Denial by Keith Ablow

Author:Keith Ablow [Ablow, Keith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, General, Psychological
ISBN: 9780312965969
Google: MWeE_dIROnMC
Amazon: 0679442111
Publisher: Pantheon
Published: 1997-06-23T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

I left the morgue around nine. I was past fatigue, into a kind of foggy second wind. I got in the car, turned it over and popped an old Ray Charles album into the CD player.

I wanted to visit Monique's apartment to get a sense of any other signature the killer might have left a the crime scene, but I felt the need to stop by the hospital to see Kathy first. I couldn't say why. Maybe she'd been right; maybe she was another one of my addictions. I put the car in gear and started onto Union Street, then stopped short when I noticed a small manila envelope — the kind I stored my stamp collection in as a kid — taped to the underside of the glove compartment. I grabbed it and ripped it open. A Ziploc bag of what looked like cocaine was inside, along with a small card. I took out the card first. One side was a schedule of church services at Sacred Heart. On the other, Hancock had written, "Whatever you need." Talk about picking your drug of choice. I tossed the card on the floor mat, fished out the plastic bag and rolled it between my fingertips. It felt soft and inviting. A pillow to rest my head. I swallowed and imagined not being able to feel my throat.

I pulled apart the plastic seal, took a pinch and spread it along my upper gums. They went numb immediately. Numb. Even as I basked in the absence of sensation, that word started to bother me. I thought again of Rachel's comment that I wouldn’t need the coke if I was in touch with my rage. I knew this was fact, knew it with dead conviction, yet I took a second pinch to dull my lower gums, then a third for my nose. Dull. Another word to dwell on.

The fog cleared, but I worried my clarity was another illusion of distance, like the romantic vision I had of the tankers in Chelsea Harbor.

I hit the gas, flew down Union and weaved through traffic on Boston Street to get to Stonehill Hospital. I took one of the spaces out front reserved for doctors. At the end of the row, Trevor Lucas’ vanity plate: CMENOW. It had taken me a while to decipher it the first time I'd tried. I thought he was being lewd. Now I read it automatically as ‘See Me Now,’ the cry of a certifiable egomaniac. I hurried up the steps, past the lobby and toward the elevator.

Kris Jerold, the receptionist, told me Kathy was still at rounds. "They're over in less than an hour," she said, fingering the three hoops through her ear. "I'll tell her you stopped by."

"You've changed your hair."

"It's salmon-colored now," she said.

"I think that's what caught my eye. It's very different."

"Thanks."

"How has she been?"

"Dr. Singleton?"

"Well, yes. Are we worried about someone else?"

"She's fine."

"Fine?"

She bit her lip. "Well, not exactly fine. She's... See, I'm buried right now. I can't really talk.

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