The Heart Does Not Grow Back by Fred Venturini

Author:Fred Venturini
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781250052223
Publisher: Picador

SIXTEEN

After two nights at the Allsop, the manager told me my check bounced. No surprise there. I drained the account right after I wrote the check, buying a digital camera with a video clip recording function and a pair of bypass loppers, cashing out eighty bucks for food. I didn’t argue with the guy. Turned out another night at the Allsop would not be necessary, so that was one stroke of luck.

The argument held me up enough to get to Doc Venhaus’s office later than planned, but I still got there on time. It was only day three of my stakeout at Doc’s, and I hit pay dirt. At nine thirty, Harold’s GMC Sierra was one of the few parked vehicles in the lot. The sun was weak that morning, allowing the frost to linger on windshields longer than usual. The black paint of the Sierra appeared icy and dull. I went into Doc’s building through the back door with the key that he had given me for all of our after-hours appointments.

It was game time with Harold on neutral turf. I went inside, entering into the main hallway that connected the exam-room entrances, and Doc Venhaus was looking at a chart. He looked at me, shook his head, and put the chart back.

“Get out, Dale.” I’d ignored his calls and never gave him an answer about letting him get me into clinical testing, but it looked like he was expecting me.

“I need to talk to Harold,” I said. “I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you, but if you didn’t know, my fucking house burned down. I’ve been busy.”

“Busy, but you’re here,” he said.

“I’ve made a decision. I’m not going to sell my organs. I deleted Winston’s messages. I’m out. But I’m not in with you, not yet. One day, though. On my terms and my timeline.”

“You think it’s your decision?” he said. “It won’t be for much longer.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I said.

He slotted his chart into one of the exam-room doors. “Follow me.” The door at the end of the hallway was clearly marked as an emergency exit. He pushed the bar on the door and we stepped into the cold. His white coat flapped in the sharp morning wind. Water gathered at the corners of his eyes and blood rushed into the capillaries of his nose, turning the tip cherry red.

“You’ve obviously been staking me out, waiting for Harold,” he said. “Did you happen to notice a young man in a naval uniform come into the office yesterday?”

As a matter of fact, I did—he was carrying a briefcase. Something about a uniformed soldier carrying something so uncharacteristic caught my attention.

“Well, he’s not in the Navy. He’s from the US Public Health Commissioned Corps, under the direction of the CDC.”

“That’s a real thing? You’re not shitting me?”

“There’s not many of them. They’re deployed in national emergencies—or by request, depending on the department and situation.”

“He asked about me?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. He simply asked if I encountered any patients with particularly unusual symptoms.

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