The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [77]
Putting his hands flat on the table, Osborn pushed himself up. The sudden movement made him lightheaded and for a moment he could do nothing but stand there and hold on, praying he wouldn’t fall.
Several golfers just coming in saw him and stepped away. He could see one of them speak to Levigne, and gesture toward him. What did he expect, looking like he did? Glassy-eyed, barely able to stand, wearing torn, soggy clothes that stunk of the river, he looked like a derelict from hell.
But he couldn’t worry about them. Couldn’t think about them.
He looked back to the telephone. It was less than ten paces from where he stood but it might as well have been in California. Picking up the tree-branch cane that had brought him this far, he set it in front of him, putting his weight on it and moved forward. Right hand places the cane, right foot follows. Bring the left foot up. Right hand, right foot. Bring the left foot alongside. Stop. Deep breath.
The phone is a little closer now.
Ready? Again. Right hand, right foot. Left foot up. Though his focus was entirely on his movement and the goal toward which he was going, Osborn was acutely aware of people in the room watching him. Their faces blurred.
Then he heard a voice. His voice! It was talking to him. Clearly and succinctly.
“The bullet is lodged somewhere in the hamstring muscle. Not sure just where. But it has to come out.”
Right hand, right foot. Left foot up. Right hand, right foot.
“Make a vertical incision along the middle of the back of the thigh from the lower fold of the nates.” Suddenly he was back in medical school quoting from Gray’s Anatomy. How could he remember it verbatim?
Right hand, right foot. Left foot. Stop and rest. Across the room, faces still watching. Right hand, right foot. Left foot up.
The telephone is right in front of you.
Exhausted, Osborn slowly reached for the receiver and took it off the hook.
“Paul, there is a bullet lodged in your hamstring muscle. It has to come out, now.”
“I know dammit. I know. Take it out!”
* * *
“It is out. Just lie still.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Of course.”
“What day is it?”
“I—” Osborn hesitated. “Saturday.”
“You missed your plane.” Vera pulled off her surgical gloves, then turned and walked out of the room.
Osborn relaxed and looked around. He was in her apartment and naked, lying facedown on the bed in her guest room. A moment later she came back. A hypodermic syringe was in her hand.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I might tell you it’s succinylcholine,” she said, sarcastically. “But that wouldn’t be true.” Walking behind him, she wiped a spot on his upper buttock with a piece of alcohol-soaked cotton, then slid the needle in and gave him the shot.
“It’s an antibiotic. You probably ought to have a tetanus shot, too. God knows what was in that river besides Henri Kanarack.”
“How do you know about that?” Suddenly everything that had happened flashed across his mind.
Vera reached down and gently pulled a blanket Up over him. All the way up over his shoulders so that he was warm. Then she went over and sat down on the ottoman of a leather reading chair across from him.
“You passed out in the clubhouse of a golf course about forty kilometers from here. You came back long enough to give them my number. I borrowed a friend’s car. The people at the golf course were very nice. They helped me get you in the car. All I had were a few tranquilizers. I gave you all of them.”
“All?”
Vera smiled. “You talk a lot when you’re fucked up. Mostly about men. Henri Kanarack. Jean Packard. Your father.”
In the distance they heard the singsong siren of an emergency vehicle and her smile faded.
“I’ve been to the police,” she said,
“The police?”
“Last night. I was worried. They searched your hotel room and found the succinylcholine. They don’t know what it is or what it was for.”
“But you do—”
“Now I do, yes.”
“I couldn’t very well tell you, could I?