The Red Hunter(41)

Paul reached for the oxygen mask and pulled it off.

“Zoey,” he said. “They’re coming for it.”

“Who?” I asked. He was staring at me, lucid, aware. He wasn’t just rambling. “For what?”

But then Carter was pushing the mask back on and wheeling him away. I chased after, clutching all his pills to my chest. On the way out, I saw the oxygen tank in the kitchen, the cannula hanging over the chair in which he usually sat. Why had he walked away from it?

? ? ?

BY LATE AFTERNOON, DR. BURNS had come and they’d run a bunch of tests. Paul was settled in a semiprivate room at NYU Medical Center, the hospital with which his doctor is affiliated. The room was dim, and he was a cyborg, hooked to a web of tubes and monitors, an oxygen mask over his face. I sat in a vinyl chair and watched the rise and fall of his chest. I’d had to call in sick for my shift, and my boss didn’t sound happy. More attention drawn. I’d have to quit.

“Paul,” I whispered, leaning in close. “What did you mean?”

I can’t stop thinking about what he said. But he’s out.

My father stood in the corner of the room, looking rakish and thin.

“We both started smoking in the sixth grade,” he said. “Stupid.”

I didn’t answer him.

“I could say we didn’t know,” he went on. “But we did know. Everyone knows that smoking will kill you. We just didn’t care, or really believe it. Your mom used to get so mad when she caught me smoking behind the barn.”

He was not really there, and I knew this. My shrink and I have discussed it at length. He thinks it’s a way I have of parenting myself, something related to the trauma of losing them so violently. Part of my mind can’t accept their passing, so it confabulates for me. Crazy, sure. But harmless, according to my doctor, as long as I don’t start believing he’s really there.

“What do the doctors say?” my not-dad asked.

“His lung function has dropped below fifty percent,” I whispered, looking around to see if anyone could hear me. I wanted him to be there. I wanted not to be alone.

“How much time?”

“They don’t know.” My throat is tight, and I feel like there is a weight on my chest. But I won’t cry again.

“What happened?” My dad moved over to the bed, looked down at Paul.

“It looks like he walked away from his oxygen tank and couldn’t make it back.”

“Why would he do that?”

I’d been giving this some thought. He must have walked to the kitchen with the tank to make coffee, but then something caused him to walk back to the bedroom without it.

“Maybe the phone rang,” said my dad.

There’s only one extension in the apartment and it’s by his bed where he is most of the time. I can’t imagine him rushing for a phone call, though, since it’s usually just telemarketers. But the more I think about it, the more sense it makes.

“Whatever that phone call was—it must have upset him,” said my father.

I looked up toward him, but he’d gone.

? ? ?

LATER, WHEN THE DOCTOR ASSURED me that Paul would rest comfortably for the rest of the night, I left and went back to Paul’s apartment.

The building was quiet, my footfalls loud on the stairs. At the landing, I saw right away that the door was ajar. I probably left it open, but I would have thought Mr. Rodriquez would have come up to close it behind us. He’s like that, careful, always looking out for his tenants.

I stood and listened—maybe Mr. Rodriquez was inside or maybe the nurse came. But I didn’t hear anything, and finally I pushed the door. It drifted inward with a low squeak. The long hallway was clear, so I stepped in, closing the door behind me.

The kitchen was as we left it, the oxygen tank still near the chair where Paul might normally sit and have his coffee and toast. The coffee beans were out, the grinder lid open. Yes, that was it. He came to make the coffee, then went back to the room to answer the phone. I took a paring knife from the block by the window and slipped it into my pocket, then moved out of the kitchen and down the hall.

It took a second to register that the living room had been tossed—cushions thrown off the couch, books knocked from the shelves in piles on the floor. The area rug has been pulled up; the television knocked over. Adrenaline started to pulse, my heart thumping. I took three deep breaths to push back the throb of fear, of anger.

Who was here? What were they looking for? Some junkie taking the opportunity of an open door to look for money? Kids from the building disrespecting a sick old man who never did anything but help people all his life? They wouldn’t find anything. Paul had saved some money, enough to be comfortable, but he owned next to nothing. An antimaterialist in a hyper-materialistic world. Even the television was ancient. He still used a VCR, rewatching old tapes from twenty years ago.

They’re coming for it, Zoey. Be careful.

Or something more? Something else? Was there someone still here?

The bedroom door was open and the air-conditioning unit, left on from this morning, hummed. I stood to the side and waited, listening. Nothing. Finally, I moved inside. The space was empty but trashed like the living room—covers torn from the bed, drawers spilled open, closet ransacked. Boxes pulled from the shelves and contents spilled on the floor—reams of papers, folders, videotapes, old case files.