Oath of Office Page 10

  Mindless of the milling crowd, Dennis embraced his older son with a frontal Heimlich maneuver that would have dislodged a T-bone from the throat of a grizzly bear.

  “Food here any good?” he asked, ignoring the menu Lou had handed him.

  “They have everything here, Dad.”

  “Burgers?”

  “If you’d look at the menu, you’d see there’s a whole page devoted to burgers.”

  “It’s like the size of the phone book. Besides, why do I need a menu when I have a doctor here to look at it for me? What about just a plain old cheeseburger? They have any of those? You know I don’t like any of that fancy crap on my cheeseburgers.”

  “They have cheeseburgers, Dad. Bacon cheeseburgers, too.”

  “Probably comes with an avocado on it.”

  “Come on,” Lou said, taking his father’s tattooed, solidly muscled arm. “Let’s go sit down.”

  The lunch crowd continued filing in around them to be quickly tended to by a team of pretty, chipper hostesses. There were plenty of available booth seats around the wall encompassing the main dining room, and a number of empty tables as well. But Dennis, as Lou knew he would, made a beeline for the counter seating, insisting as always that he liked being up high, and that the swivel action of the stools benefited his arthritic hip.

  The counter, like the rest of the massive dining area, was well worn—possibly by design, Lou reflected, or possibly because of the difficulty in catering to “everybody” while keeping the place buff. Varnish was worn away in some spots, and the brass fixtures were short a good polishing. Still, the overall effect was an inviting charm and warmth. As if to underscore the motto of the place, the walls and wooden pilasters featured autographed photos of celebrities and politicians, usually paired with a perpetually beaming Millie—the quintessential grandmother. Lou recognized two former Virginia governors, several players from the Redskins, Nationals, and Wizards, as well as a rapper whom Emily adored but Renee despised.

  As they made their way to the counter, Lou caught snippets of conversation from the expanding sea of patrons. Nearly everything he heard dealt with the Meacham murders.

  Lou and Dennis grabbed adjacent stools, sandwiching themselves between two much older gentleman, each of whom appeared to be dining alone. The wall facing them opened on the kitchen, where perhaps a dozen white-uniformed cooks and chefs of various kinds were picking up steam for the lunchtime rush ahead. Flames, fueled by dripping grease, danced in the background, creating sizzling steaks that Lou could smell. The culinary ballet was impressive, and for a time, father and son watched, mesmerized. The stainless steel counters just opposite the grill were lined with cutting boards, large mixing bowls, and trays of vegetables. Movement … sound … aroma …

  Cue the cash registers.

  It was good to see Dennis immersed in something other than the wall-mounted TVs at his beloved Wave Runner.

  The narrow passage between the counter and the kitchen was patrolled by a tall, gaunt waitress with crow’s-feet eyes and tousled red hair the same height as her head. Her name tag read IRIS. Nothing about her personality explained why she was working with the public. Not surprisingly, Dennis ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke.

  “We don’t have Coke,” Iris said.

  “Okay, Pepsi, then.”

  “No Pepsi. We only serve Millie Cola.”

  “Millie Cola? Lou, what is this place?”

  “A place that only serves Millie Cola,” he said. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

  “Okay, one Millie Cola and one glass of ice water on the side,” Dennis said.

  Iris scowled and wrote on her pad. “And how would you like your cheeseburger?”

  “With cheese,” Dennis said.

  Another scowl.

  Lou went for the Cobb salad and an iced tea.

  “So … how ya you doing?” Dennis asked once their cadaverous server had moved on.

  “You mean about John Meacham?” Lou asked, as usual having no problems reading the man.

  “Your brother called. He said he suspected you might have had something to do with Meacham through your work. Apparently, the papers said he was an alcoholic and had been involved with a group like yours in D.C.”

  “Graham could have called and just asked me. I’m in his speed dial.”

  “Have they mentioned your name?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But you did.”

  “I did what?”

  “Have something to do with the guy, like Graham said.”

  “I did, yes.”

  “And are you in trouble?”

  “Speak softer, Dad.”

  “Are you in any trouble? Graham said you might be.”

  If Graham, a successful money manager, worked as hard at keeping Dennis away from recurrent fiscal ruin as he did pointing out the mistakes Lou was forever making in his life, there might have been significantly less red ink in the family.

  “I’ll give him a call later on so maybe he’ll stop speculating,” Lou said.

  He wondered if the younger Welcome had reasoned out that Lou’s job might be on the line as well … or worse.

  “Your brother’s smart,” Dennis understated. “He figures things out.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So?”

  “So, I don’t know. I’m still trying to piece it all together.”

  Lou could sense the old man to his right straining to listen in. He turned his back a few more inches and lowered his voice even further. If he had known Dennis was going to be in a chatty mood, he would have insisted on a booth. He should have been able to predict it. The violence surrounding the Meacham case was the sort of thing that utterly fascinated his father—and most other people, for that matter.

  “He fall off the wagon?” Dennis asked.

  “Nope. That much I’m sure of.”

  “Drugs?”

  “You know I consider drugs and alcohol flip sides of the same coin.”

  “In that case, it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I agree with you there, Pop.”

  “No warning?”

  “Not that I can find.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Dennis reiterated. “Usually a guy goes ballistic and kills a bunch of people, then folks start coming out of the woodwork to say how they knew he was unstable, a loner, distant, that sort of thing.”

  “So far none of that,” Lou said.

  “Or else, if it’s a serial killer, they all say how he was just the nicest guy in the world, and always had a cheerful word for everyone, and that they can’t figure out how two dozen bodies got buried in his backyard without anyone suspecting a thing.”

  Their drinks arrived. Dennis sipped his apprehensively.

  “I don’t generally like any excuses for Coke,” he said, “but this one’s pretty good.”

  “I’m glad they could please you. You should let the waitress know.”

  “I don’t think she likes me.”

  “Nonsense. Your charm is winning her over. I can tell.”

  “So, why are you out here?”

  “Actually, I drove out to talk with the chief of police. He set me up to meet with one of the witnesses.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “I suppose. Dad, there’s something really strange going on around Kings Ridge.”

  Careful to keep his voice out of range of the old man to his right, Lou told his father what he had shared with Gilbert Stone. When he was finished, Dennis fixed him with the same sort of curious stare he typically reserved for people with excessive body piercing.

  “That is odd,” he said. “One or two weirdos might be a coincidence. Five or six is a trend—unless, of course, you’re overreading things.”

  “Always possible.”

  Lunch arrived, and after one bite, Dennis Welcome appeared to have become a convert to the church of Millie Neuland.

  “Call me delicious,” he said to the reedlike waitress, brandi
shing his cheeseburger with two hands.

  She favored him with an enigmatic smile that might have announced she no longer considered him a form of pond scum.

  “Fresh food makes all the difference,” she said.

  “Yeah? Just how fresh are we talking about here?”

  “Fresh as in everything we serve is local. Produce. Meat. We even bake our own bread.”

  “I would call that fresh,” Dennis said, wiping away the juice from another bite of cow.

  Lou smiled to see his father so upbeat. With on-the-job injuries, recurrent layoffs, the premature death of his beloved wife, and one financial disaster after another, the man had not had it easy. But one could rarely ever tell.

  Without warning, Iris planted her palms on the counter and leaned in close to Lou. “I overheard you boys talking about John Meacham,” she whispered. “You know, a bunch of the crunchy granolas around here are talking about having some sort of memorial service for the victims.”

  “That’s nice,” Lou said, sensing where the woman was heading.

  “But they’re also talking about including the murderer. I mean, he is a murderer. Seven times over. I say burn the box they’ve got him stashed away in and flush those ashes.”

  Lou stopped eating and fixed the woman with a baleful stare. “Dr. Meacham was a friend of mine,” he said, sensing he was about to boil over. “He had a wife. Children. It’s fine for you to have an opinion on matters, but your opinion is getting close to spoiling my meal.”

  Iris lost color, topped off Lou’s iced tea from a pitcher, and then left, muttering.

  “I told you that Graham called, didn’t I?” Dennis said, changing the subject with the subtlety and grace of a rampaging rhino.

  Lou groaned. “Dad, I said I wanted to enjoy my salad. Now, thanks to you and Olive Oyl over there, my chance of doing that is gone.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about that you tripped yourself up. Graham didn’t call you. He never calls anyone he doesn’t have to. My guess is you called him.”

  “Okay, okay. I called him. Then, a while later, he called me back. Besides, what difference does it make who called who. He’s still my son, just like you are.”

  “You called him with a wild new investment idea.”

  “This country was built on wild investment ideas. But this is a good one, Lou. A can’t-miss … Sweet Lou … Remember when I used to call you that?”

  “Dad, when are you going to learn?”

  “This time it’s different.”

  “Let me guess. Medical supplies?”

  “Nope.”

  “Pest-removal services?”

  “No, but remind me to check into that one. Look, I’ll tell you because you’ll never guess on your own. It’s gold. Not those sissy Franklin Mint commemorative coins kind of gold—a real mining operation in British Columbia. Riches from the earth. The specs have fortune written all over them.”

  “Dad, you’ve got to stop this.”

  “I have the brochures in my truck. I’m just asking that you look them over.”

  “It’s not gonna happen.”

  “That’s what Graham said. Look, just give it a read-through is all I’m asking.”

  “Fine. I’ll give it a read.”

  “Fine. Can you pass me the ketchup?”

  From a spot down the counter, the waitress nodded smugly that she hadn’t missed a word of the father/son exchange, and approved of how the discussion had gone. The tolerance Lou had developed for people struggling with their lives was nudged a bit by the woman, though not nearly to his limit.

  The distraction was quickly interrupted by a vegetable chef who was turning a row of peeled carrots into perfect orange disks. He performed the maneuver with the dexterity of a neurosurgeon. The movement, like working a pump handle, was all wrist, with the point of the huge blade never leaving the cutting board. The sound of the broad end of the knife snapping down was like an AK-47 submachine gun.

  But what caught Lou’s eye wasn’t just watching the pro at work. It was the youthful, freckle-faced cook directly to the chef’s right. The young man’s dark brown eyes were fixated on the slicing end of the razor-sharp knife. His right hand was just six inches or so from the carrot pieces that were flipping out from the blade like poker chips. Once, then again, it looked to Lou as if the young man—twenty-two if that—was going to make a move to snatch one of the newly minted coins from the cutting board.

  Lou tensed.

  The chef, lost in concentration, remained fixed on his gleaming blade, which never came up off the cutting board more than a millimeter or so farther than it had to.

  Another flinch from the boy—this time involving not only his hand, but his shoulder as well.

  The kid was going to go for it.

  Lou felt certain of it.

  Pushing back from the counter, he rose from his stool.

  No one seemed aware of the drama that was playing out—least of all the husky chef himself.

  To Lou’s left, Dennis was lost in the glory of his perfect burger.

  One more slight tic by the boy, and Lou had seen enough.

  But it was too late.

  The kid seemed to be lost in some sort of hypnotic fugue state, timing his moves like a striking rattlesnake. His latex-gloved hand shot out toward a particular, perfect orange disk.

  “Nooooo!” Lou cried out, toppling his tall stool backwards, and diving, arms outstretched, across the counter.

  The heavy ten-inch blade snapped down on the boy’s extended thumb with unimaginable force.

  Bone cracked like a sniper’s shot.

  The boy’s shriek filled the enormous dining room, accompanied moments later by the screams from dozens of others.

  Then there were more, unrelenting shrieks.

  From the vegetable cutting board in the kitchen came a geyser of blood.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Oh, Jesus! My thumb! My thumb!”

  In an instant, blood was everywhere, spurting into the air from within the tattered rubber glove and cascading across the wooden chopping board onto the floor.

  Lou vaulted over the counter and past the waitress, whose expression gave no indication that the startling event had even registered. He slammed into the chaos of the kitchen through a swinging door with an eye-level porthole as a crush of customers and staff closed in behind him.

  “It’s Joey!” someone cried out. “Joey’s cut his finger off!”

  Lou’s powers of observation were immediately heightened. Seconds passed as minutes. The world around him began moving in slow motion. His tone became firmer, but his speech slowed. What might have been dozens of factors were analyzed and synthesized at once.

  Crunch mode.

  “I’m a trauma specialist from Eisenhower Memorial,” he heard himself announce calmly. “Please give me room. Give me some room. Someone call nine-one-one and tell me when you’ve done it. One of you bring over some rubber gloves. The rest of you, back away, please.”

  Incredibly, the boy was still on his feet, staring down at his hand with what appeared to be little comprehension. Blood had sprayed across his white apron like a macabre piece of spin art. The blade had crunched through the bone just above the metacarpo-phalangeal joint—the knuckle separating the digit from the hand. It had been a vicious cut, requiring almost unimaginably intense force.

  The bone had been splintered more than sheared in two. Some soft tissue remained intact at the base—a piece of good fortune that would enable optimum anatomical alignment in preparing the boy for transport. Still, as things stood, two bloody tendons and a bridge of skin were all that kept the digit from dropping into the stack of blood-soaked carrots.

  If this were a single finger other than the thumb, it seemed quite possible the hand surgeon would opt simply to complete the amputation. But this was the thumb—the digit that, because it could be pressed against the pads of the other four fingers on the hand, created the
opposition that, in essence, separated primates from other animals. Writing, grasping, fine motor skills. For life to go on as it was for this youth, meticulous reimplantation was critical.

  And preserving anatomical relationships and circulation had to be Lou’s mission. But first, there was the matter of the kid himself.

  Lou grabbed a towel and laid it over the boy’s hand. Instantly, the white cloth became soaked in crimson.

  “Joey, is that your name?” Lou asked, supporting him by the shoulders.

  “Joey,” the kid managed. He began shrieking again and raised his hand to eye level. Heavy drops of blood fell from beneath the towel.

  “He just stuck his hand in there!” the chef cried out, the heavy, blood-covered blade still in his hand. “I never saw him. Jesus, Joey, what in the hell were you thinking?”

  Joey’s fair, freckled complexion was ashen—one of the early changes of shock.

  “All right, Joey,” Lou said, “I’m going to lower you down.”

  “Here you go, Doc,” someone said.

  A box of disposable rubber gloves appeared on the high bench where the accident had occurred. From his earliest days in the hospital, Lou had to battle against the intense urge to dive right in and help whenever there was an open, bleeding wound. Then articles began appearing in the literature reporting the surprisingly large percent of HIV-positive patients found in sequential testing in both inner city and suburban emergency wards. And finally, conversion to positive happened to a fellow moonlighter who didn’t follow protocol, in a small, affluent community hospital, fifty miles outside of D.C.

  “Please, no one come near the blood without having gloves on,” he said, donning a pair and quickly backing it up with another. “One of you roll an apron under his neck and someone else get his legs elevated with something under his knees and ankles. The higher, the better. If there’s a blanket around, put it over him. And I need towels. Lots of towels.”

  He brought his mouth next to Joey’s ear.

  “Joey, my name is Dr. Louis Welcome. Call me Lou. Hang in there with me and we’ll get you fixed up. Okay?” He took a clean towel and slid it in as a replacement for the blood-soaked one. “Do you have any allergies to medications?… Any past surgery…?”