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  “Until a week ago,” she continued. “That’s when he was sent to Nazareth Hospital in Philadelphia.”

  “You’re that Sherry Moore woman,” the receptionist said, head nodding cockily to the side. She moved her jaw sideways.

  “I thought so at first, but then you don’t expect someone you know from magazines to just walk in and sit down in front of you. It’s just never the same as seeing someone in person, but I guess you’ve heard that before. Oh, my God!” Her hands flew to cover her mouth. “You just got your sight back. I read all about it. That is so cool.”

  Sherry nodded.

  The woman reached out and touched the back of her wrist. “You really were blind, right? I mean, you couldn’t see all that time?”

  Sherry heard Brigham let out a sigh as she shook her head no.

  “Would it be rude to ask for your autograph? My mother reads everything she can about you. She’s a psychic too. She channels through a monk who died in the thirteenth century.”

  “Of course I’ll give you an autograph,” Sherry said, “while you check on the patient for me.”

  “Oh, of course, I’m sorry.” The receptionist patted the desk with the tips of her polished fingernails. “You’re here about old T.J.”

  “I’d just like to have his relatives’ names and addresses to send condolences.”

  The woman shrugged. “Sounds easy enough to me.”

  She pushed back her chair and got to her feet, leaned down, and whispered to Sherry, “Probably, if you wanted, you could just get the police to ask for it.” She winked. “I know you have friends in high places.”

  Then she walked to the door behind her and swiped a scanner with a bar code card hanging from her belt. The door opened and she was gone.

  “Holy shit,” Sherry said.

  Brigham turned to look at Sherry. “What kind of talk is that?”

  She shrugged and looked contrite. “Too many movies?”

  He shook his head in wonder and looked at his watch. “Maybe she’s really one of the patients and pretends to work here.”

  “Either way, this is going to be easy,” she said with confidence.

  Sherry looked up at the gilded cornices, a fresco of sun rays parting clouds on a sky-blue dome. Dark oil portraits with small brass labels beneath them adorned the walls.

  “Administrators?” she suggested, rising to walk toward them.

  “That would be my guess.” Brigham stood and joined her at one.

  They started in 1868; all were men until 1982. The oldest were spectacled and wore white beards. Their suits modernized as they progressed around the rotunda until the last one, of Dr. Evelyn J. Canelli, and with the sound of a door being opened, they turned to see her in person, marching as if she were the military advancing upon them.

  Dr. Canelli was anything but pleasant looking. Matronly and devoid of cheer, she appeared to have had an ill effect on the receptionist, who now trailed behind.

  “Dr. Canelli,” the woman pronounced loudly, her voice reverberating in the domed room. She stopped a few feet from Sherry and did not offer her hand. “How may I help you?”

  “Sherry Moore.” Sherry smiled. “I was hoping to get in touch with the family of one of your patients. Mr. Thomas J. Monahan,” she said. “He died here about a week ago.”

  “We are not permitted to give out information regarding our patients, Miss Moore.”

  “Oh, I understand that,” Sherry said quickly. “I am not interested in any information concerning Mr. Monahan himself. I just want to reach his family. To offer my condolences.”

  “No information means no information, Miss Moore,” the doctor said sternly.

  Brigham grunted and shifted his weight between his feet.

  The receptionist who had originally greeted them was holding a writing pad in front of her skirt, kneading the paper into wrinkles with two nervous thumbs.

  Sherry shook her head. “Perhaps I should have mentioned I am representing a neurologist from Nazareth Hospital in Philadelphia, Dr. Salix. Dr. Salix signed for Mr. Monahan’s body last week and there was no paperwork to accompany the body. He has questions about Mr. Monahan’s medical history for the family.”

  Dr. Canelli was unmoved. “When physicians have questions about our patients they do not send representatives, Miss Moore. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Sherry shook her head.

  “Then we must return to our business.” Canelli spun on her heels.

  The receptionist stood frozen by the side of her desk.

  Brigham led Sherry to the exit.

  “Whoa!” Sherry said as they went down the front steps.

  “You gave it a try,” Brigham said soothingly.

  “For all the good it did. What is up with her?”

  “You know as well as I do, Sherry. Lawyers. They’re worried about lawyers.”

  “Dr. Salix will just have to get it out of them.”

  Brigham shrugged. “Want to see the overlook while we’re here?”

  “Only if we can stop for catfish afterward.” She was serious, but teasing, of course.

  “We can do that.” Brigham smiled.

  9

  It was dark when they got back to Stockton, the storefront windows all black. A light rain drizzled on the asphalt, glistening pink under a capsule of red light on the wall of a brick firehouse. They parked on the curb and watched pedestrians exiting Grant’s Tavern. It was a merry-looking place with colorful wreaths and white twinkling lights strung through shrubberies and trees. The building was old and painted white with black shutters. The brochure—Sherry had taken one from the diner earlier—said there were nineteen guest rooms, a pub, confectionary, and restaurant.

  “We could get drinks and see if they have rooms for the night?”

  “Suits me,” he said.

  They quickly secured rooms, dropped their bags on tall quilted sleigh beds, and met in the pub for cocktails.

  Grant’s had been a roadhouse since 1846, the walls of the pub adorned with nineteenth-century horse tack. An antique guest register on display was open to the signature of Ulysses S. Grant, 1868, with notations for a room and a stable for his horse. The bar featured several microbrewed beers, and Sherry ordered the Devil’s Hoof while Brigham ordered port and oysters on the half-shell.

  The bartender was in his early thirties, Sherry thought. He wore a goatee and his head was shaved clean. There was a tattoo of the state of Texas on his forearm and there were hoop earrings in both ears.

  “You’re from Texas?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “Rhode Island.”

  Sherry nodded. “Have you been here long?”

  “Three years.” His accent was Scottish, making his origin all the more confusing.

  “I work at the asylum, that’s my paying job,” he said.

  Sherry laughed. “And this is for fun?”

  “You’ve seen the nightlife in this town?” He raised his eyebrows.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m it, so I might as well be getting paid at the same time.” He put a bowl of peanuts in front of them.

  “Must be an interesting place to work, the asylum,” she said. “Lots of history.”

  “You’ve got that right,” he agreed. “You like the beer?”

  Sherry nodded. “A little hoppy, but yes.”

  “We’ve got a great selection of pale ales if you’d rather have a bottle.”

  “No, no.” Sherry shook her head. “I’ll finish this first. You ever hear of a patient at the hospital called T.J. Monahan? Older man, maybe seventy-something, they called him T.J.”

  The bartender shook his head. “I’m a dietician, so I’m always in the kitchen. I only get to know the names of patients with allergies. Not quite what I went to school for, but the skiing’s good in the winter.”

  A young woman brought out oysters on ice from the kitchen and then returned.

  “I’m Sherry,” she said to the bartender. “This is my friend
Garland Brigham.”

  “Mike.” The young man leaned across to shake their hands. “Nice to meet you both. How long’s your friend T.J. been up there?”

  “Since 1950,” she said.

  “Jesus, what a life. You know they’re pretty uptight about confidentiality there. I think they’ve got a lot of old ghosts in their closets.”

  “Yeah, we noticed,” Brigham said. “And that was at the front door.”

  The bartender laughed. “You meet Dr. Canelli?”

  “We did.” Sherry smiled.

  “She’s hell on wheels, but if you really want to find anything out around here you just ask the locals. They know more about that place than half the people working there.”

  A family of five entered in wet windbreakers and took a table in the corner.

  “Excuse me.” He grabbed a handful of menus and silverware and headed for the dining room.

  “Your guest room okay?” Brigham asked.

  “Lovely,” Sherry said. “Yours?”

  “Bed might be a bit soft, but all in all I’d say it’s great for the middle of nowhere. You’re being suitably nosy, I see.”

  “I just thought he might know our man.”

  “You see the pictures of General Grant in the lobby when we came in?”

  Sherry nodded. “Must have been on the campaign trail visiting old battlefield friends and getting his name in the paper.”

  “I can’t even fathom what that place must have looked like after the Civil War.”

  “Forget what it looked like. Imagine the smell,” Brigham said gravely.

  Sherry knew that Brigham was speaking from experience.

  “Okay, what’s next?” Sherry reached for an oyster.

  “Fried catfish,” Brigham said.

  “Uh-huh.” Sherry attempted a twang. “Why, we’d love to come back for some catfish, Miss Betsy.”

  Brigham picked up a peanut and tossed it at her sideways. “Actually, I think it is you who should want to see her most. I mean, who would know more about the patients than the hospital’s former director of intake and admissions?”

  “Says who?”

  “Her picture’s on the wall at the entrance to the confectionary. Just above the brochure rack. She’s a lot younger, but you’ll recognize her. She’s posing with Yul Brynner.”

  Sherry slid from her stool. “Who’s Yul Brynner?”

  Brigham shook his head in dismay. “He’s the bald guy. You won’t miss it.”

  Sherry was back in five minutes. “I’m liking your friend Betsy more and more,” she said.

  A baby began to scream at the corner table. Brigham downed his port and laid a twenty on the check. “Ready for catfish?”

  “I’m ready for anything but screaming,” Sherry said. “And I’ll bet Miss Betsy will be willing to tell you anything you want to know.”

  The diner was starting to empty by 8 p.m. The rain had picked up, and slick umbrellas were stacked in the corner by the door.

  They took a booth at the front window and watched dogwood blossoms fly from the trees, plastering themselves to park benches and hoods of cars and the shimmering pools of light along the dark street.

  “It’s downright cold out there,” Sherry rubbed her arms and shivered.

  “We’re in the mountains,” Brigham said. “Two hundred miles from Montreal.”

  A gum-chewing girl came toward the booth, but then Betsy yelled from across the room. “Hey, Adel, I got it, go on home when you finish your tables.”

  A minute later Betsy arrived with water and silverware.

  “You came back.” She smiled, hand on her hip, blew the silver bangs off her forehead.

  “And we’re staying,” Sherry said, pointing toward the back wall. “Grant’s Tavern.”

  “Excellent choice,” she said, “It’s the town hub for us forty and older crowd. The kids won’t pay five bucks for a beer, which is the way we like it. So is it the catfish or you want menus?”

  “Catfish times two,” Sherry said. “We saw your picture in the lobby over there.”

  Betsy nodded. “Yul Brynner, 1980. It was a charity event and I was a little blonder then.” She lifted the hair off her shoulder with the backs of her fingers and let it drop.

  “You must have known everyone in the hospital,” Sherry said.

  “Just about.” Betsy leaned over to place the silverware. “Salad or coleslaw?”

  “Coleslaw,” Sherry said. Brigham ordered a salad.

  “Tea or soda?”

  Sherry and Brigham both shook their heads, asked for water, and in an instant Betsy was gone.

  They noticed the nicely dressed couple they’d seen earlier at the hospital, the ones saying good-bye to the young woman. The rest of the clientele were dressed comfortably enough to be locals.

  “How many years were you there?” Sherry asked Betsy as she dropped off the coleslaw.

  “Seventeen, but the town was growing and the diner was getting to be a handful. I had to quit and come run it full-time.”

  “You own this?” Sherry asked, surprised.

  The woman nodded. “Used to be I could find someone to run it for me. People aren’t like that anymore. Not that I’ve found, anyhow. And staff. That’s a whole other story. All the kids want to be managers and nobody wants to do the work. I’ll be right back with your dinners.”

  The catfish was good. The crowd was gone by nine.

  Sherry took the check and walked it to the cash register. “You wouldn’t want to join us for a drink at the tavern, would you?” she said.

  Betsy was stacking plates for the dishwasher. “That actually sounds good,” she said. “My niece is opening for me in the morning, so I can run up to Kingston and pick up my new eyeglasses, which means I can sleep in until eight. I’ll need another twenty minutes to get out of here.”

  “We’ll be at the bar.” Sherry laid money on the check.

  “You like chocolate?”

  “Mmmmmm.” Sherry smiled.

  “Tell Mike to make a blender of Mississippi Mud, and mention my name. If you don’t like it, I’ll finish what you don’t drink.”

  10

  LANCASTER, PENNSYLVANIA

  A phone rang in the spa room at Case’s Lancaster farm.

  “It’s Troy.”

  “Is it done?” Case cradled the receiver against his ear. He was pouring scotch over tumblers of ice. He let the towel fall from his waist and opened the door to the sauna. Wendy was sitting cross-legged on the bench, naked, her body beaded with perspiration.

  “It’s done. I have the kid’s hard drive,” Troy said.

  “Good, good. Destroy it.” He leaned forward in his wheelchair and handed the young woman her drink.

  “There’s something else.”

  “What?” Case asked impatiently.

  “Veterans Affairs received a call from a psychiatric hospital in upstate New York. They said the caller wanted to speak with you personally. At your request.”

  “What request?” Case pushed the glass against his forehead. “I didn’t request to speak with anyone,” he growled.

  “All they said was that a patient named Monahan died and they had instructions to call the foundation.”

  Case leaned against the door frame. “Say that again.”

  “Monahan—he was a patient there and he died. Does that mean anything to you?”

  There was a long moment of silence. Case leaned back in his wheelchair and shut the door to the sauna.

  “How did he die? Did they say?”

  “Aortal aneurysm.”

  Case bent forward, elbows on knees, head cradled in his hands.

  It had been years since he’d thought of Thomas Monahan. Even now the memory was indistinct. A boy of twenty or so, heavily bandaged and lying on a hospital gurney.

  “That’s it? They didn’t say anything else?”

  “That’s all.”

  It had all happened in another lifetime, when Case was a very young man himself. When doctors fr
esh out of medical school were putting to practice theories that had only ever before been hypothesized on blackboards in the bowels of Cornell or Harvard or Yale. It was a new generation of knowledge. The world was there for the taking. And take it he did. He looked through the glass door at the young woman in his sauna, studying the curve of her hip and the purple polish on ten perfect toes.

  Yes, he took, and long before the Carpe Diem T-shirt was in vogue. To take advantage of that small window in time when the world cared more about science than human lives. More about a future for all than about the rights of privacy and informed consent.

  He had accomplished in two decades what would have required those so-called geniuses a lifetime. He had circumvented generations of clinical lab work by taking his drugs directly to the field. What better or faster way to know how humans might react to certain combinations of chemicals than to test them on human beings from the beginning?

  Society might not agree with that approach today, but from the 1950s to the 1970s it helped launch the ideas of two men to become an industry that would stand for centuries.

  Case had no regrets for the lives sacrificed to his theories. How many more people had been saved? In fact, his only lament was the truth behind the adage that youth was wasted on the young. Oh, for just twenty more years, he thought.

  The news about Monahan was a relief, but Lord, that man had taken his good old time to die. All those brilliant doctors in the room in 1950 and none had given the boy more than a decade to live. He would never walk again, they were all so sure. His lungs would not be able to keep up with his heart. He would be dead before he was thirty.

  It was just another example of how little doctors knew about the human body in 1950. Monahan had outlived all of them, save Case.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning,” and he hung up the phone.

  He opened the sauna door again and pulled himself out of the wheelchair and pivoted onto the bench next to Wendy, one finger tracing a line from her knee to her hip. He lifted his drink and raised it to his lips and felt her hand on him.