Never had time passed so quickly. Before Jeffrey knew it, the library was about to close for the night. Reluctantly, he gathered up Chris Everson’s notes as well as his own that he’d just made. Carrying the books in one hand and his briefcase in the other, he descended to the first floor. He left the books on the counter to be reshelved and started for the door. He stopped abruptly.
Ahead people were being stopped by an attendant to open their parcels, knapsacks, and, of course, briefcases. It was standard practice to keep the loss of books to a minimum, but it was a practice Jeffrey had forgotten about. He hated to think what the reaction might be if the library guard got a look at his stacks of hundred-dollar bills. So much for staying low profile.
Jeffrey doubled back to the periodical section and ducked behind a shoulder-high display case. He opened his briefcase and began tojam the packets of paper money in his pockets. To make room, he pulled the pint of vodka from his jacket side pocket and packed it in the briefcase. Better to let the guard think he was a tippler than a drug dealer or thief.
Jeffrey was able to leave the library without incident. He felt a little conspicuous with all his pockets bulging, but there was nothing to be done about it just then.
There were practically no cabs on Huntington Avenue at that time of night.
After he tried for ten minutes to no avail, the
Green Line trolley came along. Jeffrey got on, feeling it was more prudent to keep moving.
Jeffrey took one of the seats oriented parallel to the car and balanced the briefcase on his knees. He could feel all of the packets of money that were in his pants, particularly the ones he was sitting on. As the trolley lurched forward, Jeffrey allowed his eyes to roam around the car.
Consistent with his experience on Boston subways, no one said a word.
Everyone stared ahead expressionlessly as if in a trance. Jeffrey’s eyes met those of the other travelers who were sitting across from him. The people who sullenly returned his state made him feel transparent. He was amazed at how many of them in his mind looked as if they were criminals.
Closing his eyes, Jeffrey went over some of the material he’d just read, considering it in light of the experience he’d had with Patty Owen and
Chris’s with Henry Noble. He’d been surprised by one piece of information about local anesthetics. Under a section marked “adverse reactions,” he’d read that occasionally miotic or constricted pupils were seen. That was new to Jeffrey. Except for Patty Owen and Henry Noble, he’d never seen it clin- ically or read it before. There was no explanation of the physiological mechanism, and Jeffrey couldn’t explain it. Then in the same article it was written that usually mydriasis, or enlargement, of the pupils was seen. At that point Jeffrey gave up the issue of pupillary size. It all didn’t make much sense to him and only added to his confusion.
When the trolley suddenly plunged underground, the sound startled Jeffrey.
He opened his eyes in terror and let out a little gasp. He hadn’t realized how jumpy he was. He began to take deep, steady breaths in order to calm himself
After a minute or two, Jeffrey’s thoughts returned to the cases. He realized there was another similarity between the Noble and Owen cases that he’d not considered. Henry Noble had been paralyzed for the week he’d lived. It was as if he’d had total irreversible spinal anesthesia. Since
Patty had died, Jeffrey had no idea if she would have suffered paralysis had she lived. But her baby had survived and did display marked residual paralysis. It had been assumed that the baby’s paralysis stemmed from a lack of oxygen to his brain, but now Jeffrey wasn’t so sure. The strange, asymmetric distribution had always troubled him. Maybe this paralysis was an additional clue, one that might be of use in identifying a contaminant.
Jeffrey got off the subway at Park Street and climbed the
stairs. Giving wide berth to several policemen, he hurried down Winter