2
By the time I got home, the pain in my ankle and the backs of both thighs was so excruciating I could barely limp upstairs. I made it to the bathroom and shimmied out of my pants. Using Eva’s hand mirror, I examined the damage. The baton had left inflamed red lines—each six inches long and an inch wide—across the backs of my thighs. They looked like two massive tapeworms burrowing beneath the skin. The capillaries around the welts had burst, causing a spattering of bright-red blotches, but from what I could tell in the mirror, it was unlikely I would develop a hematoma, though the backs of both legs would eventually become ugly bruises.
I gingerly made my way downstairs to the kitchen and cracked ice cubes into two towels. Closing the refrigerator, I noticed the magnetized notepad on which Eva and I left each other messages. I took it with me as I made my way to the sofa, gently placing the towels with ice beneath each leg and slowly sitting. The fabric of the towels rubbed the welts, aggravating the pain, but I forced myself to stay seated, resting my head back against the cushion.
I felt like that seven-year-old boy again, the one forced to lie about my beating, calling it a bike accident. I had realized, even at that young age, that no one could protect me, no matter how much they said they could. And then another thought came to me, and it frightened me so much I sat up. I’d been right. David Bateman had hit his daughter in the head. He had seriously injured her, maybe blinded her in one eye. And that wasn’t all. Bateman knew I was an ophthalmologist. He knew where I practiced and lived, and he knew that his ex-wife had come to see me. He was stalking her, and in so doing, he was stalking me. That was the reason for Trina Crouch’s ardent denial. She had reached the same conclusion I had reached as that young, beaten boy. She and her daughter were on their own. She could not call the law; her ex-husband was the law. To whom was Trina Crouch going to run? To whom was she going to protest? It was why she had laughed at my suggestion that I could somehow help her. Help her? Help her how? What was I going to do, call the police?
I picked up the phone and dialed the number for the hotel in Boston, not even considering the three-hour time difference. I asked for Eva Pryor’s room, and in the moments before it rang I fought to pull myself together and not sound like a child.
The phone rang twice before I heard the receiver lift.
“Hello?”
The voice was groggy, muffled, someone awakened from a dead sleep, face maybe still buried in a pillow, brain not quite aware.
But most definitely male.
“Hello?” he said, this time more forcefully.
And just as I was about to say, “Sorry, wrong room,” I heard covers rustling and the faint whisper of Eva’s panicked voice.
“Shit,” she said.
3
1971
Saint Joe’s High School San Mateo, California My transition to high school was not the same as my rude introduction to grammar school, but it was also not a smooth landing. I believe my high school teachers were forewarned about the kid with the red eyes. As for my classmates, there was an initial coolness; those first few days I caught them staring at me and whispering in the hallways, but my friendship with Ernie went a long way toward breaking the ice. At a school where sports were revered, Ernie became an instant rock star, and I was accepted like one of his roadies. No one dared to insult me with Ernie Cantwell at my side, and eventually, the larger environment allowed me to blend in—to the extent I was ever able to blend in.
At Saint Joe’s, kids were lumped into groups. You had your jocks, the nerds, the dorks, and the stoners. I straddled the lines between the nerds, dorks, and jocks, with jock being the most tenuous. Though I was far from an impressive athlete either in build or ability, I did make the freshman basketball team on sheer determination and hustle. My coach told me, in a not so ringing endorsement, “How can I cut a kid who tries so hard with so little success?” I didn’t care. Making the team gave me the chance to show my classmates that I was just a normal kid, except for my “condition.”