Dr. Knox by Peter Spiegelman Read Free Book Online

wanted to go along. I didn’t need to change out of my pajamas, she said, or even put on shoes.
    It was a warm night, cloudless, with a moon, and the wind was deafening when she put all the windows down. The road was fresh-paved—still smelled of tar—and was like a black carpet as it unspooled, empty and smooth, through the Connecticut hills. There was one stretch, a mile or more long, of blind curves and quick rises and dips through pasture and woods; with the right touch on the gas and on the wheel, my mother said, we could fly. We drove its length dozens of times that night, laughing when we felt the tires lift, shrieking at the swoops and sudden drops, screaming and crying in elated terror when she put the headlights out and the fields and trees turned silver, and when she took her hands off the wheel.
    Nora and Sutter weren’t quite right: I wasn’t chasing trouble, or chasing off boredom, but maybe, sometimes, I was chasing something else. I remembered the body rush of that ride—could still feel it sometimes—the hurtle and plunge, the crazy swing between thrill and panic. And sometimes I could smell her eucalyptus soap and her cigarettes. I let out a long breath as I left the gangbangers behind.
    The photos in my pocket were damp and wrinkled, and so was I, and I was thinking about another iced coffee when I rounded the next corner and saw the slack-bellied silhouette of Gary Fleck in the doorway of his auto body shop. He was sucking on a cigarette, and when he saw me he took a last, furtive puff and flicked his smoke to the curb.
    “Dr. Knox,” Gary said. “I seen you marchin’ around all day. You collectin’ for somethin’?” His voice was raspy and, thanks to the emphysema, empty of force. He had sallow skin and blasted capillaries across his nose and cheeks. His khaki shirt had stains down the front, and someone else’s name over the pocket. His thick, stained hands grasped each other nervously.
    “Those things will kill you, Gary.”
    “So you keep tellin’ me.”
    “But you keep on smoking.”
    “I know my limits, doc. I quit the smokes, I’m gonna pick up a bottle again—simple as that. Fifteen years sober won’t mean shit. And the booze’ll kill me quicker than the ciggies will, and maybe not just me.”
    Gary’s face sagged with his sad insight, and I knew a lecture was worse than pointless. I patted his arm. “I’m the one who needs help today,” I said, and I took out my wilted photos.
    Gary looked relieved, and took them. He squinted and brought each one almost to the tip of his nose. He shook his head. “They haven’t been here, not when I’ve been around, but I was at jury duty most of last week. Lemme ask Scotty.”
    I remembered Scotty as the nervous kid whom Gary had dragged into the clinic a year back, with a suppurating puncture wound in his right calf. Gary pushed through the dirty glass door to his shop and I followed.
    It was dim inside, but no cooler. An exhaust fan was working to little effect, and the smells of epoxy and paint were heavy in the air. There was a garage bay to the right, and Scotty was there, studying the crumpled door panel of a black Lincoln. Gary waved him over.
    Scotty wiped his hands on a rag as he approached. He was skinnier than I remembered, and the ink on his arms was new, but the big eyes, big ears, and bobbing Adam’s apple were the same, as was the confounded expression.
    “Check these out for Dr. Knox,” Gary said. “Tell him if you seen any of these people around.”
    Scotty didn’t ask why, but took the stills and peered at them. And slowly nodded. “I seen her and the kid too, but not around here.”
    It took a moment for it to sink in. I wiped a hand across my damp forehead. “Where and when, Scotty?”
    “A few days ago—must’ve been Wednesday. I noticed her ’cause of the kid, and ’cause she was all banged up—like she was in an accident. That why she came to see you?”
    I shook my head. “Where did you see