Part 7 (1/2)
”Dr. Simioni, the neurologist.”
In the open doorway, a woman stood watching. She had the s.h.i.+ne of varnished wood. A willow, hewn and bright. Her limbs were tan and sinewy, her hair a sleek caramel flow. Her eyes, hot with shock, were pinned on Kanan.
”Ian.” Her voice was choked.
Kanan straightened and put his hand against the wall, bracing himself. Though his head hung low and he looked pale with nausea, his colorless eyes met hers.
Simioni put a hand on Kanan's elbow. ”Sit down. Come on.”
”In a minute,” Kanan said.
The woman crossed the room to him. She raised a hand and tentatively, tenderly, touched his chest.
Simioni waved Jo out of the room. ”Give them a minute.”
Jo stepped into the hallway with Simioni. The door to the room slowly swung shut. The young woman stepped close to Kanan and touched his cheek. Kanan's eyes were unreadable. Relief, confusion, joy, despair-Jo couldn't decipher his gaze. He took her hand from his face, clutching it tightly. The door clicked shut.
Jo looked at Simioni quizzically.
”That's his wife,” he said. ”She took the news badly.”
”Where has she been for the past two hours?” Jo said.
”I didn't ask. You look like you've been jumped by the boogie man. Something new going on with Mr. Kanan?”
”Bunch of somethings. Very weird.”
Simioni looked at the closed door. He hesitated, and when he turned back to Jo he was frowning.
”Add something to the weird list,” he said. ”The airport cops collected his luggage and sent it over. He was traveling with some unusual souvenirs-a sword and a couple of daggers.”
”What kind of sword?”
He looked bemused. ”That's an odd question.”
”Is it ceremonial, or an Olympic-sanctioned epee, or a broadsword he jousts with when he dresses up and goes to the Renaissance fair?”
”It's not covered in blood. And it's old. Very. The... what do you call it, the handle-”
”Hilt.”
”-is elaborate. It has writing on it, old and worn down. In Arabic. Why do you want to know?”
”He's been in Africa and the Middle East. He says he's a corporate babysitter, but he comes home with weaponry. He tells me he's been poisoned and may have tried to commit suicide. And I have a four-hundred-year-old j.a.panese katana in my living room. If I hear somebody's importing sharp objects, particularly a knife-and-sword combination, I want to make sure he's not going to use them to commit hara-kiri.”
The door to the E.R. room opened and Kanan's wife walked out. She looked pale.
Simioni walked over. ”Mrs. Kanan-”
”I can't.” She raised a hand. ”Can't talk about...” Her face crimped and she put the back of her hand to her mouth, as if suppressing a scream.
Ian Kanan's wife was pet.i.te. Even wearing stack-heeled boots she was an inch shorter than Jo, and Jo wasn't a giant. Her sleek flow of caramel hair conveyed athleticism and self-confidence. Her coat was white wool, fitted, stylish. Beneath it her black sweater was tight and her blue tartan skirt hugged her rear end. Aside from the corporate hair she looked like a high-fas.h.i.+on Glasgow punk.
Voice shaking, she said, ”Help him.”
She turned and rushed down the hall.
Jo and Simioni gave each other a look. The neurologist shook his head, indicating, Don't make me be the one... as if he would play rock-paper-scissors with Jo to see who calmed her down.
Jo went after her. ”Mrs. Kanan.”
Her voice seemed to hit the woman like a horsewhip. She broke into a jog and kept going.
”Please wait,” Jo said. ”We need your help.”
The woman turned the corner. Jo followed and saw her at the junction of two hallways, looking around in confusion. She couldn't tell whether the woman was shocked, horrified, or simply trying to hang on to her final seconds of normality before her organized and happy life disintegrated like wet paper.
Jo put out her hand. ”Jo Beckett, M.D.”
Kanan's wife hesitated a long second before she relented and shook. ”Misty Kanan. Is it true? In five minutes he'll forget I was here?”
”Yes.”
”It's crazy. He's crazy. That's what you're saying. He's losing his mind.”
”That's not what I'm saying.”
”His brain is shot full of holes. How does that not equal going insane?” She ran both hands over her cheeks. ”Stop this thing. Fix it.”
”We don't know what it is.”
”Give him drugs. Operate. Do something. Electric shock treatment. For G.o.d's sake, something.”
”We're trying to get to the bottom of it. We need your help. We need you to get him to talk.”
”He doesn't want my help. He's... G.o.d, that man. He wants to be strong. He'll never admit to weakness.” She pressed her hands to the corners of her eyes. ”Hypnotize him. You're a psychiatrist-snap him out of it. Turn his memory back on.”
”His memories are not being misplaced. They're being destroyed before they can become permanent. We can't reboot his system and call them up. It's not like flipping a breaker switch and restoring power.”
Misty looked at Jo and past her shoulder, antsy. She seemed as tense and jagged as a spool of concertina wire. She ran her hands up and down her arms, scratching like she itched.
”I need air.” She began walking down the hallway.
”Wait-give me your phone number,” Jo said.
Misty stopped, found a piece of scratch paper, and scribbled on it. ”My new cell number. Call me anytime. Day or night.”