"Thanks for coming here so quickly, Doc."
Solomon Cohen, M.D., sneezed. Water dripped from his heavy slicker onto the floor. He pulled a wrinkled hankerchief from a pocket and blew his nose vigorously.
"That's better," Dr. Cohen said. "I admit to being curious, Deputy Ferris. Why did you send Mike Ahern to get me, instead of Dr. Logan or his associates? They've got the contract with Clatsop County." He took off his slicker. More water splattered. Ferris regarded the puddle unhappily. He'd be damned if he'd be the one to mop up that mess before the Sheriff got back.
"It was Mr. Wheeler's idea, Doctor. He wanted you."
Cohen paused. "Jake Wheeler? Why?"
"Don't know for sure, but he said to get you here quick, and nobody else. Probably best if he told you himself. He's in back with the prisoner."
"Huh." Cohen picked up his medical bag. "I guess you better take me back there, then."
Ferris held up his hand. "I have to search you first." At Cohen's scowl, he added, "It's standard procedure. Can't let anybody back there with sharp objects or weapons."
"Just for your information, Deputy, I'm carrying a medical kit. It contains many sharp objects that could be construed to be weapons, but which are, as you so quaintly put it, 'standard' for a physician. And I happen to be here in my function as a physician. Unless you want to palpate my privates to see what circumcision does to a man, you'll open that locked door and stand aside, so I can do my job."
Ferris felt his face get hot. Cohen moved past him and stood next to the locked door leading to the cells. "We're not getting any younger, Deputy."
Reluctantly, Ferris pulled his key ring out of the desk and opened the door. Damn bossy Jews! Having a celebrity prisoner was making his life miserable. He swung the heavy door open for Cohen and slammed it shut after the doctor was inside. He wished he could just lock it for good and keep Wheeler, Cohen and Kid Curry back there.
Solomon Cohen took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the cell area. The sour smells that greeted him weren't pleasant, but he barely noticed. After 25 years as a physician, he had a high tolerance for unpleasant things.
"Howdy, Sol." Cohen recognized the deep voice of his friend, the lawyer.
"Hello, Jacob. What's happening here, that you need the services of a Jewish doctor?"
Wheeler stepped forward to shake his friend's hand. "I'd like you to examine my client, Sol. He's in a bad way. He's in back."
As Cohen's eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a man in the last cell laying on a cot, in a fetal position facing the wall. He was wrapped in a blanket. Next to his cot were a bucket and some rags. He moved closer and picked up the odors of sickness. The bucket had been used. He entered the cell, and Wheeler moved a stool inside for Cohen. The doctor sat down and reached over to touch the sick man. Wheeler stood by watching.
"I'm Doctor Cohen. Mr. Wheeler sent for me. He tells me you've been ill." The only response was a shiver. He placed a hand on the man's forehead and let it rest there. Cohen glanced up at Wheeler's serious face.
"What do you think is wrong with him, Jake?"
"Bad shakes. Maybe fever. And he's got it coming out of both ends."
"Uh huh. That's not answering my question." He put his hand on the man's shoulder. "How about rolling over on your back, son, so I can examine you. And Jake, get the rest of these lights lit up. I need to see what I'm doing." The man seemed barely aware, but he let Cohen move him. As he settled onto his back, he held his stomach with both hands. Cohen gently pulled one arm loose to feel the man's pulse. He watched the man's face as Wheeler lit every lamp, and Cohen could actually see his new patient.
"What's your name, son?"
"It's Curry, sir," he whispered. "You really a doctor. . ." He didn't trust his vision. He wasn't sure if it was a man or a bear sitting next to him. The shape was large, dark, and hairy.
"I'm really a doctor, Mr. Curry. How are you feeling tonight?"
"I. . . I could really use a drink, sir. Mr. Wheeler, he. . . he said I could maybe have some. . ." the whispered speech was interrupted by trembling, and he clutched his stomach again. Cohen sat back and turned around to face his friend.
"Now I know why you called me instead of Logan."
Wheeler nodded. "I know you've been working with drunks in your clinic, Sol, helping them get off the sauce. Logan wouldn't know what to do here."
"And you think I do? I'm honored." He reached into his medical bag and took out a stethoscope.
"I'm going to listen to your heart and your breathing, Mr. Curry. You just relax and let me do the work."
Wheeler watched his friend examine Fred. Seeing Cohen at work reassured him, a little. Still, he was worried. He tried not to breathe too deeply. The smell of bodily waste was strong. He thought about opening the single window to air the place out some, but it was already chilly. Probably better to keep as much warmth as possible for the prisoner.
"Can you roll over on your side now, Mr. Curry? I want to listen to your breathing." Fred rolled slowly into a side-lying position. Cohen moved his stethoscope around, frowning slightly. When he finished, he smiled at his patient.
"Why don't you relax for a moment, Mr. Curry? I'd like to speak to Mr. Wheeler privately." He stood and replaced the stethoscope in his bag.
"We're going to step aside for a moment, Kid. But we'll be right back. Okay?"
'Kid' looked up. "If you say so, Mr. Heyes." Wheeler saw the doctor's expression change.
"He's been out of his head, too, saying crazy things," Wheeler said. "You wouldn't believe some of the things he's said to me."
"What kind of things?" Cohen saw Wheeler hesitate. "If you're concerned about privileged communication, remember that I'm sworn to the same kind of confidentiality you are."
"It's not that, Sol. I just don't think that it's relevant."
"It might give me some insight into his state of mind."
Wheeler ran one hand through his hair. "I think you got a pretty good idea of that right now."
"I think I do. You and I need to have a little chat with Eberly about providing the proper medical care for Mr. Curry."
Wheeler gestured at his client. Fred had wrapped himself in the blanket again.
"He's been asking for whiskey, so he can think clear and talk to me. You think that would help? "
Cohen sighed heavily. "Maybe for the moment, but he's detoxing from alcohol. Having a drink now would shut down the process. No, I don't recommend it."
"If you say so, Sol. Just wish I could do something to help him get better."
Sol Cohen hit the door to the cell area with his fist.
"Jake. He's a very sick man. Don't expect him to get better." He saw Wheeler's expression change as the meaning of Cohen's statement sunk in. "I'll send my nursing aide over to get him cleaned up and sedated, at least make him comfortable, and maybe we can get a janitor in to clean the cell and air it out. That should help some."
Cohen stepped back as Ferris opened the door and exited quietly. Wheeler was too – what? he wondered. – to follow right away. He stood in the chilly room, unable to analyze his own conflicting emotions and a little reluctant to try. Because, along with the shock of Cohen's dire prognosis, he also felt relief. I really am a dirt bag, he thought. He's my client, and he's sick. Still . . . if he died, our problems would be over, and me and Kid would be safe. Especially Kid.
He resolutely pushed that unsettling thought aside. Better to focus on what needed doing. He'd make sure Fred received care, and then he'd go home and try to get some rest. The next few days were going to be tough.