The Taint

by Patricia Wallace

Pushing, going forward, finding safety. She had always pretended that she was being chased, throwing glances over her shoulder, waiting for the lurking beast to overtake her. Laughing and gasping and finally crying in pain, letting it punish her, for she deserved to be punished.

  A willful, disobedient child. Her father had told her. She knew.

  Always the guilty glance at her reflection in the mirror, careful not to feel pride or pleasure in her countenance. She had paid the price for vanity; she would not pay again.

  She stopped and leaned against a tree, her eyes searching for a place to hide. No one must find her.

  The child cried out and she looked in surprise at the small face. Who . . . ?

  Birds fluttered through the trees and she forced herself forward, wrenching the child along behind.

  A whistle cut through the silence and Jon looked in the direction from which it had come.

  Earl waved from about five hundred yards off.

  “Look,” Earl said when he got there, leaning down and pointing to footprints in the soft dirt.

  Jon nodded. “She’s running; look at the depth of the heel. And . . . Debbie’s with her.” A smaller set of scuff marks to the right.

  Mitchell came up then and looked off in the direction the prints were heading. “How far ahead are they?”

  “There’s no way to tell . . . Earl and I are going to lead and I want the rest of you to stay back; she’d hear us if we all came together.”

  Mitchell opened his mouth to protest but Jon turned and was off.

  Martin Frey hurried after him, the others behind.

  She could hear the gurgling of a small stream and she headed for it, her mouth unbearably dry.

  Sunlight dappled through the trees, catching the fine dust in its rays, creating a smoky haze. It cushioned her from eyes and she smiled, lifting her face.

  The water was cold and clear, running quickly, twirling leaves along, polishing the stones along the bed. She fell to the ground, pulling the child with her, and put her mouth to the water. It numbed her teeth and she stopped drinking to run her tongue across them.

  The child moved beside her and she looked through her tangled hair, watching as the tiny mouth tasted the water. Her eyes narrowed. Who was this with her?

  Then she lowered her face into the water, letting it wash the sweat and dirt from her skin. It cooled her skin, swirling and pushing hard against her face and she wondered if in time it would polish her features until they were smooth and shiny like the stones.

  Reluctantly she drew back, getting up onto her hands and knees, the child’s hand still clenched in her own.

  And on to her feet.

  She could smell the beast coming behind her.

  The tracks were no longer going in a straight line but twisting and turning, off to the left and again to the right, the smaller tracks occasionally disappearing, like the child was being lifted off her feet.

  “She’s getting tired,” Jon said.

  He stopped and motioned for the others to come near. When they had gathered around he spoke:

  “It’s not going to be much longer. She’s stumbling and changing direction every few minutes. I want all of you to understand that I’m in charge here, and there will not be a vigilante action. We might be able to talk her into giving up.” He looked at Mitchell. “Anyone who shoots without provocation will be dealt with by the law.”

  He stared into each face in turn until satisfied that they understood his position.

  “All right.” Another hard look at Mitchell. “Let’s go.”

  They had always made the mistake of underestimating her, even as a child.

  She had her second wind. Strength flowed through her body and she ran lightly, making no sound. She felt the pull of the child’s weight on her right arm but it did not matter. She was strong enough for them both.

  For it was herself that she pulled along behind. The young Amanda.

  She held onto herself tightly.

  They had never wanted her to have a self; she understood now. She had defied them at first and they had made her pay by introducing her to guilt. Everything that was pleasurable was not allowed. Her needs were of no importance. The only true goodness was in denial.

  They had hidden her away.

  But she was too clever for them.

  Ahead the mountain rose up in the forest and she ran toward it, exulting in the test of her will. Up she ran, slowing a little but feeling the earth draw her, promising safety.

  “There she is.” Jon sighted her as she was beginning to climb up the mountainside, dragging Debbie behind. From a distance it was impossible to tell whether the child was injured and they increased their pace, gathering speed as they neared their quarry.

  Suddenly, halfway up the mountain, she turned and looked down at them. Jon held his arms up, stopping the others, and stepped forward.

  Always, it was the men.

  Hounding her, restricting her freedom, denying her the right to be. Her father and now . . . she looked down at the figures below.

  She would not be denied.

  She felt the breeze blowing her hair and she held her head up. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she could feel the tingle of blood in her hands and feet.

  She looked down at the small hand in hers, noticing for the first time that her nails had drawn blood. It saddened her.

  The child hung limply, eyes closed, face streaked with dirt and tears, the nose clogged with thick green mucous.

  They were calling to her, she could hear their puny voices, raised as always in indignation and condemnation. They held the power, and kept it from her, and she knew that it would be that way. They had taken everything of value that she’d ever had, even as they promised to protect and keep her from harm.

  They were beginning to move up the mountainside.

  She pulled the child up and held the tiny form to her chest. She could feel the warm breath on her throat and smell the damp hair as it lay against her cheek.

  She would not let them have the child.

  “What is she doing?” Earl hissed.

  Jon could not take his eyes from her. Debbie was not moving—Amanda held her as a shield but the child’s head was angled and her body appeared to be limp.

  Martin Frey came up beside him. “Is the little girl alive?”

  “I can’t tell. Call to your wife,” he ordered. “Make her put the child down.”

  Martin looked up at his wife and nodded.

  There were so many of them. They moved like an army of ants, mindless, relying on their instincts, knowing from past experience that she was not equal to their attack.

  Was that her father with Martin?

  Wasn’t her father dead?

  But that was the way they worked. Confuse her, divide her loyalties, demand her allegiance. Force her to bend and threaten to break her if she didn’t.

  She had broken their rules by considering herself to be important and fighting to keep whole. That she had splintered under their pressure was not as important as the fact that she had found the child again. The child was what they wanted.

  She drew the knife from her coat pocket and held it up for them to see.

  “Damn.” Jon raised his rifle to his shoulder.

  Ahead of him Martin Frey fell to his knees, voice cracking as he implored his wife to put down the child and throw the knife to the side.

  She could no longer hear them, just the rasp of her own breath and behind, coming near, the sound of the beast.

  She kissed the child’s head.

  And raised the knife higher, the child sliding a few inches down the front of her body. The knife began its descent.

  She heard the crack of a rifle.

  She knew, then, that she was the beast.

  Martin Frey lowered the rifle, deaf from the sound of the gunshot. He watched as the child slipped from Amanda’s grasp and fell in a heap on the ground.

  Amanda let the knife fall from her fingers and put her hands to he
r chest.

  Through his tears he thought he saw her smile, and then she slumped to the ground.

  Jon knelt beside Debbie Sykes and put his fingers along her neck, feeling for a pulse. Then he looked up.

  “She’s alive.” He picked her up, cradling her head, and started down the hill.

  He passed Martin Frey who stood, head lowered, sobbing openly.

  The others parted as he came near, letting him through. No one spoke and Mitchell was nowhere in sight.

  By the time he got back to where they’d parked the vehicles, Debbie’s eyes were fluttering. He placed her on the seat and got into the truck, reaching for the microphone even as he turned the ignition.

  He drove with his hand covering hers.

  EIGHTY

  “Put her in here,” Rachel said, holding the door for Jon to carry the child into a small treatment room.

  He placed her gently on the gurney and stepped back out of the way, watching as Rachel ran her hands along the child’s arms and legs, examining scrapes and checking for further injury. Then she took a wet cloth and began cleaning the hands.

  “How is she?” he asked after a minute.

  Rachel looked up and nodded. “She’ll be fine. Why don’t you go tell her mother while I finish cleaning her up?” She returned her attention to a series of welts on the left wrist. Jon did not move.

  When she had finished she looked up at him expectantly and was surprised by the look on his face. He had been watching her, not the child, and now he held her eyes.

  “Rachel,” he began.

  The door opened behind him and Emma rushed in.

  “You’d better come quick, Tyler’s taken a turn . . .”

  Wendall Tyler was rigid, his jaw clenched and the muscles in his neck were tense. He was bathed in sweat and was breathing rapidly.

  Rachel moved to his side and grasped his head, attempting to turn it, trying to determine the cause of his rigidity.

  “His blood pressure’s dropping,” Emma announced, and pulled the stethoscope from her ears.

  “Set him up for a spinal tap,” Rachel ordered. “And ask Jon if he’ll give us a hand.”

  Emma nodded and left the room.

  “All right,” she said when Emma returned with a lumbar puncture tray and Jon. “I want you to get up on the bed and we’re going to turn him on his side. Then I want you to draw his legs up and push his upper body toward them.”

  Jon complied and Tyler was forced into a fetal position.

  Emma opened the tray and painted the lumbar region with betadine.

  Rachel injected Xylocaine as a local anesthetic and then took the spinal needle. “Don’t let him move,” she said to Jon, and she carefully inserted the needle into the elongated space between the discs. She prodded, feeling the way, and was rewarded with an audible ‘pop’ as she punctured the spinal cord.

  She took three small vials of spinal fluid, moving quickly and passing each in turn to Emma. Emma stood them in a small plastic holder.

  She withdrew the needle carefully and placed it on the tray. She took a fresh betadine swab and wiped the back.

  “You can let him go,” she said and stood away from the bed. She picked up the holder with the vials and held them up to the light.

  “Well, the fluid’s clear, anyway. That’s a good sign.”

  Emma adjusted the bed covers around Tyler. “Do you want me to begin cooling measures?”

  Rachel nodded. “I’ll take these down and run them myself.” She looked at Jon. “Thank you.” Again their eyes held.

  They walked toward the lab, Rachel’s white coat flapping behind.

  “What do you think it is?”

  “The rigidity in his neck and throat could indicate meningitis, or, except for the fact that I’m sure it isn’t, tetanus. I don’t know; the fluid is clear.” She shook her head. “I’ll have to run some tests, do a specific gravity, look at it under a microscope.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Not too long, why?”

  He didn’t answer immediately but when they arrived at the laboratory door he stopped and regarded her.

  “I think we need to talk.” His face was serious.

  She did not ask about what, just read the expression in his eyes and permitted herself a hint of a smile.

  “Anytime,” she said.

  She ran a routine spinal fluid analysis, including cell count, glucose and protein, as well as the specific gravity. All were within normal limits and for a minute she sat back, considering the medical alternatives.

  It was possible that this was another stage of what she considered to be psychic shock. His body might still be reacting to the powerful influences of his subconscious mind. The fact that his neck was stiff, when his wife’s neck had been broken, might provide the connection.

  If so she had to break through to him. She had heard of cases where people died following the death of a loved one, sometimes suddenly, sometimes wasting away despite the most vigorous treatment medicine had to offer.

  She had to do something. If she was unable to heal his body she must try to soothe his mind.

  As she started out the door she recalled an article she had read, about the suspicion that low levels of the brain chemical serotonin might be related to the incidence of suicide. Perhaps administering a dose of the chemical might help alleviate Tyler’s depression. She knew the definitive test was run on spinal fluid and she looked back at the remaining fluid in the vials.

  It was not something she could do without consulting an expert, but she put caps on the vials and stored them in the refrigerator, just in case. Then she was off.

  She got no more than ten feet up the hall when they arrived with the body of Amanda Frey. Earl Wagner spotted her and ambled toward her.

  “How’s the little girl?”

  “She’ll be all right; her mother’s taken her home.” She indicated the body. “I never would have believed that she was capable of killing a child.”

  “You should have seen her on that hill; she looked like a crazy woman.”

  Rachel pulled back the tarp, revealing the peaceful features. She looked frail and somehow pitiful, streaks of dirt on her pale face.

  “Take her down to the morgue,” she instructed, and then watched as they rolled her away.

  She continued down the hall, heading for Tyler’s room.

  Emma was at the bedside, hooking up the fluid-filled mattress which was used to reduce body temperature.

  “How high?”

  “A hundred four point four.”

  Emma connected the last hose and plugged the machine into the wall, circulating cooled liquids through the mattress. A steady hum filled the air.

  Rachel palpated his neck and along the spine. “He’s a lot less rigid.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone so stiff that their back began to arch,” Emma observed.

  Rachel eased him over until he was lying on his back, and lifted one arm clear of the bed, letting it drop. “Very strange. Fifteen minutes ago he was inflexible and now he’s flaccid.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It supports my impression that what’s wrong with him is not physiological.” She pulled the sheet up to cover him, leaving the blanket at the foot of the bed. “Now I’m going to take a look at Amanda Frey. Call me if his condition changes.”

  She realized that, more than any other time, she was dreading going into the morgue.

  They had brought the body of the boy earlier in the day and now he and his killer lay, only a few feet apart, waiting for her.

  She was beginning to wish that Nathan was here. It was never pleasant facing the aftermath of death but it was always worse when it was a child.

  There was nothing she could do about him yet; his body was still contorted into its frozen shape.

  And there was Amanda. Even with the body of her young victim close at hand, she was a human being and she had died a violent death. Whatever she had done, for whatever reason, her la
st moments were filled with pain. The gunshot wound disfigured her upper torso.

  Rachel began the exam, concentrating on the chest. The bullet had entered at an upward angle, right between the ribs, through the right ventricle and exiting beneath the pulmonary artery. The bullet continued its upward path, not deflected by bone, until it passed through the left scapula and exited the back.

  Very quick, lethal shooting. An instant of pain, and awareness, then death.

  She noticed the almost healed puncture wound from the blood transfusion and multiple small abrasions and contusions. She looked again at the face, surrounded by matted hair.

  A thin trickle of blood ran from the left eye. She moved to the head of the table and lifted the left eyelid.

  The pupil of the eye bulged.

  She frowned and lifted the right lid. The second pupil was also distended. She returned her attention to the left, looking for a source of the blood. Folding the lid back she searched for a nick or scratch but found none. She took her penlight and examined the eye.

  The pupils were fully dilated but when she flashed the light she could discern fluid beneath the anterior chamber. She straightened and turned to a tray of instruments, selecting a clean scalpel.

  She made a tiny incision, applying the smallest amount of pressure possible. Thick blood oozed from the eye. She took a moistened swab and pushed on the conjunctiva. Blood welled, gelatinous clots of it.

  The other eye yielded the same result.

  She stood back, still holding the scalpel, and slowly turned. The John Doe they’d found had blood in his eyes. Was there something else she hadn’t seen?

  The refrigeration part of the morgue was a walk-in unit rather than the sliding drawers preferred by bigger hospitals, and the body of the unidentified man was nearest the door. She pushed the stretcher back into the examining area and pulled the sheet down, looking at him intently.

  The body was covered with a layer of grime, making it look even grayer than normal. As she bent closer she heard the morgue door open behind her.

  “Dr. Adams,” Emma said, “I think you’d better come and look at Mr. Tyler again.”

  “Is he worse?”

  “I think he may be having a seizure.”