The Sixes

“Of course,” Phoebe replied, realizing she’d ruffled his feathers a little. “And thank you. It’s actually wonderful to have someone take my situation seriously.”

Rossely lightened up again. “Good,” he said. “That’s what we’re here for.” He turned toward the counter and began to scribble the prescription. “I should see you again in a week.”

“Will do,” Phoebe said. As she slid down off the examining table, Rossely turned back around and handed her the prescription with long, slim fingers.

“By the way, do you mind my asking who recommended you?” he said. “You didn’t note it on our form.”

“A professor at the college who had heard your name. But I believe you treat several students from Lyle. Rachel Blunt?”

She saw the muscles of Rossely’s face tighten.

“Rachel, yes.” He seemed uncomfortable suddenly. Phoebe decided to go for broke.

“And Blair Usher, too,” she said. “She had a sports injury as well.”

“Forgive me, but I actually shouldn’t be discussing patients with you,” he said. Again, the tight smile, with lips as white as a clenched knuckle. “It’s not only inappropriate, it’s also against the law. I hope you understand.”

“Of course,” Phoebe said. “I’m sorry.”

But she saw that she had clearly hit a nerve.

33

PHOEBE WONDERED WHAT it could possibly mean. She considered whether Rossely might be routinely prescribing OxyContin to student athletes, particularly those in the Sixes. Some of them may have become addicted to the drug—and that could be affecting their actions.

As soon as Phoebe was home, she called the campus health center. The person who answered the phone put her through to the nurse on duty.

“Is Dr. Todd Rossely someone on your list of recommended orthopedic experts?” Phoebe asked after identifying herself. She wanted to find out if the center referred students to Rossely, or if some of the Sixes had stumbled onto him on their own.

“Hmmm, I don’t see him on the list,” the nurse said. “But you could double-check with the director tomorrow.”

Something was definitely off, Phoebe realized. Why would students go to a doctor not on the school’s list?

As soon as she hung up, she called Glenda. She didn’t answer her cell, and the automated message indicated she was out of range and a message couldn’t be taken. She was obviously in a place with spotty service, but Phoebe had no idea where it was. Glenda, Phoebe realized, had been oddly vague about the donor she was going to see.

After dinner Phoebe tried again, with no luck. She then called Glenda’s home number, but only the answering machine picked up.

“Glenda, call me the minute you get back, okay?” Phoebe said. “I’m taking Ginger for a walk, but I’ll have my cell. There’s a weird connection between a doctor in town and the Sixes, and I’ve got to figure out what it is. Is there anyone in health care services I can talk to?”

After she hung up, Phoebe put Ginger on the leash and locked the house. It was crisp out, but not the biting cold that had taken hold during the past few days. She’d been walking to the college and back with the dog, but tonight, when she reached the edge of the campus and started to turn back, Ginger tugged on her leash. The dog seemed eager to keep going, perhaps because the night was warmer than usual.

“Okay, okay,” Phoebe said.

She wasn’t far from the west gate to the college, the one that offered easy access to the playing fields. Phoebe walked with the dog up to the gate and entered the campus. She realized that Ginger would probably love a chance to scamper around on a little grass for a change. She let the dog lead her to the southern end of the fields, just to the left of the athletic center. There was a big workout center inside, and as she meandered with the dog, the door opened intermittently as students strolled in and out.

Phoebe tried to let her mind drift. She was eager for answers, but thinking so hard wasn’t helping at the moment. Ginger seemed to relish being on the campus. She was sniffing at every single bush, leaf, and scrap of paper they passed. After a few minutes Phoebe realized that they’d wandered fairly far and were now at the edge of the baseball diamond, away from the light cast from the big windows of the athletic center. She took her eyes off the dog and looked round. There was no one else in sight. Dumb, she thought. How the hell did I let myself get up here alone in the dark?

“Let’s go, princess,” she said, tugging on Ginger’s leash for her to shift directions. As Phoebe started to make a beeline back toward the athletic center, she heard the rustle of dried leaves off to her right. She spun in that direction. Suddenly a man stepped from behind one of the big maples. He was tall and wearing a long, dark coat that reached below his knees.

Phoebe’s heart skipped. It’s just someone from campus, she told herself, someone cutting through to reach the athletic center. And in a split second she saw she was right. It was Mark Johns. Ginger jumped a little in recognition. She was familiar with Mark, of course, from her stay at Glenda’s.

“Hello, Mark,” Phoebe said. Part of her was relieved it was him; another part felt awkward. The last time she’d talked to him was when he’d confronted her in the hall of his house. And then there was the dreadful experience of overhearing him on the phone as she crept down the hall of his house, practically on her belly.

“Hello, Phoebe,” he said. His voice was cool, unfriendly. Clearly, Phoebe thought, he’s as happy to see me, as I am to see him.

“How are you anyway?” she asked. She didn’t know what else to say.

“Not so good, actually,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I know what a tough time this has been.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“Yes, Mark, I do,” she said. Don’t let this get hostile, she told herself. “I know it’s been awful for Glenda and I’m sure it’s been very hard on you as well.”

“You know what I know, Phoebe?” he said. His voice sounded weird, even edgier than it had the day he’d chewed her out at his house. “What I know is that you just can’t back off. You have to nose your way into everything.”

Oh boy, Phoebe thought. Glenda must have told him that Phoebe had overheard his phone call.

“I don’t want to interfere in your marriage, Mark,” Phoebe said. “I just want what’s best for Glenda—and for you, too.”

“What do you know about me anyway?” Mark said. “You’ve never had any damn sense of who I am.”

“It’s true we’ve never been close—but I care about you.”

“Is that right?” he said. His tone was contemptuous. “You cared about me as I hauled my butt to wherever Glenda landed a hot new job, despite what it did to my own career? You cared about me as I had to play the president’s wife, hugging the wall at those endless, godawful receptions? Funny, I never noticed you caring one freaking bit.”

Phoebe knew at times that Mark might resent Glenda’s success, but she’d never suspected his anger ran this deep.

“I’m sorry if I didn’t seem attentive to you,” Phoebe said. “I felt at times that you didn’t like having me in Glenda’s life. Look, maybe we could grab a cup of coffee this week and talk more about it?”

He shook his head and sighed angrily. “Oh, I’m afraid it’s a little too late for coffee, Phoebe.”