Psychosomatic

by Anthony Neil Smith

The doctor shook his head, asked Terry to wait in another room. Lancaster watched him go. No way to avoid the cops in gunshot cases, even accidents. He knew Terry might bolt right now, dye his hair and talk his way onto a bus or taxi and be so gone by the time Lancaster came out of surgery. They’d always told each other that if one gets in trouble, the other saves himself. Theoretically.

  The doctor stared Lancaster in the eye. He shouldn’t have stared back.

  “An accident, huh?”

  Lancaster said, “I’m not any good with guns.”

  “This type of wound, I’m betting someone else wasn’t good with it.”

  “I’m bleeding to death here, and you’re calling me a liar?”

  The doctor gnawed his lip a moment before shrugging. “Pretty much, yeah. Let’s get you prepped.”

  ELEVEN

  Megan Killingsworth carried the plastic grocery bag containing the nurse’s uniform to the ladies room at Shoney’s a few blocks from the hospital in Hattiesburg. Her boyfriend or pimp or dealer, all three titles losing relevance as the day went on, had bitched her out for buying the thing since it wasn’t going to work. She told him she knew, but it was too fucking late. She’d made the charge on the stolen American Express, so there was no way to return it. The boyfriend told her to wash the off the make-up and redo her hair if she was to have a chance at all. That’s when she left, walked the five miles from downtown, sweating like shit, to change in this restaurant bathroom.

  She hated the costume, thought it was too tight, and it wasn’t what she needed anyway. A white nurse’s uniform, all they had at the costume shop. She told the lady helping her, “It’s not like the ones the nurses on ER wear.”

  The lady sighed. “It’s all we’ve got. We can’t just order stuff like we’re Sears.”

  Megan had held the dress to her body, checked the price—not like she cared about price with the card in her pocket. Better than nothing. It wasn’t until halfway down Hardy Street she remembered a girl from college she knew bought scrubs at a special store near the hospital.

  Stupid, stupid. And I can’t use the card again. She’d tried using a Mastercard twice in a day once and barely got out the door of the liquor store. The computers put booby traps on them, no fair at all.

  After struggling into the thing, tossing her ripped jeans and pink retro My Little Pony T-shirt into the bag, she tromped out and made her way down the service road to the hospital. She stashed her street clothes deep in a shrub and hoped no one would think to take a look, just call it trash.

  Inside, the cold air gave her chills, sweat turning to snow almost. She didn’t lose her composure, moved innocently towards the elevator, punched the up button, and waited. She adjusted her hat while wondering where the best place would be to start looking for drugs.

  Funny thing was that while she looked really out of place at the hospital, no one stopped her. All the nurses and physicians in their green or white or pink scrubs moved quickly and gave her only passing glances. She felt relieved, then went about her search. Found a stray chart and wandered around looking for open closets, pill bottles, vials, syringes. Some for herself and the rest to sell. She needed rent money to give to the boyfriend—he called himself her “roommate”—who let her pay a little to stay at his place, who sold her dope. She only fucked him when the mood struck her.

  Most closets were locked, most rooms empty of good stuff except for a few needles and pain pill sample packs she lifted. The big hauls were guarded by bored and mean nurses. And she counted the pharmacy out without a second thought. Stupid costume, stupid plan, just plain stupid. A friend once rambled around the third floor in street clothes, for fuck’s sake, and fared better than she was doing. After a while of riding the elevators and trading random charts, searching for an unattended medicine stash, it was quickly obvious that she needed a better plan.

  Maybe in the real ER, then. Worth a shot.

  She found her way through the halls and got there in time to see a huge commotion, several orderlies and nurses restraining someone howling like a wolf on a gurney. She edged closer, the calmest one of the people-storm surrounding Lancaster. He stopped thrashing for a moment when he noticed her and their eyes met and he said, “Jesus, you’re beautiful.”

  Megan reached for his face, cupped her palm on his cheek. He looked like a guy from a punk band and Grease all rolled into one, except for the awful blonde dye job in his hair. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “Am I helping now?”

  He nodded, teeth chattering.

  “I’ll be waiting for you when the doctors have finished.”

  The orderlies pushed her away as they started the bed rolling towards an operating room, and Lancaster was again wailing like it wasn’t so much the pain killing him as it was being taken from Megan.

  She had to find out more. Lancaster was her ticket out of town.

  TWELVE

  When Alan walked into the kitchen to find Norm feeding peach slices to Lydia, he wanted to shoot the son of a bitch where he sat. Instead he looked blank, surprised he was already numb to death after only two kills.

  Still, it hurt. He was sure Lydia was lying to him now.

  She said, “Oh, Alan, you made it. Norm stopped by to pay you the rest of the money.”

  Norm blinked. “I did?”

  Alan leaned against the counter. He took the gun from his pocket, set it beside him, then crossed his arms and bowed his head. He wasn’t praying.

  Norm forked a peach slice and ate it himself. He reached over with a napkin to wipe the glaze from Lydia’s mouth. She shook her head as if to say, Not with Alan and his gun there. He said, “I didn’t bring any money, Lydia. I can go get some.”

  “It’s fine, tomorrow or the next. However, you do owe Alan now, understand?”

  Alan watched as the information sunk in. Norm didn’t seem interested in the peaches or Lydia anymore. His hands shook, which almost made Alan laugh, considering how he had been afraid of this asshole at first. Roles reversed, things changed, tides turned.

  “I killed your partner,” Alan said, blunt as shit, just to watch the guy fall apart even more. Lydia’s face wrinkled into anger, a solemn stare aimed Alan’s way. He shrugged at her and finally grinned, unable to hold it back anymore.

  Lydia turned back to Norm and said, “There’s one problem. We’ll need to be clear about this, no lies.”

  “I would never—”

  “Shut up and keep listening. Alan’s going to help keep you honest, so let’s be upfront.”

  Norm nodded. Alan drifted over until he was standing behind Norm’s chair, the redneck unable to see what the big man was doing. Three slices of peaches left. Norm played around with the slices nervously, cutting them into smaller and smaller bits.

  “You’re not working against us on this, are you? The money, the decision, all your idea, right?” Lydia said.

  Norm nodded. “Well, I mean, it was your idea.”

  “No, not at all. Like I said, perfectly clear, you’re alone on this?”

  “Yes.”

  “So if I told you Alan was followed by two men today who are now witnesses to this unfortunate loss, you wouldn’t know anything about it?”

  Norm’s fork clattered on the plate. “Jesus.”

  Alan started to reach for Norm’s shoulder. A glance from Lydia stopped him.

  “You know these guys?”

  “No, I’m telling you, I have no idea. Jesus, there’s a witness? We’re dead, aren’t we? That’s why you wanted me saying it was my idea. You’re recording all this. A set up!”

  Alan said, “Not us, mole man. We’re squeaky clean and you’re smearing our glass.”

  “What?”

  “Listen to Lydia, all right?”

  She sighed heavily and closed her eyes, bobbed her head in a silent count, then said, “Alan didn’t have time to kill them. They’re not cops. Maybe they were friends of Tompkins. I don’t know, but they know who Alan is and they sa
w what he did. Now, do you know two guys who pick up abandoned cars from the side of the interstate?”

  Norm straightened in his chair. “Terry and Lancaster. Man, I didn’t know they were still around here. Those two are pretty slick.”

  “Friends of yours?”

  A shrug. “Not really friends. Maybe Randy more than me. They would come looking for a job or trying to unload a decent car. Every once in a while, they’d dip into pills for quick cash. Terry’s the smart one, kind of easy-going. The other one’s always pissed off.”

  “Why would they be interested in Tompkins?”

  “Maybe they were after Alan.”

  They went quiet, no one wanting to admit anything.

  Norm said, “I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  “Want to see his body?” Alan said.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Don’t wig out on us here. You wanted him dead.”

  “You pushed it on me,” Norm said, a finger weakly pointed at Lydia. “I would’ve just turned on him, called in anonymously. You wanted in on my action.”

  Lydia said, “And that’s not a better deal? Your choice was a thief and liar or someone who actually wants to do things right. So get over it.”

  Both men shrunk from her, forgetting the chair and the fake arms and legs for a second. Her voice was in command mode. She knew the plan, the escape, the details.

  She said, “You’re in this as we are. If you’re really not in with Terry and Lancaster, then you’re going to help us find them.”

  Alan coughed, took in a sharp breath. Lydia kept on.

  “They won’t say anything to the cops because they’d rather milk Alan for more money. Same with you. You won’t tell the cops because it turns suspicion on you. Not to mention that you don’t want me to look for you, right? That wouldn’t be healthy.”

  Norm sat so still Alan thought he had fainted. He finally shook his head and said, “I understand.”

  “Get the rest of the money and come back over. We start looking immediately.”

  “I still owe the rest of the money?”

  Lydia glanced at Alan, who smacked Norm in the face. The redneck slid out of the chair, hand to his face, “Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

  “Yes, you owe the money, an apology, and you help us find these faggot bastard friends of yours, you got that?”

  Norm stayed hunched on the floor. He nodded, wouldn’t look at Lydia. “I can’t do that.”

  “Too bad. You have to.” Lydia hummed it in a way that had both Alan and Norm melting for her, obvious from their eyes and lips, now paying complete attention. “You both listen to me, and I’m not going to let anything happen to either one of you. Count on it. Now let’s start with the money.”

  Norm found his feet and held his stomach as Alan escorted him to the front door, the redneck growing more feeble with each step.

  “If you’re going to throw up, save it for outside, will you?” Alan said. “I work hard to keep this place nice for Lydia.”

  Norm nodded again, no words left after the slap. Alan felt sorry for him in a way, seeing that maybe he didn’t expect the killing to work out, like he was just venting steam and Lydia pushed it on him. Pretty much what Alan had tried to do in the first place, just let it go. Too late now. Alan didn’t feel so hot after shooting Cap and staging him with Ronnie on the roadside. The thing was, he might have been a little shook up seeing Tompkins beg, but he pulled the trigger and was surprised by a split second of confidence. Thinking the guy deserved to die. Lydia had really done a number on him: You’re one of five billion. You think any God ever imagined that many people? It’s the jungle. Be good to those who are good to you, get rid of those who aren’t, and the rest can fend for themselves.

  Outside, Alan watched Norm sprint for the truck, gagging the whole way, barely getting the door open before he crouched over and emptied his stomach on the lawn.

  Alan let out a sigh, stepped inside and closed the door, feeling a bit of a tug in his own stomach. He cleared his throat. The feeling got worse. By the time he made it to Lydia’s bathroom, he didn’t have time to lift the toilet lid. He aimed for the shower, all his lunch and acid erupting as he clawed for the cold water tap and let the stream run over the back of his head. It wasn’t so much over shooting Tompkins as it was imagining what Lydia had in store by making him work with Norm. The way he was feeding her those peaches, the way she said she wouldn’t let anything happen to either one of them. Alan heaved again. He wasn’t going to share his Sweetie with anyone.

  *

  Lydia heard what Alan told Norm on his way out the door. She heard the sigh, the throat-clearing, and then listened to him being sick, the sounds echoing off the tile and through the house. She stared at the peaches on the table, hoping her tough approach would pay off with Norm so he would return soon. The business wasn’t the most important thing. His compliance was. She needed cooperation, because after they found and got rid of the car thieves, the three of them would need to make a quick escape and find a new life elsewhere. A safe place where her two men could worship her in comfort and beauty, where she could mold them from losers into beefcakes.

  “Alan, are you okay? Alan?”

  She was certain he would get used to the idea of sharing her. Where else would he ever get a chance to be with someone with even a tenth of what I’ve got?

  “Alan, sweetie?”

  THIRTEEN

  Terry paced the hall, thought about leaving, unable to imagine staying free on his own. He was smarter and more slippery than Lancaster but that wasn’t always enough. Having a hard-hearted partner covered the other bases. So he stayed, drank bad coffee and read old magazines, ignored the kids playing on the waiting room floor while their greasy parents stared off into space.

  A doctor poked his head in about thirty minutes later, motioned for Terry to follow him. Out in the hall, the man mumbled through a few lines. He was thin and tired, with straight white hair topping a young face. He wore a trout pin on his lapel.

  “Louder, doc,” Terry said.

  “This is your brother, right?”

  “No, not by blood.”

  “You’re what, then? Life partners, along those lines?”

  Terry felt acid rise in his throat. He cleared it. “Excuse me?”

  “What I’m saying is he needs blood. We can find some, I’m sure. Family members sometimes are the best bet. Since you’re not related, I still want to know if you’re compatible. Supplies are pretty low all over.”

  “We don’t match,” Terry said. He really had no idea. Terry stifled a belch and swallowed heartburn. Cops would be there soon. Lancaster was an idiot for wanting a real hospital. It was the first time Terry had seen the guy so helpless, although he still radiated vibes that said Do it or I can still beat you silly with only one good arm.

  The doctor sighed and turned to go, mumbling, “Wait here.”

  Terry fumed. The doctor thought he was gay. A liar and gay. He called the doctor back. “How long will the surgery be? You’re sure he’ll be okay?”

  “Nothing is sure until we’ve done it.”

  “Wild guess, please.”

  “The arm will never be the same. Maybe seventy percent of normal. This will take hours, so have a seat and we’ll keep you updated.”

  “I could go get the gun, get him a few things, if that’ll help.”

  The doctor shifted his eyes, blinked fast, all the things Terry had learned to control when he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “I think it would be better for everyone if you stayed here, maybe called his family, something like that. Just don’t leave. In case you do, how can we reach you?”

  Terry thought about faking a number before remembering Tompkins’ cell phone bulging in his pocket. He pulled it out, opened it, and scrolled the menu. “Hold on a second.”

  “You don’t know your own number?”

  “I just got it, you know. Only a couple weeks, and I haven’t bothered memorizing. I don’t call myself much.” Terry
found the right screen and read off the number to the doctor, who scribbled it in the margins of his other notes.

  As the doctor blended into the other white coats and scrubs down the hall, Terry looked for an elevator. Lancaster would be under for a long time, in no shape to answer questions. Another quick change—hair color, glasses, maybe a scar—and he could come back later. Scrubs might help, and an ID badge. Hard to come by without knocking someone in the head. Lancaster was better at that sort of thing.

  The elevator doors opened. Terry stepped inside with a couple of other people and rode to the ground floor. He fought off tears. Shit, he didn’t need to be crying. His friend being hurt was one thing. Now they were close to getting caught. Tompkins’ body, waiting to be discovered, and the trooper’s death still hanging in the air. Why didn’t we take off when we had the chance? Why stick around so fucking long?

  Terry wandered out to the minivan in the emergency room parking lot. Blood slicked the passenger side where Lancaster had leaned against it, soaked the seat where he had writhed, gritting his teeth and begging Terry to drive faster. Terry tapped his fingers on the hood. If the cops ran the plates, they would know it was stolen.

  So it all came down to this—just how good a con was he, really? He hoped he and Lancaster had handled the trooper well enough that no one would make the connection. The last resort, even though Terry had wanted to use the information for different ends, was to give the cops Alan Crabtree in exchange for a break.

  Terry pounded the hood, hurt his hand. He rubbed the heel of it and decided to go back to inside the hospital. He was hungry, so first a stop at the cafeteria for a sandwich, and then a long wait for consequences.

  *

  The uniformed cop stood over Terry in the waiting room, one hand near his gun for no good reason, the other hand fiddling with his radio knob.

  “Witnessed a murder?” he said.

  Terry nodded. “I think it was a drug thing, out in the woods like that. We surprised him, so he shot before running away.”

  “What were you doing out in the woods?”

  Terry rolled his eyes, played along. “Let’s say there are some things my friend and I don’t really want others in our life to know about, see?”