Page 81 of Gone Before Goodbye

“Then how can you know if they are legit?”

“None of them are ‘legit,’” Barlow half snaps. “That’s sort of thepoint. How did I vet him? A million dollars was deposited for me in an overseas account. Just for taking the meeting. That’s the vetting. I got another million dollars when Maggie agreed to take the job.”

“So they pay you that kind of money to, what, find a top-notch doctor who will work discreetly?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s what happened here?”

Silence.

“Evan?”

“No. This case was a little different.”

Porkchop doesn’t like the way Barlow is starting to squirm. “Different how?”

“Like you said, most of the über rich, they trust me to find them excellent medical care in the most discreet manner possible. That’s how it works—and it works well for all. It’s in all our interests to keep this as clandestine as possible. I’m sure you understand.”

“So what was different this time?”

Barlow opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “I was going to suggest a surgeon,” he says. “A man I’ve worked with before. He’s an excellent physician right here in New York City.”

“And they didn’t want this guy?”

“No. They wanted Maggie McCabe.”

“They asked for her specifically.”

“Yes.”

“So you weren’t the one who recommended Maggie to them?”

“No. Ivan Brovski came to me. He said he needed a doctor—but that they already knew the perfect one.”

“Maggie?”

“Yes. His instructions were pretty specific. Maggie was the doctor they wanted. Period. They knew I was her trusted family friend.”

“So you didn’t recommend Maggie,” Porkchop says. “It was all a setup.”

“I don’t know if I would call it a setup—”

“This client. The oligarch or whoever. He requested Maggie personally?”

“Not the oligarch,” Barlow says.

“Who then?”

“His mistress. A woman named Nadia. She’s the one who specifically requested Maggie McCabe and only Maggie McCabe.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The end of the dream, if this is a dream, is always the most painful.

She is with Marc again. Somehow, she both knows he is dead and yet completely accepts that he is alive. Yes, this makes no sense, but that’s true of most dreams when you analyze them. Or maybe it’s different this time. In the past, Marc has always come to her. This time, maybe, just maybe, she is coming to him. Either way, Marc is there. They sit at an old wooden table in the middle of a vineyard. There are two glasses of red wine in front of them. Neither has been touched. The sun is setting, the sky a burnt orange. She and Marc sit side by side. He looks out over the vineyard. She stares at his profile. She can’t look away. She fell in love with that profile. It belongs on a Roman coin, she would joke. A tear runs down Marc’s cheek. “I promise you that your life will be extraordinary,” he says to her. Those had been the closing words of his wedding vows. She remembers how overwhelmed she’d been when he said it, standing in front of everyone they loved and cared about, that line, that final line. “I promise you that your life will be extraordinary.” Damn, she’d thought at that moment, such a good line that when she finished her own vows, she’d repeated it. “I promise you that your life will be extraordinary.” Not happy. Not fulfilling. Not complete.Extraordinary. They were not going to buy that suburban house and work in private practice and do the workof married physicians with two-point-four kids and a barbecue in the yard and a basketball hoop in the driveway. In the dream, a tear runs down Marc’s cheek, as it did when he spoke on their wedding day. But that tear had been one of joy. This one is not. She takes his hand. His hand is real, she notices. She can feel it. She wouldn’t be able to feel it if it was a dream. It’s flesh. It’s Marc’s hand. This is reality. Marc is alive. So why is her heart sinking? He finally turns to look at her and when he does, his grip slackens.No, no. Stay. You’re here. With me. But Marc is pulling away. She reaches out and grabs the hand tighter. But the hand is gone. He’s still there. The tear is still on his cheek. Comfort him. Love him enough so that he would never ever go. She throws her arms around him, pulls him close.Don’t go. Please, Marc, stay. This isn’t a dream. This is real. Except now she is starting to awaken. There is nothing crueler. She tries desperately to swim back down, to stay, to cling to this old wooden table in this dream vineyard. Marc is alive here. That’s all that matters. But something is pushing her to the surface. She fights it. But she knows she can’t win. Marc begins to fade away. She is in that crest now, that strange crest between the dream world and full consciousness. There is clarity here, terrible clarity—this is only a dream; Marc is still dead—and it crushes her anew. She feels the tears on her cheeks, real ones, and she knows.

Marc is gone. Marc is dead.