Sunglasses After Dark (Sonja Blue)

by Nancy A. Collins

  Sunglasses After Dark

  Nancy A. Collins

  For My Grandfather

  James Wesley Willoughby Jr.

  1907-1972

  Its horror and beauty are divine upon its lips and eyelids seem to lie loveliness like a shadow, from which shine fiery and lurid, struggling underneath, the agonies of anguish and of death.

  —Shelley, The Beauty Of The Medusa

  PROLOGUE

  Moon.

  Big white moon.

  White as milk moon.

  You’re all I can see from my window, here in the dark. Your light falls silver and white across the walls of my cell. The night-tide surges strong in me. So strong I can feel the grip of their drugs loosen. They fancy themselves high priests. Their gods have names like Thorazine and Lithium and Shock Therapy. But their gods are new and weak and cannot hope to contain me much longer. For I am the handiwork of far more powerful, far more ancient deities. Very soon my blood will learn the secret of the inhibiting factors the white-coated shamans pump into my veins. And then things will be very different, my beautiful moon.

  My white big moon.

  White as milk moon.

  Red as blood moon.

  The Danger Ward

  “We all go a little mad sometimes.”

  —Norman Bates

  Chapter One

  The alarm on Claude Hagerty’s cell phone played The Yellow Rose of Texas. Grumbling to himself, he stuck his dog-eared Louis L’Amour paperback in the top drawer of the desk and produced the keys to the Danger Ward from the depths of his orderly’s whites. Three o’clock in the morning: time for his rounds.

  Claude had been an orderly most of his adult life. He’d originally intended to go into pro football, but a bad knee injury in high school put an end to that career before it had the chance to begin. He later discovered that standing six-foot-three and tipping the scales at two-hundred and eighty pounds had its distinct advantages in the healthcare field. However, even at the age of thirty-eight, with high school twenty years gone and his midsection devolved into flab, he still wasn’t anyone you’d want to fuck with.

  He started work at Elysian Fields seven years ago, and as funny farms go, it was an okay job. It sure beat the hell out of the state hospital he had worked at. Elysian Fields didn’t waste time on charity cases. The sanitarium specialized in “dependency problems,” and its clients were the sons and daughters, mothers and fathers of prestigious families. But for those with relatives whose difficulties tended to be far more serious than a fondness for tranquilizers and vodka, there was the Danger Ward.

  The reinforced steel door, painted a soothing pastel color for the benefit of the visitors, separated the nursing station from the rest of the ward. Claude rolled the barrier back enough to squeeze through. He remembered an old cartoon from his childhood, where a mouse ran in and out of the jaws of a sleeping cat. Funny how he always thought of that when he did his rounds.

  He walked past the dayroom, where the better-behaved inmates were allowed to watch television and play Ping-Pong during the afternoon. Most were so heavily medicated all they could do was sit and stare at the tube or out the windows. There was no attempt at rehabilitation in the Danger Ward, although no one came right out and said it. Much like how no one mentioned the exact reasons why these people were locked up. But such discretion was what their clients paid them for. All in all, Elysian Fields wasn’t any different from any other private asylum. Except for her.

  Claude grimaced involuntarily. Hell, this used to be an easy shift. Except for a patient having the odd nightmare now and then, there wasn’t much for him to worry about He could catch up on his reading, watch TV, and maybe even nap if he felt like it, without worrying about being disturbed.

  That was before they dragged her in, six months ago. It had been during his shift; she was bound in a straitjacket and, God as his witness, a length of chain, with four strong men handling her. And still she lashed about, yowling like a wild thing. For a minute it looked as if she would get loose. Claude could still hear the sharp snap of the chain breaking. Then Dr. Wexler was there, syringe in hand, jabbing the needle through the canvas. The woman collapsed immediately. Judging from the size of the dosage, she should have died, but she didn’t. Claude was ordered to carry her into Room Seven. That was the first time he touched her. It was enough-

  That’s when his job got tough. Since that night, he hadn’t had a single shift go by without one of the inmates waking up with the night horrors. They all claimed the woman in Room Seven walked into their dreams. They couldn’t—or wouldn’t—elaborate on the details. Claude described some of the dreams to Dr. Morial, the ward’s on-call psychiatrist. Dr. Morial asked him if he liked his job, so Claude let it drop.

  Life was complicated enough without trying to figure out why a bunch of loonies should fixate on a fellow inmate they had never seen. Or how they could possibly describe what she looked like. He wondered if the patients were equally restless during the day. Somehow he doubted it. She wasn’t awake during the day.

  I hear the orderly’s heavy tread as he checks his charges one by one. It is night and the doctors have fled, leaving their patients alone with their dreams. It’s been too long since I could think this clearly. It took me two months to crawl out of madness. Another three passed before my system began to break down the narcotic cocktails they pump into me every day. Their drugs won’t do them any good; with every night that passes my immunity grows stronger. My mind is my own again. It’s been so long. Perhaps too long.

  I fear irreparable harm was done while I was away. The Other has been doing... things. I’m not sure what, but I can feel the changes deep inside me. The Other has been free to move unchecked. I have to get out of here before something horrible occurs. I may have already done something. Possibly hurt someone. I can’t remember, and I do not want to scan the Other’s memory for clues. I’m still weak and could easily become lost in its personality. I cannot risk that. Not now.

  The Other’s been dream-walking, of that I’m certain. It hasn’t gone unnoticed, at least I should feel lucky they’re only lunatics. No one believes them. No one wants to believe them. I’ve got to get out of here before I lose control. I haven’t fought The Other this long in order to surrender in a madhouse. But I’m so tired. Too receptive. I can feel their dreams pressing in on me, like some great unseen weight. I’ve become a magnet for their nightmares. That worries me. I’ve never been able to do this before. What other changes have occurred during my eclipse?

  The orderly is nearing the end of his rounds. I can hear his footsteps echoing in the hall and his ragged breathing. He’s a big man. I can smell his sweat. He’s checking on the inmate next door. It’ll be my turn next. He always saves me for last. I guess it’s because he’s scared of me. I don’t blame him. I’m scared of me, too.

  Claude’s frown deepened as he watched Malcolm whimper in his sleep. Even without medication, Malcolm usually slumbered like a child. Now he writhed under the bedclothes, his face blanched and perspiring. His lips moved in feeble protest to some unknown command. He’d be waking up in a few minutes, screaming his lungs out, but Claude knew better than to try to shake the boy awake; the last time he’d tried it he’d damned near lost a finger. Malcolm liked to bite. Locked in his dream, Malcolm moaned and knotted the sheets with blind fingers. The muscles in his clenched jaw jumped as his teeth ground together. Claude shook his head and shut the observation plate set into the face of the metal door.

  There was only one patient left to check. The woman in Room Seven. Claude wasn’t even sure of her name. The charts and medication logs simply read “Blue.” She was the last one on his rounds every night, simply
because it took him that long to work up the nerve to look at her. Maybe it was different during the day. Perhaps in the sanity of daylight she was just another loony, but he doubted it.

  The door to Room Seven was the same as the others, a cheerily painted piece of metal strong enough to withstand a two-ton battering ram. An observation silt, covered with heavy-gauge wire mesh and protected by a sliding metal plate, was set into the door at eye level, although Claude had to stoop a bit to look through it. The interior of Room Seven was radically different from the others on the ward. The other inmates had rooms that— except for the heavy padding on the walls, the narrow high-set windows, and the naked light bulbs locked in impenetrable cages of wire—could be mistaken for rooms at the Holiday Inn. Elysian Fields furnished them unbreakable fixtures bolted to the floor and wall, and the beds were fitted with matching designer sheets and restraining gear. However, Room Seven was bare of everything but its occupant. There wasn’t even a bed. She slept curled up on the padded floor like a hibernating animal, tucked into the farthest corner, where the shadows were deepest. At least that’s what he’d been told by the day shift. Claude had never really seen her asleep. Taking a deep breath, he flicked back the latch on the observation plate and slid it open.

  The woman called Blue crouched in the middle of her cell, her face angled toward the high, narrow window set ten feet from the floor. She was naked except for the straitjacket, her bare legs folded under her as if she were at prayer.

  It was hard to tell how old she was, but Claude guessed she couldn’t be more than twenty-four. Her filthy hair hung about her face in rattails. None of the nurses were willing to touch her, not that Claude blamed them.

  She knew he was watching, just as he’d known she’d be there, crouching like a spider in its web. He waited silently for her to acknowledge him, yet dreading it at the same time. It had become a ritual between them.

  She turned her head in his direction. Claude’s stomach tightened and there was a thundering in his ears. He felt as if he was barreling down a steep hill in a car without brakes. Her eyes locked on his and she inclined her chin a fraction of an inch, signaling her awareness of his presence. Claude felt himself respond in kind, like a puppet on a string, and then he was hurrying back down the corridor.

  In the darkness, Malcolm woke up screaming.

  Chapter Two

  The scene opens on a vast auditorium, its floor jammed with row upon row of metal folding chairs. Wheelchairs clutter the aisles. Behind the raised stage hangs a mammoth banner bearing the likeness of a smiling man. His nose is strong and straight, the cheekbones high, and his wide, toothy grin does not extend to the hawk-like eyes nestled beneath the bushy white eyebrows. His silvery mane would be the envy of an Old Testament patriarch.

  The eternally smiling man is Zebulon “Zeb” Wheele: Man of God, Healer of the Sick, Speaker of Prophecy, and founder of the Wheeles of God Ministry. The superimposed electronic graphics explain, for those viewing at home, that this “healing event” has taken place in Dallas, Texas, three months previous.

  The audience, most of which are encumbered by canes and walkers, clap and sing hymns while awaiting their chance to be touched by the divine. Many study the huge portrait of the healer, comparing it to the reduced likenesses printed on the back of their programs. The air is heavy with sweat, hope, and anxiety.

  Suddenly, the lights go down and a spotlight hits the stage. The organ music swells and a figure strides from the wings. It is a woman in a gold lame pantsuit, her hair shellacked into a Gordian knot. The applause is thunderous. The woman is Sister Catherine, widow of the late Zebulon Wheele. It is she they have come to see.

  Catherine Wheele accepts the welcome, smiling broadly and throwing kisses to the crowd. She takes the microphone from the podium and addresses the faithful. “Hallelujah, brothers and sisters! Hallelujah! It gladdens my heart to know that the words and deeds of my dear, departed husband are still manifest in the joyful spirits of those who have felt the power of Our Lord Jesus Christ through his loving hands! Every day I receive hundreds of letters from y’all out there, telling me how my darling Zeb changed your lives! The sick made well! The deaf to hear! The blind to see! Hallelujah!”

  But now her manner darkens, as she struggles to suppress the hitch in her voice. “But I also hear from those who say they are forlorn. They are afraid they’ll never know the miracle of divine mercy, that they’ll never see salvation, because my blessed Zebulon was called to God. Are these poor souls doomed to live their lives in pain and torment, never to know the grace and forgiveness of Our Lord? Say no!”

  “No!” Only a few voices respond, uncertain of themselves.

  “Is it?” Her voice suddenly becomes harsher and more demanding.

  “No,” the coliseum answers with a little more confidence than before.

  “Is it?” she shrieks, spittle flying from her lips.

  “No!” Two thousand voices—shrill and pure, baritone and falsetto, weak and strong—join together.

  Catherine Wheele smiles. She is pleased. Once more she is a pleasant Sunday- school teacher. “Do not fear, brothers and sisters! While Brother Zebulon may no longer be amongst you, I am still here! As Elijah’s mantle fell upon Elisha, so has Zebulon’s gift been passed to me. After my darling husband’s tragic death, I received a vision, where I saw Zebulon standing between two angels so beautiful it hurt to look at them. Zeb then sayeth unto me: ‘Honey, promise me you’ll carry on my work.’ And I said, ‘Zeb, I can’t do the things you do. No one can!’ But he just smiled and said: ‘As I leave all my earthly things to you, so do I bequeath my heavenly gifts!’’ Can I get an ‘amen’ on that?”

  “Amen!”

  “As it was written in First Corinthians, Chapter Twelve: ‘To one is given utterance of knowledge according to the same Spirit, to another gifts of healing!’ I was overcome by the glory of Christ and I fell to the floor and stayed there all night, crying and praying and blessing my sweet savior. When I awoke I found myself blessed with the gifts of knowledge and healing! Now I am able to continue my husband’s good works, and that’s what y’all are here for, isn’t it, brothers and sisters?”

  “Yes!”

  “I have mighty big shoes to fill,” she admits, gesturing to the banner draped behind her. “But for me to let you down would be the greatest sin ever committed. I shall try not disappoint you, friends. Let the healing begin!”

  The choir sings hosannas as Sister Catherine exhorts the crowd to give generously to her crusade to build a Zebulon Wheele Memorial Chapel. Strapping young men work the crowd, carrying large plastic trashcans in place of offering plates. A thirty-nine-year-old woman with ‘sugar diabetes’ is brought from the audience and told to throw down her insulin. She obeys as Sister Catherine grinds the ampoules into the floorboards with one deft twist of her high heel. The crowd roars amen. Sister Catherine then reminds the congregation to give generously to the Zebulon Wheele Memorial Home for Unwed Mothers as the ushers make a second round.

  An elderly man suffering from a heart condition is wheeled on stage. Sister Catherine places her hand inches from the man’s forehead, then strikes him with the flat of her palm. The man begins to shriek and howl in ecstasy, his arms spinning like pinwheels. Sister Catherine grabs hold of the supplicant and pulls him to his feet. To the amazement of the crowd, the euphoric old man pushes her across the stage in the wheelchair. By the time they reach the speaker’s podium, the old man’s face is beet-red and covered in sweat. Two young men in dark suits with narrow ties and narrower lapels emerge from the wings and hastily escort him into the darkness beyond the lights.

  The congregation is well-pleased. They clap and shout and stamp their feet. “Hallelujah! Amen! Praise the Lord!” rebounds from the walls. Sister Catherine accepts their veneration, not a hair out of place, her hands held high. Her gold lame pantsuit shimmers in the lights from the cameras. Tears of humility smear her makeup, leaving dark trails on her cheeks.

  “His will b
e done! His will be done, brothers and sisters! As it was said in Matthew, Chapter Fifteen: ‘Great crowds came to him, bringing with them the lame, the maimed, the blind, and the dumb, and he healed them so that they marveled when the dumb spoke, the maimed became whole, the lame walked, and die blind saw!’ Praise God! Praise ...”

  Sister Catherine falls abruptly silent, her eyes sweeping the auditorium like a hawk sighting prey.

  “Someone here is in dire need of healing. I can feel that need, calling out to God to ease the pain. I have healed others tonight, but this need is greater than all of those combined! Tell me, Lord. Tell me the name of this afflicted soul, so I may minister to his needs.” She lowers her head, seeking divine counsel as she prays into the microphone.

  The camera slowly pans the audience as they wait for God to speak to Sister Catherine. Who will it be? Who will be called out to be healed? There are many worthy of attention, and the ushers have made sure they are seated in the front rows, where the camera can see them. The camera lens pans the line-up with the eye of a connoisseur, lingering on the most pathetic cases: an elderly woman so twisted by osteoporosis she sees nothing but her feet; a drooling microcephalic supported on either side by his aged parents; a once-pretty girl who fell from her boyfriend’s motorcycle and slid face-first along an asphalt road.

  Catherine Wheele’s head snaps up, her voice tight with excitement. “Is there a George Bellwether here tonight? A George Bellwether who lives on Hawthorne Street?”

  The crowd murmurs among itself as everyone turns in their seats to see who will rise and go to be healed. No one doubts there is a body to go along with the name and address. Sister Catherine always knows.

  A fragile man seated near the front stands up. The same ushers who helped the old man with the heart condition off stage move into the congregation. Flashes of gold at their wrists leave smears of light on the camera’s retina. Their eyes are shielded from the klieg lights’ glare by sunglasses.