Deficiency

by Andrew Neiderman

  "Owls? I guess at a certain age, owls become a romantic bird," Curt said laughing.

  They set about putting away the things they had bought, and then they went exploring, following the paths to the lake and through the woods. In the evening, they worked on dinner together.

  "I wonder how often we'll do this after we're married," Curt said.

  "After you taste my meatloaf, you might hope not often," Terri told him, but his point was made.

  How do two very busy people with full professional lives hold on to a marriage?

  Their work will make most compromise impossible, she thought, but she also thought hers would obviously be the more demanding job. Curt could turn off his pager. She would forever be hooked into a service that would reach her at any hour, at any time, unless she was away on a vacation.

  And what would happen when they had children?

  This was a marriage that would demand so much more. Were they up to it?

  It was as if he could hear her thoughts as they stood side by side in Hyman's lake house kitchen. Suddenly, Curt took her hand and stopped her. He turned her to him and looked at her with that steely-eyed focus that unraveled people on the witness stand in courtrooms.

  "Terri, I'm going to love your meatloaf, and you're going to make it whenever you can, and we're going to find every possible way, every little opportunity, every bonus minute to spend more of our lives together. We won't sacrifice our clients and patients, but we won't always put them at the top of the list. Just don't expect me not to object whenever I can," he added.

  "Objection sustained," she said and they kissed.

  As simple as the meal was, it turned out to be one of the best they had together. They drank too much wine. They laughed a lot and kissed a lot and held each other impulsively all night, and when they made love, it was slow and graceful and full of promises.

  Afterward, lying side by side and seeing the moon over the lake through the bedroom window, Terri talked about Garret Stanley.

  "I've seen many arrogant, confident Godlike doctors in medical school and when I interned, Curt. Some looked carved out of an iceberg. They looked right through personalities, identities, families and saw blood clots or tumors, diseased livers, infected gall bladders, and they attacked them with great art and knowledge, with determination I envied at times, but when they were done and they saw that patient for the final time, I often felt they just visited a complete stranger. I vowed that wasn't going to be me."

  "It won't be," he said.

  "After being with Garret Stanley even a short time and seeing how obsessed he was with his work, regardless of its impact on humanity, and then seeing how much power was behind him, I fell into a deep depression. It was truly being told what I think, what I do, won't matter."

  "That's not true, Terri. You're going to influence the lives of hundreds of people and they will in turn influence a hundred more. It will matter."

  "I want to believe that, Curt. Then I stop and wonder what new monster will be out there tomorrow, a product of greed and the hunger for power."

  "Whatever it is, we'll stop it," he said.

  "As long as you're there to hold me," she told him, "I'll believe it."

  "Then you'll always believe it," he said. "For I'll always be there to hold you." She fell asleep in his arms, truly feeling secure and safe.

  She woke before he did and let him sleep. While he did, she put on her running shoes and sweat suit and went out for a jog. There was a beautiful mist over the water. With the sun on it, it looked like an abstract painting. Birds were flitting about excited at her presence. She saw a pair of beavers scurrying at the edge of the water. The air was cool, fresh, and reviving. Instead of growing tired with every passing thousand yards, she seemed to grow stronger. She had no idea if the path along the water went all around the lake, but midway, she realized it probably did and she continued.

  Finally, she had to stop to walk and catch her breath. She was still a good quarter of the lake away from the cabin and now berated herself for going too far. Curt was surely up by now and wondering where she was. He would worry. It put more speed into her steps and she started to jog again. The path thinned out in places and was barely visible. Some wild bushes became hazardous, their branches pulling at her sweat suit. She had to go slower. At last, the cabin came into view. She sprinted the last hundred or so yards and then stopped at the stairway in front, holding the railing and catching her breath. The door opened and Curt stood there gaping out at her, a mixture of confusion and annoyance on his face.

  "Where the hell were you?"

  "I didn't realize how long it would take to run around the whole lake," she said.

  "Sorry."

  "Why didn't you leave a note, Terri?"

  "I really didn't expect to be out this long. Sorry," she said. She straightened up. He wasn't smiling. "What?"

  "You had a phone call."

  "This early? What?"

  "It was Hyman."

  She held her breath.

  "What did he say, Curt? Is he sick or something?"

  "No. He wanted you to know there has been another bizarre death."

  "What?"

  "A teenage girl. He said to tell you it looked like another case of Frank scurvy," he added.

  The fatigue she had enjoyed suddenly turned into pure exhaustion. Her legs ached and weakened. She stared up at him and shook her head.

  "But... Will Dennis said it was over. He said he was dead. He said. ..."

  "I've got the coffee made," Curt said sharply, turned, and went inside. She stood there on the steps.

  Behind her, a crow, annoyed by something, screamed so loudly it carried across the lake and woke whatever was left sleeping.

  TWENTY-TWO

  He didn't sleep all night. This feeding left him far too wired. He had seen young people juiced up on Ecstasy and other recreational drugs when he was in dance clubs, and he thought he resembled them. He wanted to play music loudly in the car. He moved to the beat, pounded the steering wheel, sang along whenever a song was familiar to him, and drove much faster than he usually did. There was something extra in his feed this time, he concluded, something he needed all along. Whatever it was, it had a great deal to do with his energy level. It made everything else work more efficiently within him. He was truly running on all cylinders, and, he thought, for the first time ever. Even when he was home, there, wherever, and they were taking care of him, he didn't feel this good. So much for what they knew.

  Young teenage girls, he concluded, they're the ticket, girls who were just a few feet past puberty, like fresh eggs. Time, that wicked thief, had less opportunity to steal their radiance, make it duller, coat it in minutes and seconds and hours, thicken it over with days and weeks and months until they were so old, you had to scrape away to find the glitter.

  Now he would go to a different supermarket in which there was nothing older than sixteen. He would hang around schools. He would stalk the Brownies and the Girl Scouts, or he would simply wander through malls. They gathered there like birds on telephone wires, chattering, giggling, parading, and flirting, trying out their wings.

  Maybe he would never need to sleep now. Sleep was really to refresh oneself, to rest tired limbs, to restore and rebuild dying cells. He did that instantly so why sleep? He would truly be a shark, always on the hunt. What an advantage he would have? They had to sleep. They grew exhausted. They were more like vampires than he was, crawling back into their temporary coffins every night. He was the mythical bird that never lighted, pausing only to consume its nourishment.

  He actually felt as if he had grown inches, widened, thickened. He was truly bigger than life. Still, he recognized that he had to be cautious. They would be coming after him again, more intently, more determined. He was no fool. If anything, his mental capacities were as heightened as his muscles. Too little time had passed. That picture in the paper was still vivid in the minds of some people, he concluded.

  Memories of the motel ow
ner returned and he nodded at an idea. As soon as he came upon a mall, he pulled in and went to the large drug store. He bought black hair coloring and then he returned to his motel room and washed it in. He decided that although it still looked artificial, he had done a better job than the motel owner. It was passable. At least people wouldn't spot him from a distance, he thought. He even colored his eyebrows.

  There weren't really all that many people who could recognize his face with certainty -- our face, he thought. When he gazed into the mirror, he did see himself twice. He saw a duplicate of himself just under the skin as if he wore a mask. He'll always be with me, he concluded. As long as I live, he lives. Yes. Now it was time to protect him, to protect us, he decided. When you pursue a shark, don't lose sight of him, he warned the predators. If you do, you will soon find yourself pursued. Predator will become prey.

  I'm standing behind you, he thought and sang, I'm standing behind you, on your dying day.

  It made him laugh so hard that he had tears in his eyes. Suddenly, he became serious and went to the telephone. He found the telephone book in the drawer beneath it and looked for the number. Then he punched it out and waited.

  "I'd like an appointment with Dr. Barnard today," he said as soon as he heard the office identified.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Dr. Barnard is on vacation this week."

  "Vacation?"

  "Yes. I do have an opening with Dr. Templeman at four-thirty, if you would like."

  "No, I want to see Dr. Barnard. Where is she? When will she be back?"

  "About a week. I'm sorry. The best I can do for you is schedule you for a week from this coming Wednesday. Would you like a morning or afternoon appointment?"

  He just hung up.

  And sat there, fuming with frustration. One of the consequences of being at so heightened a level of activity was the difficulty of slowing it down, stop going in one direction and take another, pausing. The urge to keep moving burned like a hot coal in his stomach. He raged, threw the phone across the room after tearing the wire from the wall, and then kicked over the chair. Nothing stops me, he thought. Nothing stops me. He walked to the front windows and looked out. The day was grayer than he had realized. It might rain here. There was light traffic, about seven other cars in the motel lot, but no one walking about, no real activity around him. How dull it all suddenly looked. Why stay after all? He could get into his car and drive off, forget about it all, just go on. Maybe he should.

  No, he heard and turned.

  He was standing there shaking his head.

  What?

  We can't just go on. They'll come after us, armed to the teeth with information, pictures, witnesses. They'll hunt us down and they'll stomp on us. He saw that his hair wasn't dyed.

  "Your hair isn't dyed, too," he said.

  He smiled back at him.

  "Doesn't have to be. I'm inside you most of the time, remember? Thanks to you, that is."

  "Oh. Right. Well, what do we do?"

  "You'll know what to do. Just go on," he said nodding at the door.

  "Right. I do know what to do."

  He opened the door. The rush of cool air washed over him and despite the clouds, the light made him squint. He pulled up his shoulders. He could feel him slipping back inside him, strengthening, supporting. He was confident again and started for the car.

  Yes, he thought as he opened the car door. I know what to do. I know exactly what to do.

  Curt sat beside her when she made the call. It took quite a while to track Will Dennis down, and at one point his secretary tried to talk her into calling later.

  "No, I must speak with him now. You have to get to him," she said firmly.

  "Well, I'm trying. He hasn't responded to the page yet. You want to continue holding?"

  "Absolutely," Terri said. "We'll hold until hell freezes over." She heard the secretary blow air through her lips and then the elevator music began again, periodically interrupted by messages and information from the district attorney's office, the county clerk's office, and the tax assessor's office.

  "He's busy composing what new lies he's going to tell you," Curt said.

  "My next call will be to the newspapers and radio and television stations," she threatened.

  It was nearly fifteen minutes before the secretary came back on to say, "Please hold for Mr. Dennis."

  Terri sat up.

  "Before you start, let me tell you I've been on the phone all this time with Dr. Stanley's people," Will Dennis began.

  "And?"

  There was a truly pregnant pause.

  "Apparently, we sent Dr. Stanley back in a body bag and not, what shall I call him, It?"

  "What? How could that be?"

  "You know he's a perfect duplication. If I had any doubt, which I didn't at the time, you would have ended it when you described how you had struck him in the forehead. Both of them had head bruises, and practically in the same place. He wore Stanley's clothing. He responded to everything the way I expected Doctor Stanley to respond. There just wasn't any way to tell," he claimed, his voice now high-pitched.

  "What do you intend to do?" she asked.

  "I'm working on it with the higher-ups," he said. "They're bringing in everyone they can. There hasn't been a manhunt like this since we went after bin Laden." Curt, who was sharing the earpiece, pulled back and shook his head.

  "Tell him, they have to have a press conference and let the public know it all," she told Will Dennis.

  "It's not my decision, Doc. I've made that suggestion myself. It's out of my hands."

  "It's not out of mine," she said.

  "Nothing's changed in that regard, Terri. You do that and they'll paint you into a corner. They..."

  "They've lost control now, Will. If you care at all about the people who elected you, and the people who are vulnerable to this, you'll take a leadership position, I'll stand beside you," she said. "We'll do it together." He was silent a moment.

  "Will?"

  "Let me think about that, Terri. You might be right," he admitted. "I'll call you later today. I want to hear what they've got to say, what they're doing. Okay? I'll call you this afternoon."

  "I'm not back home. I'm at Hyman's cabin in Willowemac. I'm supposedly taking a much-needed rest with Curt."

  "Understood," he said. "I know the place. It's peaceful. I envy you."

  "Yeah? Well, I'm not feeling very restful at the moment, Will." Curt smiled.

  "Squeeze the bastard," he cheered.

  "If this goes on, Will, you will be the one blamed."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "Just a clearly thought-out realization, Will. You have the information and you're sitting on it and another person is dead, and a teenager to boot." He was quiet.

  Curt's smile widened as he nodded and whispered, "Yeah, right on."

  "I'll call you later," Will said. The line went dead. She held the receiver a moment and then slowly cradled it.

  "Maybe, I should go back to the office," she said.

  "To do what? You're only an hour away, baby. Seconds away from reaching the media. Will Dennis knows that in spades now. We might as well go fishing. You've done what you can and very well, too," he added.

  "I guess you're right," she said after a moment's thinking.

  "Sure I'm right. It's like any negotiation. You deliver your best assault and then you let the other side stew. A watched pot never boils," he added. She smiled.

  "Who told you that one?"

  "My grandmother always used it, and Dad never forgot it. He loved to move on to another case and leave the first one hanging there."

  "Yes, well I don't know if this one is hanging or seeping," she said. He leaned over to kiss her.

  "You'll know soon enough," he said. "C'mon, I'll put the worms on the hooks." She laughed and followed him out. He had their fishing poles set against the railing and a basket between them.

  "What's in there? And don't tell me worms," she said quickly.

  "No, some win
e, some cheese, a loaf of that French bread. A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou beneath me in the wilderness. Ah love," he moaned and she poked him.

  "Curt Levitt, since when did you become the romantic?"

  "It was that smack on my head," he told her.

  "In that case I'll bop you every night."

  "Big talker," he teased, kissed her on the cheek and started for the boat. She watched him a moment and then followed. Despite it all she couldn't help feeling guilty about enjoying anything. She should be doing more, she thought, only she had no idea what it was she could do now.

  Pick on the unsuspecting fish, she thought and hurried to catch up to Curt.

  He sat in his vehicle and watched the front entrance of the county building. At one point he saw the two men who had accompanied Will Dennis to the motel and handled the cleanup. They went into the building and a little over an hour later, they emerged, but without Will Dennis.

  He wasn't patient, but he looked patient sitting there in the car, calm. No one going by paid the slightest attention to him, he thought, actually, to us. He actually felt invisible. Finally, Will Dennis came out of the building. He was accompanied by two sheriff's patrolmen. They stopped at the bottom of the steps and spoke for a while. Then the patrolmen went to their vehicle and Will Dennis walked around and into the parking lot where his county vehicle was parked. He got into it and drove out.

  Following at a safe distance behind, he could see Will using his car phone. He drove a good fifteen minutes before pulling into a self-service gas station about five miles or so past what was once the Monticello Trotters Race Track. Restaurants and gas stations, as well as motels had sprouted around it, but it all looked in hibernation now. There was nowhere near the bustling activity that characterized the area in its heyday.

  Ghosts, he thought to himself. This place is haunted by its past. Memories lingered in old road signs that made promises no longer kept, hawking this bungalow colony or that small hotel, tempting visitors with now faded pictures of beautiful lakes and emerald-green golf courses. We've got to do our business and move on, he thought. There was an inherent danger to camping out in cemeteries. The dead might enjoy your company.