by MK Alexander
Durbin wheeled me past the stairs into a hallway that led to a different wing of the hospital.
“What’s that sound?” I asked.
“What sound?”
“Like a squeaking.”
Durbin stopped. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Well, it’s gone now.”
He started pushing again and the squeaking returned. “There it is again. Maybe it’s the wheelchair, maybe it needs oil?”
“Oh… that squeaking,” Durbin said and laughed. “New shoes… just bought ’em in Fairhaven. Not really broken in right.”
We rolled through a corridor lined with private offices, each with a frosted glass door and an artfully lettered sign. I read them as we went by: Valenti… Mallinger… Drummond… That certainly gave me pause and a certain apprehension. I was lucky Durbin couldn’t see my startled expression … Mears…
“Wait a second, Fred Mears? He’s not supposed to be here,” I said unthinkingly.
“And what exactly do you mean by that?” Durbin asked.
“Oh… hard to explain… Who is Doctor Mears?”
“Not a doctor, on the board of directors though, and he’s also the County Commissioner. Why? You know him?”
“No, of course not. Who is Reverend Drummond?”
“Also on the hospital board,” Durbin said. “Never met him personally. Some wild-eyed rodeo preacher, I heard. Runs a boys camp in Fairhaven.”
“A boys camp?”
“Like scouts… the Liberty Mission, it’s called.”
“And Mallinger?”
“Mallinger… well, the Professor, he runs the asylum, takes care of all the looneys around here.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“Once or twice… kind of a weird old duck.”
“What’s he look like?” I asked.
“A pirate.”
“Really?”
“White hair, a beard... and an eye-patch.”
“An eye-patch?”
“Maybe a monocle…” Durbin said and laughed.
Behind us I heard footsteps drawing nearer, slowly at first but at a quickening pace. I turned my head uselessly. Durbin stopped at a steel door.
“What’s this?”
“Elevator. Never got the chance to ride it. Okay with you?” He pushed the call button. Durbin slid back the heavy grate, deftly turned me in a circle and backed inside. “Let’s go down first.”
“Down?”
“The basement. Always wondered what was down here. Some kind of swimming pool, somebody told me…” He pressed B-5.
“Wait, you can’t go in there,” Greta shouted rather shrilly having finally caught up with us.
“Lady, I’m the Sheriff, I can go anyplace I want.” With that the doors closed and we started to descend with terrifying clanking noises. The elevator went down much further than I expected.
The lowest level of the hospital had a different character. It was neither elegant nor freshly painted. We passed through a narrow corridor lined with private rooms which looked more like cells, each with a small grated window on the door. At the end of the hallway sat a giant. He was slumped in his chair probably asleep, but seemed to be guarding a particular set of doors with two round portholes.
I can’t be sure if it was the sound of the wheelchair or Durbin’s shoes that woke him, but he rose to his full height. His head nearly touched the low ceiling. He was a goliath with a great tuft of hair, exactly the reverse of a balding man. I had to guess he was at least seven feet in height. He was also dark-skinned and had two symmetrical crescent scars, one across either temple. He stood astride the doors with his arms folded.
“No go in,” he said, though it was more like a grunt.
“Hi-ya there, Lothar… remember me?” Durbin said hopefully.
“No go in,” the giant repeated.
One of the doors opened a crack and an orderly poked his head out. “What’s going on out here?”
I did a double-take. I knew this man. He was from Texas or Colorado… he was one of the twins. He looked at me but I saw no glimmer of recognition on his part.
“Sorry, Doc,” Durbin said. “Got a little lost… don’t suppose you can tell us how to get to the garden?”
“The garden?” He glanced at us both. “You’ll have to take the elevator up. The other end of the corridor.”
“Okay, thanks.” Durbin wheeled me one hundred and eighty degrees and made a tactical retreat. “Not getting inside today,” he whispered to me.
From what little I had seen, there did appear to be some sort of pool beyond those doors. Through the portholes I had noticed the dancing reflection of light made by moving water.
***
Outside, the sun was starting to set over Serenity Bay. It was a beautiful evening with a fresh cool breeze. The immaculate formal garden was filled with numerous patients in various stages of recovery. Some in wheelchairs, others being slowly led around by nurses and orderlies. None of them seemed to be unattended.
From here I got my first glimpse of Sand City across the bay. It looked about the same, but maybe half the size I remembered. Still picturesque and quaint, though with fewer buildings; and those I recognized seemed weather beaten and in bad repair.
Durbin found a secluded corner of the terrace, stopped by the wall and sat there. He faced me and reached into his jacket, drawing out a small manilla envelope.
“Okay, Mr Jardel, at first I thought you were some kind of counterfeiter and that I’d be turning you over to the Secret Service.”
“What?”
“The money I found. It’s all screwy.”
“Um…” I knew I had to think fast.
“And the coins in your pocket, they don’t make sense at all.” Durbin emptied the envelope into my lap. “Thirty-seven dollars and forty-two cents,” he announced. “Care to explain?”
“It’s um, Canadian money.”
“Says USA on it.”
“Okay… They’re overseas dollars. It’s what Americans use when we travel to Hong Kong.”
“What, you think I’m a genius here?”
I took his sarcasm but said nothing.
“What makes me suspicious is the size… it’s exactly right. And this paper? Best I’ve ever seen… it’s perfect.” Durbin tipped his hat back. “The ones look pretty good— the rest though? It’s like cartoon money. What’s with the giant dead presidents? Look at this five spot… On the back, it’s printed in purple. What, are you kidding? Nobody could ever pass these… This sawbuck, or this twenty? It’s gotta be a gag.”
“It’s stage money… for Hollywood… it’s not counterfeit. Like you said, who would believe it was real?”
“Why go to all that trouble with the paper and the ink?”
I had no answer for him.
“All your coins are wrong too. The only thing that looks about right is the quarter, till I turn it over. Why the heck is there a picture of Colorado on the back?”
“Okay, I apologize about those. They’re novelty items… It’s not even real silver… see?”
“Well, I can’t really turn you in for counterfeiting. No one would be dumb enough to think this was real money.” A dark look crossed his face. “Besides, I’m not even sure anybody cares anymore.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You wouldn’t be the first counterfeiter we’ve had in these parts.”
“Really?”
“Sure, I found a whole suitcase of money washed up on Baxter Beach a couple months back. Somebody has been passing a lot of bogus paper around here.”
“Who?”
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? I reported it all to the Secret Service… nothing much happened though.”
“Didn’t they follow up?”
“I guess they did, but they didn’t tell me anything about it.”
“Where did the money come from?”
“Probably Joe Stalin.”
“Stalin, the Russian dictator?”
>
“Well, not him personally.” Durbin gave me a smile. “Communists, I was told…. attempting to subvert the United States economy.”
“Who told you that?”
“The Secret Service.”
“How much money?”
“A hundred thousand at least…”
“You think it was somebody from the hospital?”
“I do.”
“Like the staff?”
“More like one of the doctors… none of the staff is paid that much.”
“Valenti?”
“No, I don’t think it was him. I like the guy. Seems honest enough…” Durbin made a face. “Maybe one of his doctor friends. Some guy from New York, named Burtan.”
“What about Mortimer?”
“Who?”
“I mean Mallinger.”
“Mallinger? Nah…” Durbin said. “I don’t think he cares about money at all… something else floats that guy’s boat.”
“Mr Mears then?”
“Doubt it. He’s already richer than Rockefeller.” Durbin paused. “I heard the Feds might put someone on the inside. If they haven’t, they should.”
“Here at the hospital?”
Durbin laughed. “I thought it was you at first.”
“No.” I smiled.
“Well, they got that New York doctor under surveillance, last I heard.”
“Wow.”
“About the money though,” Durbin persisted. “I’m not going to have to call in the Secret Service, am I?” Durbin looked right at me. “I’m going to need some kind of explanation here.”
“Alright…” I started, “I didn’t want to have to say it…” I paused for effect. “It’s New Deal money.”
“What?” Durbin eyed me severely, then seemed to consider for a moment. “You mean the gold standard?” he asked.
“Partly… New money for the New Deal.”
“Like bearer bonds… or treasury notes,” Durbin concluded and gave a low whistle. “Like what you’d use to pay an army...”
I said nothing and tried to look as blank as possible.
“So, the numbers printed here… they’re not dates?”
“Dates?” I laughed. “No, not at all.”
“Do you work for the government or something?”
“No… I’m Canadian, like I said.” I gave Durbin a slight smile.
“The rumors are true then?”
“Could be…”
“So there is going to be a march on Washington… a new government… a take-over. Is that what this money is for?”
“You didn’t hear it from me.”
Durbin stayed silent for a time, then said, “One other thing, Mr Jardel.”
“What’s that, Sheriff?”
“I tried to cable your paper… thing is, there is no New York Chronicle.”
“Oh right, I meant the Evening Post.”
Sheriff Durbin wheeled me back to my room without saying much more, except that he’d be heading over to Fairhaven to visit his numismatist friend. He wanted to show him the New Deal money but I strongly advised against it, and he agreed, however reluctantly. When he dropped me off, the ward was empty again. Apparently Mr Smith had been discharged. I sat on my bed, propped up on the pillows and watched the last bit of daylight slip below the bay. Darkness came on quickly and I began to wonder if I had missed dinner again.
Everything Fynn had warned me about was true. I was glad he threw my wallet into the surf. Credit cards would have been hard to explain, so would my driver’s license, and a couple of photos I had, would completely defy explanation. Fynn had every right to say I told you so. I was becoming an expert liar.
***
I heard bells chiming, soft delicate bells, and they struck at intervals, two close together, a pause, and then another pair. I counted eight in total. Eight? What time could that be? It could be neither eight at night or eight in the morning. I looked around the dark ward, it was positively spooky to be the only patient. I glanced across at the windows and saw a beam of light slowly sweep past. A few minutes later, it came again. I lay there watching. I was wide awake now and decided it was worth taking a closer look. Slowly, I eased myself from bed and rolled onto my good leg. I put the other one down gingerly and tried adding weight. It was tender but not as bad as I feared. Mr Smith’s cane leaned against the bedside table but I left it there and limped over to the windows.
Serenity Bay opened out in front of me, a dark void. Behind, the sweeping beam from the Sentinel played across the restless water. I just leaned there and watched, then remembered a feature I had written long ago for the Chronicle: The lighthouse was officially decommissioned in 1999 with the advent of GPS technologies… Something had been lost, or would be in the coming years.
The sound of a creaking door startled me. I turned. At the far end of the ward a patch of bright light leaked in and a dark figure emerged, backlit for only a moment. Whoever it was stepped into shadow and started walking towards me. My heart skipped a beat. It was a nurse in uniform, that much I could tell. She approached rapidly and I finally recognized her as Elsie.
“Patrick,” she called out in a whisper. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Are you alright?” She came over to me and took both my hands.
“I’m fine… What’s with the bells?”
“The bells?”
“Like a clock maybe.”
“Oh, it’s a ship’s clock. Professor Mallinger had those installed all over the hospital. I can never figure out what time it is any more. It’s best to ignore them.” Elsie smiled.
“What’s eight bells?”
“Four in the morning. And you should be in bed and sound asleep. Come on, I’ll help you.” She took me gently by the waist. “I’m not even supposed to be on this ward tonight. I just thought I’d drop by to check on you.”
“That’s really nice of you, Elsie. Thanks.” I draped my arm around her shoulder, though I hardly needed to. We hadn’t taken two steps when an odd sound pierced the silence. It took me by surprise and I stopped in my tracks. Elsie glanced up at me; there was fear in her eyes. I listened harder. From far off, someone was screaming, maybe more than one person. The shrieks started slowly, then became riotous, reaching a fevered pitch before fading away again. I could see that Elsie was very scared, trembling. I took her in my arms even though I was somewhat off-balance.
“I hate the night shift…” she whispered and buried her head in my shoulder.
“What is that?” I asked softly. “It sounds like someone in terrible pain.”
“The north wing of the hospital… Professor Mallinger takes care of those poor devils,” Elsie said in a whisper.
“Where is this Mallinger guy?”
“I don’t know,” Elsie said and looked up into my eyes. “He scares me, Patrick.”
“I thought he was out of town?”
“So did I,” Elsie said almost tearfully. “But you heard the screams too.”
***
It was a fairly tortuous weekend, I will admit that. Without Mr Smith to keep me company, the boredom was excruciating. I had nothing to read, despite numerous requests to the other very unfriendly nurse, and any orderly who happened by. Elsie had all but disappeared. That was crushing. I missed her already. Anytime the door opened, my hopes were raised. I wished it was her, though it never was.
My biggest adventure was limping down the hall to the bathroom. Once, upon returning, I found a pencil and pad by my bedside, and a note from Doctor Valenti requesting the lyrics for Die Moritat von Mackie Messer. I wondered if that counted as changing history.
Late that night I lay just at the edge of sleep to watch the Sentinel cast is spotlight. I listened for any noises, screams or otherwise but heard nothing. By morning Doctor Valenti checked in. I now noticed the slightest trace of an Italian accent that had been educated away. “You’ve made a speedy recovery, no doubt aided by the negative ions.”
“What?”
“The healing powers of fresh ocean air.”
“I do feel a lot better. Thank you, Doctor.”
He smiled. “What are your plans after discharge, Mr Jardel?”
“My plans?”
“Are you staying in town or moving on?”
“Can’t say really. I’m here waiting for a friend to arrive.”
“I see. Well, if you are still here in a few weeks time, I’d like to invite you to my little soiree.”
“A party?”
“Yes, a formal dinner party… the first week of September. Some friends, colleagues, even some townsfolk… I’d be delighted if you could attend.”
“I’d love to. Who’s going to be there?”
“Everyone I know… Professor Mallinger, Reverend Drummond, Mr Mears, the Mayor, even Sheriff Durbin is invited.”
“Wouldn’t want to miss that.”
“I may be including Doctor Burtan as well,” Valenti said in a strange tone of voice.
“Who’s that?”
“Well, an interesting fellow, though I don’t like the company he keeps…”
“Didn’t Durbin mention him?”
“Yes… and somehow this man deserves justice.” Valenti smiled and I wasn’t sure what to make of his last comment. “Black tie, though,” he added.
“Oh… I guess I’ll have to go shopping.”
“Pardon?”
“For new clothes.”
“Indeed. I can expect you then?”
“Absolutely.”
“And feel free to bring a guest.”
“A guest?”
“I don’t expect you to come alone, Mr Jardel.”
Valenti was about to leave when I noticed a newspaper tucked under his arm. “Um, Doctor… could I read your paper?”
He hesitated for a moment but then handed it to me. “Of course… though fair warning: there is no good news.”