“Shit!” he started to say, and the second wave hit, more violently than the first. The smell was horrendous. The pain ripped through his stomach. He almost passed out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
This time it took Payne much longer to help Nick recover. He nearly had to carry the prostrate man into the bathroom and strip the soiled, stinking robe from his trembling shoulders. Payne tossed the robe into a corner and then helped Nick lay down on a couple of towels spread in the tub, his head propped on a folded towel. Payne dampened a face cloth and dabbed away the worst of the stuff from Nick’s lips and chin and chest. There were some splotches on his shorts, but that would have to wait. If he didn’t get that stuff off the bed, it might seep into the mattress and then they would never get the stench out. He would have to leave Nick there for a while, Payne decided. It was the only place where Nick could lay down, and maybe the coolness of the porcelain might help.
It must have, because even before Payne left to clean up the bedroom, Nick seemed to be breathing more easily. There were no further threats of vomiting. It took longer to change the bed this time, and it was a distinctly more distasteful task than it had been before. Payne wadded the fetid sheets up and threw them into the hallway, then checked the mattress for any seepage. He didn’t see any. He opened the window wide and turned on the fan, setting it in the doorway and hoping that the cross current would to blow the lingering stench outside. He stopped at the bathroom just long enough to ask if Nick had any air freshener.
“Kitchen,” Nick said weakly, not moving more than his lips. One hand hung over the edge of the tub like a corpse’s. It was as pale as a corpse’s, too. The fingertips were bluish gray.
“’Neath sink.”
“Gotcha.”
Payne rummaged under the sink and pulled out a can and went back into the bedroom. The air was already a bit better but it was still pretty rank. He sprayed the room, the corners, the mattress and pillow. The artificial pine fragrance was heavy and cloying but better than the other mess. Maybe when the freshener faded, the room would smell okay.
He stepped into the hall again and picked up the bedding, careful to fold it so that the damp parts were tucked well inside. He went to the bathroom and retrieved Nick’s robe as well. It smelled worse than the sheets.
“Where’s your washer?” he asked as he balanced the two lumps of sodden material as far from his body as he could.
“Back porch.” The last sound was little more than a sigh.
Payne looked over at Nick. The color was coming back again. His cheeks were something less than parchment white. The hand hanging over the edge of the tub twitched, and the nails were pink rather than blue-white.
“Feeling better?”
“Yeah. A little. Stink, though.”
He was right.
Payne tossed the robe and sheets into the hall and knelt by the edge of the tub. Nick still didn’t move. His eyes were closed, his lips barely open. Payne shuddered at the heavy, rancid breath each time Nick exhaled. Suddenly his own stomach seemed less than stable. He opened the window over the tub and drew in a deep breath of untainted air.
“Let’s get you cleaned up now. The wash can wait.”
He filled the sink with warm water and soaked another face cloth in it. Carefully he washed Nick’s face and arms and hands and chest, rinsing and wringing the cloth, draining the sink three times and re-filling it with fresh warm water. Whatever the stuff Nick vomited was, it was thick and sticky, more like mucous than anything Payne could think of...except maybe for lumpy, greenish, stinking library paste that had begun to separate into clots and a gluey scum. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t come off easily. Finally, though, Payne was finished.
“Can you stand up?”
“Think so.”
Nick tried, propping one arm on the tub and trying to lever himself up. He couldn’t.
“Let me help.”
Payne grabbed under Nick’s arm and pulled him up.
“Okay?” Payne asked.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s get you out of those,” Payne said.
“Huh?” Nick sounded drunk or drugged. His voice slurred. His throat must hurt like hell, too, Payne thought, and that made the sounds even more ragged.
“Your shorts. They’re stained.”
Nick looked down. There were three big splotches of vomit, venomously dark against the startling white. For a moment he tensed and looked like he would throw up again. He swallowed carefully.
“’Kay.”
Payne helped him strip, holding his arm and waist while Nick balanced first on one leg, then the other, his muscles quivering and the towels beneath his feet shifting on the smooth porcelain. Payne reached across to the towel cabinet, still holding onto Nick’s arm—thank god his bathroom’s as small as mine and everything’s in easy reach—and pulled out another towel, the last one on the stack, and wrapped it around Nick’s waist.
“Can you walk?”
Nick nodded mutely.
With Payne’s help, Nick made his way down the hall and into the living room. He sank gratefully onto the old couch, not minding for once the lumps and bent springs and upholstery stiff with decades of spilled drinks and ground-in cookies and crushed potato chips and who knew what else before Nick finally rescued it from the clutches of a yard sale.
“Be right back.” Payne disappeared into the hall, stopping at the bathroom and the bedroom. He continued on to the back porch. He must have been holding the stack of filthy clothing stiffly in front of him, Nick noted vaguely, because he walked with a stoop, one foot scuffing against the floor.
A few minutes later, Nick heard the thunk of the washer lid as it dropped against the machine, then the asthmatic whirr of the motor.
Payne reappeared a few moments later.
“Everything’s in. Towels, sheets, clothes. It’s a big load but the washer looked like it could handle it.”
“Yeah, it’s got an oversized tub.”
Nick suddenly giggled.
Here he was, shaking like a newborn colt after having puked his guts all over himself, and his landlord was running up and down the place cleaning up after him, and now he has to dither on about the washing machine! The giggle took on a slightly hysterical edge.
Payne looked confused. He put his hand against Nick’s forehead.
“No, no fever.”
“I’m okay,” Nick said, his voice still uneven. “It’s just...it just struck me funny...that...look, I’m sorry. I...it must be gross to....”
Payne shook his head. “Not a word. As long as you feel better.”
He crossed the living room and sat next to Nick.
“You hurt yourself?” Nick asked suddenly.
“No, why?”
“It looked like you were limping for a minute.”
“No,” Payne said. “Just tired all of a sudden.”
“Can’t figure why,” Nick said, then laughed again.
“You must be a whole lot better.”
“As a matter of fact,” Nick said, “I am. Little shaky, but otherwise...otherwise okay. Look, thanks a lot. I don’t know what I would have done….”
“I said, not a word. That goes for mushy ‘Thank-you’ scenes, too. I’m just glad that I was here. Something like that hits and you’re no good for shit. I had the flu once, and I couldn’t stand up for days. Lived on 7-Up and lost fifteen pounds. Vicious stuff.”
“I don’t think this is the flu,” Nick said. “It just came, and now it’s gone. Not that I’ll miss it.” He glanced down at himself. “Better get dressed now.”
He started to get up.
Payne’s hand rested warm on his shoulder, the fingers strong and curved around his shoulder joint, pushing him gently down.
“Rest a while. Don’t overdo.”
Nick relaxed into the couch. “Okay, Doc. Whatever you say.”
“Right. Whatever I say.” Payne’s hand rested for a little longer, then the fingers suddenly pressed tightly into
Nick’s muscles, as if they had cramped.
Payne stood up and walked to the front door.
“I wish I could stay here and keep an eye on you,” he said, his hand on the door knob.
“I’ll be okay. If it gets worse, I’ll call my cousin. He only lives half an hour or so away. He can come if I really need anything.”
“Still, I wish I didn’t have to fly back East. It’s not as if I haven’t seen my folks in years or anything, but they insist. You know how it is. Take care.”
And he was gone. Nick leaned against the uneven cushions and closed his eyes. The day was warm but he felt cold. In a minute, when he felt a little steadier, he would get up and put on a robe, maybe even dress in his sweats and see if he couldn’t get rid of the bone-cold that he always felt after a bout with vomiting. Always, but never this much, this deep.
He shivered.
And after that, some more hot tea, maybe a slice of toast. His stomach stayed steady while he visualized the toast, so he figured that the worst must be over.
He stood up, supporting himself with the arm of the couch, then straightening. His stomach hurt, felt like he had pulled the muscles or something, but otherwise he was all right. No headache. No nausea. No cramps.
He walked slowly into his bedroom to change.
He didn’t think about the fact that at least twice that morning—maybe three times—Payne had bluntly lied to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
By Monday, Nick was feeling fine, almost as if his one-day bout with stomach flu or food poisoning or whatever had never happened. Saturday he had slept most of the day, exhausted physically and mentally by the explosively violent outbursts that morning. He didn’t see Payne again that day. He slept well enough Saturday night; he didn’t remember dreaming and his bed was still pretty much in order when he woke the next morning. Sunday he stayed down again, mostly resting. He had a couple of brief dizzy spells in the early afternoon when he dragged an old chaise longue around to the back yard so he could lay on it and read, but they seemed to pass without any further repercussions than a nagging headache that dissipated by nightfall. By and large, the day was quiet, even boring.
Nick did not go over next door to watch any films.
Monday morning, he rose early and got to work, reading steadily until eleven, in spite of another brief moment of dizziness and a slight fever—just over 100˚ by 10:30. But he didn’t feel particularly ill, and by the time he took a break for a sandwich at noon, even that small fever had disappeared. He went back to the reading list. He was still going strong when someone knocked on the door just after one o’clock.
The repairman.
In spite of the problems on Saturday, for a change he had actually remembered that someone was coming by. He already had Payne’s key in his pocket when he answered the door. The kid he had seen before in the shop was standing there, still sullenly arrogant to Nick’s way of thinking, hip cocked out and thumb through his belt loop as if daring the world to do its worst.
“Wheeler?” It was not quite a question, not quite a statement.
“Yes.”
“I’m from Tasco’s. Here about the guy’s set.” He nodded toward Payne’s house.
“Right.”
Nick stepped onto the porch and closed his door behind him, for some reason making a show of locking up. He didn’t usually, but today this kid made him nervous.
“This way.” He led the kid across the lawn and up the porch, unlocking Payne’s front door with something less of a production, reaching in to turn on the living room light, and standing aside to let the kid go in front of him.
“Some place,” the kid said in a low, wispy voice.
“Yeah. The stuff is back here.”
Nick went first down the hall, noticing with relief that all of the doors were closed tightly. The hall was nearly black, except for slivers of light under the doors, but Nick knew his way without any problem.
“Here.” He opened the door and, again, waited for the kid to go in.
“Nice.” Obviously the kid was into monosyllabic communication. Nick nodded toward the DVD player.
“That’s the one. It shorts out sometimes.”
The kid pulled a rumpled paper from his jeans pocket and unfolded it. He squinted, as if he were having trouble reading the print. He held it at another angle to get more light. He squatted to read something off the machine, then double-checked the paper before he stood again.
“Mr. Tasco fixed it last time it was in the shop. Says so right here.” He stabbed at the paper with a long finger. The knuckles and nails were dark with ground-in dirt, like the kid had just come off a shift at the local Texaco station.
Nick crossed next to him and read the work order over the kid’s shoulder. The kid smelled of sweat and light machine oil.
“I don’t care what that says,” Nick said finally, flicking the paper with his finger, “the set doesn’t work. I know. I was here when it went bad.”
Something passed through the kid’s eyes, an unreadable expression that Nick didn’t like. He moved away and settled himself in the black chair in the middle of the room. The kid made him nervous.
“What’s your name,” he asked the kid’s back.
“Ric,” came the muffled reply. The kid was leaning over the set, probing with some unnamable tool into the dark recesses behind it.
“Well, Ric, how long have you been at this? A-V repair, I mean?”
“Not long. Mostly been a stock boy. This is my first solo.” He still hadn’t turned around.
Nick sat straighter in the chair. He was suddenly and inexplicably worried—that the kid might not know what he was doing and make things worse. That the kid might, might...well, he wasn’t sure that he liked the kid mucking around with Payne’s stuff, and he sure as hell didn’t like talking to a pair of worn Levi’s back pockets. He fell silent and watched.
The kid might not have much experience, but he handled the tools with ease, reaching for one, fiddling behind the cabinets, replacing the first tool in exactly the same place in his folding kit and reaching for another. He seemed to know what he was doing, too, working rapidly and removing the DVD player’s cover, then checking a number of places as if he knew just where to look to find the problem.
Of course, Nick reminded himself, it could all be bullshit and Nick wouldn’t know any different.
“Can’t see anything here,” Ric said finally. “I’ll have to take it out of the cabinet.”
He reached behind and jiggled a wire.
“Fuck!” he yelped and twisted around to face Nick. “Fu…sucker shocked me,” he said, rubbing his fingertips together.
Nick struggled to keep a straight face.
“I know. It happened to me, too. That was before you fixed it, of course.”
Ric’s face darkened. “That was Tasco. The old man don’t know shit.”
Now it was Nick’s turn to flush.
“Maybe I should just call him and let him know what your opinion of him is. I’m sure he’d be delighted.”
Ric glared. Nick knew at once that he had pushed too hard. This kid was scary, like he had a dozen and a half chips on his shoulder and was daring Nick, or anyone else for that matter, to take a swing at them.
The kid didn’t say anything. Instead he returned to his work, reaching gingerly behind the DVD console to work on the wiring again.
Nick leaned back in the black chair and forced himself to relax. It’s okay, he said to himself, trying not to watch the kid working, he’s not going to brain you with a wrench or break your legs or rape you or anything relax just keep an eye open and your mouth shut.
He swiveled in the chair, concentrating on the subtle interplays of color and design that the rows of DVD cases made—almost artistic, he decided, at times abstract.
That foot or so of case spines over there—the way they fade from blue to black, that has aesthetic possibilities. And that bunch over there.
All the time, he heard the kid’s low vo
ice muttering as he worked over the set.
On an impulse, Nick swung his head around to glance at the kid…and sat straight up in the chair. He stared through the doorway into the darkened hall.
It was no longer dark.
“What the...?” he began.
Ric didn’t seem to notice.
Slowly Nick rose from the chair, forced his feet forward, first one, then the other, gradually approaching the dark opening into the hall where something—a glimmer, a glow, a sparkle—reflected from the white walls where there should not have been anything except unbroken darkness.
One step. Another.
“Shit,” Ric mumbled from the bank of players as he reached for a different screwdriver.
Nick almost said something to the kid but decided against it. Maybe he was embarrassed; it would seem like calling for help before he knew if he was in trouble.
He ventured another step. Now he could see several feet of hallway wall between the open door to the control room and the living room. The kitchen door and bathroom door on the far side were still closed. He stopped and listened.
He could hear nothing except the kid’s occasional swearing.
Nothing...except that, and a subtle crackling like electricity through a low wire on a humid day. Nick’s hair prickled along the back of his neck. His breathing suddenly grew shallower and he could feel the stickiness of sweat under his arms. He wanted to go back, to slump into the deep black upholstery and swivel the chair around so that it faced the windows, so that he would not see the open door and the faint flush of flickering light on the wall opposite.
He took another step. Now he could see most of the wall opposite, including the framed diplomas hung with painfully meticulous care. The non-glare glass caught the flickering light and focused it, but still not enough for Nick to tell what was causing it.
It’s probably nothing, just shadows in the leaves, or a passing truck, or a car parked next door and the sun shining off its hood, something like that. Nothing to worry about.
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