“My Bible-study group has been discussing what scripture says about the power of prayer.”
“So you’re in a Bible-study group,” she said as if intrigued, as if he was not a man whom she could easily picture in such a pious pursuit.
“There was a major medical study that showed when friends and relatives actively pray for a sick loved one, the patient more often recovers, and recovers more quickly.”
167
That controversial study had provided gas to inflate barroom debates when it had hit the newspapers. Recollection of all that boozy blather, not an earnest Bible-study group, had inspired Billy to concoct this cover story.
“I think I remember reading about it,” Gretchen Norlee said.
“Of course I pray for Barbara every day.”
“Of course.”
“But I’ve come to see that prayer is more meaningful when it involves some sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice,” she said thoughtfully.
He smiled. “I don’t mean to slaughter a lamb.”
“Ah. That will please the janitorial staff.”
“But a prayer before bed, however sincere, is no inconvenience.”
“I see your point.”
“Surely prayer will be more meaningful and effective if it comes at some personal cost—like at least the loss of a night’s sleep.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” she said.
“From time to time,” Billy said, “I’d like to sit with her all night in prayer. If it doesn’t help her, it’ll at least help me.”
Listening to himself, he thought that he sounded as phony as a TV
evangelist proclaiming the virtue of abstinence upon being caught naked with a hooker in the back of his limo.
Evidently, Gretchen Norlee heard him differently from how he heard himself. Behind her steel-rimmed spectacles, her eyes were moist with sympathy.
His newfound slickness dismayed Billy, and worried him. When a liar became too skilled at deception, he could lose the ability to discern truth, and could himself be more easily deceived.
He expected there might be a price for playing a nice woman like Gretchen Norlee for a fool, as there was a price for everything.
168
As Billy followed the main hall toward Barbara’s room in the west wing, Dr. Jordan Ferrier, her physician, exited the room of another patient. They almost collided.
“Billy!”
“Hello, Dr. Ferrier.”
“Billy, Billy, Billy.”
“I sense a lecture coming on.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve tried my best,” Billy admitted.
Dr. Ferrier looked younger than forty-two. He was sandy-haired, greeneyed, perpetually cheerful, and a dedicated salesman for death.
“We’re weeks overdue for our semiannual review.”
“The semiannual review is your idea. I’m very happy with a once-everydecade review.”
“Let’s go see Barbara.”
“No,” Billy said. “I won’t talk about this in front of her.”
“All right.” Taking Billy by the arm, Dr. Ferrier steered him to the lounge where the staff took their breaks.
They were alone in the room. Vending machines for snacks and soft drinks hummed, ready to dispense high-calorie, high-fat, high-caffeine treats to medical workers who knew the consequences of their cravings but had the good sense to cut themselves some slack.
Ferrier drew a white plastic chair away from an orange Formica table. When Billy didn’t follow suit, the doctor sighed, pushed the chair under the table, and remained on his feet.
“Three weeks ago I completed an evaluation of Barbara.”
169
