Eggers said in a low voice, “and I mean right now.”
The young man’s eyes widened slightly, and he turned to the receptionist. “Call Dr. Parker, code three.”
The receptionist called another extension and repeated the message. Half a minute later, a gray-haired, gray-skinned man in a starched white lab coat presented himself at the front desk.
“This man wants to see Mr. Keating,” young Parker said to his father. “I’ve explained that that is not possible, since he is not on the visitors list.”
“Who are you?” Dr. Parker asked.
“I am Mr. Keating’s attorney,” Eggers said, digging out another card, “and I have a pretyped court order in my pocket that I can have Judge Carter’s signature on in ten minutes, so my advice to you would be to present Mr. Keating now. ”
Dr. Parker regarded him for a slow count of about fi ve, then picked up a phone and tapped in an extension. “This is Dr. Parker. Give Mr. Keating his medication and bring him to the dayroom immediately.”
“If you medicate that man, I’m calling the police as well as the judge,” Eggers said.
“Never mind the medication,” Parker said into the phone, then he hung up. “The dayroom is right over there,” he said, pointing to a double door. “You may have five minutes with Mr. Keating, no more.”
“I’ll take as long as I like,” Eggers said, then he turned and strode toward the doors. The dayroom was as pleasant as the rest of the 111
S t u a r t W o o d s
place, and Eggers took a seat. Ten minutes passed, and he was about to go looking for Dr. Parker when a door swung open and a beefy orderly pushed a wheelchair into the room.
Eli Keating looked thinner than when Eggers had seen him at the funeral, and his stare was vacant. Eggers stood up. “Eli, it’s Bill Eggers. How are you?”
“All right,” Keating said sleepily. “I think.”
Eggers turned to the orderly. “We won’t be needing you.”
“I got my instructions,” the orderly said.
Eggers drew himself to his full six feet, four inches and took a step toward the orderly. “Get out.”
The man blinked a couple of times, then retreated the way he had come, and began staring through a glass panel in the door. Eggers sat down. “Eli, why are you here?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Keating said in a manner more himself. “You’d have to ask my son.”
“Listen carefully to me. What is my name?”
“Bill Eggers.”
“Who am I?”
“You’re my lawyer, or at least you were. Where the hell have you been?”
“When did you hire me?”
“When you joined Woodman and Weld. I knew your daddy.”
“How old are you?”
“ Eighty-two next week.”
“What are your sons’ names?”
“Harry and Warren. I’ve got a grandson, too, Evan. Harry’s dead, and I don’t know where the hell Evan is. I wish he’d come and get me out of here.”
“Would you like to leave this place now?”