with comfortable but unremarkable furniture.
Upstairs, he stops only briefly at each room, getting an overall picture
of the second-floor layout before taking time for a thorough
investigation. There's a master bedroom with attached bath, walk-in
closet . . . a guest bedroom . . . kids' room . . . another bath .. .
The final bedroom at the end of the hall--which puts him at the front of
the house--is used as an office. It contains a big desk and computer
system, but it's more cozy than businesslike. A plump sofa stands under
the shuttered windows, a stained-glass lamp on the desk.
One of the two longest walls is covered with paintings hung in a double
row, frames almost touching. Although the pieces of the collection are
obviously by more than one artist, the subject matter, without
exception, is dark and violent, rendered with unimpeachable skill,
twisted shadows, disembodied eyes wide with terror, a Ouija board on
which stands a blood-spotted trivet, ink-black palm trees silhouetted
against an ominous sunset, a face distorted by a funhouse mirror, the
gleaming steel blades of sharp knives and scissors, a mean street where
menacing figures lurk just beyond the sour-yellow glow of street lamps,
leafless trees with coly limbs, a hot-eyed raven perched upon a bleached
skull, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, an ice pick, meat cleaver, hatchet,
a queerly stained hammer lying obscenely on a silk negligee and
lace-trimmed bedsheet . . .
He likes this artwork.
It speaks to him.
This is life as he knows it.
Turning from the gallery wall, he clicks on the stained-glass lamp and
marvels at its multi-hued luminous beauty.
In the clear sheet of glass that protects the top of the desk, the
mirror-image circles and ovals and teardrops of color are still lovely
but darker than when viewed directly. In some indefinable way, they are
also foreboding.
Leaning forward, he sees the twin ovals of his eyes staring back at him
from the polished glass. Glimmering with their own tiny reflections of
the mosaic lamplight, they seem to be not eyes, in fact, but the
luminous sensors of a machine or, if eyes, then the fevered eyes of
something soulless--and he quickly looks away from them before too much
self-examination leads him to fearful thoughts and intolerable
conclusions.
"I need to be someone," he says nervously.
His gaze falls upon a photograph in a silver frame, which also stands on
the desk. A woman and two little girls. A pretty trio.
Smiling.
He picks up the photograph to study it more closely. He presses one
fingertip against the woman's face and wishes he could touch her for
real, feel her warm and pliant skin. He slides his finger across the
glass, first touching the blond-haired child, and then the dark-haired
pixie.
After a minute or two, when he moves away from the desk, he carries the
photograph with him. The three faces in the portrait are so appealing
that he needs to be able to look at them again whenever the desire
arises.
As he investigates the titles on the spines of the volumes in the
bookcases, he makes a discovery that gives him an understanding, however
incomplete, of why he was drawn from the gray autumnal plains of the
Midwest to the post-Thanksgiving sun of California.
On a few of the shelves, the books--mystery novels--are by the same
author, Martin Stillwater. The surname is the one he saw on the mailbox
outside.
He puts aside the silver-framed portrait and withdraws a few of these
novels from the shelves, surprised to see that some of the dustjacket
illustrations are familiar because the original paintings are hanging on
the gallery wall that so fascinated him. Each title appears in a
variety of translations, French, German, Italian, Dutch, Swedish,
Danish, Japanese, and several other languages.
But nothing is as interesting as the author's photo on the back of each
with one finger.
Intrigued, he peruses the copy on the jacket flaps. Then he reads the
first page of a book, the first page of another, and another.
He happens upon a dedication page in the front of one book and reads
what is printed there, This opus is for my mother and father, Jim and
Alice Stillwater, who taught me to be an honest man--and who can't be
blamed if I am able to think like a criminal.
His mother and father. He stares in astonishment at their names.
He has no memory of them, cannot picture their faces or recall where
they might live.
He returns to the desk to consult the Rolodex. He discovers Jim and
Alice Stillwater in Mammoth Lakes, California. The street address means
nothing to him, and he wonders if it is the house in which he grew up.
He must love his parents. He dedicated a book to them. Yet they are
ciphers to him. So much has been lost.
He returns to the bookshelves. Opening the U.S. or British edition of
every title in the collection to study the dedication, he eventually
characters are based--excluding, of course, the homicidal psychopaths.
And two volumes later, To my daughters, Charlotte and Emily, with the
hope they will read this book one day when they are grown up and will
know that the daddy in this story speaks my own heart when he talks with
such conviction and emotion about his feelings for his own little girls.
Putting the books aside, he picks up the photograph once more and holds
it in both hands with something like reverence.
The attractive blonde is surely Paige. A perfect wife.
The two girls are Charlotte and Emily,-although he has no way of knowing
which is which. They look sweet and obedient.
Paige, Charlotte, Emily.
At last he has found his life. This is where he belongs. This is home.
The future begins now.
Paige, Charlotte, Emily.
This is the family toward which destiny has led him.
"I need to be Marty Stillwater," he says, and he is thrilled to have
found, at last, his own warm place in this cold and lonely world.
Dr. Paul Guthridge's office suite had three examination rooms. Over the
years, Marty had been in all of them. They were identical to one
another, indistinguishable from rooms in doctors' offices from Maine to
Texas, pale-blue walls, stainless-steel fixtures, otherwise white-on
white, scrub sink, stool, an eye chart. The place had no more charm
than a morgue though a better smell.
Marty sat on the edge of a padded examination table that was protected
by a continuous roll of paper sheeting. He was shirtless, and the room
was cool. Though he was still wearing his pants, he felt naked,
vulnerable. In his mind's eye, he saw himself having a catatonic
seizure, being unable to talk or move or even blink, whereupon the
physician would mistake him for dead, strip him naked, wire an ID tag to
his big toe, tape his eyelids shut, and ship him off to the coroner for
processing.
Although it earned him a livin
g, a suspense writer's imagination made
him more aware of the constant proximity of death than were most people.
Every dog was a potential rabies carrier. Every strange van passing
through the neighborhood was driven by a sexual psychopath who would
kidnap and murder any child left unattended for more than three seconds.
Every can of soup in the pantry was botulism waiting to happen.
He was not particularly afraid of doctors--though he was not comforted
by them, either.
What troubled him was the whole idea of medical science, not because he
distrusted it but because, irrationally, its very existence was a
reminder that life was tenuous, death inescapable. He didn't need
reminders. He already possessed an acute awareness of mortality, and
spent his life trying to cope with it.
Determined not to sound like an hysteric while describing his symptoms
to Guthridge, Marty recounted the odd experiences of the past three days
in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. He tried to use clinical rather than
emotional terms, beginning with the seven-minute fugue in his office and
ending with the abrupt panic attack he had suffered as he had been
leaving the house to drive to the doctor's office.
Guthridge was an excellent internist--in part because he was a good
listener--although he didn't look the role. At forty-five, he appeared
ten years younger than his age, and he had a boyish manner. Today he
wore tennis shoes, chinos, and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. In the
summer, he favored colorful Hawaiian shirts. On those rare occasions
when he wore a traditional white smock over slacks, shirt, and tie, he
claimed to be "playing doctor" or "on strict probation from the American
Medical Association's dress-code committee," or "suddenly overwhelmed by
the godlike responsibilities of my office."
Paige thought Guthridge was an exceptional physician, and the girls
regarded him with the special affection usually reserved for a favorite
uncle.
Marty liked him too.
He suspected the doctor's eccentricities were not calculated entirely to
amuse patients and put them at ease. Like Marty, Guthridge seemed
morally offended by the very fact of death. As a younger man, perhaps
he'd been drawn to medicine because he saw the physician as a knight
battling dragons incarnated as illnesses and diseases.
Young knights believe that noble intentions, skill, and faith will
prevail over evil. Older knights know better--and sometimes use humor
as a weapon to stave off bitterness and despair. Guthridge's quips and
Mickey Mouse sweatshirts might relax his patients, but they were also
his armor against the hard realities of life and death.
"Panic attack? You, of all people, suffering a panic attack?"
Paul Guthridge asked doubtfully.
Marty said, "Hyperventilating, heart pounding, felt like I was going to
explode sounds like a panic attack to me."
"Sounds like sex."
Marty smiled. "Trust me, it wasn't sex."
"You could be right," Guthridge said with a sigh. "It's been so long,
I'm not sure what sex was like exactly. Believe me, Marty, this is a
bad decade to be a bachelor, so many really nasty diseases out there.
You meet a new girl, date her, give her a chaste kiss when you take her
home--and then wait to see if your lips are going to rot and fall off.
"That's a swell image."
"Vivid, huh? Maybe I should've been a writer." He began to examine
Marty's left eye with an ophthalmoscope. "Have you been having
unusually intense headaches?"
"One headache over the weekend. But nothing unusual."
"Repeated spells of dizziness?"
"No."
"Temporary blindness, noticeable narrowing of peripheral vision?"
"Nothing like that."
Turning his attention to Marty's right eye, Guthridge said, "As for
being a writer other doctors have done it, you know. Michael Crichton,
Robin Cook, Somerset Maugham--' "Seuss."
"Don't be sarcastic. Next time I have to give you an injection, I might
use a horse syringe."
"It always feels like you do anyway. I'll tell you something, being a
writer isn't half as romantic as people think."
"At least you don't have to handle urine samples," Guthridge said,
setting aside the ophthalmoscope.
With squiggly ghost images of the instrument light still dancing in his
eyes, Marty said, "When a writer's first starting out, a lot of editors
and agents and movie producers treat him as if he is a urine sample."
"Yeah, but now you're a celebrity," Guthridge said, plugging his
stethoscope ear tips in place.
"Far from it," Marty objected.
Guthridge pressed the icy steel of the stethoscope diaphragm against
Marty's chest. "Okay, breathe deeply . . . hold . . .
breathe out . . . and again." After listening to Marty's lungs as well
as his heart, the doctor put the stethoscope aside.
"Hallucinations?"
"No."
"Strange smells?"
"No."
"Things taste the way they should? I mean, you haven't been eating ice
cream and it suddenly tasted bitter or oniony, nothing like that?"
"Nothing like that."
As he wrapped the pressure cuff of a sphygmomanometer around Marty's
arm, Guthridge said, "Well, all I know is, to get into People magazine,
you've got to be a celebrity of one kind or another--rock singer, actor,
smarmy politician, murderer, or maybe the guy with the world's largest
collection of ear wax. So if you think you aren't a celebrity author,
then I want to know who you've killed and exactly how much damn ear wax
you own."
"How'd you know about People?"
"We subscribe for the waiting room." He pumped air into the cuff until
it was tight, then read the falling mercury on the gauge before he
continued, "The latest copy was in this morning's mail.
My receptionist showed it to me, really amused. She said you were the
least likely Mr. Murder she could imagine."
Confused, Marty said, "Mr. Murder?"
"You haven't seen the piece?" Guthridge asked as he pulled off the
pressure cuff, punctuating his question with the ugly sound of a Velcro
seal tearing open.
"Not yet, no. They don't show it to you in advance. You mean, in the
article, they call me Mr. Murder?"
"Well, it's sort of cute."
"Cute?" Marty winced. "I wonder if Philip Roth would think it was cute
to be
"Mr. Litterateur' or Terry McMillan
"Ms. Black Saga."
"
"You know what they say--all publicity is good publicity."
"That was Nixon's first reaction to Watergate, wasn't it?"
"We actually take two subscriptions to people. I'll give you one of our
copies when you leave." Guthridge grinned impishly. "You know, until I
saw the magazine, I never realized what a really scary guy you are."
Marty groaned. "I was afraid of this."
"It's not bad really. Knowing you, I suspect you'll find it a little
embarrassing. But it won't kill you."
"What is going to kill me, Doc?"
Frowning, Guthridge said, "Based on
this exam, I'd say old age.
From all outward signs, you're in good shape."
"The key word is 'outward,"
" Marty said.
"Right. I'd like you to have some tests. It'll be on an out-patient
basis at Hog Hospital."
"I'm ready," Marty said grimly, though he was not ready at all.
"Oh, not today. They won't have an opening until at least tomorrow,
probably Wednesday."
"What're you looking for with these tests?"
"Brain tumors, lesions. Severe blood chemistry imbalances. Or maybe a
shift in the position of the pineal gland, putting pressure on
surrounding brain tissue which could cause symptoms similar to some of
yours. Other things. But don't worry about it because I'm pretty sure
we're going to draw a blank. Most likely, your problem is simply
stress."
"That's what Paige said."
"See? You could've saved my fee."
"Be straight with me, Doc."
"I am being straight."
"I don't mind saying this scares me."