“Why are you following me?” Noah said. He tried to make his voice sound casual, even though he was suddenly afraid of this individual.
“I’m not following you, man,” the individual said calmly. “I’m just hanging out here in Boston, taking in the sights. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
Noah stepped aside. With a slight nod, the man continued along Revere Street. Noah watched him until he was about a half-block away, then Noah turned down Grove Street, more confused than ever. He walked quickly, occasionally looking over his shoulder, fully expecting to see the man reappear.
It had been a difficult three days for Noah. Being isolated in his depressing apartment and having nothing to do was torture. Accustomed to working fifteen hours a day seven days a week and always behind, the change was intolerable. He couldn’t remember when he’d been so idle, unable to stop obsessing about what was happening to him. And, disturbingly enough, he’d learned Wednesday afternoon that there were many more days of boredom to be endured. It had been then that he’d gotten a call from Dr. Edward Cantor’s office, and, as a further humiliation, it hadn’t been the surgical residency program director himself. It had been his secretary, informing Noah in a disinterested monotone that an ad hoc meeting of the Surgical Residency Advisory Board to decide his fate was scheduled for 4:00 P.M. on Wednesday, August 23. She also gave Noah the name and phone number of an attorney that the hospital had retained for him, in accordance with existing labor laws.
The idea that Noah would need an attorney, which hadn’t even occurred to him, didn’t help his terror about the upcoming meeting. For him, having lawyers involved made the whole situation much more threatening and serious. He’d been hoping the problem might resolve itself when people realized he didn’t manufacture data but rather just conservatively estimated the results to make a deadline and replaced them as soon as the real data was available.
The other issue that weighed heavily on Noah’s mind was learning how long he would have to suffer the uncertainty of his fate. Initially, when he left Dr. Hernandez’s office, he’d assumed the meeting would have been scheduled within a day or two at most. He had not expected two weeks! For him it was an added torment to drag it out.
Reaching busy Cambridge Street, Noah glanced behind him. He didn’t see his follower, but he sensed that the man would reappear just as his partner managed. Noah still could not imagine why the hospital was keeping him under surveillance but accepted he just had to live with it despite its absurdity.
Once Noah was in the supermarket, he went directly to the prepared-foods section. Since he didn’t feel the slightest bit hungry, it took him quite a while to pick out a few items from the vast array available. At least it was cool in the store. After he paid for his purchases, he started back up Beacon Hill. He looked for the African American but didn’t see him. Since he no longer thought of it as any kind of threat, he was beginning not to care.
Noah’s legs felt heavy as he trudged up Grove Street, which seemed to have become steeper than he remembered. He was dreading returning to his sparse, lonely apartment. Late Wednesday afternoon, Noah had finally swallowed his pride and had tried again to get in touch with Ava in hopes of eliciting some sympathy. He’d expected to hear from her as soon as the word of his suspension spread through the operating room, which he assumed would have been almost instantaneous following the meeting with Dr. Hernandez Tuesday afternoon. He’d fully expected she’d call or at least text between her cases, considering the seriousness of the situation. When it hadn’t happened by 4:00 P.M. Wednesday, he’d first tried to call her landline, thinking she’d be at home. When she hadn’t answered, he’d tried her mobile. When that was unsuccessful, he’d texted and waited for a full half-hour. Ultimately, he tried both email and Facebook messaging. Nothing had worked.
All day Thursday and all day Friday, he had hoped to hear from her, and when he hadn’t he’d become progressively more depressed. It seemed totally out of character. She would have known immediately the depths of his despair since she had firsthand knowledge of his total commitment to surgery, which was as strong as her commitment to anesthesia. Considering their physical intimacy, how could she not feel an irresistible urge to get in touch with him, just to be sure he was all right? Noah knew that if the tables were reversed, he’d be the very first to make sure she was okay, even if he were irritated with her over some other issue.
By Friday night he’d reached his emotional nadir. Could she still be that upset and angry over his violation of her trust? Apparently so, even though it didn’t seem possible to Noah, especially after his sincere apology, and once again his yearning to hear from her morphed into anger at her apparent lack of empathy. Such a mind-set had led to another even more disturbing possibility. He’d recalled several weeks earlier in responding to Ava’s questions about his Ph.D. by admitting that he had fudged it a little. Since she’d been the only person in recent years to whom he’d mentioned his thesis, could she possibly have anything to do with the issue being raised by the surgery department?
One thing that Noah was certain about was Dr. Mason’s role in the affair. His self-satisfied smile alone during the fateful meeting in the chief’s office had made that clear. Noah was certain it had been Dr. Mason who had gotten the bound copy of his Ph.D. thesis from MIT, apparently studied it as evidenced by the Post-it notes, found the discrepancy between the submitted hardcopies and the online version, and had sounded the alarm. Could Ava have been so low as to communicate to Dr. Mason to look for discrepancies in the thesis?
When this thought had occurred to Noah Friday night, he had dismissed it out of hand as he’d done other suspicions. Noah was absolutely confident that Ava detested Dr. Mason, so the idea that she would help him was ludicrous. Yet how did Dr. Mason know about the issue? Noah had no idea.
Arriving at the corner of Grove Street and Revere, Noah was about to turn right when he glanced over his shoulder down the hill. He started. Almost a block away was the African American. He was coming in Noah’s direction once again with his jacket still slung casually over his shoulder.
“Taking in the sights, my ass,” Noah said under his breath, his anger at Ava finding a convenient target even though he’d resigned himself to being under surveillance. He hurried down Revere Street to his front door and quickly entered. A moment later he was in his apartment and rushed to the front window. He was certain the man would appear, and when he did, Noah planned on opening his window and loudly embarrassing the man. Noah even briefly thought about calling 911 to complain about being harassed.
After ten minutes of watching, Noah gave up. He carried the bag of prepared food into the kitchen and pushed it into his refrigerator without opening it. Now he was less hungry than when he was at the store despite not having eaten since the previous night. It was a little after 3:00 in the afternoon.
Returning to the living room, Noah again looked out the window. There were a few pedestrians going in both directions as there had been before, but no athletic-appearing African American with white shirt and tie carrying a suit jacket over his shoulder. Just like on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, the person he thought had been following him just disappeared, making him question his sanity.