Critical Judgment (1996) (7 page)

“Ives,” Abby called, without approaching the hut. “Ives, it’s Dr. Dolan from the hospital. Hello … Ives?”

For several seconds there was only silence. Then, from somewhere up and to their left, came the snap of a bowstring. Almost simultaneously, with a crack like a bullwhip, an arrow slammed into the dummy chest high. Reflexively, they stumbled back behind a tree.

“Be right down, Doc,” Ives hollered, his voice sounding fairly distant.

Josh walked cautiously to the dummy and inspected the arrows.

“Just one of these could bring down a jet,” he said.

Ives emerged from the woods carrying a long, richly polished bow. The tissue around his eyes was badly swollen, and, in fact, his entire face was puffed and bruised. He had changed his bloody clothes for worn chinos and a frayed work shirt with the name Norm
stitched above the breast pocket. There were still some flecks of dried blood in his beard, but Abby felt certain he had tended to that as well. She also noted that her suture lines were holding nicely.

“Sorry I took off on you last night,” he said. “I have this thing about hospitals and doctors.”

Abby said she understood and introduced him to Josh.

“Nice shot,” Josh said, gesturing to the dummy. “Especially with your eyes nearly swelled shut.”

“Only fifty yards or so. I could do that blindfolded.”

“You hunt deer?”

“Don’t hunt anything. Don’t eat meat. There’re a few dummies like that one I’ve got scattered around in various places. I shoot at
them
. A long time ago I spent some time in Japan and ended up studying archery. I still like shooting—especially since I finished making this new bow.”

Abby could tell that Josh was intrigued.

“Ives, I want to help you with your leg,” she said, “but I’d also like your promise that if I get in over my head, you’ll see a specialist and at least consider doing whatever he recommends.”

Ives didn’t respond. He was studying Josh’s face.

“Olive-drab Jeep Wrangler, California license eight-two-eight, C-J-W,” he said.

They stared at him, puzzled. There was no way he could have been at the bottom of the trail to see them arrive, and then deep in the woods with a bow and arrow when they reached his camp. His expression suggested he was enjoying the game.

“Okay, Ives,” Abby said. “We give up.”

Ives entered the hut and emerged with a weighty burlap gunnysack. Without a word he led them onto an ill-defined trail beyond the hanging tree. After a hundred yards or so the woods gave way to a rocky plateau, about thirty feet wide. Beyond the plateau was a sharp drop-off revealing a magnificent vista of the valley and
the mountains. To the west was the town, perfect in miniature, stretching along the floor of the two-mile-wide valley as far as they could see. And almost directly behind them, slightly to the east, was Colstar, looking from above like an airfield with smokestacks set on a broad mesa. Ives gingerly lowered himself onto his belly and motioned for Josh and Abby to do the same. Then he reached into his sack and withdrew an impressive pair of field glasses.

“One of my hobbies,” he said, adjusting the focus, then passing the binoculars over to Abby. “For night viewing I fixed up an old pair of infrareds that work pretty well, too.”

“Josh, these are incredible,” Abby said. “See that car coming up the drive?”

“Barely. Black, Matchbox sedan.”

“Volvo. And it’s dark blue, not black.”

She passed the glasses over. Josh scanned his workplace and whistled softly.

“Amazing. Big brother Ives is watching you,” he said.

“I recognized your face because that Jeep is sort of distinctive and you have the top down a lot. By the way, you drive too fast.”

“Do the people at Colstar know you do this?” Josh asked.

“Nope. And I hope you won’t tell them. It’s just a harmless hobby. Something to pass the time when there’s no wildlife around to watch.”

“I won’t say anything,” Josh said. “I promise.”

“Tell me something, Ives,” Abby said. “If you have to resort to a hobby like this to pass the time, why not come down the hill and live with the rest of us?”

“I already did that,” Ives said. “Too many cannibals. Too many rules. Too much hypocrisy. Too many bills. Too much hatred. Shall I go on?”

“No,” Abby said, though she still wanted to know more of what, specifically, had pushed him up into the
hills. “Now it’s my turn. Do we have a deal about your leg?”

“No promises, but I will listen to what you recommend, and I’ll do it if it seems right to me. Believe me, there’s too much I enjoy about life to want to get sick or crippled. But you also have to understand that self-satisfied fops like that surgeon you referred me to do not make me want to have much to do with your sacred profession.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Ives said, leading them back to his clearing. “Feel sorry for him.” He motioned at Josh.

Abby was taken aback.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about white Mercedes number MD three-oh-three. Dr. Pomposity, himself.”

“Dr. Bartholomew?”

“Precisely. Drives up to Colstar every Tuesday and Friday at nine
A.M
. and leaves at three.”

Abby turned to Josh.

“He’s talking about Martin Bartholomew. You know him?”

“He runs the employee health clinic.”

“He’s a surgeon. Is he the one who checked you over for those headaches?”

“He didn’t really check me over. Just ordered some tests and then had the nurse call in a prescription.”

“Lord. Josh, I think you should have a neurol—” She stopped herself in midword. The morning was simply going too well for her to spoil it. “Listen,” she said, “we’ll talk about it another time if you want.”

Josh wandered back toward Ives’s observation post while Abby took some shallow and deeper biopsies of the chronic infection on the hermit’s leg. Then, with the cultures secure, she administered the IV antibiotic. Routine lacerations, and facial lacerations in particular, were usually no cause for IV antibiotics. With cut faces and
scalps, tissue circulation was so good that severe infection was rarely a problem. But Ives’s leg was another story. Treating him this way wasn’t perfect, but it was better than the alternative of doing nothing. As she worked, cleaning away the superficial damaged tissue with forceps, scissors, and scalpel, she glanced around the clearing and smiled at the notion of what her high-powered university colleagues would say if they could see her at this moment.

When she was finished, she dressed the leg lightly and promised to return in a few days to remove the stitches from Ives’s face and to continue work on his leg. Then she left the books, food, and clothing she had brought, called Josh back to the clearing, and hiked with him down the hill.

Once in the Jeep again, they headed for the park where the Colstar picnic was being held.

“Josh,” she said, “have you ever read a remarkable little book called
Zen and the Art of Archery?”

“No.”

“I read it for a philosophy course at Cal, and I can’t recall the author’s name. But remember when Ives joked about being able to hit the dummy blindfolded from fifty yards?”

“Yes, what of it?”

“Well, I think that was more than a figure of speech. I think he does make that shot blindfolded.”

B
y the time Josh had reached Colstar Park, four miles west of the plant, Abby had already noticed a change in him. It began with some gestures that outwardly appeared benign—squinting as if the glare of the morning sun was uncomfortable, rubbing at his eyes and temples, wetting his lips, putting his sunglasses on, taking them off. His conversation, so animated on the drive across town earlier, had all but died.

“You okay?” she ventured.

He glared at her for a moment as if she had intruded on some cosmic thought.

“Of course I am. I’m fine.” He didn’t snap at her, but almost. “I was up at four-thirty, remember?”

If recent experience was an indicator, over the next hour or so he would become more withdrawn and irritable. Sometimes he would admit to having a “little headache,” sometimes he wouldn’t. Eventually he would take to bed, or fall asleep on the couch, or pick a fight with her. Occasionally he might have a drink of Scotch, often at an inappropriate hour, and in a way—no ice, no sipping—that was hardly typical of him. And that was only what she observed at home. She wondered what might be happening at work.

Colstar Park was a showplace—lush, perfectly maintained, and grand enough to encompass several duck ponds, a mile-long jogging track, playgrounds, large picnic groves, three ball fields, a grandstand, and a small lake. If there was another town the size of Patience that had such an oasis, Abby had yet to see it.

An outstanding park, a phenomenally equipped hospital, an unemployment rate close to zero, schools reportedly as good as any in the state—Colstar International and the town of Patience seemed to have formed a remarkable partnership, a symbiotic relationship as perfect as any in nature. As they parked the Jeep, Abby watched the early-bird families heading for the outing. Scrubbed kids with their bats and gloves, fishing poles and Frisbees. Relaxed parents, a few of whom she recognized as ER patients, shouting orders to their offspring as they tried to keep up. She had little trouble imagining what it would be like to raise children in this community.

But with Josh?

“Hey,
muchacho,”
she called out with less enthusiasm than she had intended. “How about waiting for me?”

Josh glanced back and slowed his pace.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“I’m looking forward to meeting some of the Colstar people I’ve heard about,” she said.

“Well, they’ll all be here.”

His voice was hollow.

The truth was, Josh had not told her much about his work or his colleagues. And she had visited the plant only once, shortly after her arrival in town. All she really knew was that he was involved in the development of sophisticated, state-of-the-art plastic batteries, his department’s research sponsored in part by the company and in part by grants from the federal government.

Colstar was the only large employer in the valley. In fact, anyone who didn’t work directly for the company
probably had a job or business that depended upon it. The picnic would fill several of the park’s groves, Josh had told her. Maybe all of them.

“Wanna play a little catch?” she asked.

“Maybe later. I’ve got to go help organize the food.”

He motioned to where several men were unloading a large Ryder truck. Near the truck were a dozen or so oil-drum halves on stands—the portable barbecue pit.

“Want help?” Abby asked.

But he had already walked away. She stayed where she was, following him with her eyes. When he reached the truck, he leaned, almost slumped, against it for several seconds. She was moving toward him when he seemed to gather himself and joined the others unloading the truck. She sighed and looked away. It was going to be a long day.

Abby was casting about for something to do when a man approached her.

“Dr. Dolan?”

“Yes.”

He was broad-shouldered, fit, and military straight. His thick hair was swan-white, prematurely, she was sure, and his outfit—black turtleneck, black sports coat, black slacks, and spit-polished wing tips—seemed absurdly inappropriate for an outing in the park.

A Johnny Cash impersonator?
she thought.

He reached out his hand and she took it tentatively. His grip was firm; his smile revealed pearl-perfect teeth.

“Lyle Quinn,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“From Josh?”

She hated to acknowledge how unlikely that was.

“Yes, from Josh. From others, too. Would you like me to show you around?”

The strange man-in-black had piqued her curiosity. She glanced over at where Josh was hoisting large sacks of potatoes and corn on the cob with the same frantic vigor he had exhibited chopping wood.

“Sure,” she said.

He guided her away from the barbecue pits and toward the lake.

“I heard about your saving Bill Tracy’s life,” he said.

Abby looked at him uncomfortably.

“Are you connected with the hospital?”

Quinn favored her with another practiced smile.

“In a manner of speaking. I’m on the board of trustees. Have been for, I don’t know, six … no, seven years now.”

There was a smugness to the man that had already impressed Abby negatively.

“Exactly what is it you do?” she asked.

“For Colstar?”

“If that’s who you work for.”

She was finding Lyle Quinn more annoying by the moment. Even worse, she had the strange sense that he wanted her to.

“It is,” he said. “I guess you could call me chief security officer, head of security, something like that.”

Abby recalled asking Josh why the entire plant was surrounded by an eight-foot-high chain-link fence, topped by three rows of tightly strung barbed wire, slanted outward. His only response was that they were working on a number of classified government projects.

“Classified batteries?” she had asked.

Batteries of the future
, was the way he had phrased it.

“So,” she asked now, “is this walk we’re on security business?”

Looking at the strange fellow striding purposefully beside her, all she could think of was G. Gordon Liddy.

Quinn laughed, but his pale-blue eyes did not.

“Hardly. I just wanted to meet the woman who has become such a sensation at the hospital in such a short time.”

Obviously you haven’t been speaking with the same people I have
, Abby thought.

“Please thank whoever said that about me,” she said.

“You
did
save Bill Tracy’s life. I have that on the best authority.”

“How do you know Bill Tracy?” Abby said, reluctant as always to acknowledge that she had saved anyone’s life. “Is Colstar involved with insurance?”

For a moment she thought Quinn was going to say that Colstar was involved with everything.