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Authors: Lisa Gardner
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Chenney to take specialized training through the National Healthcare Antifraud Association. Until then it was sink or swim, the Bureau's favorite way of seeing what rookie agents were made of.
Tonight Chenney was supposed to be trailing Dr. William Sheffield, but David had caught the anesthesiologist leaving the party after two A.M., and Chenney hadn't been anywhere in sight.
Either he was very, very good, or asleep on the job. David knew where he'd cast his vote.
He grimaced in pain, caught sight of an on-duty cab, and made his decision. At this stage of the investigation, nothing was moving that urgently. He and Chenney could catch up in the morning.
The ride home was long, and by the end David was curled up on the floor, his nostrils filled with the rancid odors of sweat and tobacco while his lower back convulsed and he writhed helplessly. He stumbled out of the taxi as soon as it pulled up to his Waltham apartment complex, shoved money into the cabdriver's hand, and staggered to his feet. He walked around the parking lot. Had to work the muscles, had to get them to relax. Movement was important, exercise the only way to keep what flexibility he could.
Your sacroiliac joints are inflamed, Mr. Riggs — that's the joint where your spine is connected to your pelvis — and that inflammation will start to spread up your back, causing increased discomfort. Exercise, ice, and nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs are the key.
I was an athlete! I was supposed to be a major league pitcher! I know how to ice down. I know pain!
There's not much else we can tell you, Mr. Riggs. Ankylosing spondylitis symptoms vary intensely from person to person and are systemic. You may experience fever, fatigue, and digestive problems, and sometimes AS attacks organs such as your eyes, heart, and lungs. We can't predict how it will affect you personally. All we can tell you is that arthritis is chronic and those people who promise you a miracle cure are only trying to make a quick buck. You can still lead a full, satisfying life with AS, of course, Mr. Riggs, and there are many organizations out there to help you, but you will have to be more creative. Figure out the lifestyle that best works for you.
I have no life. I have no lifestyle. I am so damn tired.
The worst of the spasms finally passed. He kept walking anyway, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe because he'd gone so long without sleep, he'd forgotten how to do it. Maybe because he'd come to dread his bed, where he would start out in slumber and end up clutching his throat, gulping for air. He hadn't experienced that until two weeks ago. He didn't know if it was some kind of phase or if his arthritis had gotten worse.
And he didn't ask, because he was never sure if he wanted to know the answer.
He thought of baseball, the heady days of sweet sixteen.
Saturday afternoons, playing ball with his dad and his younger brother, Steven, talking about “the show,” because Bobby Riggs had been a pretty good pitcher in his day — made it to the minors — and now looked at his sons with hope. Then out of the blue Heather Riggs had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and her husband and sons had come to the field just to take a break from the pain. Then young, beautiful Heather Riggs had died from the breast cancer, and they'd come out to the field because it was all they had left.
A father and his two sons whacking balls and sliding around bases, learning to communicate with each throw, hit, and catch. Cancer could take a loving mother and wife and rip a family apart. But baseball would never let you down. Baseball was as good as gold.
And so was David's arm.
David's arm had been the best of the best. David's arm could take him to the show.
At seventeen he'd been a Mass All-Star pitcher, and the pro-team scouts were already knocking on the door. He and his dad would stay up late talking about which major league teams had the best pitching programs for him, which place
they
would
Tonight Chenney was supposed to be trailing Dr. William Sheffield, but David had caught the anesthesiologist leaving the party after two A.M., and Chenney hadn't been anywhere in sight.
Either he was very, very good, or asleep on the job. David knew where he'd cast his vote.
He grimaced in pain, caught sight of an on-duty cab, and made his decision. At this stage of the investigation, nothing was moving that urgently. He and Chenney could catch up in the morning.
The ride home was long, and by the end David was curled up on the floor, his nostrils filled with the rancid odors of sweat and tobacco while his lower back convulsed and he writhed helplessly. He stumbled out of the taxi as soon as it pulled up to his Waltham apartment complex, shoved money into the cabdriver's hand, and staggered to his feet. He walked around the parking lot. Had to work the muscles, had to get them to relax. Movement was important, exercise the only way to keep what flexibility he could.
Your sacroiliac joints are inflamed, Mr. Riggs — that's the joint where your spine is connected to your pelvis — and that inflammation will start to spread up your back, causing increased discomfort. Exercise, ice, and nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs are the key.
I was an athlete! I was supposed to be a major league pitcher! I know how to ice down. I know pain!
There's not much else we can tell you, Mr. Riggs. Ankylosing spondylitis symptoms vary intensely from person to person and are systemic. You may experience fever, fatigue, and digestive problems, and sometimes AS attacks organs such as your eyes, heart, and lungs. We can't predict how it will affect you personally. All we can tell you is that arthritis is chronic and those people who promise you a miracle cure are only trying to make a quick buck. You can still lead a full, satisfying life with AS, of course, Mr. Riggs, and there are many organizations out there to help you, but you will have to be more creative. Figure out the lifestyle that best works for you.
I have no life. I have no lifestyle. I am so damn tired.
The worst of the spasms finally passed. He kept walking anyway, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe because he'd gone so long without sleep, he'd forgotten how to do it. Maybe because he'd come to dread his bed, where he would start out in slumber and end up clutching his throat, gulping for air. He hadn't experienced that until two weeks ago. He didn't know if it was some kind of phase or if his arthritis had gotten worse.
And he didn't ask, because he was never sure if he wanted to know the answer.
He thought of baseball, the heady days of sweet sixteen.
Saturday afternoons, playing ball with his dad and his younger brother, Steven, talking about “the show,” because Bobby Riggs had been a pretty good pitcher in his day — made it to the minors — and now looked at his sons with hope. Then out of the blue Heather Riggs had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and her husband and sons had come to the field just to take a break from the pain. Then young, beautiful Heather Riggs had died from the breast cancer, and they'd come out to the field because it was all they had left.
A father and his two sons whacking balls and sliding around bases, learning to communicate with each throw, hit, and catch. Cancer could take a loving mother and wife and rip a family apart. But baseball would never let you down. Baseball was as good as gold.
And so was David's arm.
David's arm had been the best of the best. David's arm could take him to the show.
At seventeen he'd been a Mass All-Star pitcher, and the pro-team scouts were already knocking on the door. He and his dad would stay up late talking about which major league teams had the best pitching programs for him, which place
they
would
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