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Brigette. Thank you.”
    Both she and Beauregard smiled, and he led Peter into his inner office. Cross was surprised to see that the place lacked any semblance of order. Medical books were piled on his desk along with an art book on surrealism.
    Beauregard noticed Cross staring at the book.
    “A hobby of mine. I like painting very much.”
    Cross smiled. He was excited by finding out that Beauregard was interested in art. Especially surrealist art. For the surrealist writers and painters—Breton, Dali, Paul Eluard, and the others—had been the first great supporters of Poe’s visions.
    “I understand how you feel,” Beauregard said. “It’s not easy to lose a patient … but you can’t afford to ever lose the capacity for caring and for hurting. I want to tell you something in confidence. I’ve been watching you, and I think you have a remarkable ability. Not only within the field, but in your capacity for caring. I’ve heard good things from the patients, very good things indeed.”
    Cross felt a flush of excitement.
    “You were ganged up on today because you’re different.”
    He gestured at Peter’s dark raincoat, his red scarf.
    Cross stared at himself and laughed.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll try to buy some leisure suits.”
    “Lime green,” Beauregard said. “Lime green is very chic.”
    They both laughed again, and Beauregard tapped his pencil on his desk.
    “Well,” he said, “I’ve got to get back to work. I just want you to know that I know you take your work seriously, and that whatever went on in there today doesn’t change my opinion at all.”
    “Thank you,” Peter said. He felt the rumbling inside of him.
    The two men smiled at one another, and Cross felt as though Beauregard could look into him, see him quiver.
    “I’ll see you out,” Beauregard said.
    At the door Beauregard patted him on the back. His hand felt like it was radioactive, and Peter jerked back a little.
    “See you, Peter.”
    “Right, Dr. Beauregard.”
    “Jesus, Peter … call me Beau. I’m not all that old and venerable yet.”
    “Of course,” Peter said, smiling. But he did not add “Beau.”
    Beauregard watched him go down the hall, the way he moved, long, easy, graceful strides. The man had a natural dignity and style. Perhaps that more than anything else bothered the others. He walked back in his office and had just sat down when his phone lit red.
    He picked it up and let out a deep breath.
    “Dr. Beauregard,’ said Brigette, “I have an important message for you. From Lauren Shaw.”
    “Yes.”
    “She’s leaving two tickets for you for Thursday night’s performance of her new play, Charm’s Way. She said she expected you to make an appearance.”
    Beauregard thought of Lauren. Standing in front of him long, lean, and tanned, holding a champagne glass.
    “Thank you, Brigette.”
    “Well? Are you going, Doctor?”
    “Yes, I am.”
    “Ahhhh,” said Brigette.
    “Thank you for the news. Forget the exclamation points,” Beauregard said.
    He hung up and sat back in his chair. Almost any other man in New York would feel like celebrating, but his thoughts drifted to his estranged wife, Heather. He could still smell her on his sheets, hear her voice talking to Sarah. He felt a wave of loneliness and self-pity sweep him, and he wondered if the next time Heather called he wouldn’t use the old “stay together for Sarah’s sake” routine. No, he wouldn’t—he hoped. He wanted to be honest and straight, but love had a way of making you lie. To your wife, but mostly to yourself. He hoped he would be strong enough to be honest about it. But it was a little like surgery; there was no way of really knowing what was happening until you began to cut.

3
    Dr. Julio Dios and anesthesiologist Harry Gardner sat in the back booth of the Emergency Room Bar and Grill, one block south of Eastern Hospital. Above them on the walls were the instruments of their trade—masks, tubes, a giant comic needle