Psychosomatic

by Anthony Neil Smith

  The cop took a step back, almost unconsciously, exactly what Terry hoped for. This was one of those tough guy cops with beefy arms but flabby middles because lifting dumbbells was easier than doing the whole routine. Hair was close, no sideburns. His shirt was tight, the open collar showing a bright white T-shirt underneath. Terry thought it must be brand new. The cop’s partner was talking to the doctor, probably hearing an exaggerated story based on thin suspicions. Not long before they would start to play hardball with him.

  “You want to describe this guy, then?”

  “Maybe. I can try, but he was a fat one. Fat guys all look alike to me.”

  “What?”

  Terry stood, stretched out his arms and faked a yawn, then propped a hand on his hip. “I saw this big guy with a gun. The face is a blur. Redhaired? Light brown? I can’t remember.”

  Stall. Keep the info close to the vest. Keep the story confused until you see a way out. All this strategy floated through Terry’s head while he acted like a swish to keep the goddamn cop at arm’s length. That’s all it was, an innocent romp in the woods.

  “Anything else? Clothing? His car?”

  “Nothing comes to mind, officer.” He knows you’re a cop killer. Get out of here. Run, hurry.

  Terry kept his eyes sleepy-lidded and his shoulders slumped. The officer’s partner appeared in the doorway, flicked his fingers in a silent Come here. The flabby cop stepped over and they whispered at each other before the partner, a younger and more chiseled type, spoke police codes into his shoulder mike. Terry knew most of those, listened hard. The cop kept his voice down. Nothing but bits and pieces. Probably sending cops to check out the murder story.

  The older cop fumbled a path back to Terry, who sat with his arms crossed. The younger cop followed, fingers outstretched and twitching.

  “Stay here. We’ll need to talk to you further.”

  Terry nodded. The sleepiness wasn’t much of an act, and he needed the rest. Hey, if the cops found the body, maybe they would believe him. If not, they’d probably start trying to untangle his story. It didn’t matter then if he was telling the truth or spinning more lies. If it got that far, bye-bye Alan Crabtree.

  From the doorway, a sad nurse stopped and watched him. He watched back, wishing she would go away. Like a statue, a petite girl with thin streaked hair, barrettes holding it up, eye-makeup like the alternachicks on MTV. She was cute, her uniform a white dress, white stockings, white cap. Terry didn’t think nurses dressed like that anymore.

  The nurse walked into the room and stood over him. He was too tired to say something smart-ass or threatening. She patted his arm.

  “Your friend. I hope he’s okay.” That’s all she said before walking out.

  Terry drifted to sleep imagining he was in the audience at the talk show on TV, watching Crabtree and Lancaster confront each other about their “feelings” while holding long thin knives.

  FOURTEEN

  No amount of tough backwoods attitude was enough to prepare Norm for Tompkins’ stiff bloody corpse. The ants were swarming. Eyes and mouth open wide, still shocked. Alan had followed the redneck into the woods and knew they were in the right spot when Norm spun with a yelp and slammed into Alan like he wasn’t there before hiding behind his bulk.

  “I guess Terry didn’t clean up like I told him to.” Alan said, fighting to act like he was comfortable around a dead body.

  “You did that? You shot Randy and left him here?”

  “I didn’t mean to leave him here. I was interrupted. Help me out.”

  Alan shook out the curtains he had picked up from his house. They were dark dusty things he shoved in the closet after putting up olive green blinds. Norm took one side and helped straighten them on the ground beside Tompkins. He wouldn’t look in his former partner’s direction, making the whole damn operation awkward. The skin was already drained of color except the purple settling on the backs of Tompkins’ arms and legs.

  “You’re going to have to touch him so we can get him on the curtain,” Alan said.

  Norm’s mouth went wide, his eyes crunched tight. “You didn’t say anything about that before.”

  “It was fucking assumed, wasn’t it? Jesus, you’re too much, man.”

  It was Lydia’s idea that Alan and Norm go back to the woods, laughing at Terry’s tit for tat plea. Alan thought taking along the curtains was probably a good precaution. Terry and Lancaster might not go running to the cops on a normal occasion, but with one of them shot, who knew?

  “Grab the legs. At least he’s got sandals you can hold onto.”

  Alan grabbed Tompkins’ wrists and lifted, barely getting help from Norm, who touched the body as if it were a bucket of plague. They scooted Tompkins’ ass over the curtain and dropped the body dead center. Tompkins landed on his side, arms and legs splayed in crazy angles.

  “Did you bring the shovel?” Alan said.

  Norm shook his head. “I’ll get it. Give me the keys.”

  “It’s unlocked. I promise.”

  When Norm got back with the shovel, Alan dug up the dirt he thought might have soaked in blood, tossed it in with Tompkins. It was impossible to get all of the forensic evidence out of the way. Not like it mattered in Stone County, Mississippi. The cops sure as hell weren’t going to analyze the type of groove the shovel made in the dirt.

  Nearby, Alan found Lancaster’s gun, wondered why he forgot to take it along before. He picked it up and tossed it on Tompkins.

  “We carry him back to the car?” Norm asked in a pissy voice.

  Alan breathed in his direction for a long moment, eyes closed.

  “Okay, fine, gee…” Norm lifted Tompkins’ feet.

  He kept dropping his end, so Alan said, “Move,” and dragged the dead guy by the neck back to the Kia. They folded him into the trunk and left. Alan turned north.

  “You think they would try to hole up and take care of Lancaster’s arm? Something like that? Maybe find a doctor’s house, like in The Getaway.”

  “Those two? I thought you knew them.”

  “Not very well, but I’m just saying what I would do, I guess.”

  “I’m guessing that the way they dress and talk and gel up their hair, they headed straight for the hospital.”

  “What about Randy?”

  Alan looked over his shoulder, like he really had to check. “No time. He can come, too.”

  *

  The closest hospital was in Hattiesburg. They made it around four in the afternoon. Alan and Norm found the minivan in the front lot easily, then circled wide looking for surveillance. Nothing obvious. They decided to play safe—park in a far corner, stand outside the car, and wait for something to happen.

  “How the hell can we kill them in the hospital? Why do we need to kill them at all?” Norm said while he paced around Alan, who was calm as the sky.

  “I’m willing to negotiate.”

  “Yeah, but still—”

  “Here’s a question,” Alan said. “You say you know these guys, or Tompkins did, or whatever. What are their real names?”

  Norm thought about it, wrinkled his brow and hummed a low note. “I have no idea. We’re sure those are fake names, absolutely. I’ve never thought too hard about it.”

  “I wonder what that would be worth to them, someone finding out who they really are?”

  “Don’t know how you’d figure it.”

  Alan crossed his arms, grinned. “Just thinking out loud.”

  Norm looked at his watch. “What next?”

  “I think you should go see your good buddy Lancaster and then come tell me what’s going on.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “I don’t think you’ve shot anyone who’s currently a patient in that hospital. Maybe Terry won’t tell them everything, but he’s dumb enough to say it was a fat guy who did it.”

  *

  Norm guessed that even with fake names and a cover story, Terry and Lancaster would stick out, be easy to find. He was right. A
fter a quick start in ER, asking the calm and patient types who had probably been sitting there an hour and would sit a lot longer unless they started yelling and screaming, he shrugged around to anyone in scrubs with this sad look, describing his “friend” Lancaster. Finally, he got some help from a younger black woman with very short hair, coal dark except for light brown streaks, and a smile like the welcoming face of God, Norm thought. She led him through corridors and asked other nurses, doctors, and finally a security guard. Norm wasn’t crazy about asking him. Good thing he didn’t have any idea and didn’t seem to care.

  Finally she came back from a huddle with several other women in green scrubs and told him, “He’s in recovery. The surgery went better than they hoped.”

  “That’s great. Wow.”

  “Isn’t it?” The nurse reached out for a hug, and Norm gave her a big one. She smelled like apples and cinnamon, and Norm nearly forgot he was only pretending to be happy for Lancaster.

  “You can’t see him now,” the nurse said.

  “When could I?”

  “It’ll be a few hours. I could show you the waiting room.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  She led him to the elevator. Once inside, she took his hand. He wondered if she was this way with all strangers or if she was reacting to his charm. Maybe she liked him. He grinned, thought about how that could go down right there in the elevator.

  The nurse said, “I see too much trouble in this place, more heartbreak than healing sometimes. So when I hear about this friend of yours being all right, I think, Praise Jesus, you know?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s it. Glory.”

  It didn’t stop his fantasy to hear her talk gospel. Figured it might be sexy for her to shout “Thank you Jesus” while they pounded away.

  He was really thinking about Lydia, how sweet she was earlier, inviting him over and treating him like a friend. Until Alan got home, at least. Then she did the cold bitch routine. He understood, though. Part of the new business arrangement. She told him it was necessary in order to keep Alan in line. He can be a wild man. Sometimes, I don't know why I let him drag me into this…

  Lydia was so grateful to Norm for opening the can of peaches and feeding them to her. She'd been dying for peaches, she said. He forked them, held them close to her lips, and she playfully chattered her teeth for each one, laughing like a grown woman instead of the feisty sixteen year old he remembered ripping his clothes off in the band closet.

  Could he really see himself at her side for longer than a curious fuck? A fifty/fifty partner? The fakes arms and legs were good, but they had to come off sometime, and then what would he think? She was a freak who manipulated the hell out of any man she wanted. He was seeing her a little more clearly—the woman twisting his balls, that’s what it was. She didn’t want part of the business, only the whole shebang.

  “Sir? This is the floor.”

  The bell dinged and the doors started to slide shut. He was so spaced when they opened, he was still seeing pictures in his daydreams.

  Norm leapt for the doors, wedged through, and tried to remember what he was doing here. The nurse had gone back with the elevator. He was on his own.

  The waiting room. Supposed to find the waiting room. No, Recovery. Where was Recovery? He spun slowly, looking for a sign on the wall. The air was warmer, more uncomfortable than on the other floors. Not as many people around except a faded-out middle-aged woman sitting in a chair by the window, staring at him. Behind her, the city was gray, the window tinting wavy and full of bubbles.

  “Where’s Recovery?” Norm said to the woman.

  “Second floor.”

  “They sent me up here.”

  She shrugged, rubbed her lips with a pinkie finger. “Really, it’s down there far as I know.”

  Norm took a walk down the hall, glancing at room numbers and hoping the woman was wrong. Empty carts lined the wall, almost like the floor was being used as a storage closet. Around the corner, a TV made indistinguishable noise, commercial jingles obscuring the voices. He peeked into the room. Bright lights and plush chairs filled too much space. Scattered kids’ toys on the floor, and the TV on a cart in the corner. One guy sat slumped in a chair in front of it. He turned his head as Norm walked in.

  It was Terry. He wrinkled his face a moment before his eyes shot wide. “You!”

  Norm was frozen in the doorway.

  “Your partner said you were trying to get him killed. Looks like you did it.”

  Norm couldn’t say a damn word. Not one goddamn word.

  Terry pushed himself out of the chair. He was rough, his clothes stained with dried blood and dirt, his hair stuck in a slope. “How the hell did you know where to find me? You going to kill me too? Right here in the hospital?”

  Norm held his hands out, low but spread wide, wanting to say Back off, man, not able to make his mouth work. So he turned and ran, slipping on the tiles, scuttling enough to catch hold and make it back to the elevators. He slammed the Down button—onetwothreefourFIVE—the lights above showed it on the second floor. Blinked off, then on again at the first.

  Stairs. Norm needed the stairs and almost ran the way he had just ran from. Terry was coming now, walking fast, face flushed. Norm took off, ignoring the woman telling him to slow down. A few people in scrubs ducked their heads out of rooms to see what the commotion was. A pretty nurse in a white dress watched Norm and Terry calmly like the chase was on TV.

  An “Exit” sign ahead. No, a “Fire Exit”. Fuck it, let it go. Norm glanced over his shoulder. Terry was still coming, fast-walking, intense as hell. The door ahead warned Norm in bold letters not to take these stairs except in emergencies. He thought, Close enough, then pushed his way through.

  The alarm blared sudden and digital, lights flashing in the stairwell as he took them down by twos and kept tripping. People started filing out at the halfway point, blocking the steps, turning it into an orderly evacuation. Norm nudged past and kept looking back, not seeing Terry in the sea of faces but knowing he was there somewhere.

  FIFTEEN

  When the alarms went off, Terry took the stairs to the second floor and bounded over to the recovery room door like he didn’t have a clue. A cop tried to hold him back.

  “What’s with the alarms?” Terry said.

  “Someone triggered a fire alarm. Probably false,” the cop said, easing off a bit.

  “My friend’s okay?”

  A smirk from the cop. “Fine, yeah.”

  Terry backed off, the cop’s pistol in his hand. “Take me in there.”

  The cop reached for his gun, the empty holster confusing him until he figured it out. “Jesus.”

  “I want to go in. Hit the button.”

  The cop reached for the big round button that opened the doors to recovery. They swung wide and Terry directed the cop to go ahead of him.

  “Calm down, buddy. This isn’t going to help your friend,” the cop said. His eyes flicked left and right.

  “It helps me if you do what I tell you. Get in there.” Terry waved the gun and gave the cop a shove. He followed close behind and slammed the round button on the inside wall. The doors closed. Two rows of beds, some with curtains between them, very few with patients, crowded the walls. A couple of nurses, one frazzled and brunette, maybe fifty, and the other a young plump redhead, both saw the gun and wheezed together like asthma was contagious.

  Lancaster was near the back, the most pale and vulnerable Terry had ever seen him. Asleep, IV tube snaking up his good arm, a yellow-stained cast on the other.

  Terry pointed with the gun. “Is he out cold? Can I wake him up?”

  The cop looked at the nurses. One nodded, the other shook her head. The cop said, “Hell if I know.”

  Terry forced the cop and nurses against the opposite wall while he held the gun at them and backpedaled to Lancaster, shook his shoulder. No response. He did it again, a little harder, and his friend stirred.

  “Stop it,” Lan
caster said.

  “You feel any pain?”

  “I can’t feel my tongue.”

  “We need to get the hell out of here, man. Right now. You and your fucking hospital. Jackass.”

  Lancaster’s eyes blinked fast and then were wide open. He lifted his good arm a little, groaned, then tried his legs. “Shit that hurts.”

  “Well?”

  Lancaster cringed a little. “I can do it. Get this IV out of me.”

  Terry pulled the needle out with one hand while still holding the gun steady on the cop and nurses. The alarm seemed far away now that they were numb to it. Scuffling in the hallway was muffled, but the recovery room felt quiet except for rustling sheets, amplified. Lancaster swung his legs over and took deep breaths. Terry hooked his friend’s good arm and helped him stand. Little grunts and teeth gritting, Lancaster taking it well. When it was over, he nodded at Terry.

  “Thanks. Where’s that girl?”

  “What girl? Your gown’s falling off.”

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “No fucking clue, man. Let me tie this up.” Terry handed the gun to Lancaster, the automatic heavy in his hand. Terry tugged the gown into place and tied the strings. The cop started forward, a tiny step, hands out to his side.

  Lancaster’s arm moved on reflex, stiff as iron and the gun steady. “Don’t underestimate me, man.”

  “Be cool.”

  “I’m doped up. I’m cool as shit. Just stay back where you were, back there, get back back baaaaack.”

  Terry said, “What have they got you on?”

  “Ambrosia, man. Nectar.”

  The gown was on tight as gowns could be. Terry took the gun back and led Lancaster like he was an old lady. Half way to the door, Lancaster had his bearings. The nurses watched with shocked grins.

  The cop said, “You think you’re getting out of here?”

  Terry slammed the big round button and followed Lancaster out the door shouting, “Think it? I never doubted it.”

  *

  Alan guessed that the flood of people spilling from the hospital exits wasn’t a good sign. He dropped into the driver’s seat of the Kia and started the engine. He had only driven ten feet when Norm appeared out of nowhere in front of him. Alan braked hard and Norm pounded the hood. His hair was wild and he was out of breath. Alan unlocked the door. Norm opened it and sat down without a word about Alan almost leaving him. Alan wondered when the thought might pop into Norm’s head. They kept moving out of the parking lot slowly while Alan looked into the crowds for Terry and Lancaster.