by Matt Richtel
“I’m Lyle Martin. I’m a doctor.” Eyes now open, he walked forward. Anyhow, what difference would it make if he was wrong? So what if he was walking into his own death when he’d been as good as dead for years?
He considered turning on the light and decided against it. The closer he got to whatever light source was back there, the better he could make out the objects he passed. To his left, a forklift then an industrial tool cabinet. To his right, empty space and then, wow, the sleek nose of a small private plane that, for a second, reminded Lyle of a dolphin’s snout.
Cough.
Lyle took a false sense of refuge beneath the small plane’s hull. The vantage point unblocked some light, and Lyle now guessed he was looking at that kind of diffuse gleam from a field lamp. The source remained hidden by what Lyle could now see was another small jet to his left. But right behind that, the source and the sounds he’d heard. Lyle closed his eyes one more time and he pictured Melanie on the night that he found his clothes piled on the doorstep. The drought had already started but, wouldn’t you know it, rain. A neighbor had craned her neck out of the house next door until she saw Lyle and withdrew. He’d won $130 playing pool and then given the entire wad to a guy outside the bar singing “American Pie.”
“A long, long time ago . . .” Lyle had slurred the opening lyrics up to the window.
Melanie didn’t open the window and Lyle couldn’t brook another version of he-said-she-said. He picked up his favorite sweatshirt and left the rest of the clothes and decided to spend the night at his UCSF office until he could figure out a better plan. I can still remember, how the music used to make me smile. He had pawed at the piece of paper in his back pocket, considered slipping it under the door, and decided not to give Melanie the satisfaction.
Back at the hangar, Lyle stuffed away the image, said fuck all of it to himself, walking forward past the airplane to his left and toward the source of the light, and then, startled by what he saw, came to an abrupt stop.
“Eleanor?”
“Jerry, stay where you are.”
“You’re okay.” Jerry shoved a cargo box beneath the opening in the flight deck. “Why didn’t you answer?”
“I erred on the side of caution. Wasn’t sure what, or who might hear us.”
“Work with me, Eleanor. I’m trying to look out for you here.”
“What’s your deal, Jerry? We’re coming out.”
A flicker of fury nicked him, like a lightning strike. Sometimes, he imagined that she thought of him like the boy in the bubble, that kid from the after-school movie who was so sick and pitiable he lived, isolated, in a biosphere. “Eleanor, I don’t like your tone—”
“It’s not safe in here. We’re evacuating, the two of us. We’re going to drop down there. I’m bringing the last medical supplies, but I don’t want to bring anything else from the cabin because I don’t know how it gets carried.”
She held a rucksack over the opening, as if to indicate she was going to drop it, which she did. Thud. Supplies hit the hold floor at Jerry’s feet.
“You have the gun?”
“Locked and loaded.”
“Okay, Clint Eastwood. Listen, Jerry, can I get your input?”
“Of course.”
“I’d like to leave the heat running. It’s going to eat fuel. I . . . these people.”
“Eleanor?”
“Never mind, I figured it out.”
“Hey, listen, it’s not your fault. You hung in there as much as you could.”
“We’re coming down. The passenger first.”
Jerry saw a foot appear in the hole. He guided it with a hand, helping the small woman until she could stand on the crate and then dismount it. Eleanor followed. When she hit the crate, she said, “Thank you, Jerry.”
“No problem, Captain.” No problem at all.
She stepped off the crate. The three quickly made their way out of the hold down to the tarmac.
“Where’s the doctor?” asked the captain once they were on the ground.
“He’s gone over to the hangar.”
“What? Why?”
Jerry sensed a moment. “I’m not sure I trust that guy.”
“What happened, Jerry? Just tell me what happened.”
“I can only vouch for what he told me.”
Jerry recounted the story, his version of it.
The three of them—the pilot and navigator and the last surviving passenger—walked to the hangar, not sure if they should be more afraid of what they were leaving behind, or what they’d find inside the dark building.
Lyle mumbled, “The Price Is Right.”
It’s what came to mind as he looked at the scene that appeared thirty feet in front of him, illuminated by a reedy light from somewhere farther back. Lyle looked at the living room set, the sort of setting that you’d see game-show contestants compete for. A couch in the middle, with a coffee table in front of it, and two end chairs. It only seemed out of place for an instant and then Lyle realized it was just a homey little construction for the workers here, an open-air rest area. What Eichler would’ve created if he’d decorated airplane hangars.
Lyle had a pretty good idea who used this setting to kick back. It was the guy sitting up on the couch with his head lolled on to the top of the backrest. Another body.
Lyle took a step closer. Then he remembered that a few paces earlier he’d passed a bucket with a mop sticking out of it. He retreated and took the cool wooden mop handle. Lyle marveled at the primitive nature of his instinct to take a weapon and wondered if it meant he cared, after all, if he lived.
Again, he said, “My name is Lyle Martin. I’m a doctor.”
He scrutinized the shape of the man on the couch. Looking for movement, anything. The man remained static. Static. The word that came to Lyle’s mind. He took another step forward. He felt a tickle on his upper lip. Shit. A drop of mucus. Lyle wiped it on his forearm and, without fully taking his attention from the man, glanced down at his arm. Was it bloody? Was it the beginning of an immune response? Or just his body’s response to cold? Lyle inhaled the sharp, frigid air. It needled the soft, pink flesh inside his rib cage. It hurtled tiny shards of glassy air at his larynx.
Just cold, he told himself and let himself believe it.
On the table to the left of the static man stood a half-foot stack that looked to be magazines or technical manuals. Just in front of the man, a tin cylinder on an electric plate that Lyle guessed was filled with coffee or hot water. Then nearer the man on the table, some confirmation of that: a mug overturned. A clue. Had the man been holding the cup when he was stricken, and then had an instant to put the cup down? Did he kick it over in a death throe?
Still no movement from the man. Had he been the source of the coughing? Lyle seriously doubted it. He squinted farther back, trying to discern the source of the light. It had the thin, atmospheric feel of a battery-powered lantern that you’d take on a camping trip and provided just enough light to an otherwise night-dead camping site. Lyle took purposeful steps forward, letting the man’s shape crystallize. No jacket. A long-sleeved shirt covered his torso and arms, though they otherwise hung vulnerable at his sides. Faster steps from Lyle until he heard the sound of steps behind him. Tap tap on the cement floor.
Lyle froze. He squeezed his hands around the mop stem. He listened to the echo of footsteps.
Nineteen
“Stay where you are,” Lyle said.
“Dr. Martin?”
“I think it’s advisable that you stay there,” Lyle said. He estimated they were fifty yards back.
“We need to talk to you.” It was Eleanor speaking, her voice coming through the darkness from near the entrance to the hangar. Lyle, without turning his head that direction, could sense the flicker of a flashlight, presumably Jerry’s.
“Can I meet you outside?” Lyle said. He directed his gaze at the right corner of the couch. Looking for movement. He heard Eleanor urge whoever was with her to stop. Lyle thought he picke
d up three sets of feet. Why weren’t they on the plane? Who was with the passengers? He heard a scraping noise from the area of the couch, movement on the pavement. Then it abruptly stopped.
“Why can’t we come that way?”
Lyle didn’t answer. He didn’t want to spook the person behind the couch. And a few puzzle pieces were falling into place, and he just wanted to be left alone with this patient or witness.
No such luck. He could hear the footsteps again and prepared himself for a shit show. Jerry was like the dean. A shiver seized him, warm blood fighting through cold-constricted vessels.
The steps neared and the flashlight and then they were upon him.
“What the fuck?” Jerry asked as he saw the surreal living room, and the body. Jerry directed his flashlight at the man. Lyle got his first clear look. Midthirties, beard, baseball cap crooked and nearly fallen off, windpipe and jugular exposed by the backward tilt of his head.
“Jesus,” Eleanor whispered.
“It’s okay,” Lyle said.
“Who are you talking to?”
Lyle didn’t answer.
From behind the couch, there was that distinctive click.
The hammer of a rifle being pulled into position. Then a cough.
“Get down, Captain,” Jerry bellowed. He stepped in front of Eleanor and Alex.
“Come out with your hands up,” Jerry barked.
“Put down your gun,” Lyle said.
“Put down your gun,” Jerry repeated.
“No, I’m talking to you, Jerry,” Lyle said. “Lower your gun.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Then in the direction of the couch. “Get out here, right now! Put your hands up, and get out here. I’m not going to shoot you unless I have to. You need to get your ass out here right now.”
Lyle swung with the broom. He rocked Jerry’s gun hand, causing the weapon to fall onto the ground.
“Are you out of your mind?” Jerry dove for the weapon. On his knees, he swung the gun at Lyle, then in the direction of the couch, then Lyle again. “Stop!” Lyle said. “It’s a child.”
“What?”
“Young man. I’m a doctor. I can help you and I can help your father.”
“How do you . . .” Eleanor started.
From behind the couch stood a boy no more than ten, pointing a rifle square at Lyle’s head.
“Lower the gun, son,” Jerry said. He pulled the hammer back.
The boy held firm.
“Jerry,” Eleanor said. “Jerry, listen to me. I want you to put the gun on the ground.”
“Kid, I do not want to shoot you. I want you to stand down.”
“Jerry . . .” Eleanor said low.
“He’s been on a killing spree. This is no time to be soft. World’s gone mad.”
“He didn’t kill anyone,” Eleanor said.
The comment surprised Lyle. Of course, she was right.
“Son, is that your father?” Lyle said.
The kid didn’t answer, but it sounded like he emitted a whisper.
“I’m a doctor. I can try to help him. But I can’t do it if you shoot me or make me feel like you’re going to shoot me. I know you’re scared.” Another step forward. “I was on that airplane that landed. We’re here to try to help.” Lyle left it deliberately vague as to whether they’d landed with the express purpose of coming to help or whether they’d just coincidentally landed. “Can I help?” Another step forward, hands up. The boy held the rifle, less steadily now, shaking.
“Put the gun down,” Jerry said.
“Oh for goodness’ sake, Jerry,” Eleanor said. “Stop the cowboy stuff.”
Jerry gritted his teeth. “Okay, kid,” he said, “I’m lowering my weapon and I suggest you do the same.”
The boy lowered the rifle.
“Good man,” Jerry said, as if he’d saved face.
Lyle held up his hands, poised to walk forward amid a new threat: mounting tension within his own group. Jerry, Eleanor, the kid with the gun, a ticking clock they couldn’t identify. It felt like they just might kill one another before this syndrome did it for them. Lyle walked again, slowing, trying to set up his examination of father and son. The nearer he got, the more things came into focus. Matching upholstered chairs, worn and fading, framed each side of the table. An area rug beneath. Someone had gone to great lengths to make this feel like a home. On the couch next to the father a sleeping bag bunched around a pillow, and a heavy wool blanket. Tears streaked the face of the boy with the rifle held in both arms over his chest, just a motion away from aiming again. He had a bowl haircut and, Lyle noticed, supreme posture. His dad, Lyle guessed, was a military guy, teaching manners and self-sufficiency.
“Your dad’s the mechanic here?” Lyle asked.
The kid tried to suppress a sniffle, a whimper. Lyle took it as a yes.
From behind, Eleanor said: “Dr. Martin, may I have a word?”
Lyle forged ahead.
“What’s your name?”
“Tyler.”
“Okay, Tyler, I have some good news, first. Your dad is not dead.”
No answer.
“Okay?”
“You don’t know.”
“I know.” Now Lyle was at the edge of the scarred wooden coffee table and he winced; it reminded him of something and then he remembered the dream from the airplane, where a bat had risen from a bag of powder sitting on a wooden table. For a moment, Lyle swooned. Just a coincidence. “I need to examine your father. Is that okay?”
No answer.
“You were sleeping here on the couch and you got awakened by a sound.”
“How does he know that?” Alex said.
“Shhh,” Jerry responded. But all of that was in the background.
“Are you ten?” Lyle asked.
“Nine,” Tyler said.
“Did a noise wake you up?”
The boy let out a sob. He started to cry. The walls of bravery falling, boyhood trust and yearning returned. And he said: “Can you save my dad?”
“I’m going to try,” Lyle said. He clenched his teeth. The words sounded familiar—the kind of thing he used to say—but they were devoid of any emotion. Any true caring. Robotic.
“What’s your father’s name?”
The boy couldn’t answer for the sobs. During the eruption of tears, Eleanor neared Lyle and said, “I absolutely have to talk to you.”
Lyle didn’t hear her. He reached down to feel for a pulse on the man on the couch. Abandoned the idea and looked instead at the pupils. Moving so quickly as to look still. Something very strange going on in there. He thought, None of us is going to survive the night; I have no idea what’s going on but I suspect the human body has met its match.
Twenty
“I’d urge you to keep a distance,” Lyle said over his shoulder. He couldn’t feel a pulse, but it didn’t matter. He looked at the pupils again. He could imagine a first-year medical student saying Brain-dead.
“Tyler,” Lyle said, “your dad is going to be okay.”
Tears ran down the boy’s face. Talk about fixed, paralyzed; this was all just too much for him. Lyle tried to study his face without giving too much away. Was he feverish? In pain?
“Tyler, what’s your dad’s name?” he repeated.
“Rex.”
“Okay, Tyler, I’m going to do a medical test on your dad and I don’t want it to scare you. I’m going to put my fingers in his mouth and I’m going to make sure there’s nothing blocking his airway.” It wasn’t true; he was feeling for mucus and looking for a gag response, like with the baggage handler. But he couldn’t think of a good reason to explain that to the kid. “Okay, Tyler?”
A whimper of approval.
Lyle stuck his fingers in and produced the same response he’d gotten before with the baggage handler.
Behind him, the trio watched with fascination and horror. Alex looked absolutely stricken, eyes wet. Eleanor held back her own particular anguish; the incident remin
ded her of the story she’d been told about the death of Frank, her great love, near the peak of Annapurna. The sherpa said he’d gotten altitude sickness at a particularly treacherous spot and fallen and the sherpa revived him, or so it seemed. Then Frank had stood up, seeming fine, and walked right into a crevasse. His oxygen-starved mind had betrayed him. Eleanor took a step backward. Jerry, feeling her need, put a hand on her back and she angrily swatted it away. She hated him, the anti-Frank. Their tension notched up.
“Dr. Martin,” Eleanor said, composing herself, “I need to speak with you—privately.” She knew it would drive Jerry nuts. But she needed to tell Lyle about the sound from inside the cabin, something alive in there.
Lyle, so engrossed, didn’t respond.
“Tyler,” he said, “is this where you were sleeping? Next to your dad?”
“Yes.”
“And you woke up and he was like this?”
The kid nodded in the affirmative.
“You tried to wake him up?”
A sob of affirmation.
“What happened when you tried to wake him up?”
“He didn’t. He wouldn’t. I . . .” Grief paused the boy.
“Did you hear a noise?”
“What?”
“Did a noise wake you up? Did you see anybody or hear anybody?”
“I don’t know. Is he okay? Why won’t he wake up?”
“I’m a doctor, Tyler,” Lyle said, diplomatically. He kept using the boy’s name when addressing him, as Lyle encouraged students to do; use the names of patients and their families because it makes them feel like individuals. “I want to get him someplace warm. What’s back there?” Lyle asked, referring to the other end of the hangar.
“An office. There’s a space heater. It doesn’t always work.”
“Thank you, Tyler. So you didn’t hear a noise when you woke up? You don’t remember smelling anything?”
“No.”
Lyle regretted his phrasing; too many questions, not open-ended enough. He was rusty.
“May I examine you to make sure you’re okay?”
No answer from the nearly catatonic child. Lyle left the man’s side and approached the boy. Then he paused, a glint on the couch catching his eye. Lyle looked down and saw a cell phone. It sat on the couch next to the man called Rex, frozen on an image. Lyle picked up the phone in his rubber-gloved hand and looked closely. A grainy image of a man sitting behind a desk that Lyle strained to recognize. It was Marlon Brando.