Main Street, as usual, was packed, so Jericho steered the
rented Mercury Grand Marquis onto Braeswood just before hitting the Bayou.
Houston is never cold, and at this time of year it was hot and humid in a way
that made a person lose their fear of hell. The entire triangle between the
bayou, Main, and Cambridge is a sprawling concrete heat-sink of medical
centers, housing some of the most advanced facilities and reknowned care
providers in the world. Jericho hit a chuckhole and wondered how many decades it
had been since this triangle of medical genius had seen a road crew. The tarmac
was hot enough that it was oozing oil, and all the traffic tires made an odd
zipping noise as they sped along. The air conditioning was on full blast, crystalizing the salt in the sweat-stains at
Jericho’s neck, armpits, and lower back. Jericho could see the condensation in
the air, like a small cloud, as the air came out of the labored air
conditioning vents. It seemed to have no effect on the temperature inside the
car.
Jericho missed the turn off onto Bertner, and swore under his
breath. One of the perks in downtown Houston was the 4G Sprint network that
blanketed the city, providing state of the art GPS navigation with real-time
traffic speed adjustments. One of the downsides was that Jericho did not have
Sprint. A few minutes of jerking traffic and sweltering heat later, and Jericho
was able to turn left on Holcombe, before taking a right onto MD Anderson Blvd.
It is difficult to describe the University of Texas M.D. Anderson Cancer Center
in Houston. It is one of the most advanced cancer centers in the world,
housing some of the only instantiations of certain technologies for several timezones. One of these technologies was proton therapy, which sounded to Jericho like something out of Star
Trek, and for the what he was paying, probably was. The impressive technology and expertise of
MD Anderson was sheathed in a collection of equally impressive architectural
genius. Everything was glass and steel and the redish-tan concrete that everything
in Houston is built out of. Clusters of buildings clawed their way skyward like
clusters of supernatural crystals, sunlight dazzling off of horizontal glass
and smudging the edges of vertical concrete. Consisting of coastal wetlands and heat
and skillet-flat clay, the largest plants Houston has ever grown are rice and sugar cane. As a result, it is very rare to see anything built out of
wood or stone. Even the sprawling pre-fab mansions with perfectly kept lawns
and annoyingly symmetrical design are made out of concrete.
Jericho passed under the glass tube walkway that joined a gorgeous red and beige concrete palace to the parking garage and turned left toward
the self-parking area. He glanced at the sign, which read “MD Anderson Cancer
Center” with the “cancer” part crossed out with a bolt red line in a font that
roughly imitated a child’s crayon. Jericho was pleasantly surprised by how
clearly marked the entrances and pathways were, despite the endless sprawl of
the campus, which merged effortlessly into the nearby care providers, and from
there into the indistinguishable Houston skyline. Everything was clean, and
shiny, and clearly marked, with colored lines on the wall or floor or sidewalk leading to various destinations. It really did seem like the set of a science fiction film,
only more friendly, and Jericho’s spirits were lifted by the thought that
Caitlyn was able to receive world-class care in such a clean and warm
atmosphere.
The man behind the desk was young, gorgeous, and a bit too
peppy for Jericho’s mood.
“Caitlyn Slade.”
The young man smiled too broadly and typed a few keystrokes.
His smile turned into a sympathetic frown that reminded Jericho of a
disappointed Koala. “I’m sorry, sir; your name isn’t on the approved list.”
Jericho smiled with his teeth. “There must be a mistake.
She’s my daughter.”
The young man put on his pouty face and pretended to do
something with the computer. It was frustratingly condescending, but Jericho
chalked that up to his bad mood, and the bile of fear that was rising in his
stomach.
“No mistake, sir; I’m sorry.”
“She’s my daughter. I paid for her to be admitted. A lot, by
the way.”
The young man’s face remained infuriatingly impassive. “I’m
sorry sir, but I can’t grant you access if you aren’t on the list. You can
check with our community relations department and see if…”
But Jericho had already turned away.
What has that crazy
bitch done this time?
Fear and anger snatched at his stomach, and he suddenly felt
nauseated. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up his lawyer’s
number. It rang, and then rang again, and Jericho realized that he was walking
without direction or purpose. He had no idea where he was, and the phone call
went to voicemail, and he was lost in a very large, very nice building where
people came hoping not to die. And somewhere in the concrete and steel and LCD
lighting and taupe carpets Caitlyn lay fighting for her life.
Sharon wouldn’t pick up, and her deadbeat pimp boyfriend’s
number had been disconnected, of course, because he probably hadn’t paid his
phone bill – again. A small part of his mind cursed at the money he had spent
on a PI to get him one useless phone number.
God damn it! God
fucking damn it! She has custody – she must not have listed me as an approved
visitor. What a shitbag thing to do. She never thinks of anyone! And how much
time has she spent with Caitlyn in the last year? A couple of hospital visits?
I have taken care of everything. Everything! The bills, the doctors, the
goddamn insurance companies! This can’t be legal. Life is a bitch without her
throwing her two brain cells into the mix.
And yet for all his anger and angst, Jericho never once
thought of suing her or hitting her or taking out his rage in a pound of flesh.
Life was one shit sandwich after another, and hurting someone else would not
improve anything.
The car was hot, and the air-conditioning ineffective, and
the tarmac boiled under the fierce sun.
