Bad Doctor

  43.

  I DIAL MY home number, wondering if Willow’s still there. If she is, I wonder if she’ll answer.

  “Dr. Box’s residence,” she says.

  “You’re still there!” I say, then realize I don’t have anything else planned to say.

  “Hi Gideon! Yes, I’m here. Um…is that okay?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Did you have a chance to talk to a doctor yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve narrowed our choices to two.”

  “Do you think either will take my case?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Willow/Amy/Andrea must have picked up something in my voice because she says, “Is everything all right?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I have a plan,” she says.

  “A plan?”

  “If you’re available, I’d like to take you to dinner tonight. My treat. Someplace fun. Dinner, then maybe a club.”

  “A club?”

  “Not a strip club,” she says.

  “Right.”

  “So what do you think? Can we go out?”

  It would be nice to get her out of her house, away from her gun when I accuse her of being an identity thief.

  “Let’s do it!” I say.

  My phone buzzes. I put Willow on hold.

  “Kathleen Gray’s on line two,” Lola says.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Addie’s mother.”

  “Who’s Addie?”

  “The child you’re going to operate on. The brain stem cavernoma?”

  “I click back to Willow. I’ve got another call I need to take.”

  “Okay, see you soon.”

  I spend the next fifteen minutes walking Kathleen Gray through the process. What’s going on in Addie’s head, why we made the decision to operate, what to expect.

  I’m on my best behavior.

  I agree Addie has had terrible luck in her short life, and explain there’s no particular event that caused her to develop this condition. I want to tell Kathleen that shit happens, but I refrain. I explain what supratentorial and infratentorial cavernous malformations are, and discuss how we’ll monitor median nerve somatosensory and brain stem audio evoked potentials.

  But you know what?

  She barely follows the conversation. Spends the whole time crying and asking two questions over and over.

  First, “How serious is it?”

  It’s damn serious. But I’m learning they don’t want to hear that, so I say, “I promise you, this operation will be performed under standard microsurgical conditions.”

  I emphasize the word “standard” and she takes it to mean routine.

  The second question she asks repeatedly is, “Will Addie be okay?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Thank you, doctor,” she says.

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  I make a mental note not to ask for a blow job later on.

  See? I’m learning how the game is played.

  44.

  BY SPLITTING THE difference between me being too tired to go clubbing and Willow being too bored to stay home, we wind up in a gastro pub that features live entertainment. I take a photo of her in front of the place and send it to Dani Ripper, so she can forward it to her contact at the police station.

  We’re sitting at our table, she’s reading the menu.

  “You remind me of that cell phone commercial,” she says.

  “Huh?”

  “A guy and his date are in a restaurant and he’s holding his cell phone under the table, checking the game on it. He pretends not to, but she keeps catching him.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I know you’re distracted. What I asked was do you think I’ll need chemotherapy or radiation treatment?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Will I need an operation?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Does chemo hurt?”

  I feel my cell phone vibrate under the table. I glance at Dani’s text message:

  WILLOW’S REAL NAME IS AMY HUDDLESTON…

  STAND BY…MUCH MORE TO COME!

  Willow laughs. “Who’s winning?”

  “There’s no game. I’m monitoring a patient, a little girl, who’s coming out of a medically induced coma.”

  “Oh my God! Is she okay? I mean, do you need to be there?”

  “No.”

  I like the fact Willow’s concerned. She’s got a good heart.

  “The little girl’s doing fine,” I say.

  Willow smiles broadly. It’s still a killer smile.

  “Thank goodness!” she says. “That’s great news!”

  I turn off my phone, place it on the table and say, “I want to concentrate on you now. To answer your question, the actual chemo doesn’t hurt. But the after effects are a bitch.”

  She bites her lip and says, “I’m afraid of the treatment.”

  I look at her. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was the picture of health. That’s changing inside her hour by hour, I suppose, and if she’s as far along as I suspect, she may not have much time to live. For hours I’ve been furious at her for lying to me about who she is, but now that she’s sitting across from me, frightened about the short time she has left and the treatment she might have to deal with, my anger shifts to the shit hand she’s been dealt in life. This is a kid who lost both parents, her boyfriend, her best friend, and is dying of cancer.

  It’s not fair. That’s the bottom line.

  But I still need to find out who she is and why she lied.

  “Willow, we need to talk.”

  She grins and says, “What’s up, Doc?”

  I smile. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”

  “Two days.”

  She frowns. “You’re not going to help me, are you?”

  “Let me get this out, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I take a deep breath and say, “You’re not Willow Breeland.”

  She waits for me to say something else. When I don’t, she says, “How did you find out?”

  “I hired a private investigator.”

  “You did? Why?”

  “Why? You showed up out of the blue and pulled a gun on me!”

  “You showed up out of the blue and pulled a gun on me first! But I didn’t hire a private investigator to check you out.”

  “You didn’t have to. You knew how to find me.”

  “Did your PI tell you my real name?”

  “I was hoping you would do that.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “I have a right to know.”

  “You do? Why?”

  “Because you’re going to stay with me.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes. And you’re going to get the finest medical treatment in the world.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. And I’ll take care of you until you recover.”

  “I’ll probably die.”

  “If you do, I get to keep your panties.”

  “I see,” she says. “You expect me to put out for you.”

  “Only until you get really sick.”

  “You’re joking right?”

  “Yes. Mostly.”

  “Why would you do this for me?”

  “I owe you. Bobby and Cameron are dead because of me. Plus, it’s sort of fun to have someone to come home to.”

  “Are you going soft on me, Doc?”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Amy Huddleston.”

  “Why did you steal a dead girl’s identity?”

  “To keep my uncle from finding me.”

  I nod slowly, thinking about it. That makes sense. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.

  “How old are you?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I have to answer?”

  “Yes.”

  45.


  “I’M SEVENTEEN,” WILLOW says.

  “Shit!”

  “Wait.” She puts her hand on mine. “Before you get angry, can I say three things?”

  I sigh. “Go ahead.”

  “First, I’m nearly eighteen.”

  “How nearly?”

  She looks up and to the right, like she’s counting. Then says, “Eleven days.”

  “We’ll have to celebrate. What’s the second thing?”

  “The sex wasn’t that bad.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. I think it was mostly the circumstances.”

  “I get that.”

  She looks at my expression and laughs.

  “What?”

  “You’re suddenly happy, aren’t you!” She shakes her head. “Men. Jesus!”

  “What’s the third thing?”

  “The third thing is even though you’re angry about shagging a minor, can we have a nice, quiet dinner, and pretend we’re an ordinary couple? Just once?”

  “A couple? Us?”

  She laughs again. “Don’t get any ideas. I just want to pretend I’m on a real date with a nice guy.”

  It suddenly dawns on me that Willow—Amy—has never been on a real date before.

  “You don’t think the people around us will notice our age difference?” I say.

  “Not if we don’t bring attention to ourselves. Can we do that? Just this once?”

  I nod.

  “I need to use the restroom a minute,” she says. “Will you excuse me?”

  I stand when she does and she says, “That was nice of you. Thank you. And thanks for holding the door for me earlier.”

  “Just because I’m a jerk doesn’t mean I don’t have good manners.”

  She cocks her head.

  “I think it sort of does mean that,” she says. “But thanks for doing it, anyway.”

  While she’s gone I fight the urge to check my phone. Dani said there’d be much more information coming. But things are going really well with Willow—Amy—right now, and if she catches me checking my phone again it might hurt her feelings. Whatever it is can wait till after dinner.

  When she returns, I stand and hold her chair for her. As she sits I say, “Should I call you Amy?”

  “No.”

  “In eleven days you’ll be legal. It won’t matter if your uncle finds you.”

  “True. But I’ve had better luck being Willow.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  She smiles. “I met you, didn’t I?”

  I remember what Rose said about how I’d find the right woman where I least expect to. Could she possibly have meant Willow?

  No.

  Yes!

  I mean, here’s the thing. I’m not kidding myself. I know in the real world Willow would never have the slightest interest in me. But we’re in her world, and it’s a private hell. She has no family, no money, no best friend or boyfriend, and she’s dying.

  She needs me.

  Am I afraid she might be using me?

  No. It’s obvious she’s using me. And I’m okay with that.

  I like her. I genuinely do. She’s got a hell of an attitude, and…

  And she makes me happy.

  What doesn’t make me happy is how the lights have suddenly gone dim. A broken-down warhorse with Tammy Faye Bakker makeup struts onto the stage and asks the crowd if we’re having fun.

  Well, I was, till this happened.

  The lady on stage tells the crowd she hopes we love Karen Carpenter half as much as she does, because she’s going to open her set with a tribute to her. Some audience members appear less annoyed at the intrusion than I am, and applaud politely. She asks someone named Claude to cue her music. He does, and she starts singing. I bet the audience wishes they could get a refund on their previous applause. While Karen Carpenter’s velvety voice speaks to my heart, this bleached bimbo’s over-the-top karaoke impersonation makes my teeth itch.

  Willow notices the look on my face.

  “Which do you hate, the song or the singer?”

  I point at the stage slut, who notices me and reacts as if I just volunteered to be her shill.

  She tells Claude to stop the music and says, “Well, hello, handsome!”

  I look around to see if she might be speaking to someone behind me.

  She’s not.

  She walks over to Willow and says, “Please dear, introduce me to your father.”

  The crowd cracks up.

  “He’s not my father,” Willow says, “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Really? What a shock!” the lady says, and the audience laughs again.

  She sticks the mike in my face and says, “Aren’t you afraid she’ll give you a heart attack?”

  “Fuck off,” I say, before realizing everyone in the place can hear me.

  She says, “Ooh, I love it when cute guys talk dirty to me! How about a kiss, doll?”

  “How about I rip your lips off?”

  “OOH!” she says. “Daddy likes it rough, does he?”

  Willow gives me an urgent look and whispers, “Please. Play nice!”

  To the audience, the singer says, “Hey everyone, did you hear? Daddy likes rough sex!” They reward her with a smattering of nervous laughter.

  “Do you like Karen, sweetie?” she says.

  I look at Willow, who’s trying not to look embarrassed. I nod. I’ll play nice.

  “Karen Carpenter?” I say. “Absolutely.”

  “Quick,” she says. “Favorite Carpenter song!”

  “Rainy Days and Mondays.”

  She sings, “Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.” Then says, “You like that, sugar?”

  “Not anymore.”

  This time the audience laughs for me.

  “You know what I like?” she says.

  “Apart from annoying me?”

  More laughter

  She laughs. “Funny and cute! Girls, hands off this one. He’s mine!” She looks at Willow and says, “After you max out his credit cards, of course.”

  The crowd murmurs their disapproval of her picking on Willow.

  Undaunted, she says, “My favorite is Close to You. Am I right everyone? Who doesn’t like Close to You?”

  “Me,” I say.

  “What? Daddy doesn’t like Close to You?”

  “That’s right.”

  She shows me her shocked expression and I suddenly realize this isn’t just a Karen Carpenter impersonator, she’s a female impersonator! She says, “Close to You? Are you kidding me? Burt Bacharach? Hal David? Be careful, doll, those are local boys.”

  “The song makes no sense,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Birds suddenly appear every time you are near.”

  “It’s romantic,” she says.

  “It’s insane. Would you want to date someone who, every time he approaches, is surrounded by a flock of birds?”

  Audience laughter.

  “Just like me,” she sings, “they long to be…close to you!”

  The audience laughs louder. A number of diners clap their hands, enjoying the show, convinced I’ve been planted to enhance the show.

  “See? It’s romantic,” she says.

  She puts the mike in my face and I say, “What about the stars falling from the sky every time you walk by? That’d be pretty damn dangerous, don’t you think?”

  The audience laughs.

  She frowns, thinking about it, then looks at Willow and says, “You can keep him, sweetie, he’s a jerk!”

  She abruptly turns and walks back to the stage to continue her set.

  I lean over to Willow and say, “That’s a man!”

  “Ya think?” she says, sarcastically. “What tipped you off? His Adam’s apple, his voice, or his hard-on?”

  “He had a hard-on?”

  She sighs. “So much for not calling attention to us.”

  “Sorry.”

  46.

  THE SINGER FINISHE
S her set, the lights come back on, we order soft drinks and drink them, then order our dinners and eat them.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Willow says.

  “Please do.”

  “What did you do with the garage door opener?”

  “Cleaned it, stepped on it, threw it in the trash. Why?”

  “If I had blackmailed you, how much would you have paid?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “A quarter million.”

  “You answered quickly.”

  “That’s my number.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I used to gamble to relieve stress I’d play till I won or lost two-fifty. That’s my threshold. If you had blackmailed me and asked for anything above that, I’d take my chances with the police.”

  “That’s very interesting.”

  “I’ll probably spend that much on your cancer treatment anyway,” I say.

  She laughs. “You’re a good sport, Gideon.”

  “You too,” I say, and mean it.

  Willow says, “You keep looking at your phone.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s rude.”

  “You should check your messages. I know you’re worried about the little girl.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nods.

  “Thanks.”

  I power up my phone and check for new text messages.

  And see this:

  REMEMBER WHAT I SAID ABOUT BEST FRIENDS?

  THE NURSE CAME THROUGH! MEDICAL RECORDS SHOW

  CAMERON WAS DYING OF HODGKIN’S DISEASE, NOT WILLOW!

  “Is something wrong?” Willow says.

  I check the next text and see this:

  AMY STOLE WILLOW’S IDENTITY AND

  PRETENDED TO HAVE CAMERON’S DISEASE!

  47.

  THE LOOK ON my face tells Willow my mood has turned sour.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I hand her my phone so she can read the last two text messages. After she does, she takes a deep breath and says, “Okay. Plan B.”

  48.

  I’M FURIOUS. I want to kick and scream and break into someone’s house and rob them at gunpoint. I could probably even strangle Willow with my bare hands.

  But I need to know what she’s talking about.

  Through clenched teeth I ask, “What’s Plan B?”

  “You’re angry,” she says, cool as a cucumber.