Free The Wilson Deception by David O. Stewart Page B

had never seen a patient return from that stage. He wheeled on Lawrence, not bothering to conceal his anger. “You should have told me your friend was like this. I can’t help him.”
    â€œDoctor, after coming all this way, which I appreciate so terribly much, won’t you just take a look?”
    â€œI can’t work the miracle you want. The war has taught me not to waste time on those I can’t help. You must know that, too.”
    â€œWhat am I to do?”
    â€œLet your friend know he’s not alone. You can do that. I can’t. I can’t sit at his bedside through the final minutes. It’s a duty that would never end.”
    Lawrence looked crumpled.
    In a gentler tone, Fraser added, “It shouldn’t be long. For your friend’s sake, I hope not. He may have some moments at the end. He’ll be glad to see a friend.”
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    Emerging from the birdcage elevator at the lobby level, Fraser paused to wrap his muffler around his neck and rebutton his coat. He had never taken it off.
    â€œJamie?”
    The voice, tentative but familiar, came from beside him.
    He turned. The face had aged. He hadn’t seen it for close to twenty years. The remaining hair—not a whole lot of it—was gray. The waistline was thicker. But there was no mistaking him.
    â€œSpeed,” he cried out. “This is unbelievable.”
    Cook held out his hand and Fraser grabbed it. Grinning, each used his free hand to grip the other’s elbow.
    â€œUnbelievable.”
    â€œHold on, there.” Speed nodded at Fraser’s military cap. “Maybe I should be saluting?”
    Fraser smiled. “That sort of thing was never your strong suit.”
    They each took a half step back.
    â€œYou look good, Speed. Real good.”
    â€œFat and old, but still causing trouble.”
    â€œAnd your family?”
    Cook’s smile vanished. “Jamie. You got a minute? Maybe a few minutes. We could go in the bar?”

Chapter 9
    Monday, February 17, 1919
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    A t a corner table in the hotel bar, they took a moment to regard each other.
    â€œSo,” Cook said, “have you been back to Cadiz or to Harrison County, Ohio?”
    â€œNot once.”
    â€œMe neither.”
    â€œWhat’s it been . . . eighteen years?”
    â€œAt least.” Cook waved down a waiter.
    Back home, Fraser thought, Cook might set off a stir by sitting in the bar of the Waldorf Astoria and summoning the staff. Yet his old friend didn’t seem out of place with the cosmopolitan clientele of the Majestic. Maybe things had changed back home since Fraser left.
    When they ordered beer, the waiter offered a trace of a sneer but left without comment. Cook smiled. “Tell me about Miss Eliza and your daughter.”
    Fraser kept it vanilla, positive, talking mostly about their home in New York, how the big city had made him into a real doctor, or closer to one. He mentioned doing research at Rockefeller Institute. He had never stopped being proud of that. He passed off joining the army as part of his work on infectious diseases.
    â€œBack in Cadiz,” Cook said, “folks always thought you were a real doctor.”
    â€œLucky thing, too. But I’ve learned so much since then. We’re learning so much in medicine now.”
    Cook shrugged. “I’m not sure I’ve ever become a real anything. Just kept bouncing around, since I buried the newspaper, anyway. I came here for this Pan-African Congress that’s starting soon over at the Grand Hotel.”
    â€œThat sounds like a big deal. What’s it about?”
    The waiter arrived with their beers.
    Fraser lifted his. “To old times.” After they drank, he understood the waiter’s expression when they placed their orders. The beer was a mistake.
    Cook leaned forward. “Listen, Jamie. I can’t really chitchat now. Don’t have the heart for it or the time.” He drank some more beer,