Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) (7 page)

I pushed back the covers and began fanning myself with my hands. “I’m burning up.”

Gus leaned over me and gently blew air on my neck. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he said in an affectionate tone.

I looked up at his handsome face and realized that dreams may tease at times, but they can also provide a preview of reality.

“Two things,” I said. “Make love to me and then take me out for breakfast.”

Nick
Sonellio strolled out onto the deck of his Staten Island home, put both hands on the redwood railing, and looked out at his backyard. The quarter-acre parcel was bordered on all sides by a white-picket fence that he had installed himself using a post-hole digger and his own two hands. The fence had held up for more than fifteen years.

His wife Toni followed him out to the deck and placed her arms around his waist. “Come here, skinny,” she said, as she pulled him closer. He was still staring out at the yard as she examined his face adoringly.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“Still handsome,” Toni replied. “You’re still my Nick.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Sonellio turned to his wife of forty years and then glanced through the kitchen window at the oxygen tank on the floor. She followed his gaze. “Do you think I’ll make it through the summer?” he asked.

“Yes,” she stated emphatically, “. . . and well past. Don’t be so gloomy. The oxygen is just there in case you need it. Have you used it so far?” She looked into his eyes beseechingly, already certain of his response.

“No.”

“So forget it’s even there. What do you want for breakfast? I went to the store and filled the refrigerator before you woke up.”

He smiled at her tenderly and gave her a small kiss on the lips. “Nothing heavy, maybe toast and orange juice.”

“Coming right up.”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

“Nonsense.” She gave him a smack on the behind. “Sit your keister down and breathe in some of that fresh Staten Island air.” She inhaled theatrically. “I think I can smell the kills today.”

Sonellio laughed. “I can’t believe we had to come home from Maine—now that was fresh air.”

“Maine? Who needs it? That was your dream, not mine. How long did you think I could clean trout and swat mosquitoes before I went absolutely bananas? We’re better off here, close to people we know.” She was still looking into his eyes when her courage failed. A tear formed in the corner of her eye. She pulled him close again. “You want to be near friends, don’t you?”

Sonellio was tougher than his wife. He smiled for her benefit. “Sure, they’re okay,” he quipped. “So, are you going to make me breakfast or what?”

“All right, I’m nothing more than a short-order cook around here anyway,” she said lightheartedly. She rubbed the tip of her nose against his. “Give me five minutes. I’ll rustle up your chow.”

Sonellio followed his wife’s instructions. He filled his lungs with fresh air, even though it was painful to do so. He didn’t care how much Staten Island’s landfill smelled. He would have given anything to be able to breathe as he used to. Every breath was a reminder of how foolish he had been for smoking since he was a teen.

He scanned the white picket fence and pictured himself pounding the posts into the ground. It was a grueling job that had taken an entire weekend. He was proud to see that his handiwork had endured.
Even if I won’t,
he mused. He sat down on a lounge chair. He inadvertently caught a glimpse of the green oxygen tank in the kitchen. “Damn.”
I’ll be up there with you soon, Frank.

Frank Chalice was one of Sonellio’s closest friends and had been the best detective under his command until he lost his battle with diabetes. “Your kid’s doing you proud, Frank. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Who the hell are you talking to out here,” Toni said. “Do I have to worry that there’s something wrong with your mind also?” She handed him a glass of orange juice. “Here, freshly squeezed . . . by migrant farmers in Chile.”

Sonellio looked at his wife with a sheepish expression. “I was just thinking about Frank Chalice. Do you believe he’s gone almost five years?”

Toni frowned momentarily and then hoisted a huge grin. “Don’t go getting all gloomy on me, okay?”

He stroked her cheek. “He was a good friend. I miss him. I miss his kid too. I haven’t seen her in months.”

“Stephanie? I like that girl; she’s a real pistol. Why don’t you invite her out? The secret’s out of the bag, isn’t it? Didn’t you tell me that she declared her relationship with Gus Lido?”

“Sure,” he laughed, “Right after she got pregnant.”

“What are you going to do? Things are different today. Do you remember how we had to sneak around when we were dating? My mother would have killed me if she knew what was going on. Remember the time you gave me a hickie and I had to wear a turtleneck in July?”

“We had some good times, didn’t we?”

“Good times, my ass—I had to convince my mother that it was fashionable. I paid my best friend ten bucks to stop by the house wearing a turtleneck just to sell my story.”

“I remember. That was so funny.”

“So . . . are you going to call her?” He shrugged. “Stop hemming and hawing.”

“But—”

“But what, she doesn’t know that you’ve got cancer? She’s a detective for God’s sake—and a good one, according to you. I think she’d be pretty pissed off if you didn’t tell her.”

“She doesn’t even know that I’m back. She thinks I’m still up at the cabin.”

Toni reached for his phone case and took out his cell phone. “If it’s called a smartphone, how come it doesn’t make you smart?” She tapped it lightly against his forehead. “Whether you’re here another week or another ten years . . . the people who love you have a right to know. Now I haven’t been slaving over a hot toaster for the past thirty seconds for nothing. Your breakfast is getting cold.”

Sonellio nodded and took the phone from his wife. “How come
you’re
so smart?”

“
Someone
has to take care of you.”

Sonellio took a sip of orange juice and turned to follow his wife into the house. As he did, he noticed a piece of torn cloth caught in between the pickets of his fence.
Now what the hell is that?
“I’ll be right there,” he said. He put down the glass of orange juice and went down the stairs to investigate.

“Michael,
come in, come in,” Dr. Schrader said. He stepped aside to permit Michael Tillerman to enter his office from the waiting room. Schrader had a small psychiatric practice. His waiting room and office were tiny. The waiting room consisted of two chairs and a magazine stand. His office wasn’t much bigger. He shook hands with Tillerman and gestured to one of the two available chairs at his desk. “Make yourself comfortable.”

How can anyone get comfortable? Your office stinks from pipe smoke.
Tillerman smiled to mask his true feelings. “Good to see you, Dr. Schrader.” He wriggled in order to squeeze his enormous body into the narrow chair. He looked around and noticed that the paint had yellowed from the pipe smoke.

Schrader sat down and tapped the burnt tobacco from his pipe into the ashtray. “I can’t believe how big you’ve gotten. Still working out at the gym?”

“Religiously.”

“I’m glad the exercise agrees with you. I always recommend it. The mind heals itself in mysterious ways. If the gym works for you, stay with it, but if you get any bigger I may have to get a bigger office.” Schrader chuckled. Tillerman smiled because it was the expected response.

“You’re not using steroids, are you?”

“Nothing.”
Nothing I need a prescription for, anyway.

“Good, because they can cause profound mood swings. You don’t need that right now, do you?”

“Definitely not.”

“Still, I don’t think you were anywhere near this big the last time I saw you.”

“I don’t think I’ve changed that much.”

“I guess I could be wrong. So how are you feeling, Michael?”

“I feel great.”
Isn’t that what you want to hear?

Schrader opened his file and made a notation. “I’m so very pleased that I was able to get you on the Repressor test trial. It was the last medicinal option open to us. You didn’t respond to Prozac, Zoloft, or Lexapro.” He made an additional notation in his file. “If you didn’t respond to Repressor, I would have suggested electroconvulsive therapy, which is not without risk and involves hospitalization. I’m thrilled that you’ve turned the corner.” Schrader flipped the page. “Let’s get to the test study questions, shall we?”

If I have no choice.
“Sure.”

“Great. On a scale of one to five, with one being poor and five being great, how would you rate your mood overall?”

“Five.”

Schrader marked down Tillerman’s response. “Answer
yes
or
no
or
sometimes
for each of the following: Do you feel slow or sluggish?”

“No.”

“Are you able to concentrate?”

“Yes.”
I can concentrate on snapping your neck like a twig.

“Does the future seem hopeless?”

I’ll say “sometimes” because I can’t give a perfect answer to every question.
“Sometimes.”

Schrader looked up from the file. “Tell me about that. When do you feel that the future is hopeless?”

“When I think about my family.”

Schrader gave Tillerman a sympathetic smile. “That’s only natural. It has to be tremendously difficult to go on after suffering a tragedy like you have. The medication and therapy are not silver bullets. What happened to you and your family is terrible. There isn’t a living soul who wouldn’t feel blue from remembering those events. Kudos to you—you’re a survivor!”

Yeah, kudos to me. My wife and two sons are dead—I’m so fucking lucky.
“Thanks, doctor.”

Schrader asked several additional survey questions. Tillerman responded as he felt he was expected to, reporting mostly positive results but not so positive as to appear unrealistic. When the survey was completed, Schrader opened his desk drawer and took out a sealed bottle of tablets. He recorded the control number on the survey sheet. He was about to hand the bottle to Tillerman and then paused. “Before I give this medication to you, I have to mention that you cannot continue to postpone your appointments. These pharmaceutical companies spend a fortune on the research and development of these drugs, and they only have a ten-year window to reap the rewards once they receive FDA approval. Vicor is fanatical about recordkeeping, and they’ve already sent a warning—they’ll remove you from the test trial if you continue to miss your appointments. Do you understand, Michael? It would be a shame if that happened, especially now that you’re doing so well.”

Yeah, I’ll be a good little guinea pig.
“I try, doctor, I really do, but I have good days and bad. You understand?”

Schrader gave Tillerman an all-knowing smile and then sighed. “Let’s just try to do a little better. You’ve been on the trial medication for almost a year now. If Vicor gives you a final warning they’ll cut you off with one last thirty-day dosage, just enough so that you can wean off the drug. After that we would have to find a replacement medication. I’m not optimistic that we’ll find a suitable substitution.”

“I’ll try harder, doctor, I really will.”

“Great. That will make life easier for both of us.” He handed the bottle of tablets to Tillerman. “Here you go; your next ninety-day supply.”

Oh thank God—another five minutes and I would have reached across the desk and broken your neck.
“Thank you.”

“Now remember, just one pill per day.”

“Absolutely.”
I’m up to four pills a day. Ninety tablets should last a few weeks.
Tillerman had squirreled away the tablets for months before first deciding to try them. One per day made him feel better. Four per day made him feel great. He stashed the pills in his jacket pocket and then squeezed his right wrist with his left hand to mask the powerful tremor that was building in his hand. The tremors had only begun recently—a side effect of the medication, he presumed, like the phenomenal muscle development and the inexhaustible energy. His heart began to pound as it routinely did following the hand tremor. In a moment, he would begin to sweat furiously. He saw that Schrader was eyeing his pouch of pipe tobacco.
I’ve got to get the hell out of here.
“All through, doctor?”

Schrader was just about to stuff fresh tobacco into his pipe. He paused, stood, and extended his hand. “Good work, Michael. Keep it up, and I’ll see you for your next appointment.” He warned him by shaking his finger. “Not a day later.”

Tillerman smiled. “Not a day later,” he agreed. He felt Schrader’s puny hand in his mighty grip and fought the overwhelming urge to break every bone with one powerful squeeze.

“I
can’t believe how good that smells.” We were walking past a sidewalk vendor in lower Manhattan. He was roasting pralines, and there was no escape from the sugary smell of roasted nuts.