Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter (24 page)

So he was feeling a little tired after gambling for five hours, drinking three bottles of wine, and wrestling all night with three stunning, very athletic, very demanding, twenty- two-year-old showgirls.

Of course he was tired! It was the best kind of fatigue. Too much of a good thing.

But then he was just as tired the next day, and more so the day after. He began taking
naps
, something he'd never done in his life.

It wasn't just the crushing fatigue that worried him. It was the weakness. He invited two girls to his room and could barely muster the strength to attend to one of them. And when he was done, he could barely breathe.

Now simply walking across the room left him short of breath, his heart racing. He was growing more and more depressed. It even affected his sense of taste. Soon everything that passed his lips tasted like it was made of chemicals.

Each day it got worse.

Each day it got harder and harder to get out of bed, harder and harder to deny what his mind was screaming.

I'm dying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Robin Mannering awoke on the eighth day of his slow death with barely the will, the energy, or the breath to rise from under his sheets.

But it was more than that.

He hated the idea of accepting his weakness, his vulnerability, and seeking help.

It meant stepping out of his carefully controlled, totally secure realm. It meant entrusting his life to someone else, if only for a while.

He'd told himself he would never let that happen.

And now it was happening.

He had to do something. He had to save himself. Mannering couldn't simply pick a doctor out of the Yellow Pages or stagger into the hospital. There would be questions he couldn't answer, medical history he couldn't provide. They would gather information from him and enter it into databases that he couldn't control. His security would be breached, his carefully constructed world invaded, not to mention his body.

He would be naked and exposed in every sense of the words.

There had to be a way to minimize the risk, to exercise some control over a situation that was frightening because it was beyond his ability to control.

And then he remembered his dinner a week ago with Dr. Douglas Ross. He'd seen Dr. Ross a few times since, but not across a poker table. The good doctor didn't have the guts to face him again, preferring to play blackjack, where his only opponent was the dealer.

That was good, because Dr. Ross would have no reason to resent him. He was still flush with the money he'd won from Mannering.

Yes, this was good. Very good.

Fate was playing into Mannering's hands again.

Dr. Ross owed him. And Mannering was going to call in the debt.

That was if, of course, Dr. Ross was still a guest at the Côte d'Azur.

Mannering reached for the phone and made a call.

Dr. Ross was waiting for him in the lobby at the Côte d'Azur medical center. Mannering hated the look he saw on the doctor's face when he shuffled in, short of breath, sweating from every pore on his body. It was a look of pity. His weakness, his vulnerability, was that obvious.

"How long have you been this way?" Dr. Ross asked, taking his arm.

"A week or so," Mannering said, yanking his arm away. He wasn't a damn invalid. Not yet, anyway.

"It shouldn't have happened that fast," Dr. Ross said. "It must have been creeping up on you for some time and you just ignored the signs."

"There weren't any."

"I've worked with many rich and powerful people. What I've learned is that people who are used to being in control don't want to accept the slightest hint of their own weakness," Dr. Ross said. "They won't acknowledge it until they have no choice, until it becomes debilitating."

Mannering was flattered to be recognized as someone of a stature equal to that of the royals and presidents Dr. Ross counted among his patients, so he didn't take offense at the stinging assessment of his failings. He didn't resist when Dr. Ross took his arm again and led him into one of the examination rooms.

To be honest, he felt instantly better around the genial doctor. There was something about Dr. Ross and his natural amiability that made him feel safe in a way he hadn't thought was possible.

The doctor closed the door to the room and asked Mannering to change into a hospital gown.

Then Dr. Ross asked him some general questions about his health and made notes on a clipboard, which made Mannering nervous. The doctor seemed to sense this and set the clipboard aside, though he continued his questioning, probing a bit deeper into his medical history, asking about past illnesses and surgeries, as he examined Mannering.

Dr. Ross gestured to Mannering's feet. "What happened to your toe?"

"Childhood accident," Mannering said. "You should never chop wood barefoot."

"I would think not," Dr. Ross said. "Are you short of breath only when you're doing something, or does it happen when you're at rest, too?"

"I have trouble breathing all the time, at rest or with simple walking. And stairs wear me out. I sleep okay, in fact longer than usual, but I wake up tired and feel as if I haven't slept at all."

"Any swelling of your ankles?"

"Maybe a little," Mannering said. He hadn't really thought about it before.

"Do you have any fever, chills, or cough?"

"I feel cold a lot, but I don't have any real chills," Mannering said. "I thought it was the air conditioning in this place."

"Have you lost any weight?"

"Yeah," Mannering said. "I'm down about five pounds in the last two or three weeks. My appetite isn't very good."

Dr. Ross thought a moment, then asked, "Have you noticed any bleeding, especially from your gums when you're brushing your teeth?"

"Nope."

"Have you been bruising easily?"

"The only serious bruising I've suffered lately was losing that pot to you." Mannering said with a grin, just to keep things light. Dr. Ross grinned, too, but Mannering could tell he was only being sociable. "I ran into the door the other day and bruised my leg. I've done that before, and it didn't bruise any worse than usual."

He asked Mannering a few more question about his symptoms, then sat down on a tiny stool with a heavy sigh.

"Here's what I'd like to do, Mr. Mannering," Dr. Ross said. "I'd like to take some blood and give you an EKG and a chest X-ray."

"What are you looking for?" Mannering asked.

"It's too early to speculate," Dr. Ross said.

"You're keeping your cards close to your chest," Mannering said. "You play doctor the same way you play cards."

"But I'm afraid this isn't a game," Dr. Ross said, a little too grimly for Mannering's comfort.

Mannering had intended, after his visit to the doctor, to play a little poker to lift his spirits. But after the battery of tests, he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was go home, smoke a cigar, and admire his money.

So that was what he did.

He had some Chinese food delivered for dinner, then went to bed early.

The next morning, Dr. Ross called at ten. The tests results were in, and he wanted to see Mannering to discuss them.

"Can't you just tell me over the phone?" Mannering asked.

"I prefer not to," Dr. Ross said. "There's also another test I'd like to perform. Do you have a friend who can give you a ride and take you home afterward?"

"It's that bad?"

"It's a simple test, but I'll need to give you a mild sedative," Dr. Ross said. "That's why I don't recommend that you drive."

"Tell Roger to send a limo for me," Mannering said. "Have him make it quick."

Mannering hung up and noticed that his hands were trembling. He stared at them as if they'd betrayed him.

Dr. Ross didn't even attempt to soften the bad news behind a genial smile. This time, the doctor was dead serious as they sat in the exam mom together.

"Your white blood count was abnormally high, and your platelet count was way off," Dr. Ross said. "And your clotting time was too slow."

"What does it mean?"

Dr. Ross took a deep breath. "It could be leukemia."

The one thing Mannering had never considered was that his body might one day fail him. He'd mastered the rest of his universe, he'd always assumed his body would simply fall into line with everything else. His health was something he'd simply taken for granted.

Leukemia
?

It wasn't part of his master plan. It couldn't be permitted to happen.

"How can you be sure?" Mannering asked.

"I'm not. That's why I need to do a bone marrow exam, which isn't as scary as it sounds," Dr. Ross said. "It's done by taking a large-bore needle and inserting it, using local anesthesia, into the hip bone along the side of your waist. I can do it here, right now."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

Dr. Ross nodded, reached behind him, and took a clip board off the counter. "You'll have to sign this."

He handed the clipboard and pen to Mannering. It was some kind of release form.

"I thought you said this was a simple procedure," Mannering said. "Do we really need to be so formal?"

"Yes, we do."

"If it's for insurance purposes, don't worry. I'll be paying cash."

"That's not the issue," Dr. Ross said. "It's a legal release. I can't perform the test, and neither can anyone else at this or any other medical facility, without that signed document."

"I'm a man who guards his privacy," Mannering said.

"I understand," Dr. Ross said. "As you know, I consider protecting my patients' privacy my foremost obligation. I've made it the keystone of my professional life."

Mannering felt his hand begin to shake again and signed the document quickly to hide the tremor from Dr. Ross. There was no need for the doctor to know how scared he was.

Dr. Ross took the clipboard, tossed it on the counter, and put on a pair of rubber gloves. "Let's get to it, shall we? I'm going to bring in a nurse to assist me."

"Can you do it on your own?"

"Don't worry, Mr. Mannering," Dr. Ross said. "She's on my personal staff. She flew in early this week to assist me with my current patient, the one I accompanied here to Las Vegas."

"You never mentioned who that was," Mannering said.

"No," Dr. Ross said with a tight smile, "I didn't."

The nurse was an African American woman who introduced herself as Cleo Jones and had an easygoing rapport with Dr. Ross that was obviously the result of a long association. It made Mannering feel much better about her being there.

He was feeling much better all around, a state of mind he attributed to the Valium that Dr. Ross had given him before injecting the lidocaine into his hip. Once everything was numb, Mannering watched with calm detachment as Dr. Ross made a half-inch incision in his hip, down to the bone.

The doctor took a short, thick needle and twisted it into the bone, crunching and grinding until he finally broke through to the cavity. He attached a 30 cc syringe to the needle and pulled back the plunger, slowly drawing out the marrow, which was bright red, pulpy, and filled with tiny bone spicules.

Dr. Ross removed the needle and bagged the ampoule, writing Mannering's name on the label. The nurse covered the wound with an antibiotic ointment and a bandage.

"Is that it?" Mannering asked.

"You'll need to hang around for a couple hours to give the sedative a chance to wear off," Dr. Ross said. "You'll have some residual soreness for a few days."

"When will I get the test results?"

Dr. Ross glanced at his watch. "If we rush it, we can have them later today."

Mannering nodded. "You can find me at the blackjack table."

Dr. Ross reached into his pocket and gave Mannering a hundred-dollar chip. "Play a hand for me."

"Why don't you play it yourself?"

"I like your luck," Dr. Ross said.

So did Mannering. It hadn't failed him yet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mannering went up to his room, changed into a tuxedo, and went down to the casino. Things started out great. He put the doctor's chip on the table and got dealt a blackjack.

He stuck the doctor's winnings in his pocket, put his own chips on the table, and decided to see what his relationship with Lady Luck was like today.

He lost every hand, one after the other. But he refused to give up, increasing his wager with each hand. His losses mounted.

His luck would turn. It had to. It always did.

But not today. Lady Luck must have found another man to love.

Before Dr. Ross sat down at the blackjack table beside him, Mannering knew what the test results would be. The doctor hadn't bothered to put on a tuxedo. Probably the only reason he hadn't been dragged out by security was his close relationship with Roger Standiford.

"How bad is it, Doc?" Mannering asked.

"Maybe we should go somewhere a little more private," Dr. Ross said, though they had the table to themselves.

"Here is fine," Mannering said, motioning the young and amazingly beautiful dealer to hit his fourteen. She had a seven, and an astonishing amount of cleavage, showing. "The cards are hot."

She slapped a face card down. He busted. She turned her card over. Seventeen.

"First, I need to explain what the test was and what we were looking for. All our blood cells come from marrow. If the marrow is healthy, we expect to see the normal distribution of red blood cells, platelets, and the major types of white blood cells, myelocytes and lymphocytes," Dr. Ross said. "We didn't find that in your marrow."

Mannering bet a thousand dollars. "What did you find?"

The dealer dealt the cards. He had a twelve, she had a king showing.

"You had too many lymphocytes and immature myelocytes," the doctor said gravely. "You have myelogenous leukemia."

Mannering motioned for another card. It was an ace, which gave him either twenty-three or thirteen. His throat was dry as sand and he felt light-headed. If he hadn't been sitting, he would have fallen.