Blood Test by Kellerman, Jonathan

“You know that better than anyone. Remember the

speech you used to give at fund raisers–the slide

show with all those pictures of cured kids? Let this

one go.”

He swiveled around and faced me, eyes blazing.

“As far as I’m Concerned that boy is alive. Until I

see his corpse I won’t believeotherwise.”

I tried to speak but he cut me off.

“I didn’t go into this field because of mawkish

sentimentality-no favorite cousin died of leukemia,

no grandpapa wasted away- of carcinoma. I

became an oncologist because medicine is the sci-ence–and

the art–of fighting death. And cancer is

death. From the first time, as a medical student,

when I viewed those monstrous, primitive, ew/t ceils

under the microscope, I was seized with that truism.

And I knew what my life’s-work would be.”

Beads of perspiration had collected on his high

dark forehead. The

roamed the cell.

“I won’t give up,” he said,

“Only the conquest of death, my friend, allows a

glimpse of immortality.”

He Was unreachable, caught up in his own fi’antic

vision of the world. Obsessive and quixotic and

denying what was most probable: Woody and Nona

were dead, buried somewhere in the shifting mulch

beneath the city.

“Let the police handle it, Raoul. My friend’s due

to come down here soon. He’ll check everything

Out.”

“The police,” he spat. “A lot of good they’ve

been. Bureaucratic pencil pushers. Mediocre minds

of hmited vision. e that stupid cowboy out there.

Why aren’t they here fight now—every day is crucial

for that little boy. They don’t care, Alex. To

them he’s just another statistic. But not to mci”

He folded his arms in ront of him, as if warding

off the indignity of confiinement, unaware of his

derelict appearance.

I’d long thought that a surfeit of sensitivity could

be a killing thing, too much insight malignant-in its

own right. The best survivors–there are studies

that show it—are those blessed with an inordinate

ability to deny. And keep on marching.

Raoul would mrch till he dropped.

I’d always considered him a touch manic. Perhaps

as manic at the core as Richard Moody, but

more generously endowed intellectually so that the

excess energy was channeled honorably. For the

good of society.

Now, tdo many failures had converged upon him:

the Swopes’ rejection of treatment, which, because

helived .his work, was seon as a rejection of him, an

atheismof the worst sort. The abduction of his

Patient–hurniliation and loss of control. And now,

death; the ultimate insult.

Failure had. made him irrational.

I couldn’t leave him there but didn’t know how

.to get him out.

Before either of us could speak, the gound of

approaching footsteps punctuated the silence. Hou-

ten peered into the cell, keys in hand.

“Ready, gentlemen ?”

“I’ve had no luck, Sheriff.”

The news deepened the worry lines around his

eyes.

ou re choosing to stay with us, Dr. Melendez-

Lynch?”

“Until I’ve found my patient.”

“Your patient isn’t here.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Houten’s mouth tightened and his eyebrows lowered.

“I’d like you out of there, Dr. Delaware.”

He turned a key, held the door barely open and

kept a watchful eye on Raoul as I slipped through.

“Good-bye, Alex,”-sald the oncologist with a martyr’s

solemnity.

Houten spoke to him in clipped cadence.

“If you think Prison is fun, sir, you’re going to

‘learn different. I promise you that. In the mean-

time, I’m getting you a lawyer.”

“I refuse legal services.”

“I’m getting you one anyway, Doctor. Whatever

happens to you is going to be by the book.”

He turned on his heel-and stomped away.

As we left the jail I caught a last glimpse of

Raoul behind the bars. There Wasn’t any good reason

for me to feel unfaithful, but I did.

16

HOUTEN MADE a phone call out of earshot, Ten

minutes later a man in shirtsleeves showed up and

the sheriff came forward to greet him.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice, Ezra.”

“Pleased to help, Shei’iff.” The man’s voice was

soft, modulated, and even.

He looked to be in his late forties, medium-sized

but sparely built, with a scholar’s stoop, Everything

about him was compact and neat. The smallish

head was covered with thin salt-and-pepper

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