Dante's Poison (32 page)

“And you're not at all concerned about finding Gallagher's killer?”

“Why should I be? Rory meant little to me, and my best chance of escaping conviction is to leave matters as they now stand, with a bumbling prosecutor and a wholly circumstantial case. I believe you're right—that what Rory found
is
what got him killed, whether or not someone from Atria was responsible. But I have no confidence that the authorities will find the murderer even if you go to them. The only thing I'm confident of is that it wasn't me.”

I knew she was probably right, at least as far as the police were concerned. But I was still troubled by the implications of keeping what I knew to myself. “What about the matters discussed in your report? Don't you think they deserve to be made public? What Atria was doing is wrong.”

“In a technical sense, yes. But as I said, I counseled them to stop. And even if the law was violated, who was harmed? Unless you'd like to make the case that scores of your brethren have acted irresponsibly by prescribing Lucitrol, or that the drug hasn't helped some of their patients.”

She had me there. The blame lay just as much with the drug companies as with the doctors who repeatedly fell for their shenanigans, allowing themselves to be visited and flattered and even lied to in exchange for junkets and free samples. And as I'd explained to Bjorn, most psychiatric prescriptions were based on little more than guesswork anyway.

“All right,” I said. “But there's still Hallie to think about. And identifying the person who attacked her. If, as we've been speculating, it wasn't you or someone at Atria who killed Gallagher, then who else might it be?”

“Once again, I'm afraid I can't help you with that question. But if you're still interested in finding out, I suggest you look to your own discipline.”

I cocked my head in her direction. “What are you implying?”

“I'll let you think about that. And now, I really must be getting back to my work.”

I was being dismissed. Again.

She rose to show me out. I collected my cane and followed her to the door. When we were only steps away she stopped abruptly and turned around, as though she had one last thing to say. “Forget something?” I said nastily. “Or did you finally decide to develop a conscience?”

Needless to say, I was completely unprepared for what happened next.

Before I knew what was happening she took two steps toward me.

And grasping me by the back of my neck sunk her lips harshly into mine.

I don't know how I stumbled out of Jane's apartment with the taste of her tongue in my mouth and her laughter still echoing in my ears. Or how I got back downstairs. All I know is that my nerves were on fire. I barely gave a thought to Jane's receptionist as I careened past his guard station, nearly knocking over an elderly man in a tweed suit in my haste to escape. He shook his fist angrily at me as I lunged ahead. Beyond him the glass door to the street yawned, a portal of pure white light. I took the ten steps toward it in a bound, yanking the door handle open and nearly collapsing onto the street outside.

I found my way to an alley at the building's side, filled with broken glass and the stench of urine, and retched. All of my senses seemed to be stretched. What was wrong with me? I'd been kissed by a woman before, why was it having this effect on me? Thoughts of Hallie suddenly came over me. Hallie lying comatose in her hospital bed. Hallie calling to me. I needed to get to her right away. To apologize for what I had done—for what I so wanted to do—with Jane. I fished my handkerchief from my pocket and wiped the bile from my mouth, tossing it into a nearby Dumpster.

Outside the alley the sidewalks were teeming with people. I thrust my cane forward and struck up with the fast-moving crowd. The walking seemed to be doing me some good. My heart rate was slowing and the nausea was wearing off. Heads bobbed up and down in my path: male heads, female heads, heads with cell phones stuck to their ears. I was going faster now, almost gliding. Under the Metra tracks and up the small incline to the Randolph Street Bridge, sunlight glinting on the turgid water below. Past the fortress edifice of the Lyric Opera with its grinning bas-relief muses. Down another, steeper hill, moving even faster. Was I going to make the light at Wacker? No, there wasn't time. Come up to the curb and halt, follow the progress of the cars rushing by.

An attractive woman in a plaid coat was stopped next to me. I tipped my Mets cap at her. “Beautiful day, isn't it?”

“Ye-es,” she agreed, giving me a thoroughly puzzled glance. “But be careful. It's not safe to cross yet.”

“I know that,” I said.

Which is when I realized.

I did know.

And not just because I was hearing things.

I shut my eyes and squeezed them. Said a small prayer before opening them again. But it was true. Across the street, as clear as day, the pedestrian signal was blinking its orange “Don't Walk.” Filled with encouragement, I stepped forward to get a better view.

The woman in the plaid coat didn't like this. “Didn't you hear me? Are you deaf, too?” Still standing by my side, she seized my arm. “Come on. You better let me help you.”

I tore it away in annoyance. “I don't need your help.”

“Fine,” she said, with an acid expression. “Go ahead and get yourself killed.”

The light changed and the foot traffic surged forward, the woman in the plaid coat going out of her way to leave me behind. I swung my cane out onto the asphalt before I remembered I didn't need it anymore. I looked down at my feet, still moving with a blind man's hesitant gait. I was out of practice, that much was apparent. All I needed to do was to look ahead, trust my peripheral vision to spot any obstacles in my path. I squared my shoulders and let the cane clatter to the ground, practically running onward.

At the far corner, I stopped once more, swirling in pleasure as I drank in the scene. The broad sweep of the Loop spread out before me, the ‘L' trains making their slot-car journey around it, the afternoon sun reflected everywhere on canyons of granite and glass. It was all as I remembered it, and infinitely more beautiful. Even the trash in the gutters seemed shiny and new. I looked rapidly around and for the first time in two years found myself reading signs at a distance, hungrily exploring the faces of the people passing by. If I could, I would have canceled all my other senses just to savor the sensation of seeing—splendid, magnificent sense—this second time around.

How had the miracle happened? Then I remembered. Melissa. My Indian goddess. My savior from an otherwise cramped and hopeless existence. I couldn't wait to tell her how wrong she'd been. The pills
had
worked, and even better on me than anyone had predicted. I'd aced her precious study, proved myself the most worthy of test subjects. On my way back I'd stop and let her see for herself. But first I had a detour to make.

I hurried east, past the clownish facade of the State of Illinois Building—its pink and blue panels hadn't gotten any more dignified in the interim—the massive Corinthian columns of City Hall, the slate and steel expanse of Daley Plaza. Past the old Marshall Field's building and the stately Harold Washington Center. At Michigan, I had to sprint forward to beat the light before it changed, congratulating myself on my speed. I had a destination in mind and could hardly wait to get there. The daily party in Millennium Park was in full swing as I jogged up the shrub-lined steps to the Cloud Gate, easily bypassing the skateboarders clacking up and down in violation of several signed warnings. I thought about how long this brief journey would have taken me before, when I had to constantly stop and slow my step to listen for potential hazards. Now I was flying.

I won't say that my face shocked me, though it did seem older in the mirrored surface of the Bean, near where I'd sat waiting for Hallie—when was it?—only a week ago. There were more and deeper lines around my mouth than I recalled, and a tiredness that wasn't explained simply by my irregular sleep habits. My hair had receded another half inch or so, but there was still plenty of it to go around. I noted with satisfaction that I still had relatively few gray ones.

Then it was on to the big treat I'd been saving for myself. I mounted the hill next to the Pritzker Pavilion and caught my first clear glimpse of it, a crescent of pure ultramarine stretching as far as the eye could see. Viewing it once more in all its glory, I laughed out loud. A band of purple haze lay low over the horizon where the water met the sky, and small whitecaps danced across its surface under a frieze of rose-tinted clouds. Nearer to me, the elms, oaks, and maples of Grant Park were ablaze in fall color, all the more brilliant because of their proximity to the deep, blue, absurdly gorgeous Lake.

I ran from place to place, giddy with happiness. Each step seemed to bring me to a fresh rediscovery. The pink granite of Buckingham Fountain shimmering under its frothy cascade, the sailboats bobbing like corks in Monroe Harbor, the fall flowers planted in neat rows amid lawns of riotous green. I ate it all up like a starving man, marveling at the variety of the universe, its multiple sources of joy.

I must have wandered for hours, never tiring of what I was seeing, smiling madly at the amused passersby, who acted as though I was putting on a show for them. If they thought I was insane, let them. How many of them understood—could possibly understand—what it was like? I was liberated beyond my wildest imagining, freed at last from my dull prison. Everything suddenly seemed possible. No longer consigned to groping, my future had become immeasurably bright.

It was only toward dusk, just after I had clambered down a staircase south of the Art Institute, that I remembered Hallie again. I swore heartily at myself as I jumped a small ledge, regaining my footing on a rough gravel path. In all this time, I had forgotten the most important thing: seeing her for the very first time. And Louis. My treasured boy. How could I have forgotten about him, too? It was too late to catch a plane that night, but I had a recent photo of him in my wallet. It would take only seconds to pull it out. But it appeared I had misplaced it. In the spot where I usually kept his picture, there was only a blank square of paper. Where was it? I looked through everything again and couldn't find it. I began tearing through the wallet's contents, tossing credit cards and receipts and IDs over my shoulder in my frenzy to find the missing photograph. It was nowhere to be found. I went down on hands and knees to search again through the items I'd scattered on the ground, scrabbling in the dust and dirt between massive tree roots.

And that's when I noticed it: a slight tremor in the ground, coupled with the rumble of thunder. I looked up to see if a storm was forming, but there was no sign of one. The sky was as clear as liquid, without a disturbance in sight. The rumbling grew louder.

Just then, I also became aware of a man's voice shouting. “Are you crazy?! Get the hell out of there!”

I stood up and looked around, puzzled. What was he talking about? I didn't see anything alarming. Only the lovely twilight and the lights of the city beginning to wink on over the hilltop to my side. “There's nothing to worry about,” I called back. “I'm OK.”

“Like hell you are,” came the voice again, closer than before. I heard the cranking of machinery and the sound of someone running rapidly toward me. “Didn't you hear me, you fucking fool? Get off the tracks!”

The earth beneath me was shaking harder now, and I wondered if we were having an earthquake on top of the thunderstorm. And a traffic jam. Someone was leaning on a horn.
Waaaaaaahhhhh! Waaaaaaahhhh!
I put my hands up to cover my ears.

Two searchlights appeared among the trees, along with another, smaller light at an angle. It was bouncing up and down, matching its rhythm to the footsteps that were now galloping toward me.

Waaaaaaaahhhh!

I smelled gas fumes and felt a violent onrush of air just as a rough hand seized me by the collar and jerked me out of the way.