Will’s plan to get to Charles Newcomber was simple-act as if he knew what he was doing and not use his real name. Before leaving for the mammography unit he had called in as Dr. Davidson, hoping to review some films with Dr. Newcomber. He was assured by the operator that the doctor was, in fact, in his office and currently on the phone. Will entered the building carrying an X-ray envelope containing films of his left ankle, taken several years ago after he twisted it in a pickup basketball game.
Remember, he told himself, look confident, keep moving.
The crowded waiting room was just what he needed. Two women were queued up in front of a silver-haired receptionist, who was manning the counter alone and seemed frazzled. Seven or eight others, most of whom had someone with them, filled many of the chairs. Will surveyed the room quickly as he strode toward the reception desk. There was only one corridor off the waiting area-Newcomber’s office had to be down there someplace.
“Dr. Davidson,” he said, smiling and holding up the envelope of films as he marched confidently past the receptionist and down the corridor. For several uncomfortable seconds he expected her to call him back and demand more information, but self-assuredness and the title “Doctor” won the moment. To his left, a sign directed patients to the dressing and X-ray rooms. To his right were a series of offices. The doors to each of them were closed except for the one farthest away, which faced the corridor. A discreet plaque fixed to the wall beside it read Dr. Newcomber. Seated inside, behind his desk, dictating into a handset, was an unimposing, rotund, ruddy-faced man with a mop of pure white hair. Will was still approaching the door when he realized that what looked like a full head of hair was actually a silver monk’s fringe topped by one of the worst hairpieces he had ever seen.
He was at the doorway before Charles Newcomber glanced up. The radiologist’s expression was one of interest as he scanned Will up and down.
“Looking for someone?” he asked, his voice soft and high-pitched, his tone somewhat inviting.
“Dr. Newcomber.”
“You found him.”
Newcomber continued his appraisal. Will stepped into the room and gently closed the door behind him.
“Dr. Newcomber, I’m Dr. Will Grant.”
The radiologist’s color drained. He placed the handset on the desk.
“I thought you were in prison. What do you want?”
“To come in and speak with you.”
“I’m busy and you’re a drug addict. Get out.”
Will took a small step forward.
“It’s about Grace Davis,” he said, “the woman I called you about a while ago who wanted to switch surgeons.”
“I don’t talk about my patients.”
“You read a cancer in her mammogram and she had the tumor removed and diagnosed by pathology, but I don’t think it was her X-rays you read.”
“That’s crazy.”
Newcomber had picked up a pencil and begun fidgeting with it nervously.
“She’s had a BB in her chest wall since she was a child,” Will went on. “It’s there in the chest X-ray that was done this morning but not in her mammograms-at least not that her husband or I remember.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m sure you just missed it. Probably stoned on something. Now, get out.”
The man’s discomfort was almost palpable. Will took another step toward him. He was now five feet or so from the desk and reminding himself not to lose his cool or do anything stupid.
“Let’s just look at her films together,” he said.
“You have a notarized release?”
“I’m a doctor, for goodness sake. Don’t you want to know if there’s been some sort of mistake?”
“I don’t make mistakes. Now, get out or I’ll call security.”
“I didn’t come here looking for trouble,” Will said, feeling his frustration and his temperature beginning to rise. “Just get the films and let’s look at them together.”
“No!”
The pencil snapped in two. Newcomber’s face was radish red. He was on his feet now, his hands gripping the edge of his massive desk. Will decided to press on. Either the man was going to break down or he was going to go ballistic and let something slip to explain why he was reacting so excessively. Certain he was in command of the situation, Will made the slightest move forward again. The moments that followed were a blur. Newcomber suddenly yanked open the right-hand drawer of the desk, jammed his hand in, and came out with a snub-nosed revolver clutched in his stubby fingers. Hand quivering, he aimed it at the center of Will’s chest.
Will had never had a gun pointed at him for any reason. He froze, his mind frantically sorting out the possibilities available to him. There was no way to tell how close Newcomber was to pulling the trigger, but the amalgam of fear and fury in his expression said that a shooting, accidental or purposeful, could happen any moment. Will raised his hands and took a step back toward the door.
“Easy, Charles,” he said. “Easy. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
“Now, get out!”
His eyes still fixed on the portly radiologist, Will backed away. Without looking, he reached behind him, grasped the knob, and opened the door. He could now whirl and dive into the hall, but if the man began spraying shots, one or more of them was bound to hit.
“I didn’t come here to cause you any trouble,” he heard himself saying.
Newcomber said nothing. The revolver drifted slightly to the right, away from Will’s chest. The man’s tension seemed as if it might have lessened just a bit.
Will risked pressing on. “Listen, Charles, whatever is going on with you, maybe I can help. I’m a really good doctor. I’m sure you are, too. We only want what’s best for our patient. That woman Grace Peng Davis is very special. She was once a hopeless alcoholic-a real fringe player in life, an outcast. Then she got sober and pulled herself out of the gutter. Yesterday she almost died from her first chemo treatment. Now therapy for her cancer is going to be a problem. She doesn’t deserve this. Charles, we’re doctors. If there’s something the matter with all this, we need to help her.”
“Get out,” Newcomber rasped, now clearly hyperventilating. “Get out or I swear I’ll kill you.”
“Call me,” Will said. “Wolf Hollow Drive in Fredrickston. I’m in the book. Please call and we can talk.”
He backed through the door, half expecting to see flame suddenly spit from the muzzle. Finally he pulled the door closed, turned, and hurried down the hall.
Charles Newcomer sank back into his chair, sweat accumulating beneath his toupee, soaking through his shirt, and glistening across his forehead and upper lip. More than a minute passed before he loosened his grip on the revolver. Finally, some of his composure regained, he lifted the phone and dialed. An answering machine took his call. There was no greeting, only a beep.
“Listen,” he said, “Will Grant was just here. He knows something’s wrong with Grace Davis’s mammogram. You told me she was the last one. You promised me no one would ever know. Well, Grant’s suspicious. He’s going to keep poking around. I can handle him, but I’m going to destroy the films-all of them. I want the rest of the money you owe me, I want the videos, and I want out.”
He slammed the receiver down.
“You promised,” he muttered, removing a printout list from his desk drawer, folding it in thirds, and slipping it into the pocket of his sports coat. “The money, the video, and a ticket out of here. You promised.”