Silent Treatment

pneumonia,the first indication that he had developed full-blown AIDS. During those twosymptom-free years, Barlow had continued work at his job with a midtown firm,volunteered countless hours at a hospice for the homeless and disenfranchised,and led the campaign for expanded needle exchange and improved local servicesfor AIDS patients.

Another legitimate hero, Harry thought as he entered theroom.

Andy Barlow, oxygen prongs in place, didnot look as good as Harry would have wished. His color was sallow and somewhatdusky, his lips more purplish than they should have been. He sat propped up atan eighty-degree angle, quietly working to get air into his lungs. Still, hemanaged a smile.

'Hey, Doc,' he said, the words punctuatedwith coughs.

'Hi, yourself.'

Harry pulled up a chair and sat, flippingthrough the pages in Barlow's chart. The reports — blood count, oxygen levels,chemistries, chest film — actually looked better than the patient did. Theywere reason to be at least a little encouraged.

'What's the news?' Barlow asked.

'Well, the returns from these key upstateprecincts say we're winning,' Harry said.

'Tell that to my lungs.'

That bad?'

'Actually not,' Andy said, and paused forbreath. 'My breathing's a bit easier and I'm not coughing nearly as much.' Hecoughed again several times and then laughed at himself. 'As usual, the manspeaketh too soon.'

Harry examined his throat, chest, heart,and abdomen.

'Not bad,' he said, now genuinelyencouraged. 'How's your head?'

Andy shrugged. 'I think being HIV-positivefor a couple of years has helped a bit in getting ready for this, but I'm stillpissed and. . and a little frightened.'

'Me, too,' Harry said.

'I know. And I appreciate your saying it.'

Andy Barlow wasn't the first patient withAIDS Harry had cared for, or even the tenth. Healthy habits, exercise,preventive medications, and aggressive treatment of infections had made asignificant contribution to the quality and quantity of each of their lives.But a number of them had already died. This lung infection marked Barlow'sfirst step on a new road. The questions of whether and when he would developthe full-blown disease had been answered. Now, physician and patient had toreorder their priorities and their expectations. Harry feigned another chestexam until he was fairly certain his own emotions were under control.

'You know,' Andy said, 'don't take thispersonally, but I don't think I fear dying as much as I fear being sick all thetime. I've spent so much time in hospitals with my friends, I just dreadbecoming one of them.'

'I understand. Well, I promise you I'mgoing to do everything I can to get you out of here pronto and to keep you out.And as far as getting sick over and over goes, I know nothing I say can takeaway that worry. Just try to focus on the truth that today is what you have — it'sall that any of us have. The only thing you can do is try to live it to thefullest.'

'Keep reminding me.'

'I will if you want me to. Now listen. Ireally do think the IV Bactrim has turned the tide. Your film's a littlebetter, and so's your blood count.'

'Good, because I'm one of the principledesigners of the renovations on the Claridge Performing Arts Center, and I wantto be at the opening production on the twenty-first.'

'Ten days? Hey, no problem, mon. With mystethoscope tied behind my back, even.'

'Guaranteed?'

'You have my word.'

Andy, an IV in his right hand, reached outand grasped Harry's right hand with his left.

Harry squeezed his hand, then turnedquickly and left the room. This was a situation he would never get used to orinured to. And in truth, he never wanted to be.

He returned to the nurse's station andwrote some orders for intensified respiratory therapy on Andy Barlow. Nearby,two nurses were chatting with the unit secretary. He had known each of themcordially for some time, in one case many years. Now, none of the three brokefrom their conversation to acknowledge him. He flagged the new orders and setthe three-ring notebook chart on the secretary's desk.

'Just a few new orders,' he said.

'Thank you, Doctor,' the woman repliedwithout looking over. 'I'll take care of it.'

Harry gave momentary thought to forcing aconfrontation with the group — a plea against being judged prematurely. Hedecided against it. Constitutional guarantees notwithstanding, he knew that inmany minds he was guilty until proven otherwise. As long as his situationremained unresolved, there would be coolness and distance and silence. Andthere wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

He trotted down to the first floor and outof the hospital. The morning was cloudless and warm, and with twenty minutesbefore his first office patient he could actually walk slowly enough toappreciate it. He wondered how Maura was doing. By the time he had left forwork, the reality of her situation had begun to sink in for her. She seemedirritable — deflated and distracted. And although she didn't say so, Harrysensed she was thinking about how much easier everything would be with a drink.They had decided that she would return to her apartment with a friend of hers,pack some things, and move into Harry's place for a few days. Meanwhile, shecould decide about calling her brother. When she did move back to her ownplace, Harry offered to hire a security guard.

'Until when?' she asked.

Harry didn't try arguing with her on thatpoint. Especially since she was right. If someone, particularly a professional,wanted badly enough to kill her, she would have to go into the deepest hiding,or else sooner or later she would be dead. It was that simple.

There was one person seated in the waitingroom of Harry's office when he arrived, a man he had never seen before. Hisface, hollow-eyed and gaunt, spoke of hard times. His black, graying hair wasclose-cut, and there was nervous tension about him that Harry could almostfeel. He had on faded jeans, worn sneakers, and a navy-blue windbreaker with aYankees logo on one breast. Harry nodded a greeting before heading into MaryTobin's cubicle. The man responded with a thin smile.

'Who's our friend?' Harry whispered,studying the appointment book, which showed a number of cancellations and noname written in this time slot.

'His name is Walter Concepcion. He'sunemployed and has no insurance.'

'What else is new.'

'He's been having headaches.'

'Who referred him?'

'Believe it or not, he says he read aboutyou in the papers.'

'Doctor suspected of murdering his wife — what better recommendation could any patient want?'

'Well,' Mary said, 'you've never turnedany patient away that I could remember, so I took the liberty of having himfill out a registration sheet and questionnaire.'

'Fine. It doesn't exactly look like we'regoing to get buried in an avalanche of appointments.'

'Oh, we'll be all right. Tell me, though.How're you doing?'

Aside from almost getting Maurakilled last night, witnessing a murder, and having almost no idea what in thehell is going on, not bad. Not bad at all.

'I go to bed confused, I wake upconfused,' he said instead.

'That doesn't make you any different fromthe rest of us,' Mary said, smiling. 'You just hang in there an' the answerswill come.'

She looked as strained and tired as he hadever seen her. Yet here she was with anxious callers to assuage, cancellationsto accept without comment, reporters to fend off, and she was concerned withhow he was doing. Harry added her to his list of heroes.

He picked up the clipboard with the healthquestionnaire his new patient had filled out. Walter Concepcion was forty-five,with no phone, a next-of-kin — his brother in Los Angeles, and an address inSpanish Harlem. As Mary had warned, he had no health insurance. But he did listan occupation — private investigator. Harry introduced himself andmotioned the man to follow him to his office.

'I was a licensed PI,' Concepcion explainedin response to Harry's question. 'But I got in a little trouble a few