The Pepperdogs: A Novel by Bing West

Author:Bing West
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2003-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Newport, R.I.

8 A.M. Monday

At a quarter to eight Dr. Orest Sikorsky knocked briefly and walked into Sylvia’s room. He was wearing a cashmere sports jacket with a subdued herringbone pattern and dark leather buttons. His blue shirt was lightly starched and his yellow silk tie knotted with precision. As chief surgeon, Sikorsky projected confidence and authority. The nurses were deferential, impressed with the attention he paid to his dying friend.

Sylvia brightened. She looked forward to his visits and had developed a schoolgirl crush. She liked how he held her hand and spoke in soft, cadenced tones. His solicitude and offhanded inquiries about art distracted her from the finality of her condition. Now he stroked her hand, chitchatted for a while about Chagall and left the room, beckoning Bart to follow.

In the corridor he shook his head. “The breathing’s more labored. Another embolism. I won’t discomfort her with further tests. She hasn’t long.” He paused. “I think you’ll know when to page me. I mean it, day or night, you page me.”

He started to pat Bart’s arm, then withdrew his hand and fumbled about, looking for the pipe he no longer carried. They looked at each other. Bart felt his heart tearing.

“This sucks,” Bart said.

“Yes, yes it does.” Both ached, and neither tried or wanted to say anything further.

“Well, time to be about my rounds.” The surgeon walked away, back erect, concealing his frustration that his renowned skill could not excise this disease. This was his hospital. The proper example was professionalism. He did not look back.

Bart stared out the window without seeing until a nurse came up to him to say, “Those two government agents are still in the lounge. I told them you wouldn’t speak to them, but they said they were staying until you do. They’re polite but very insistent.”

Bart walked the short distance to the lounge, trying not to feel or think anything. Kenshaw was FBI, short, grim, in his mid-forties. The Naval Criminal Investigative Service had sent Cummings—tall, young and earnest. Kenshaw had the maturity to be direct.

“Yesterday you reported a location of the kidnappers, Mr. Easton. Since then you’ve communicated with the team. I need to know your sources and how you’re communicating.”

“I’m sorry you made the drive from Boston for nothing,” Bart replied. “I can’t tell you that yet.”

“It would help those missing Marines,” Cummings said.

“They’re not missing.”

She hesitated, then said, “Your security clearances…this is a security matter.”

Bart turned his tired face toward her and shook his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Kenshaw intervened. The nice-cop routine. “We’re not threatening, Mr. Easton. Our bosses are concerned. Any reason you’re holding back? Any, ah, trade we can make?”

“They’re going for Cosgrove. I have a line on him.”

Kenshaw liked this wrinkled man with the sagging eyes who looked so directly at him. Trying to work interrogation tricks was the wrong approach. Threatening him was as useful as yelling at a tree stump. Easton was already out the door mentally, not paying attention, not interested in any games they were playing.

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