Then Jack’s head began to pound like a drum with each beat of his heart. He had no idea what he’d contracted, but its seriousness was all too obvious. Intuitively Jack knew he had only moments to make the diagnosis and determine treatment.
But there was a problem. To make the diagnosis he needed a blood sample, but he had no needle. Perhaps he could get a sample with a knife.
It would be messy, but it might work. Where could he find a knife?
Jack’s eyes blinked open. For a second he frantically searched the nightstand for a knife, but then he stopped. He was disoriented. A deep clang sounded again and again. Jack could not place it. He lifted his arm to look at his rash, but it had disappeared. Only then did Jack realize where he was and that he’d been dreaming.
Jack estimated the temperature in the hotel room to be ninety degrees. With disgust he kicked off the blankets. He was drenched in sweat. Sitting up, he put his legs over the side of the bed. The clanging noise was coming from the radiator, which was also steaming and sputtering. It sounded like someone was striking the riser with a sledgehammer.
Jack went to the window and tried to open it. It wouldn’t budge. It was as if it had been nailed shut. Giving up, he went to the radiator. It was so hot he couldn’t touch the valve. He got a towel from the bathroom, but then found the valve was stuck in the open position.
In the bathroom Jack was able to open a frosted window. A refreshing breeze blew in. For a few minutes he didn’t move. The cool tiles felt good on his feet. He leaned on the sink and recoiled at the remembrance of his nightmare. It had been so frighteningly real. He even looked at his arms and abdomen again to make sure he didn’t have a rash. Thankfully, he didn’t. But he still had a headache, which he assumed was from being overheated. He wondered why he hadn’t awakened sooner.
Looking into the mirror, he noticed that his eyes were red. He was also in dire need of a shave. He hoped that there was a sundry shop in the lobby, because he had no toilet articles with him.
Jack returned to the bedroom. The radiator was now silent and the room temperature had dropped to a tolerable level, with cool air flowing in from the bathroom.
Jack began to dress so he could go downstairs. As he did so he recalled the events of the previous evening. The image of the gun barrel came back to his mind’s eye with terrifying clarity. He shuddered. Another fraction of a second and he would have been gone.
Three times in twenty-four hours Jack had come close to death. Each episode made him realize how much he wanted to live. For the first time he began to wonder if his response to his grief for his wife and daughters—his reckless behavior—might be a disservice to their memory.
Down in the seedy lobby Jack was able to purchase a disposable razor and a miniature tube of toothpaste with a toothbrush attached. As he waited for the elevator to return to his room he caught sight of a bound stack of the Daily News outside of an unopened newsstand. Above the lurid headlines was: “Morgue Doc Nearly Winds Up on the Slab in Trendy Restaurant Shoot-out! See page three.”
Jack set down his purchases and tried to tease out a copy of the paper, but he couldn’t. The securing band was too tough to snap.
Returning to the front desk, he managed to convince the morose night receptionist to come out from behind his desk and cut the band with a razor blade. Jack paid for the paper and saw the receptionist pocket the money.
On the way up in the elevator Jack was shocked to see a picture of himself on page three coming out of the Positano restaurant with Shawn Magoginal holding his upper arm. Jack couldn’t remember a picture being taken. The caption read: “Dr. Jack Stapleton, a NYC medical examiner, being led by plainclothes detective Shawn Magoginal from the scene of the doctor’s attempted assassination. A NYC gang member was killed in the incident.”