Shedrow (17 page)

“You look like you just saw a ghost,” Highet said.

“Do I?” Ryan said.

“And it’s not like you to be loafing on the job. Are you okay, Ryan?”

“Yeah, I’m…all right.”

“Well I want you to meet a good friend of mine, Dr. Anthony Gianni.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Ryan said, getting up from the ground and extending his hand. Ryan’s hand felt ice cold to Gianni and his face looked ashen.

“Ryan is interested in vet school, and I think he’d make a great doc,” Highet said.

“He’s one smart kid.”

Gianni said, “Your detective work at the landfill was quite interesting to me. Can you tell me about the magazines?”

“Sure. There were two kinds.” His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. “
Blood Horse Magazine
and the
Daily Racing Form
. All organized in neat piles with the newest ones on top.”

“And someone told you they save them for the hermit?”

“Yeah. The guy they call Zoom told me that. His real name is…” He stopped abruptly in mid sentence.

After a long silence, Highet spoke. “Ryan, you may as well hear this from me. I’m sure the news will be all over the farm before long. The gate attendant, Gus, was found dead this morning. It looks like he was stabbed. Horrible thing.”

Ryan’s eyes began to fill and he seemed to be trying to suppress sobs. His neck and shoulders quivered.

Highet put his arm around Ryan as the sobbing continued.

“Maybe you should take the day off,” Highet said. “I can tell Travers.”

“No. Can I shadow you today, all day?”

“Sure. Just let me finish with Dr. Gianni. He needs to get on the road.”

“I’m done,” Gianni said. “I’ve told you all I know.”

“Will you call me when you get back to New York?”

“I will, but then I’ll be out of touch for a while. I made the commitment months ago to go on that medical mission. They line up a ton of surgeries for me to do. I can’t renege on it now.”

“Where are you going?”

“St. Lucia.”

“Isn’t that a resort island?”

“It’s a resort if you happen to be one of the Americans or Europeans who can afford to stay in the four star hotels. Most of the natives are dirt poor though. There’s a hospital on the southern part of the island that relies on volunteers for at least half of the medical care. Like a lot of Caribbean islands or resort areas, if you venture off the tourist track, you’ll see abject poverty, and the natives are plagued by some very rare medical conditions. I’ll see adult patients with cleft lips or palates, completely unrepaired. They live with conditions that would be unthinkable in the developed world.”

“You should take a trip to rural Kentucky,” Highet said.

“I’m not saying we don’t have medical neglect right here, but it is different. In any case, this is the worst possible time for me to leave the country for two weeks, but there’s no way around it.”

“I think it’s wonderful that you’re doing it, Anthony. Plus, the change of scenery may do you good.”

“It will be tough to stay in touch. But I’ll check my email daily and I can always use the phone at the hospital if we need to speak.”

“I’ll let you know if there’s anything major.”

Gianni looked at Ryan again. He thought the boy just looked ill. “Steven, I’m off. You better take good care of our future vet now.”

Flying into St. Lucia, the Pitons twin volcanic peaks can be seen rising a half mile straight up from the water’s edge. Gianni looked out the window, then back at the snoring face of the stranger to his left. He had wanted Janice to join him on the mission. She could have done volunteer work at the hospital or the local school. It would give them one last chance to reconcile, away from the trappings of success that distracted them both. Perhaps the girl from Kentucky would resurface if she were suddenly forced to help those in need and to witness the destitution in the small town of Vieux Fort.

Janice wouldn’t hear of it. She had deals to do at home. Gianni had begun to wonder if they were all real estate deals.

He shed his blazer as he walked off the plane and felt the thick, humid air. It was oppressive, not very pleasing, even though he had left New York’s cooler temperatures earlier that day with no regret.

He collected his baggage from a disorganized heap at one end of the Hewanorra Airport and quickly cleared customs. When
the customs agents had heard he would be volunteering at the St. Jude Hospital, there were no more questions. As soon as he stepped outside, he was approached by a friendly-looking man with a round, brown face and a bald head. He spoke with an accent that Gianni assumed was native St. Lucian.

“Dr. Gianni,” the man said.

Gianni turned toward the voice, startled to hear his name. The man had just picked him out of a crowd of tourists.

“I am Guy Montoute. So nice to finally meet you.”

“How did you know me?”

“Oh, I could just tell,” Montoute said.

Gianni remembered that he had been required to submit a photo as part of his application. Perhaps that was how he was recognized. Still, there was something strange but comforting, almost saintly about the man. He felt it the moment they shook hands.

He followed the man to a small SUV, a Suzuki, Gianni thought, as he headed to the right side of the vehicle.

“Do you expect to drive, son?”

“I forgot,” Gianni said, noting the steering wheel on the right side.

“You like to be in control of things.”

“Why do you say that?”

Montoute looked at Gianni and just smiled without answering. Another man acting in a similar way would surely irk Gianni. This one did not.

“This place will do you good,” Montoute said. “We have much work for you, but you will relax too.”

They headed out on a tortuous course over a rough dirt road.
The edges of the road were deeply rutted, and dogs and cats roamed free along the side of the road. In one open area, a solitary cow grazed on sparse patches of grass. There was no fence around the field, but the cow was secured to a tree by rope and collar.

Close to the road, there were tiny shacks of wood or cinder with furled tin roofs, crumpled at their edges. They passed a group of young children walking along the road with bare feet, laughing as they went.

Gianni thought of all he had left behind—his busy practice, Janice, and the escalating violence and intrigue surrounding Chiefly Endeavor. Perhaps when he returned, he would have a clearer picture of the things in his life he should keep and the things he should leave behind.

The dirt road ended at the entrance to the hospital. A gate blocked the entrance and a guard raised the gate when Montoute’s vehicle approached.

“You will find the St. Lucian people to be quite friendly,” Montoute said, seeming to once again read Gianni’s thoughts. “But like anywhere, there is a certain element outside the gate. If you ever feel threatened, just say that you are working at St. Jude’s. They will respect that.”

The facade of the hospital had a raised bridge connecting the second floors of two separate buildings. A sign beneath the windows on the bridge read:

Come share with us the service of giving love, care and hope to others.

Built during World War II by the U.S. Army, the buildings were painted a dull yellow, with maroon extending from ground level
to the bottom of the first story windows.

“Come, we will take your things to your room and I will show you around,” Montoute offered.

The room featured a twin bed on a metal frame, and a small wooden desk with an unmatched chair. An electric fan sat on the desk, next to a single window with thin, pale blue curtains tied in the middle. A tiny closet had a half-dozen old, bent-up wire hangers on the rod.

“The bathroom and shower facilities are in the next building over,” Montoute said, pointing. “Let’s go to the dining hall. It is almost time for dinner. You will find our meals simple but tasty. We do a lot with what we have. Very little meat, but always some nice vegetables and a starch. On Sunday many of our volunteers go to the village for dinner. So tonight, the dinner will be more modest.”

In a corridor on the way to the dining hall, they passed a statue of Jesus in one corner. Light through a Venetian blind backlit the statue, giving it an ethereal quality. The face of Jesus was dark brown, like Montoute’s, something Gianni had never seen in other renderings of the Christ figure.

“As I said, dinner will be light on Sunday. We have bean soup and bread,” Montoute said, looking at a menu posted outside the entrance to the dining hall. “The water in that large boiler is safe to drink. You must not drink from the tap. The smaller boiler has coffee, all day long.”

Must taste great
, Gianni thought.

“I should let you have some time to yourself now. Some of the doctors and the other volunteers will be coming through for dinner. All of the new arrivals come on Sunday, so you will have a chance to
meet your colleagues. Tomorrow I will orient you to the clinic and the operating theatre.”

Gianni was tired from his trip. On his way out, he stopped to fill a cup with coffee. It tasted watered down, but it didn’t have the bitter, burnt taste of coffee that stood all day. He hadn’t eaten in at least six hours and would return in short order to a feast of black bean soup with chunks of baguette-style bread. Far more memorable than the menu would be his dinner companion, a charming doctor from West Sussex, England.

When the doorbell rang, Janice Gianni set her glass on the table, stood up, brushed back her newly bleached blonde hair with pink, manicured nails and then unbuttoned two more buttons on her silk blouse.

She walked to the door somewhat unsteadily. Looking out the side window, she saw Brad Hill standing at her door. She opened the door and kissed him on the lips. In her high heels, she stood nearly eye to eye with the dapper publishing baron, dressed in a starchy, pink, button-down shirt, stiffly creased jeans, and Gucci loafers, no socks.

“Dom Perignon for the lady,” he said, showing her the bottle.

“Gracious, what are we celebrating, Anthony’s departure or the big payment on the dead horse?”

“Both, although I don’t have the money just yet, you know.”

They walked back into the great room of the Giannis’ contemporary style home.

There was a fire raging in the fireplace, a massive stone structure extending from floor to ceiling. The smell of burning wood was pungent but pleasing, and the dry oak crackled and popped.

“Nice fire,” Brad said.

“I start it with a firelog then pile on the seasoned wood that Anthony splits. You should see him out there with his ax and his chopping block.”

Brad’s eyes were drawn to one corner of the room, and he walked over to inspect a large, wooden gun cabinet with a glass front. Inside were at least six rifles and several pistols. A few looked like antiques. Brad pulled on the door and noted that it was locked shut.

“I knew Anthony did some hunting, but I didn’t know he was such a gun nut.”

“Oh God, yes. I’m so glad he’s off saving the poor and wretched natives of St. Lucia. Do you know he actually asked me to go with him? He’s clueless. I’m rather surprised he went himself. He’s been so damn worked up over that horse.”

“Ever shoot one of these?” Brad said.

“What? Oh the guns,” she said. “Actually I have. Anthony thought I should know how to handle one, living up here in the country and being alone so much. Open the champagne, Brad.”

“Guess I better behave,” Brad said. “I wouldn’t want you to pull one of those pistols on me.” He walked to another area of the room where an oriental bar was open, another gigantic piece of furniture with a lighted and mirrored back. He came back with two champagne flutes and the open bottle of Dom Perignon.

“So I don’t get it, Janice said. “We still don’t know if Chester Pawlek is dead or alive, but you seem pretty sure you’ll get the
insurance money for Chiefly Endeavor.”

“It doesn’t matter if Chet’s dead or alive because I hold the lien. They just need to complete the investigation for insurance purposes. It’s only a formality.”

“Suppose they find out something?” Janice said.

“The horse died from the equine herpes virus, Janice. End of story, stop worrying.” He sat on the leather sofa and placed the two glasses and the champagne bottle on the glass table in front. “Come join me,” he said.

“I just don’t understand how that ruthless gangster signed over four million to a preppy, Ivy League publisher. A cute one though, I must say.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek then sat next to him on the leather sofa.

“Well first off, he owes me the money. Let’s not forget that I loaned him money for a whole string of high priced horses he bought in the auctions. Once he got that first good one, he couldn’t stop buying. It was like a disease. So with interest, he basically owes me close to four million, and he’ll get substantially more than that from his share of the insurance proceeds.”

Janice crossed her legs and swung them up onto the sofa. Brad’s eyes followed their movement and continued to inspect their tanned shapeliness.

“I’ve learned a few things about Chester Pawlek,” he continued. “First off, he’s a bit of a coward, especially lately. The last time we talked, he was a bundle of nerves. I learned early on what he feared most—intelligence and legitimate power, the kind of power I have. He fears what he cannot understand.”

“Why did you even get involved with him? Why lend him the
money for the thoroughbred business in the first place?”

“Let’s just say he offered a rate of return that no hedge fund manager I know can match. It was just another investment and it was backed up by a letter of credit from his bank. His credit was pretty good in those days, though things have clearly deteriorated since then. And that’s why Chiefly Endeavor had to go. The insurance money is
my
payback.”

“Are you sure it’s really going to be yours, free and clear?”

“Perfectly legal, my dear. Now what about your brother? What’s the latest?”

“He’ll never talk,” she said.