When the world came into focus, Cuddy first turned her attention to him, not the room. He stood there with a slight smile that was somehow mocking and yet a bit tentative at the same time. The light in the room was a single bulb, but it still revealed the picture.
Tall, yes. Lean, even thin, but with a sense of strength in his form. His face had weathered a thousand storms and survived them. His eyes were remarkable, very clear, vivid blue. Her survey finally came to his right leg. He carried a cane, and he was favoring that side even as he stood there.
As soon as her gaze reached his leg, he turned away, breaking the moment, and walked across the room. She followed his motion for a few strides, then finally looked around them.
They were apparently in a large old office, and it looked like a cross between a prison cell and a library. There was only one simple bed, the sort on wheels that folds up into half. A microfridge served as nightstand next to it. On top were a lamp, a jar of peanut butter, half a loaf of bread, and five books.
Books were everywhere. They spilled over the cases and formed piles on the floor. She glanced at a few titles. Not all were in English, but what she could read were mostly medical. There were also several professional journals. She picked up one, noting the address label. PPTH. It was from two years ago.
She ended up over at the desk. It was old, sturdy, a wooden structure that looked like it had been here since the beginning of time and would last after the end. On the desk were yet more books, as well as a laptop and printer. There was also, half buried, a nameplate. Dr. Richard Carter. She traced the letters with her finger. "This is his old office."
"One of them. How do you know I don't have more?"
"You aren't Dr. Carter's ghost, whoever you are. There's no such thing as ghosts." She picked up another book, this one again in some foreign language. "Have you read all of these?"
"Of course. Books aren't much use just laying around closed."
"The magazines. They came over from the main hospital. Do you just walk over there and exchange them sometimes?"
He grinned. "No, I float through the walls. When I get bored with that, I just teleport. I can also call them over here, and they flutter through the air at night."
She faced him squarely. "Do it now, then, while I'm watching. Let's see that fluttering first hand."
He laughed. "Why should I want a new magazine at the moment with you here? Lots of magazines, very few guests."
"Yeah, right. Convenient excuse." She wandered around the room, stopping at the small bed and microfridge. "You live on peanut butter sandwiches?"
He shrugged. "Keeps body and soul together."
"Why don't you teleport some decent food over from the hospital cafeteria?"
"Because books are more interesting than food."
"Books aren't required for life. Food is."
He shook his head. "Books are required. Never stop learning, Cuddy. Never. Once that goes, a person truly has lost everything."
She opened the fridge to look in. Three bottles of water, a package of bologna, and some cheese slices. She shuddered.
He spoke from another section of the room - really, for someone with a bad leg, he could move amazingly quickly and quietly. "See, I don't eat peanut butter all the time."
"Still, this must get monotonous. How long have you lived here?"
"You could look up the date yourself. Dr. Carter's death is on record."
"You aren't Dr. Carter. Not only are there no ghosts, but I actually did look up the will once and some of the newspaper stories down at the Princeton library. I found a picture of him." She turned to survey him. "There's no physical resemblance at all. You're also too young. And you are much better looking than he was."
He straightened up a little, correcting that lean on his cane. She pushed on. "So who are you?"
The new surge of energy and pride went out of him like a popped balloon. "I'm a ghost," he answered. "Simply a ghost. Who I was doesn't matter now."
"You are not a ghost," she insisted, but she knew that he wasn't going to give her any more. He had the highest walls of anyone she had ever met. She instead turned again to the books, shivering slightly. The power might not be turned off over here, but the heat was hardly kept to comfort level, either. It was probably about 55 degrees. There was a thermostat on the wall, but he hadn't turned it up. That was the first thing tonight that she completely understood. Of course he would try to use as little electricity as possible to avoid notice. Using the elevators, something required by his leg, was pushing it.
There were a few jackets laying to the side, and she counted three blankets on the small, unmade bed. He wasn't oblivious to the cold.
The lowest book on the fridge, she realized, wasn't a book at all. It was a photo album. She opened it, curious, and then stared at herself.
Pictures of her. Some from the roof, a few from other locations in the hospital. In none of them had she been looking toward the camera; she clearly wasn't even aware of the photographer's presence. Most were at a distance, even with a zoom lens, but she was unfailingly the focus. She shivered again, not with cold, and for the first time, part of her wondered about the wisdom of heading off into unknown parts with this man. Was he some crazed stalker?
In the next moment, music startled her. She jumped and turned. She hadn't even noticed the small piano earlier, surrounded as it was by piles of books, but now he was sitting there playing. The music reached out and invited her in, rhythmic, playful yet plaintive all at once. She walked over to him and stood there listening until he finished the piece. His technique was excellent.
"That was nice," she said when he stopped. "I've never heard that song before."
"I wrote it," he replied. After a moment, he went on, "I wrote it for you. It's a serenade."
She looked back over toward the pictures. "You've been watching me."
"You're worth watching," he replied. There was no threat in his voice, only a silky depth that in spite of herself made her shiver again, this time not from the temperature.
In the next moment, his face tightened up, and his hands twitched on the keyboard, starting to reach for his leg and then catching themselves. "No," he protested softly. "Not now, damn it."
"Maestro? Is something wrong?" She moved closer.
He straightened up in denial, pushing her away, but in the next second, his hands leaped for his leg, clawing at it. His face was twisted in pain, and in spite of the temperature, sweat broke out on his brow as she watched.
"Maestro?" He didn't react to her that time, and she moved around to his right side, kneeling, reaching out. His leg was rigid, locked into a spasm, the muscles quivering beneath her hands. He was digging at it with his own fingers but didn't seem to be getting anywhere, and she started trying to release the tortured muscles. It was like massaging iron. Part of his leg was actually missing, she realized. It felt like a significant chunk of the thigh wasn't there at all, and what was left was trembling in insult.
She kept working. It seemed to take forever, but finally, his leg began to release under her hands. His breathing slowed, though still too fast, and he sat there on the piano bench with head bowed.
The moment when awareness of her finally overcame the pain was obvious. He jumped, pulling back. "Damn you," he snarled. "Leave me alone."
"I'm just trying to help." She looked around. "Do you have any kind of medicine? A heating pad or something?"
He awkwardly climbed off the piano bench on the other side, escaping her. "It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does." She let him go but went over to look around again beside the bed. There was a bottle of Tylenol down on the floor between the fridge and the bed frame, and she picked it up. Tylenol? With an injury like that, all he had was Tylenol? There were also some beer cans under the bed.
She walked back over to him and offered the Tylenol bottle. His head was bowed; he wasn't looking at her. He accepted the bottle, opened it, and shook out four. She shuddered at the hepatic insult but didn't say anything.
He noticed anyway. "Yes, I know what the recommended dosage is."
"I'm sure you do," she replied. "Whoever you are, you're definitely a doctor. You're the best doctor I've ever known."
He didn't reply, just standing there. When his breathing had finally leveled out and he had stopped sweating, he looked over at her. "So now you know it all."
It was her turn to laugh. "Know it all? Believe me, Maestro, I have more questions than ever after tonight."
"Yes, and I'm sure I know what most of them are about." He struck his cane on the floor harshly.
"That's not what I . . ."
He interrupted her. "What am I thinking? There's no future in my life, not even for me, much less anyone else." He pulled the blindfold out of his pocket. "I'm sorry, Cuddy. I'll take you back. Maybe that Dr. Wilson is still waiting around for your date."
The route back was shorter, though still deliberately disorienting, but throughout the walk, she couldn't get another word out of him. At the roof, he pushed her through the gate, and she heard the lock click harshly behind her. When she turned around as he pulled off the blindfold at the last moment, he vanished quickly, a limping shadow, and she was alone.