The Girl in a Coma

by John Moss

  The room goes dark. I hear the door open. I feel the rush of air, the door closes.

  My heart is racing, I’m alive.

  My left eye must have scared her to death. Or my lucky medallion did.

  I’m freaked out by the intruder, but I’m excited because I can see light with both eyes. I’ve got to work on getting both of them to open. My mind is racing. Gradually it slows down.

  I drift into a comfortable sleep.

  Eighteen

  Lizzie

  Guiding their horses past occasional clearings through the forest, Lizzie and her escort didn’t talk. It was late in the day when they descended the rocky cleft in the escarpment. Soon they were on mud roads packed down through the long summer months by wagons and carts. As they approached Chippewa, they passed fences made from the stumps of big trees that had been hauled out of the fields by oxen. Then the fences became cedar rails laid out in a zigzag fashion. A few cows wandered about, nibbling on the dried grass.

  They crossed The Crick and pulled up their horses in front of Macklem’s Tavern, where Lizzie had left Cameron and Beazley.

  “You wait where you are,” said Will Richardson as he dismounted. “It’s too hard to get you back up on that beast again.”

  Lizzie was appalled. Her escort had managed to insult her, suggesting she was heavy, and to insult her horse, calling him a beast. Just because Will Richardson was young and handsome and very dashing by anyone’s judgment, that didn’t give him the right to be rude.

  But she stayed on Fleetfire’s back, leaning forward to rub his ears, and said nothing. Will disappeared through the doors into the tavern.

  Soon, Lizzie could hear the rough sounds of men laughing. She waited. There was more laughter. She waited a little longer. It was going to be dark before long.

  Finally, in exasperation she swung her long skirts up over Fleetfire’s head and slid down from his back. She marched across the sidewalk made of wooden planks. She knew women were not allowed in the saloon. She pushed open the doors and strode inside like she owned the place.

  There were only three customers at the bar. There was Beazley, looking fat and quite drunk. There was Cameron, standing at ease and pretending to be sober. And there was Will Richardson, tipping a large glass of whiskey back so vigorously that some of it missed his mouth and dribbled down his cheeks.

  The laughter died. All three men stared at Lizzie in amazement. The bartender was astonished. There had never been a woman in his establishment since the day it was built.

  Lizzie was dressed in coarse drab clothes but there was no mistaking that she was a woman. None of the men had seen anything so unnatural ever before.

  Even Will Richardson appeared shocked.

  He moved away from the bar, hitched up his trousers, and took a couple of steps toward her.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed.

  “I’m sure you will be,” she responded.

  He grinned.

  “Just what are you doing?” Lizzie demanded. “These men are under arrest for desertion and for arson and you’re to escort me to General Brock. Did you forget your responsibilities when you walked through that door, Will Richardson?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, still grinning. “I was just getting fueled up for the rest of the journey.”

  “Drunk,” she said. “You were getting drunk.”

  “Yes, ma’am. A little drunk. Now you wait with the horses and I’ll bring these two rascals out and we’ll be on our way. Better go quick, before someone places you under arrest, yourself.”

  She went out and crossed the road. She purchased a handful of oats for the price of a smile and fed it to Fleetfire. She saved a little for Will’s horse. A half hour later, the three men walked into the late afternoon sunlight. The two soldiers were staggering, but Will Richardson held himself upright and sober. Despite the frontier clothes and an untrimmed mustache, he looked quite dashing.

  Allison

  The first thing on my mind when I wake up is that Maddie O’Rourke’s eye shadow saved my life. I’m positive I was about to die but my killer suddenly fled. My eyes all made up like that, then one eye opening. I scared her. Or him.

  Could it have been the ordinary man, trying to steal my medallion? Not trying to kill me at all, just rob me, like stealing from a corpse. But no, I’m pretty sure it was a woman. And it was the seventeenth night.

  In spite of a close encounter with death, I feel better than I have for a long time.

  I can hear voices outside my door. It’s three nurses and they sound very excited. One of them has a harsh voice, like there is something broken inside her throat.

  I don’t know whether they’re real nurses, like in the hospital. They call them nurses at Shady Nook, whatever they do. It must be hard, looking after people like me. They can call themselves astronauts, if that’s what they want.

  Some of them must be real nurses, though. They do medical stuff.

  Anyway, they’re all excited.

  They move into my room to talk, so no one can hear them.

  “She was a stranger in town.”

  “Crossing the footbridge over the Otonabee River.”

  “Killed right on the bridge.”

  “They’ve got her body downstairs. I’ve seen her.”

  “Me, too. She was whacked on the head.”

  “Strangled.”

  “Strangled after she was whacked on the head.”

  “Bare hands?”

  “Wearing surgical gloves.”

  “A woman killed her.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Small hands. You can tell from the bruises.”

  “It’s horrible, she was only in her forties.”

  “Thirties.”

  “Really? I thought she looked a lot older.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Speak well of the departed.”

  “What? I liked her.”

  “You didn’t know her.”

  “I was joking.”

  “Not funny, and we shouldn’t be joking,” said the nurse with the rasping voice.

  “How else do you deal with murder?”

  “It’s no joke. It’s scary. I’m not working after dark ever again.”

  “You will.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “What about this one?” That was the nurse with the unusual voice.

  “Her? Allison Briscoe. She’s as good as dead, already.”

  Hey, that’s me! I’m not dead. Get the hell out of here, go!

  And they leave.

  Maybe swearing does help, even if they can’t actually hear me.

  So, the pattern continues. There has been another death on the seventeenth night. It wasn’t me. Not this time. Thank you. But I made the killer mad enough that she went out and killed somebody else. Not even one of the guests.

  I feel badly about that.

  Lizzie

  Standing on tiptoes, Lizzie reached up and grasped her horse’s mane with her fingers. Will Richardson cupped his hands under her raised left foot and hoisted her onto Fleetfire’s back. She pulled herself straight. He handed her the reins. It had been a long day; she ached all over.

  She towered high over her escort after he mounted up. Fleetfire was a huge draft animal, normally used for pulling a plow. She marveled, remembering that she had been able to swing herself onto him when she had escaped the fire.

  I must have been lifted by angels, she thought. Risen on the wings of terror, more likely.

  This strange company of travelers made their way along the Portage Trail that ran parallel to the mighty river. Fort Erie was being rebuilt and many of the Redcoat soldiers were camped near Matthias Haun’s new home, but Lizzie was certain General Brock and the militia were to the north, near Queenston Heights
.

  As they passed Wilson’s Hotel in the village of Niagara, Lizzie gazed out over the falls. She loved to see the mist rising. The road swooped above some houses and she caught sight of a broad column of smoke above the rooftops twisting into the evening sky.

  “Someone’s on fire,” she exclaimed. The smoke was coming from the direction of Rebecca Haun’s frame house.

  “There’s always a lot of fires this time of year,” said Will Richardson. “People start up a roaring blaze after they’ve been cooking outside all summer. Their chimneys catch fire. We’ve got to keep moving.”

  He urged his horse forward, forcing Lizzie on her big gelding to go the same way.

  “No,” she declared and pulled on the reins to turn Fleetfire back. She was determined to check on her aunt. Cameron and Beazley stood aside to watch as her big horse forced Will to turn around.

  “It’s nothing,” snapped Will Richardson in annoyance.

  “I’ve got to make sure. Anyway, we need a place to stay for the night. We can’t reach Queenston before dark. You three can sleep in the stable and I’ve got a nice warm cot by the hearth.”

  She turned her horse down the cobblestone lane she had passed through early that morning. The others followed. When they reached the river road, Lizzie’s worst fears were confirmed. All that was left of Rebecca Haun’s house and stable were burned-out stone foundations and some smoldering beams amidst piles of charred debris.

  A man she had seen the night before in Rebecca’s kitchen was standing by the ruins. He had a shovel and a rake. He was making sure the fire didn’t spread to other buildings close by.

  “Underhill,” said Will Richardson, nodding to the man.

  “Richardson,” the man acknowledged Lizzie’s companion perched on his little horse. He ignored the two ragged soldiers on foot.

  “Mr. Underhill.” Lizzie spoke the man’s name as an anxious greeting.

  “Miss Erb,” he offered, followed by a nervous cough.

  “Where is my aunt, Mr. Underhill?”

  “It’s a very sad business, Miss Erb.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “She must have tipped over a lamp.”

  “There were no lamps burning when I left her this morning.”

  “Well, she must have anyway.”

  “Mr. Underhill, is she dead?” said Lizzie.

  “We didn’t find no remains, if that’s what you mean. It were an accident.”

  No, it had not been an accident. Lizzie felt horror deep in her bones but she had no urge to cry. Cold fury stifled her grief. Her three companions waited to see what she would do.

  After gazing deeply into the ashes and collecting her thoughts, she wheeled Fleetfire around with ferocious determination. “We will stay at Wilson’s,” she announced and cantered ahead of her band of ruffians toward the hotel perched on a precipice near the brink of the falls.

  “Here,” called Frank Underhill, running after her. She slowed in when she heard him and he handed her something wrapped in a swatch of smoky cotton. “We found this among the ruins.”

  Lizzie pulled Fleetfire to a full stop and unfolded the cloth. Inside, wiped clean from rubbing in Mr. Underhill’s pocket, was a silver medallion with a gem of clear amber at the center.

  She had never seen it before but she knew what it was. Her mother had told her that Aunt Rebecca wore a piece of jewelry within the folds of her clothes. Rebecca was no longer a Mennonite; she chose to wear this keepsake from her beloved William’s family hidden from sight. Like her love, itself, it was not secret, but it was private.

  Lizzie was amazed at how the evening sunlight turned golden as it passed through the nugget of amber. Her eyes welled up but again she refused to cry.

  She lifted her hair at the back and settled the thin silver chain around her neck so the medallion glistened on her breast.

  As she did this, she declared to herself with conviction: though we live among Mennonites, I will wear this medallion with pride. I am an Erb and a Haun but I am also a de Vere of the Boston de Veres. My Aunt Rebecca’s story is safe in the past. I have my own story to live. Aunt Becky would have wanted it so.

  Lizzie’s eyes burned.

  She dug her heels into Fleetfire’s sides and trotted on.

  Nineteen

  Allison

  All day long, I’ve been picking up the scent of smoke. I guess it’s a residual memory from Lizzie’s world. Unless it’s the killer? I can’t tell for sure but I don’t think she stole my medallion before I scared her off. It’s been a long day. I feel more alone than usual. I still don’t have a roommate. And there’s a lot of traffic in the hall. Having people around can make you feel lonely. Especially if they’re talking about murder.

  My door has been open and I can hear them. Two police officers interviewed nurses just outside my room. I can tell they’re police because their voices are loud and clear. They learn to speak that way at police school. It gives them authority. One of the officers is a woman. Her voice is loudest and yet it’s soothing.

  The police have no idea that the murderer works here at Shady Nook—or that this is just the latest in a series of murders. They’re trying to figure out if the victim knew her killer. You can’t sneak up on a stranger, on a footbridge, with a club in your hands.

  With a club? I’ve been listening, trying to figure out what weapon was used to bash in her head.

  Then it turns out she was only strangled. I don’t mean only. But there was a lot of blood because she hit her head when the killer let her drop backwards onto the steel walkway. The killer was looking into her eyes when she died. You would have to hate someone in order to watch her die like that.

  Or be in a terrible rage.

  And damn it all to hell, I was the cause of the rage.

  The killer saw I was alive in here, not just a vegetable. She knows! And then she changed her pattern. She still had to kill.

  If only I could figure out who works on what shift, I could connect the killer to the dates of each death.

  I can pretty well tell the time in here by listening to voices. When shifts change, the voices change.

  Some of the nurses work twelve-hour shifts, from eight to eight. But some work a shift and a half. From eight in the morning until two at night, or from two in the morning until eight the next night. It’s confusing trying to follow their schedule just by listening.

  What I do know, for sure, is the killer was going home after doing a shift and a half at two in the morning.

  That would narrow the suspects down, you would think.

  I want to tell the cops.

  I need to tell the cops.

  The killer knows I’m in here. She’s scared of me, and not just for the eye shadow and the staring eyeball. She’s already broken her pattern. And she’s afraid I know too much.

  She needs me dead.

  The question is, will she wait another seventeen days?

  Maddie comes in. I wish I could get her to explain about the nurse. I sometimes forget she can’t tell what’s inside my mind.

  So, right away she says: “I looked up REVERE from the back of your medallion. I think the guy who made it is the same Paul Revere we studied in school. He was a silversmith as well as a Revolutionary hero in a famous poem. Do you remember?

  “Listen my children and you shall hear

  “Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.

  “That was by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. You took English from Mrs. Muratori. A different grade from me but she must have done the same things. Remember:

  “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…

  “Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’

  “That was a poem by a sad-looking horror writer called Edgar Allan Poe.”

  The only poems I remember are song lyrics.

  “Anyway,”
Maddie continues. “I looked up the symbol with two V’s that you can see on the other side of the amber. Turns out one is a compass, not the direction kind, the kind for making circles. The other is called a square, like a ruler with a right angle. One over the other, they form a symbol used by the Freemasons. That’s like the Shriners, the guys who wear funny hats and do silly things in parades and raise money. Except the Masons are a solemn and secret society—not all that secret, since we know Paul Revere was one of them. So was George Washington and Ben Franklin. I couldn’t make out the small letters, you can hardly see them but they look foreign.”

  Maddie holds up the medallion so I can see the amber glistening.

  Paul Revere gave it to Madge de Vere. Her husband was a Freemason.

  It’s a big, big world but, at the same time, it is very small.

  Lizzie

  When Lizzie demanded that Will Richardson give her the leather saddlebag with her treasure inside, he hesitated. They were standing outside the hotel stable where the horses and three men would spend the night. She intended to sleep in a hotel bed.

  “I’ll just keep it safe for you, Miss Erb.”

  “I didn’t tell you my name,” she snapped.

  “No, your friend Mr. Underhill did. But I already knew it, of course.”

  “Of course. General Brock told you. I’ll take my property, if you please.”

  Cameron and Beazley watched with interest. They were both almost sober after their walk from the saloon. Will undid the cinch and lifted the saddle down. Lizzie stepped forward and placed her hand on her bag.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Miss.” Will Richardson spoke severely.

  “It is mine,” she insisted. She glowered. Her fury at Rebecca Haun’s fate showed through. She was in the middle of a war and almost on the front lines. No one was going to order her about, not even the handsome frontiersman, Will Richardson.

  Cameron stepped forward between them.

  “If it belongs to the lady,” he said to Will, “then you had better let her have it.”

  The two men stared at each others. Lizzie was amazed. She was used to seeing the soldier slouching and disinterested. Right now he stood as straight and tall as his adversary. He had scavenged a jacket to replace the one he discarded. It had a bullet hole in the breast and was stained with dried blood. He was ragged and filthy, while the buckskin jacket on Will Richardson looked impressively clean. But despite his tawdry appearance, Cameron presented himself with surprising dignity.