The Conspiracy Club Read Free Page B

The book in his arms was huge, bound in cracked, camel leather. No winged creatures graced the densely printed pages. Jeremy read the title.
    Crimean Battle Strategy: A Compendium.
    The tag on the nearest shelf said, MILITARY HISTORY.
    Arthur smiled. “Jeremy.”
    “Afternoon, Arthur. No lunch today?”
    “Large breakfast,” said the pathologist, patting his vest. “Busy afternoon, a bit of diversion seemed in order.”
    With what you do all day, it’s a wonder you ever have an appetite.
    “Lovely place, this,” said the old man.
    “Do you come here often?”
    “From time to time. Mr. Renfrew’s quite the crosspatch, but he leaves one alone, and his prices are more than fair.”
    For all his purchases, Jeremy had never learned the proprietor’s name. Had never cared. Arthur had obtained the information because, like most gregarious people, he was excessively curious.
    Yet, for all his sociability, the old man had chosen to work among the dead.
    Jeremy said, “Very fair prices. Nice seeing you, Arthur. Happy hunting.” He turned to leave.
    “Would you have time for a drink?” said Arthur. “Alcoholic or otherwise?”
    “Sorry,” said Jeremy, tapping the coat cuff that concealed his wristwatch. “Busy afternoon, as well.” His next patient was in an hour and a half.
    “Ah, of course. Sorry, then. Another time.”
    “Absolutely,” said Jeremy.
     
     
    Later, that evening, walking to his car, he noticed Arthur in the doctors’ parking lot.
    This is too much. I’m being stalked.
    But, as with the bookstore encounter, Arthur had arrived first, so that was ridiculous. Jeremy chided himself for self-importance — paranoia’s first cousin. Had he slipped that far?
    He ducked behind a pylon and watched Arthur unlock his car, a black Lincoln, at least fifteen years old. Glossy paint, shiny chrome, kept up nicely. Like Arthur’s suit: well used, but quality. Jeremy envisioned Arthur’s home, guessed the pathologist would inhabit one of the gracious old homes in Queen’s Arms, on the North Side, a shabby-elegant stretch with harbor views.
    Yes, Q.A. was definitely Arthur. The house would be a Victorian or a neo-Georgian, fusty and comfortable, chocked with overstuffed sofas in faded fabrics, stolid, centenarian mahogany furniture, layers of antimacassars, doilies, gimcracks, a nice wet bar stocked with premium liquors.
    Pinned butterflies in ornate frames.
    Was the pathologist married? Had to be. All that cheer bespoke a comfortable, comforting routine.
    Definitely married, Jeremy decided. Happily, for decades. He conjured a soft-busted, bird-voiced, blue-haired wife to dote on Dear Arthur.
    He watched as the old man lowered his long frame into the Lincoln. When the big sedan started up with a sonorous rumble, Jeremy hurried to his own dusty Nova.
    He sat behind the wheel, thinking of the comforts that awaited Arthur. Home-cooked food, simple but filling. A stiff drink to dilate the blood vessels and warm the imagination.
    Feet up, warm smiles nurtured by routine.
    Jeremy’s gut knotted as the black car glided away.
     
4
     
    T wo weeks to the day after the bookstore encounter, a second-year medical resident, an adorable brunette named Angela Rios, came on to Jeremy. He was rotating through the acute children’s ward, accompanying the attending physician and house staff on pediatric rounds. Dr. Rios, with whom he’d exchanged pleasantries in the past, hovered by his side, and he smelled the shampoo in her long, dark hair. She had eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate, a swan neck, a delicate, pointy chin under a soft, wide mouth.
    Four cases were scheduled for discussion that morning: an eight-year-old girl with dermatomyositis, a brittle adolescent diabetic, a failure to thrive infant — that one was probably child abuse — and a precocious, angry twelve-year-old boy with a miniscule body shriveled by osteogenesis imperfecta.
    The attending, a soft-spoken man named Miller, summarized the basics on