bag, but then spotted something. He picked up a clear bottle with a liquid in it that looked like vinegar. "Try this stuff."

"What is it?"

He handed it to her. "Don't look free samples in the mouth. Doctors get an incredible number of them, and once in a while you get something you can give your friends legally. This stuff is terrific."

"What's it for?"

"It's not medicine. It's just glorified massage oil. It's got a very mild analgesic in it, so it puts a deep warmth on sore muscles."

Jane opened the bottle and sniffed it. "You're not lying, anyway. It smells too good to be medicine."

He took it back. "Come on," he said. "Lie down and I'll put some on you."

"Lie down, Carey?" she asked. "Could you be a little more specific, please? Or maybe less specific?"

"I assure you, madam, I am a qualified physician. Board-certified. Climb up there on the board." He pointed to the dining room table.

She walked uncertainly in that direction and stared at the table skeptically. "The table? Are you sure?"

"Well, if I asked you to lie down on your bed, would you do it?"

"Maybe," she said. Then she wondered how much she had actually meant by that. If it wasn't what she was afraid it was, why had she hesitated?

He said, "Okay, if it's not occupied, let's use it." He walked to the stairs.

Jane took a big gulp of her champagne. They had been friends for so long that the possibility of a sudden change was unsettling. She didn't want to lose him. She picked up the bottle and followed. "I was thinking about you a few days ago," she said. "I was talking to a little boy."

"Tall or short?"

"Uh... tall, I guess, for his age. He's eight."

"Tell him surgery, then. Dermatologists are short, as a rule. Surgeons are tall."

He stopped at the door of her bedroom, and she edged past him and sat on the bed. She looked up at him. "Are you sure you're not just trying to get funny with me?"

Carey sipped his glass of champagne thoughtfully. "It's crossed my mind. Always does. We never have before, and this may not be the best time to start. I sure don't want to lose you just because we disagreed on how to go about it. It's kind of tricky, and you're a very critical person."

"I am not," she said. "But what if it turned out to be an awful mistake? Would you still be able to call me up when you wanted to go someplace where no respectable person would go with you?"