Chapter 11

The words seemed to still the entire room for a second. We stood there, gaping at each other. Elvis’s big green eyes never wavered. Then he said, “I’ve never missed a trick. Ask anyone.”

Archer said, “That’s true. Even the first one, where he was in high school and a policeman put him in handcuffs as a joke, he got out less than a minute. He always gets out. He’s like the Mounties. They always get their man, and Elvis always gets out. But you know, Elvis—”

Elvis said, “I know what’s normal for me. And I know that stunt wasn’t normal.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

For the first time, he blinked and paused before he said, “I just know.”

I glanced at his brother. Archer said heavily, “He doesn’t remember the stunt.”

“Oh.” I tried not to ask the obvious question: so how would you know if it’s normal or not? I said, “Well, that’s very distressing, but maybe amnesia is normal after…you stop breathing for a few minutes.” I was going to have to come up with better euphemisms for near-death when talking to patients. “I bet with rehabilitation and time, your memory will start to…improve.” With any luck.

“I don’t want to wait for that,” said Elvis.

I nodded. “I understand that. I wouldn’t want to wait, either. But I can’t help you.”

“I’ll pay you,” said Elvis.

“That’s generous of you, but—”

“You’re the detective doctor, right? I’ll pay you. Archer offered you a grand. It’s probably not enough. I bet we could double that. How does that sound?”

“It’s not the money. I’m retired from all that,” I said, taking a step back from him.

“Hang on,” said Tucker. “Let’s just chill for a second.”

I shot him a look. I hate when people tell me to chill. It’s like, if I was tense before, how is you bossing me around going to get me to relax? But when I turned back to Elvis, he was glowering at Tucker too, so for the first time, we agreed on something.

I turned to Elvis, aiming for a warm yet professional tone. “Look. I know that the human brain can be pretty great at healing itself.” Elvis made a face, so maybe I wasn’t phrasing it right, but I was thinking of stroke victims who’d told me they’d been completely mute and paralyzed on one side, but now, years later, they could Skype, play bridge, and walk with just a little bit weakness on one side. Of course I’d also met patients who hadn’t recovered like that, but even so. Elvis was young and already walking and talking, which was pretty amazeballs and definitely a good prognostic sign. “So once you’ve healed up, you may recover your memories and evidence that someone tried to kill you. Then you can talk to the police.”

“Yeah, and by then, whoever did it will have skipped town!” said Elvis.

That part was true. I changed tactics. “If you want to hire someone, you need a real private detective. I already have a more than full-time job.”

“I don’t want any private detective. I want you.” He stared at me, giving me the uncomfortable feeling that Elvis survived so many life-threatening escapades not just because he was thin and quick and dexterous, but because he was as stubborn as a pit bull.

Fortunately, so am I. “You can’t have me,” I said evenly. “I just came to see how you’re doing.”

Elvis snorted. “If you wanted that, you could just have checked out the news reports.”

I paused. I suppose I could have been content to read that he was in satisfactory or stable condition. He had a point, but he was still highly irritating. I didn’t have to trek down here post-call to get brow-beaten into working for him. I bit my lip before I could tell him so. Ryan once told me that, in an argument, whoever stays calm, wins. For some reason, that sounds better than Tucker ordering me to chillax. I tried to channel Elvis’s point of view. “I guess I was curious, but that doesn’t mean I want to become a detective again. I’m a doctor. I like to know how my…people are doing.” I didn’t call him a patient in case he got offended.

Archer laid his hand on Elvis’s shoulder again. Elvis shoved it away and stomped back to his bed, dragging his table back in front of him. He stuck some meat in his mouth and chewed loudly.

Archer shook his head. “I’m sorry, Hope. He’s been in a really bad mood since—”

“I can hear you,” said Elvis, around his food.

“And he’s been acting like a spoiled brat who doesn’t recognize that you saved his life,” Archer said, raising his voice and silencing his brother.

“Sorry,” said Elvis, after a pause. “I suck.”

I started to deny it, but I stopped. Even Tucker just watched his hero, not jumping in the way he usually would.

Elvis ran his hand through his hair, messing it up. “Look. I’m an escape artist. That’s all I do. I could never sit in an office and make photocopies all day. I would go crazy.” Across the small room, he pinned me with his green goggle eyes, and I kind of believed him. “I don’t know much, but I know I prepared for that stunt for six months. We built that coffin. I practiced with it, and with the chains, in the costume, even at a swimming pool. I knew how to get out in two minutes flat. Something went wrong.”

Archer nodded silently. When I looked at him, he said, “It’s true. He averaged a minute and 45 seconds. He should have broken through the coffin as soon as it hit the water.”

“Did you inspect the coffin afterward to see if someone had tampered with it?” Tucker said.

Archer shook his head. “I haven’t seen anything. Hugo dropped me off at the hospital with Elvis.” Hugo must be the muscle guy who drove the truck and helped nail Elvis into the coffin. “Then he went back to the Old Port to pick up Lucia plus the coffin and all that. I told him to return the TV. We had to bring that in so I could get my deposit back. But I also asked him to grab any extra T-shirts back from the kid who was selling them, make sure the quay was clean—just details I would have taken care of if I’d been there.”

It sounded like Hugo had had his hands full. “Did he take the TV back?” I asked.

“Yeah. He brought me the receipt after. He was fired up because he wanted his pay. I didn’t have enough cash on me, and I was waiting for the trauma doctors to come back and keeping an eye on Elvis to make sure he didn’t have another seizure. I told Hugo to hang on. He went out for a smoke and never came back. I texted him, and he said he’d see me when I had his pay ready. Later, he texted me, said he had information I’d be interested in, but I didn’t know what he was talking about. I was pissed because by then I’d heard that he tried to take the money from the guys selling admissions and T-shirts, but they both held it for me.”

Hugo sounded pretty greedy. I tried to recall what Hugo looked like, but mostly I just remembered a 30-something, heavy set white guy with brown hair and a thick nose. I’d been busy staring at Elvis and Archer during the show. “Did you get your money, then?”

“Yeah, the other guys met me in the emergency room around supper time. I remember because Elvis was having trouble eating the soup.”

“Hey,” said Elvis.

“You kept spilling it,” said Archer, before he added to me, “They brought me the money. I paid them their share. I paid Lucia right after. She had to go to work.”

I wondered what kind of work Lucia did, but I left that for another time. “And Hugo?”

“I texted him as soon as Elvis finished his supper. He said he was on his way, but he never made it.”

I exchanged a look with Tucker. “You haven’t gotten a hold of him for the last two days?”

Archer shrugged. “I’ve been a little busy. He’ll turn up. Lucia said she’d dig him up today. She’s coming in—” He checked his watch and beamed. “Should be here any minute.”

I didn’t like this. “Does Hugo still have your truck with the coffin and all your other stuff in it?”

Archer’s smile flickered for a second. “Nah. He parked it in the hospital garage when he brought me the TV receipt, but he didn’t lock the cab, which I didn’t figure out until Sunday morning.”

Elvis snorted.

Archer turned on his brother and scowled. “I stuck by you as long as I could. They said visiting hours were over and kicked me out. Otherwise, I would’ve stayed.”

Elvis fake-coughed something that sounded like Ooshe.

Archer socked him in the arm, but I could tell that he was blushing. He had a tan that looked like it came from the sun, like a construction worker, not a fake bake like Elvis, but he’d started to tint red underneath it.

And then I got it. Not Ooshe. “You went to see Lucia?”

Archer tugged at his collar for a second. “I wanted to see if she was okay. We didn’t get a chance to talk in the emergency room, really, so I checked on her.”

Elvis laughed. “Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays? I’ve still got some skin condoms from Sara—”

Archer cleared his throat. “Shut up, Elvis.”

The warning rang clear enough in his voice that Tucker and I exchanged glances before I looked from one brother to the other. So Archer was boffing Lucia. It wasn’t much of a shocker, but I decided to redirect them anyway. “Did you know Lucia from Winnipeg, or did you meet her here?”

Archer smiled. “I met her online before we drove out here. I was on the TripTalk forum, asking questions about Montreal, and she offered to put us up in her apartment, a little two-bedroom place in the east end. Her roommate’s got a boyfriend, though, and I wanted more security and privacy closer to the Old Port, so we rented a room at the Hotel St-Cyr and I hired her for publicity.”

“And Hugo?” I asked.

“I needed someone behind the scenes. Lucia knew him, so she brought him along.”

Seemed fishy to me, but all I said was, “He didn’t lock your truck cab?”

“I guess someone could have jimmied the lock, but it was unlocked Sunday morning and my tools were gone. The coffin and T-shirts were still packed in the back.”

“You think he took the tools?”

Archer paused before he shook his head. “All I know is that they’re gone now. But my truck was parked outside the hospital, then, uh, in the east end of Montreal, so I guess anyone could have taken them before I noticed.”

If someone stole the bike light off my handlebars inside a garage, I wasn’t surprised that it was bye-bye for Archer’s tools after 36 hours in an unlocked truck. And after a night in the east end of Montreal, which I’d heard was kind sketchy, he was lucky to hang on to the coffin and T-shirts.

Elvis cracked his knuckles. “Why are we talking about this shit? Let’s stick to what’s important. Someone’s out to get me. They almost killed me.”

I saw no proof of an assassination attempt, but I played along. “You talked to the police?” I asked.

Elvis snorted. “Useless twats. All they cared about was those goddamned tools.”

Archer laid a hand on his arm. “They said there’s not much they can do for Elvis. There’s no evidence of wrongdoing. But they came by today, made a report about the tools and gave me a card. Told me not to get my hopes up. The tools are long gone. If we’re lucky, they might ditch a few somewhere along the road.”

“Or sell them on eBay,” said Elvis.

It was the first time he’d made a joke, even a small one, so I smiled at him. He smiled back for a second.

“That does, uh, sound unfortunate,” I said. I was about to say that it blew, but you learn to censor yourself as a doctor. I didn’t want pity to suck me in, but I still needed to know that they’d be taken care of. “But the most important thing is that you’re all right, Elvis. Do they expect you to recover your memory?”

Elvis shook his head and bolted down the remains of his coffee. “They never tell you anything straight.”

I turned to Archer. He shrugged and shuffled his feet. “We’ve kind of gotten the runaround. I wish you could talk to one of his doctors, but I bet they’re all gone now.”

After hours, I’d only be able to talk to a resident or fellow, but they’d be busy on call, and they’d probably just cover the service and wouldn’t know Elvis’s case any better than I would, if I could access his chart. “They might not know your prognosis. Everyone is different, and every brain is different. But maybe if I looked at your chart, I might be able to translate it into English for you. If you want, I could take a look. I’d need your permission,” I said, directly to Elvis.

“Sure, whatever. You want me to sign it, I’ll sign it.”

Archer nodded. “And if you need some backup, I’ll sign it, too.”

Tucker flashed me a broad smile. “I’ll get the chart. Or the forms.”

I had no doubt he’d charm the chart out of the nurses’ hands, which was good. Better him than me blushing and saying, “I have permission...” while the nurses sniffed and demanded paperwork signed in triplicate.

On the other hand, maybe that would be better than standing with the Serratore brothers in awkward silence. It wasn’t like I could say, “Hey, how about them Habs?” and turn to idle hockey talk. Every conversational gambit seemed to either point out the fact that I didn’t want to pin on a detective badge or that his life and livelihood might be ruined.

Finally, I just said, “White lights, huh? I thought maybe that was a myth.”

Elvis grinned at me. “No, I really saw them. Well, it was more like a flash. You know, like if your screen blanks out? My whole vision just went white.”

Hmm. Maybe that was just from his brain being deprived of oxygen. I thought of something else. “It’s funny that you remember that, but you don’t remember the rest of the stunt.”

“I know! It’s driving me crazy. I remember waking up that morning and saying to Archer, ‘It’s D-Day.’”

Archer nodded in silent agreement.

“But after that, nothing. I don’t remember having toast, or going for a run, or going on the computer, even though he told me I did all that. I don’t remember getting to the dock. I don’t remember the show, or you guys bringing me back. I just remember a bright light and trying to breathe, and the next thing I know, I’m wearing a crappy hospital gown and Archer’s bad breath hanging over me.”

I glanced at Archer. He said, “He remembers waking up upstairs. Nothing about the emergency room.”

“Then why did you want to see me? You don’t remember me at all,” I said, both relieved and nettled.

“I believe in my gut, and my gut says, I need you.” Again, he laid those green pop eyes on me.

I switched my gaze to Archer. The sane one. “Guts are good, but you should really check out people before you hire them. Not that I’m for sale, but did you ask Lucia and Hugo for references?”

“Of course I did,” Archer said. “I called them before we came out here. She did some modeling work, plus she worked as a waitress until the restaurant went out of business a month ago.”

A month ago. Rent was due right about now. “Did Hugo have references too?”

Archer nodded. “I only had time to call two of his, but they were okay. He did some construction work on and off, but he was on unemployment. I think he was glad to make some money.”

I bet he was. Could he have made even more money by sabotaging Elvis? But why kill the goose who laid the golden egg, or even a copper egg? Unless there was any profit to be made on Elvis dying. I couldn’t think of how. “Could you send me their references?”

Archer’s brow furrowed, “I guess so. You really think…”

“Elvis thinks someone sabotaged his stunt. There are only three people who had close access to him that day. You, Lucia, and Hugo.”

Archer’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t seriously think I would—”

“I’m just gathering the facts while we’re waiting for the chart,” I said. “First of all, how could someone have sabotaged Elvis’s stunt? Secondly, who would have done it? And thirdly, why?”

Archer fell silent and squeezed his hands into fists. Elvis turned away from the window to face me. He said, “I can’t tell you all my tricks. That’s how I make my living.”

“I’m not going to steal them and sell them. You wouldn’t catch me chaining myself up in a coffin, but I can respect your privacy. So let’s start with who. When was the last time you did the stunt successfully, so that you don’t think anyone had tampered with your set-up?”

Elvis said, “We did it the night before. Not in the water, because we didn’t want anyone to see us in the Old Port and ruin the act, but we took the truck out to the dock after dark and practiced raising and lowering the coffin. Good photo op, too.”

“Did you get chained up?” I asked.

Elvis shook his head. “You gotta save the show for the show, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you wear the same costume?”

“No. I usually practice that part indoors, where no one else can film me, but I don’t remember.”

Archer said, “Hugo and I took the coffin down and practiced chaining it and lowering it down until we got it smooth. I made sure we had the whole setup going for the electronics, the flat screen TV and the countdown timer, the video clips.”

“How did you get all the electronics there, anyway?” I asked.

“Hugo knew some guys.”

Hugo knew a lot of things, it seemed. I filed that away. “All right. So you two set up the electronics and the coffin for practice. And Elvis came?”

“I signed autographs and did a few TV interviews,” said Elvis. “I remember that part.”

“Lucia wasn’t there?”

“Lucia did crowd control around Elvis,” said Archer. “A star looks like more of a star if he’s got some built-in fans, and Lucia knew how to draw them in.”

I raised one eyebrow, and he flushed a little. “She was wearing an Elvis T-shirt.”

I had one of those babies myself. Not too sexy.

“With not much underneath it,” added Elvis.

Ah. No wonder Archer ended up in the sack with her. “So, as far as you both know, everything went smoothly for your outside rehearsal on Friday night. The coffin was stored where?”

“In our hotel room, locked up, where no kooks could get at it,” said Archer.

“Except the hotel cleaning service and management,” I pointed out. “You did let them clean your room, right?”

He nodded, worried. “But I don’t think anything was wrong with the coffin. I mean, Elvis didn’t break his way out of it on Friday, because we only had one extra, but we’d practiced dozens of times in Winnipeg, with the exact same coffin, with no problem.”

I held up my hand. “Hang on a second. You brought two coffins?”

Archer and Elvis both looked at me like I was stupid. “If one of them broke on the way, we wouldn’t really have time to fix it. So yeah, we brought two,” said Elvis.

“Were they identical?”

Archer and Elvis exchanged a look. “Yeah. We built five of them. I destroyed three while practicing, and we brought the last two,” said Elvis.

“So you still have one in your hotel room,” I said.

Elvis tilted his head back and surveyed me with those green pop eyes. “You want me to show you how it’s done, for real?”

“Maybe.” I hadn’t thought it through yet. “And you break the coffins when you get out of them?”

“I don’t always,” said Elvis. “It gets expensive. We made one with a swing lid so I could just practice in chains and handcuffs and other stuff and kick open the lid. But just before we came out here, I killed three of them in a row, just to prove that I could get out underwater. We couldn’t afford for me to make a mistake.”

But something had gone wrong, and he’d almost died. The thought lingered in the air while the three of us tried to ignore it.

And then Elvis’s eyes flared with possibility. There was only one thing that could electrify an escape artist like that, that could make him feel alive instead of trapped and helpless, and I opened my mouth to object even before he punched his fist in the air and said, “That coffin’s calling me. I’m going back in.”

“You can’t,” said Archer, right away. “Not when you’re brain damaged.”

Elvis snorted. “I feel fine.”

“You get headaches. You’re still dizzy. You don’t fucking remember what happened. That’s brain damage.”

“So what? I don’t care. I want to get in and relive it. That way, I’ll remember it. Isn’t there a fancy word for that?” He turned to me for support.

“Uh, probably.” Immersion therapy was what came to my mind, but maybe I was getting mixed up because he wanted to immerse himself in water again. “Elvis. Archer’s right. This could be dangerous for you.”

Elvis grinned. For the first time that I’d seen him in hospital, I got a flash of the Elvis Lives, the escape artist, the man courting danger, instead of a sullen near-teenager trapped in a hospital. “I don’t care.”

“You’re supposed to rest after a concussion. You’re not even supposed to text or play video games, let alone try life-threatening stunts. And you didn’t have a concussion. You had hypoxic-anoxic encephalopathy.”

Elvis waved me away like I was a mosquito. “Same difference.”

“No. Concussions are from a direct blow to the head. Hypoxia and anoxia are from lack of oxygen to the brain. They’re not the same animal, but they’re both dangerous. After a concussion, you’ve got to rest and let your body heal. It’s the same deal, or worse, if your brain was missing oxygen.”

“I’ve heard of that, though,” Archer said. “People with amnesia who go back into the same situation, and then they remember things. Is that just in the movies?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I can’t be an accomplice in damaging Elvis’s brain any more than it is.”

Elvis turned to me. “Then I’m doing it without you.”

“What?”

He snapped his fingers. “You’re doing what you needed to do. You’re putting the pieces together. You pointed out that we’ve still got two coffins I can use for a do-over. So I’m going for it. With or without you.”

“You’re going to jump back in the river with brain damage?”

“No.” Elvis turned to Archer. “Look. This is how we can redeem this. We’ll get the okay from my doctors. Let’s ask the guy who shaves his head, he’s cool.”

“Dr. Weintraub,” said Archer.

“Yeah, him. I bet he’ll give the nod. We can set up in the cafeteria or the atrium—wherever there’s more room. You and Lucia can chain me up. And I’ll break out of the coffin right in the middle of the University College Hospital. It’ll be ace.”

Archer said slowly, “We can sell it like a fundraiser for the hospital. So we won’t make any money on it, or just 20 percent or something. But then you’re right, we can make this work for us.”

“Guys,” I started, but it was no use. I was like the substitute teacher that everyone ignored, even with a pointer in her hand. So I said, “I’m not buying this as a cure for amnesia. And I usually tell grade III concussions not to exert themselves for a month, so I imagine you’d have to rest for at least that long Are you going to wait a month?”

Elvis paused. I could see him calculating in his brain before he pasted a sweet smile on his face. “I’d like to do it for the University College Hospital.”

Before I could call him on his B.S., Tucker materialized in the doorway. “The nurse didn’t want me to bring the chart in here. We’d have to go to medical records during business hours. But I did run into the resident on call. He said they thought Elvis’s prognosis was good since we resuscitated him right away and he already has good verbal and motor control.”

Elvis said, “I’ll show them motor control.”

Tucker looked confused, but Archer made an effort to smile at us. “Thanks for trying. We appreciate you taking the time to come all the way down here, even though you can’t take the case…” His voice trailed off.

This was ridiculous. Not only was I not taking the case, but somehow I’d planted the seed for Elvis to pull another stunt where he might damage his brain even more. “You know I strongly advise against this…do-over. Even if you don’t die this time, you could severely damage your brain even more. Thanks for your understanding,” I said, marching toward the door. As I’d figured out during my psych rotation, a swift exit is the best exit when you’ve got a dissatisfied audience.

To my surprise, Tucker didn’t turn to follow me. He stood his ground and said, in a low voice, “You’re right. You shouldn’t do any more detective work. That’s just smart.”

“Thanks,” I said, gesturing him to follow me so I could explain the Serratore brothers’ latest inane inspiration, but Tucker moved past me, closer to Elvis, and said directly to him, “Dr. Sze isn’t free to take this case. I am.”