by Robert Craig
“No, thanks.” Dolchik was lying through his teeth about the file.
“Guess I’ll pass, too, then.” He returned the bottle and found his place again. “Does that explain the locked drawer good enough for you?”
“It’s an explanation.” Corelli tried to remember if there’d been a bottle in the drawer when he’d opened it. Dammit, he couldn’t remember. The Scotch was a good excuse-too good. Either Dolchik was telling the truth or he was turning out to be one cagey sonofabitch. The first explanation was highly unlikely-and the second scared the shit out of Corelli.
“You know, Frank, you are the most suspicious cop I’ve ever seen. What possible reason would I have for hiding those reports? If I’d hidden them.”
“Maybe you’d begun to see something in the pattern of disappearances that scared you.”
Dolchik laughed too loudly, too brashly. “Scared me? If I don’t get scared every day watching the hoodlums who make this subway their home, how’s a bunch of reports gonna do it?” He choked on the laugh, cleared his throat, then dropped the congenial facade. “Besides, a missing-persons report like the one on that Comstock dame don’t mean shit. Who’s to say she really disappeared? I’ve never cross-checked with the NYPD to see if they stayed disappeared upstairs,” he scoffed, using verbal shorthand for the world of the city outside the subway. “And you can’t trust the word of token-booth clerks. Most of them can’t count beyond ten, anyway. And they’re usually the ones who report these quote missing persons unquote.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Corelli agreed in his most polished and obsequious voice. Dolchik was busting his ass to put him off the scent; it might be better to let him believe he’d done just that. “Maybe I’ve been letting my imagination run away with me.”
“Glad to see you’ve come around to my way of thinking,” Dolchik said cheerfully. “It’s about time we began to see eye to eye on some things, Frank.” He plucked a fresh cigar from his top drawer, bit off the end, and lit up. “We’ve got enough trouble down in this hellhole without fighting among ourselves, what say?”
“The frustration’s just got to me. I’ve been acting like a real asshole, I guess.”
“Forget it,” the captain said magnanimously. “We’re all entitled to our share of mistakes.”
“I just thought I might be onto something. You know how it is,” Corelli said meekly.
“Hell, the next thing you know, you’ll be telling me the creepers are coming to get us.” Dolchik cackled with laughter.
Corelli smiled at the idea, too. The creepers were subway legend. There were many stories of the wild band of misfits and monsters who haunted the tracks and tunnels of the subway late at night. But so far no one had ever caught one, or even seen one and been able to prove it. No, the creepers were fantasy concocted to while away the long hours underground doing a thankless job. And until the myth was proved real, there was no point discussing them seriously at all.
Dolchik walked to the office door. The interview was over. He waited for Corelli to join him, but he remained where he was, his back to the door. “One more thing, Captain; I need a couple of days…”
“Sure, take them. Get away for a while, shake off the grime of the subway.” Dolchik sounded almost relieved at the thought of having Corelli out from under his feet “But just take a couple of days-today and tomorrow. Saturday morning I want you here full-time. No more shit No more disappearances. No more nothing. You got that?”
“It’s ringing clear as a bell.” Corelli got up lazily and sauntered to the door. “You’re all right, Dolchik.”
“That and a token will get you a ride on the subway,” he said uneasily. “Now, get the fuck out of here, and for Christ’s sake, don’t tell the other guys what a pussy I’ve been with you or they’ll all be in here telling me they’ve seen ghosts they want to investigate.”
Five minutes later Dolchik watched Corelli chat with a couple of the men, go to his desk to get his wallet and briefcase, then leave. Dolchik waited five minutes more before picking up the phone, just to be sure he wouldn’t be interrupted. He dialed and waited. Calling this number was familiar, almost routine. The enormity of the task he and the others were about to embark on no longer scared him. And liaising between the underworld of the subway and the glittering heights of the most exclusive and clandestine government circles no longer intimidated him. Stan Dolchik was task-force commander for this operation, and as such, that made him one helluva special guy.
“It’s Dolchik…” He lowered his voice when the phone was answered. “I gave him the bottle-of-Scotch bullshit, but I don’t think he bought it.” He took a long, deep breath. “It looks like we’re in trouble. Something’s got to be done about Frank Corelli-fast.”
Corelli made up a list of things to do before the afternoon was over. He had the uneasy feeling that time was running out Not the two days Dolchik had allotted him, but the leeway that someone else-the unknown quantity, the “big boys”-controlled. He’d called Dr. Geary at New York Mercy to ask a few more questions (and to drop Dolchik’s name) and was told that the doctor was gone for the day. It was possible, of course, but Frank suspected he’d never be able to reach the good doctor again. New York Mercy was a big hospital, with big defenses to protect its own-if need be.
In fact, New York Mercy Hospital itself seemed to be taking on an ominous importance in the case. The TA report on Lester Baker stated that he’d been admitted to Columbia Presbyterian on 168th Street. Yet, when Corelli visited there not more than an hour after leaving Dolchik, the nurse on duty said Baker had been dismissed, sent home. Corelli questioned her, and finally, after a few threats of official reprisals, she’d admitted that Baker had been transferred, not dismissed. Transferred to New York Mercy.
A blaring car horn snapped Corelli back to reality. He nodded good-naturedly at the red-faced driver of the car he’d almost hit, then stepped on the gas. Minutes later, after swerving in and out of traffic, he was in front of New York Mercy Hospital on upper Fifth Avenue. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and was surprised to see how firmly his jaw was set. Well, what did he expect, after all? A week ago he’d been just another transit cop slogging through the sewer of the subway system, dealing with the crime and the mundane pettiness of the riders. But today he was up to his neck in something he just couldn’t pinpoint. Something was going on around him, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that the cover-up surrounding it was very well-orchestrated. The missing persons. The kidnapping of Lisa Hill. Ted Slade’s death. The attack on Lester Baker. And Dolchik’s threats. They were all tied together, but what the hell did it all mean?
Talking personally to Lester Baker should clear up a few things. Thank God he was still alive. The clerk at the hospital information desk was a woman in her late forties. She was pinch-faced, bespectacled, and wore her shock of yellow hair-the color of banana skins-in a tight bun. As Corelli approached, she examined his handsome face, then surreptitiously slid her glasses from her nose; they fell to her ample bosom, bounced once, then rested in place.
“May I help you?” Her voice was surprisingly deep and rich.
“A friend of mine is a patient here and I’ve forgotten his room number.”
“Happens all the time,” she said cheerfully. “If you’ll just give me the name…”
“Baker. Lester Baker.”
“I’ll check.” She rescued her glasses and slapped them into place, then nipped through the card catalog. A minute later she was still looking.
“Trouble?” Corelli asked helpfully. Either she was a real dunce or she was stalling for time.
“I can’t seem to find the name.” The confidence in her voice was lost.
“It’s Baker. B-a-k-e-r.” Something was wrong. She was obviously stalling, trying to decide what to do next. A slight flush had risen in her cheeks.
“I don’t see the name Lester Baker,” she repeated nervously. “But if you’ll wait, I’ll check the master file…in the office
.” The flush had washed over her neck and cheeks. She looked a little frightened, too.
“That’s very thoughtful,” Corelli said. He quickly scanned the lobby for the exits. The only security guards looked bored and listless; there’d be no problem getting by them-if he had to get out in a hurry.
“I’ll be right back, so don’t go away,” she chirped. “Oh, one more thing: may I please have your name?”
“Why?”
“Well, if I find your Mr. Baker…I’m sure he’d want to know you’re here.” Her voice faltered and broke.
“Sure.” Corelli smiled widely. “It’s Duck. Donald Duck.”
The receptionist’s eyes widened, and she blushed deeper. Without another word she turned and headed toward the back office. The minute her back was turned, Frank walked quickly to the front door and left.
While Corelli talked with the receptionist, six floors above them in a private room in the geriatric wing of the hospital, Lester Baker lay in bed, drifting lazily between consciousness and sleep. Fifteen minutes earlier he’d received an injection for pain. The nurse complained he wasn’t due for more medication, but Lester was a good actor. In the end, she gave him a hefty dose of Demerol and made him promise not to give her away. The pain from his wounds wasn’t so bad, he reflected, and the drug sure felt good. And it was legal…and free!
Lester’s private room was quiet and warm. With the Venetian bunds turned against the early-afternoon sun, he felt like a caterpillar dozing in the safety of his tent high in the trees. In the hall outside his room, muted voice and call bells punctuated his languor with a syncopated irregularity. Lester had seen the policeman watching him from the empty room adjacent to his, but he didn’t care. After what he’d told them last night, he was a star witness. The cop was just to protect him from those things. That made sense-as much sense as anything had since the attack started.
Sure they were protecting him from those monsters. What other reason? Why else was he locked away from everyone alone, without being told where he was or how long he’d have to stay? Shit, spray-painting subways wasn’t so bad a crime he had to be treated like a prisoner of war. No, it was all because of those things. Through the Demerol haze, Lester’s mind spiraled backward to last night. He fought to drag himself back into the present, but it was no good. The familiar terrifying images of all his friends being slaughtered took over and skimmed over the surface of his consciousness.
What he saw last night had happened! He’d told the cops, told them everything. They said they didn’t believe him. But who would? Who would believe the story of some drugged-out black kid who talked of monsters killing his pals? Lester wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t been there. But someone had. Why else was he shackled to this hospital bed with a police guard outside? Why else was he told he couldn’t have visitors or make any calls? They believed him, all right. And they were keeping him prisoner because of it.
As his eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep, Lester thought to himself: Jes’ let ’em try to keep my friends away. I already put in a word with the right person. I’ll have visitors soon. I’ll tell ’em what happened last night. I’ll tell ’em.
An hour later the door opened and an orderly carrying a tray with a basin of soapy water, a washcloth, and towels stepped gingerly into Lester’s room. He put his equipment on a wheeled table near the door, then pulled it over to the bed. He then roused the sleeping patient.
“Hey, man, rise and shine.” The orderly peered closer, and when Lester’s eyes began to flutter open, he asked, “You awake enough to talk, or what?”
Lester’s eyes flew open now. The horrible dreams had just begun, and for a second the orderly’s face hovering so close might have been that of any one of his friends-except that they were all dead.
“Time to get washed up, my man,” the orderly said with unnatural good cheer.
“Willie?” Lester refocused his eyes, thinking the dope the nurse had given him was some fine stuff. “Willie Hoyte?”
“None other than. I got your message.” Willie’s eyes darted quickly to the door. “We got to talk soft, man. There’s one big muthafucker of a cop outside.”
“The place is crawling with them,” Lester said lazily. “So Bimbo got through to you.” Washington “Bimbo” Calhoun was an orderly in the emergency room. He’d been on duty when Lester was secretly transferred from Columbia Presbyterian. Although the two men had known each other since childhood, they had gone their separate Ways-Bimbo to work, Lester to play. Still, blood and heritage were thicker than water, and when Bimbo saw his old pal in the hands of the police, he wanted to know why. It didn’t take long to discover that Lester Baker was one special patient-he was locked away on the geriatrics floor with a twenty-four-hour guard, his name didn’t appear on the official patient list, and the floor staff and receptionist had been told to report anyone who inquired after him. No matter what they called it, Bimbo knew Lester was being held prisoner. He’d gotten in to see him, then passed along the message to Willie. He also provided Willie with one of his extra uniforms and an identification tag to get him past the security.
“Bimbo said you was in trouble.” Willie dipped the washcloth in the soapy water, then wrung it out.
“What you aimin’ to do with that washrag, Willie?”
“I’m here to wash you up, El Bee. What else?” Lester started to protest, but Willie silenced him. “Shit, man, you’re in a heap o’ trouble and I may be the only one to get you out. So if I gotta wash you to make it look good, you’d better smile and say ‘thank you.’” He untied Lester’s “johnny” top, slipped it off, and began to wash his chest. “Now, what’s up?”
“They’s all dead, Willie. All my boys-Ronny, Jackson, Roy, and Sammy.” He squeezed his eyes shut and tears seeped through and rolled down his cheeks. “I saw them all die, one by one. Those things got them.” His voice rose in a quivering vibrato.
“Keep your voice down. Want that pig in here?” Willie warned. “Now, tell me everything.”
Lester’s obvious fear had prepared Willie for the worst, but he wasn’t prepared for the devastating story that followed. While he carefully worked, keeping a close watch on the door, Willie listened, wondering if El Bee’s brain hadn’t finally turned to Swiss cheese with all the marijuana and coke he’d pumped into it over the years; it should have gone a long time ago. But Willie quickly discarded the idea. Drug dreams come and go, but hell, even an acid flashback was never this severe. Lester Baker was clearly scared as hell. Willie recognized real fear when he saw it, everyone from uptown did. But a story about monsters?
Willie didn’t get much chance to pursue this thought further, for the cop walked in and shouted, “What’s going on in here?”
“Jes’ finishin’ up, sir,” Willie said meekly.
“You’re doing one hell of a lot of talking. I can hear your voices through the door.” He stepped forward and looked from Willie to Lester, then back to Willie. The cop looked like the kind of guy who would beat the shit out of you first and ask questions later. He stood well over six feet tall and had to weigh 225 if he weighed an ounce. Unlike the standard paunch-bellied, slovenly New York policeman, this guy was solid muscle, tensed, ready to spring. His eyes looked perpetually skeptical and mean. “Just exactly what are you talking about?”
“Who are you? My mother?” Lester asked insolently. “This dude and I are just strikin’ up an acquaintance. That ain’t so strange, seein’ how he’s washin’ my privates.”
The cop blushed at the answer and averted his eyes from the bed. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll save your smart-ass answers.” He stationed himself inside by the door, arms folded across his massive chest. “I want you, boy, out of here…now!” he spit at Willie.
Willie felt a cold rush of fear slither up his spine, cross his shoulders, and race down each arm. If the cop got too nosy, the shit would really hit the fan. Impersonating an orderly wasn’t so bad, but talking to a prisoner the cops wanted out of the wa
y was. He quickly dried Lester, pulled the table away from the bed, collected the tray, and sailed out of the room past the cop.
Halfway to freedom, the cop called to Willie. “You! Stay right there. I want to talk to you.”
Willie froze. The hospital whites and Bimbo’s name tag were a good cover, but the wallet in his pocket said he was Willie Hoyte. Why the fuck did he bring the wallet? How could he have been so dumb? If the cop searched him, the jig was up.
The cop loomed up over Willie, planting his feet widely apart, his hands on his hips, while the fingers of his right hand played a soft tattoo on the worn leather of his holster. “Now, you want to tell me exactly what you and your friend were talking about?”
“I-” Willie began, but he never finished.
“Jesus, help me!” Lester screamed from his room. “Oh, my God, no!” The half-closed door obstructed the cop’s view of Lester, and for one fleeting second he hesitated, unsure whether to grab Willie or to run back into the hospital room. Lester screamed again, and the cop darted into the other room.
Willie heaved the soapy tray onto a nearby chair, where it tilted wildly, then clattered to the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Willie pulled the door open and ran out into the corridor. At the far end, at the nurses’ station, a lone nurse bent over a chart, writing a medication report. Willie slowed down and walked away from the station, hoping his fast exit hadn’t caught her attention. The nurse did look up momentarily, but then she returned to her work.
He had no idea where the corridor led, but as long as it was away from that cop, it was okay. At best, Lester’s diversionary screams gave him only a minute’s head start. He stayed close to the wall, eyes down, until he reached the end of the corridor, where he turned right. He passed through double doors into another corridor that was dotted with elderly patients. Some were in wheelchairs; others walked along at a snail’s pace, supported by metal walkers. Yet others sat motionless, staring off into space. Willie tensed as he saw he was approaching another nurses’ station, this one populated by several nurses and a black security guard.