Since there was no answer, the driver jumped the rail and disappeared into the bushes. Elizabeth was starting to squirm in Beatrice’s grip. “What the hell is this?” Elizabeth demanded. “Hold steady,” said Beatrice. Her heart was starting to sink. “Who are you? You’ve got to tell me or I’m leaving.” Beatrice kept her eyes on the shrubbery. “My name is Beatrice Jance.” Elizabeth’s face turned ashen.
“Your lover’s wife-or rather your former lover. You left him, I got him back.” Elizabeth’s head sank onto her chest as she covered her face. “Oh my God-” “-And I suppose I’m also your… I don’t know quite how to put it-” Elizabeth peered deep into Beatrice’s eyes. And there was the look of terrified, stunned recognition. “Oh my God,” she said, “Close enough,” said Beatrice. Beatrice started to say something else, then stiffened, letting go of Elizabeth’s arm as she threw open the door and stumbled out. Beyond, the driver was carrying somebody out of the bushes, somebody drunk or wounded or worse. Then Elizabeth was out of the cab, too. Elizabeth could easily have escaped at that moment, but she ran with Beatrice to Peter, whose eyes were closed and whose shirt was stained red. Together they helped support his deadweight. Blood was trickling from his mouth and nose, and his chest was heaving. He seemed barely alive. “Peter?” Elizabeth said numbly. Only a slurred response. She looked at Beatrice in terror. “It’s happening again.” “When did this happen before?”
“Once back in Vieques and then again at the airport in Puerto Rico. But never like this.” “He never bled?” said Beatrice. icy calm. “Never.”
“Was his pulse elevated? Were his pupils dilated?” Elizabeth took Peter’s main weight and eased him into the back of the cab. “I’m not a doctor,” she said through clenched teeth. “Yes, of course you’re not,” said Beatrice, climbing in. “And I didn’t have anything to do with what made him like this either,” Elizabeth said, more pointedly. Beatrice said nothing to that. “Go on,” she said to the driver. “1-95 North.” The car shot forward and Peter’s head lolled onto the frayed tweed seat, looking in his delirium as if he were trying to listen to both of them, Beatrice on his left, Elizabeth on his right. “The first time he kind of glazed over,” Elizabeth said more softly, as the cab knifed through traffic. “Then in Puerto Rico, when we were running away from the plane crash, he had a horrendous pain in his head and collapsed. Is it some kind of stroke?” “Something like that.” And then Beatrice’s voice softened too. “God knows.” “The blood vessels in his brain, they’re still old?” “Exactly,” said Beatrice.
Peter’s eyes blinked open. Abruptly he was conscious, though thoroughly dazed. “Very astute,” he slurred. “Thank you,” Elizabeth said coldly.
She took a Kleenex and swiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. Peter gave Elizabeth an unreadable look, then swung toward Beatrice. “You okay?” He reached out awkwardly for his wife’s face, nearly poking her in the eye. “Sorry.” “That’s all right. I’m fine. How do you feel?” “With my fingers.”
“That’s quite frontal-lobish. What’s your name?” “Peter Brinkman.”
Beatrice glanced at Elizabeth. “He’s all yours,” she said. Peter flopped his head over and studied Elizabeth, as if seeing her for the first time. “Elizabeth?” he said foggily. “You’re back?” Elizabeth jerked her head at Beatrice. “Your wife came and got me.” “Beatrice?” His face twisted in disbelief. “That’s right, Peter,” said Beatrice.
“Peter,” he repeated. “And Peter who?” she demanded. “Peter Jance,” he said. “And you do know who I am?” “My better half?” he said, looking at Elizabeth for confirmation. “You’re damn right, you old goat,” said Beatrice. “How many fingers?” she asked, holding up her hand spread wide. “Four.”
“Try again.”
“Four. The other one’s a thumb.”
He gave a sly, crooked grin. She gave him a shove. “Very funny. Now stop scaring the bejesus out of both of us.” “I scared the shit out of myself;” he said solemnly, sitting up and shaking his head. He seemed to be getting more and more lucid. Turning to Elizabeth, he asked if she was okay. Elizabeth shrugged, holding back tears.
“They almost had her,” said Beatrice.
“Is that a fact? See, I said you were better off with us, Elizabeth,” Peter said. “You never said us.”‘
“I didn’t know at the time. So Beatrice saved your life?” “She has reason to, doesn’t she?”
Peter looked at Beatrice. “I told you she would be suspicious. “She has good reason to be,” said Beatrice, echoing Elizabeth’s phrase and waving a hand at her. She was actually starting to like this kid. “You can give Hans a hug,” Beatrice said. “Just keep your hands off Peter.” “Thank you, I’ll pass.”
“Up to you,” said Beatrice.
The cab swung up the ramp toward I-95. After a moment, Elizabeth turned to Beatrice again, peering right past Peter. “What did you mean, of course I’m not a doctor’?” “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You shouldn’t have. You’re like those mothers who can bake pies and like it when their daughters can’t.” “I couldn’t bake a pie to save my life,” Beatrice said quietly. “And I bet you would make a crackerjack doctor.” “Did I miss something?” Peter asked.
“Be still,” Beatrice said.
She and Elizabeth stared at each other until it seemed silly to continue, and then they all fell silent. When the cab pulled into Fort Lauderdale/Hollywood International Airport thirty minutes later, they had dressed Peter in a new shirt and had cleaned him up sufficiently so as not to draw attention to themselves. He was weak but alert, and after ditching the Combat Folder and the can of mace Peter had bought in Coral Gables, they all three caught Delta Airlines Flight 406 to New York without incident. Airborne and eavesdropping on their flight attendants, they learned why their escape had been so easy. A security guard at Miami International had been found half-strangled in a men’s room, victim of an apparent terrorist attack, and all extra security at Fort Lauderdale International had been pulled to the site for support. 18
DELTA FLIGHT 406
The Boeing 767 was only half-full; they were able to find three seats together in the rear, away from the other passengers. For the first thirty minutes, Peter was on edge, half-expecting a tap on his shoulder from a flight attendant. “He’s always been a little jumpy,” Beatrice said to Elizabeth. “When we were young and poor, we used to slip into theater lobbies at intermission, then sneak in for the second act. Peter was always sure we d be hauled off to jail.” “Yes, and one time they did kick us out,” Elizabeth said, drawing from an unexpected memory of the usher’s hand on her elbow. Beatrice blinked. “Once,” she said carefully. “Some boorish usher who was out to prove something. Once out often times.” She couldn’t go on talking as if it were simple chatter. The girl’s memory had profoundly startled her. “Peter, dear, why don’t you sit by the window? Elizabeth and I need to have some girl talk.” Peter dutifully got up and exchanged places with his wife. Beatrice sat down next to Elizabeth and leaned closer. “How many hours do you sleep at night?”
“Is this medical curiosity?” Elizabeth asked. “Let’s call it that, yes.
Elizabeth decided to indulge her. At least Beatrice wasn’t treating her like an ordinary person. She actually admired the woman’s calm, her sense of irony and resilience. This is me in fifty years, she couldn’t help thinking. If I live that long, she corrected herself. “Never more than six,” she answered.
“Early to bed, early to rise?”
“Yes, except when… Well, it’s my natural pattern.” Elizabeth relaxed a little. Beatrice had a decidedly benign look on her face, just like the physician she had once been. A bedside manner, as people said of doctors. “Oh. and when I get up, I know what time it is, without-” “-looking at the clock,” Beatrice said quietly. “Plus or minus five minutes.”
Beatrice smiled. “So did I. Fascinating. Tell me about your parents.” Her request was said in a monotone, but Elizabeth felt a chill. This was the doctor-scientist talking. “My dad died when I was young.” “Did you worship him?” Beatrice asked bluntly. “Yes,” said Elizabeth, her heart doing somersaults. “You, too?” “I had a real blind spot. I used to think men were perfect, if you can believe that. Now we both know better, don’t we?” Beatrice’s smile grew more tender, not doctor like at all. Maternal was the word that sprang to Elizabeth’s mind. “Tell me, do you jog?” she asked.
“Not so much since I wrecked my knee.”
“It’s not good for you anyway. Around fifty, you’ll start to see arthritic changes.” “Thanks for the warning,” said Elizabeth. “Do you drink?” Beatrice asked.
“Only my share.”
“Tequila, I’ve found, helps me through a mild depression. Do you like to work on the weekends?” “Not if I can help it.”