that were said to ward off evil, and so, he understood, for her to bring the child to see the odd white man in the clinic must have been a truly hard-reached concession that spoke of her frustration over native medicines, and her love for the boy.
“I do not think his difficulty is organic,” Ricky said slowly.
Auguste Dumondais grimaced. “His lack of speech is…?” This became a question.
“A hysterical response.”
The small black doctor rubbed his chin, and then ran his hand across his glistening skull. “I remember this, just a little bit, from my studies. Perhaps. Why do you think this?”
“The mother would only hint at some tragedy. When he was younger. There were seven children in the family, but now, only five. Do you know the family history?”
“Two children died. Yes. And the father, too. An accident, I recall, during a great storm. Yes, this child was there, that I remember, too. This could be the origin. But what treatment can we perform?”
“I will come up with a plan after some research. We will have to persuade the mother, of course. I don’t know how easy that will be.”
“Will it be expensive for her?”
“No,” Ricky said. He realized that there was some design in Auguste Dumandais’s request for him to examine the child at the same time that Ricky had a trip out of the country planned. It was a transparent design, but a good one, nonetheless. He suspected he might have done more or less the same. “I think it will cost them nothing to bring him to see me after I return. But I must learn much more, first.”
Doctor Dumandais smiled and nodded. “Excellent,” he said, as he hung a stethoscope around his neck, and then handed Ricky a white clinical jacket of his own to wear.
The day went by rapidly, busily, so much so that Ricky almost missed his CaribeAir flight to Miami. A middle-aged businessman named Richard Lively, traveling on a recently issued American passport with only a few modest stamps from various Caribbean nations, was waved through U.S. customs without much delay. He realized he didn’t fit any of the obvious criminal profiles, which were invented primarily to identify drug smugglers. Ricky thought he was a most unique criminal, and one that defied categorization. He was booked on the eight a.m. plane north to La Guardia, so Ricky spent the night in the airport Holiday Inn. He took a lengthy, hot, soapy shower, which he enjoyed from both a sanitary and sensual point of view, and thought bordered on true luxury after the spartan accommodations he was accustomed to. The air-conditioning that defied the heat outside and cooled his room was a remembered treat. But he slept fitfully, in starts, tossing for an hour before his eyes closed, then waking twice, once in the midst of a dream about the fire at his vacation home, then again, when he dreamed of Haiti, and the boy who could not speak. He lay in the bed in the darkness, a little surprised that the sheets seemed too soft and the mattress too springy, listening to the hum of the ice machine down the hall, and an occasional footstep passing by in the hallway, muted by the carpet, but not completely so. In the quiet, he reconstructed the last call he’d made to Virgil, nearly nine months earlier.
It was midnight, when he’d finally covered the distance to the cheap room on the outskirts of Provincetown. He had felt an odd, contradictory sense of exhaustion and energy, tired from the long run, enthused by the thought that he had come through a night very much alive that should have seen his death. He had slumped down on the bed, and dialed the number of her apartment in Manhattan.
When Virgil picked up the call on the first ring, she said only, “Yes?”
“This isn’t the voice you expected,” he replied.
She fell instantly quiet.
“Your brother, the attorney is there, isn’t he? Sitting across the room from you, waiting for the same phone call.”
“Yes.”
“Then have him pick up the extension and listen in.”
Within a few seconds, Merlin, too, was on the line. “Look,” the lawyer started, blustery with false bravado, “You have no idea-”
Ricky interrupted him. “I have many ideas. Now be quiet and listen to me, because everyone’s lives depend upon it.”
Merlin started to say something, but he could sense that Virgil had thrown a glance in his direction, shutting him up.
“First, your brother. He is currently in the Mid Cape Medical Center. Depending on their abilities, he will either remain there, or be airlifted to Boston for surgery. The police will have many questions for him, should he survive his wounds, but I think they will have difficulty understanding what crime, if any, was committed this night. They will have questions for you, as well, but I think that he will need both the support of the sister and brother he loves, as well as some legal advice before too long, assuming he makes it. So, I think the first task ahead of you is to deal with his situation.”
Both remained silent.
“Of course, that is for you to decide. Perhaps you will leave him to handle things by himself. Perhaps not. It is your choice, and you will have to live with your decision. But there are a few other matters that need to be dealt with.”
“What sort of matters?” Virgil asked, her voice flat, trying to not betray any emotion, which, Ricky noted, was just as revealing as any other tone might be.
“First, the truly mundane: The money you stole from my retirement and other investment accounts. You will replace that sum into Credit Suisse account number 01-00976-2. Write that down. You will do this promptly…”
“Or?” Merlin asked.
Ricky smiled. “I thought it was an old truism that no lawyer should ever ask a question they don’t already know the answer to. So, I shall assume you know the answer already.”
This silenced the attorney.
“What else?” Virgil asked.
“We have a new game,” Ricky said. “It’s called the game of staying alive. It’s designed for all of us to play. Simultaneously.”
Neither brother nor sister responded.
“The rules are simple,” Ricky said.
“What are they?” Virgil asked softly.
Ricky smiled to himself. “At the time I took my last vacation, I was charging patients between $75 and $125 per hour for analysis. On average, I saw each patient four, sometimes five times each week, generally forty-eight weeks each year. You can do the math yourselves.”
“Yes,” she said. “We’re familiar with your professional life.”
“Great,” Ricky said briskly. “So, this is the way the game of staying alive works: Everyone who wants to keep breathing enters therapy. With me. You pay, you live. The more people who enter the immediate sphere of your life, the more you pay, because that will buy their safety, as well.”
“What do you mean ‘more people’…?” Virgil asked.
“I’ll leave that up to you to define,” Ricky said coldly.
“If we don’t do as you say?” Merlin sharply demanded.
Ricky replied with a blank, level harshness. “As soon as the money stops, I will assume that your brother has recovered from his wounds and is hunting me once again. And I will be forced to start hunting you.”
Ricky paused, then added, “Or someone close to you. A wife. A child. A lover. A partner. Someone who helps your life be ordinary.”
Again, they were quiet.
