Meds

by Ray Garton

  “You still there, Roger?”

  “Yeah, look, I’m really bleeding, and I’m feeling dizzy. You want to meet me at the hospital?”

  “Which one?”

  “Sisters of Mercy.”

  “I’ll get over there as soon as I can.”

  When she was done talking to Roger, she called Everett back. As soon as he picked up, she said, “Eli has disappeared. And he attacked his best friend.”

  “Roger?”

  “Yes. Knocked him unconscious with a jar of pickles. I’m going to meet him at Sisters of Mercy in the ER. Can you get over there?”

  “That’s where I am now.”

  “Oh?”

  “There was... an incident at my office. Some people were hurt. They’re being treated right now, and I’m waiting on a friend who’s supposed to meet me here. Do you have any idea where Eli might be?”

  “None. I’ll see you when I get there, okay?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  She slapped the cell phone closed and grabbed her purse. Feeling sick with fear for Eli’s safety, she rushed out of her office to tell Sid she had to leave in a hurry.

  2.

  In the emergency room, Everett had been moving between Barb and Larry and Darlene, keeping track of their conditions. Larry had been taken into surgery and Barb was heavily sedated now, so he stood beside Darlene Fugelman’s bed in one of the ER booths. There were smears of drying blood on the front of his plaid shirt. Beside him stood Dr. Shirley Letterman, one of the two ER doctors on duty.

  “I know it hurts,” Dr. Letterman said to Darlene, “but it’s not as bad as it looks. We’ll clean you up, do a little stitching, dress the wound, and give you something for pain.” She turned to Everett. “Then you can monitor her progress.”

  Before Everett could say anything, a hand gently touched his arm and he turned to see the ER receptionist holding the booth’s curtain aside.

  “Someone is here to see you, Dr. Reasoner,” she said. “A Mr. Falczek?”

  “Oh, good.” He turned to Darlene and said, “I’ll come back and check on you before I go. But don’t worry, Darlene, you’re going to be fine. Your husband should be here any minute. He left work as soon as I called.”

  He left the booth and headed for the ER waiting room. Larry Spencer was in surgery after being stabbed by Barb Mannetti. Mrs. Pardo was dead. Barb had been sedated and was in one of the booths. Roger Dreyfuss had arrived about ten minutes ago, bleeding heavily from the wound in his head. He was in a booth being examined by Dr. Matt Farkas, the other ER doctor on duty. Two police officers had questioned Everett about the incident and had taken down his contact information.

  Before leaving his office, where blood now spattered the waiting room wall, floor, and some of the chairs, Teresa had told Everett that Falczek had called. He hadn’t had time to talk to him then, so he’d called Falczek in the car on his way to the hospital. He’d sounded awful, but Everett was more worried about what he had said.

  “I fell into a rattlesnake’s nest, Everett,” Falczek had said with a cold chuckle.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly that.”

  “Well, did you learn anything?”

  “Plenty. The shipments of Paaxone that should have gone to California have been intentionally diverted.”

  “Intentionally? Diverted where? Why?”

  “I don’t know that yet. And someone seems determined to keep me from finding out. Whoever it is, they’re pretty eager to shut me up. Permanently.”

  It sounded like sarcasm, but Everett heard no hint of it in Falczek’s hoarse, weary voice. “Are you serious?”

  “I wish I weren’t. Can we meet somewhere? Someplace where we can talk. But I’m warning you—it may not be safe for you to hang out with me much until this is resolved.”

  “Until what is resolved?”

  “The fact that somebody’s trying to kill me.”

  As he drove to the hospital, Everett still felt nauseated and had a lingering sense of being disconnected from reality left over from the bloody scene in his waiting room. What Falczek said didn’t make him feel any better.

  He pushed through the door that opened into the waiting room and looked around for his friend.

  There were half a dozen people seated in the waiting room. CNN played on a television mounted high in one corner. Falczek sat slumped at the nearest end of a row of chairs. He looked haggard and weary. His clothes were rumpled and appeared to have been slept in.

  Before Everett could utter a greeting, Falczek stood and came toward him, saying, “Let’s go someplace where we can talk in private.” His voice was hoarse and his breath smelled of stale alcohol, as if he’d been drinking hours ago and hadn’t brushed his teeth. Everett was immediately concerned. He’d never seen his friend in such a state.

  “Are you all right, Falczek?” Everett said, looking the man over. “You look like shit.”

  “I haven’t been all right since last night. Look, we need to talk. Right away. Alone.”

  Everett took Falczek’s elbow. “Come on, let’s go in the back.”

  “No, in private. Alone. Someplace where nobody will hear.”

  Everett frowned at him.

  “I’m serious, Everett. Private.”

  The look on Falczek’s face gave Everett a bad feeling—as if he hadn’t been feeling bad enough already. He said, “Okay. Come on.”

  He started to lead Falczek out of the ER waiting room and into the hospital corridor when a voice behind him called, “Everett? Everett!”

  He turned to see Chloe rushing toward him. He stepped away from Falczek and met her in the middle of the waiting room. With her purse held in her left hand, she reached out and clutched his upper arm with her right hand.

  “Have you talked to Eli?” she said.

  “I haven’t even tried calling him again. I haven’t had time.”

  “He’s gone. Roger said he disappeared. With a gun.”

  “With a—”

  Chloe dropped her arm at her side and looked around. ”Is Roger here?”

  “He’s in the back being examined. Dr. Farkas said he needed some stitches in his head. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet. What’s this about a gun?”

  Falczek came to Everett’s side and the three of them stood together in the middle of the room.

  “I need to talk to Roger,” Chloe said.

  “Wait until he’s done in the back,” Everett said, taking on the gentle tone he used to calm patients who were upset or in pain. She moved in jerky, staccato motions and her eyes were wide with fear. He thought it would be best to get her calmed down before she worked herself into a panic. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “Is Mrs. Gonzalez here?” She quickly looked over the people sitting in the waiting room. “Mrs. Gonzalez!” She hurried over to a middle-aged Latina reading a dog-eared copy of People. The woman looked up, startled as Chloe came toward her. “How badly was Roger hurt?”

  Mrs. Gonzalez’s features relaxed when she recognized Chloe. She stood and said, “He was bleeding a lot.”

  Everett went to Chloe and put a hand on her shoulder. “You need to relax, Chloe.”

  She turned to him and clutched his upper arm again, her nails digging in. “Not until I find Eli,” she said, winded, her voice breathy. Tears welled in her wide eyes. “Roger said Eli took his gun. Something’s wrong, he’s not well. If you could’ve seen him last night. That’s all I can think about, the way he was behaving last night. His eyes, the way his eyes looked. Roger said you know what’s wrong, that it’s got something to do with the pill he’s been taking. Is he going to be all right?”

  Everett put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m not sure what’s going on yet, Chloe, but we’re going to find out. But first, you need to calm down. You’re not going to be any help to Eli if you’re having an anxiety attack, are you?” He turned to Falczek. “I’m afraid our talk will have to wait a few minutes.”

  Falczek nodded stif
fly. He seemed jumpy.

  To Chloe, Everett said, “Let’s go in the back so I can get you something to relax you.”

  “No, I’m not taking any drugs,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “I have to stay alert and find Eli.”

  When someone entered the waiting room from outside, Falczek turned to the door with a start, a flash of fear in his eyes.

  “Do I need to get you something to relax you?” Everett said.

  Falczek took a deep breath, shook his head. “No. I don’t want to relax. I can’t afford to.”

  What the hell have I gotten into? Everett wondered.

  3.

  When Eli left Roger’s house, he drove. He had no destination in mind, only his hands on the wheel, his foot on the gas pedal, his eyes on the road. He lost track of time as he drove and eventually wondered how long he’d been driving through town. Just driving, Roger’s gun in the glovebox, the radio tuned to KNWS. He didn’t listen to it but it provided sound, life, something other than the empty hum of the engine and the silence of the car’s interior.

  He realized he was nearing the city limit and would be headed out of town unless he turned around. He decided to park somewhere. The first place that came to mind was Park Marina, by the river. First, he had to figure out where he was and where Park Marina was from there.

  He drove there and parked in a spot that provided a good view of the river beyond the sloping lawn shaded by oak and eucalyptus trees. He killed the engine and tossed the keys into the passenger seat. Ducks and geese wandered all around his car, squeaking and quacking and pecking at things on the parking lot pavement.

  He thought of Roger on the floor of the kitchen, unconscious. Eli hoped he was all right, that he hadn’t done any serious damage. But he’d needed the gun. Hadn’t he? It took a moment for him to remember why. Then he remembered all the things he’d read online, the conversations he’d had on the phone that morning.

  Paaxone withdrawals were deadly, and he was out of Paaxone. He needed the gun to stop himself if necessary. He reached over and opened the glovebox a moment, just to make sure the .45 was still there.

  His hands trembled. Not just his hands—he felt the trembling in his arms, too, and his legs. It wasn’t visible, but it was there. He even seemed able to feel it... inside his head.

  That’s ridiculous, he thought, shifting in the seat. You can’t tremble inside your head.

  But that’s what he felt—a kind of trembling, and an occasional jolt in his head, like a little electric shock. In his brain. No... in his mind.

  That doesn’t make sense, he thought, clenching his eyes closed and rubbing his temple with four stiff fingers.

  He felt confined, claustrophobic. He took his pack of cigarettes from the passenger seat, shook one out, and lit it. He opened the door and got out of the car.

  The ducks and geese chattered their annoyance as they waddled away from him. He went to the short fence along the well-tended lawn that sloped down toward the river and tried to enjoy the view. The sky was a dirty brown that colored everything beneath it. Hot wind made the tree limbs flail as if they were in distress. The wind carried the stinging scent of burning trees. Eli could just hear the sound of the river flowing by. It reminded him a little of the sound of Butter Creek and the long, lazy hours he’d spent listening to it flow as a boy. But as pleasant as the sound was, it failed to relax him. He needed to move, so he paced beside the car as he smoked.

  There were other people around—a woman stood between two little preschoolers feeding the birds several yards away in the parking lot; an old man sat on a bench and read the paper; a couple of middle-aged women stood talking by a drinking fountain; a man accompanied four laughing kids down the sloping lawn toward the river. Eli frowned as his eyes moved from one to another and another. Were they in danger because he was there? How would he know that he’d become a threat to others? How would he know when it was time to use Roger’s gun to stop himself?

  He paced and paced, taking one drag on the cigarette after another. He stuffed his left hand into his pocket, arm stiff at his side. His fingers found bits of material in his pocket—lint in one, a couple of old wadded chewing gum wrappers. He pulled them out and dropped them to the ground.

  There was a sudden rush of movement around him as the ducks and geese quickly closed in on him. They surrounded him as they surged forward, necks outstretched, heads thrusting downward toward the lint and paper he’d dropped.

  Eli stopped breathing. For a moment, he feared his heart had frozen in his chest as icy panic coursed through him. The birds were about to attack him, he knew it. He could feel their eyes on him as they swarmed forward like piranha rushing a bleeding animal in the Amazon. Any second now, they would pounce in a biting, clawing, wing-flapping frenzy. He dropped the unfinished cigarette. His chest felt tight and his stomach cramped with fear as he began to kick at them.

  “No!” he shouted, flailing his arms as he kicked repeatedly with his right foot. “Get back! Back!”

  The woman with the two little children turned toward him as one of the toddlers pointed in his direction.

  “Get away!” Eli shouted, backing clumsily toward the car as he kicked at the birds. His voice was shrill and broken. “Back off, dammit!”

  The old man on the bench lowered his paper, lifted his head, and straightened his metal-framed glasses as he looked at Eli. The two women by the drinking fountain stopped talking and turned to Eli, frowning.

  “No! Get away!” The birds had backed off, but he continued to behave as if they were closing in on him because he still felt threatened, in danger. He opened the car door.

  The man on the lawn with the four kids stopped and turned. The children turned with him, watched Eli a moment, and a couple of them laughed and said something garbled.

  “Back! Get back!”

  Squinting at Eli, the old man folded up his newspaper and stood from the bench.

  Eli fell into the car, pulled his legs in, and slammed the door.

  Keys, keys, keys, he thought as he reached for the ignition. They weren’t there. He felt a lump of panic in his throat, the sense of enclosing danger, the fear of being pursued. He spotted the keys on the passenger seat, snatched them up, and started the car. His heart thundered in his chest as he put the car in reverse and stomped on the gas pedal.

  Sounds of outrage came from the ducks and geese as they scattered out of the way of Eli’s car. The car shot backward and curved around as he turned the wheel.

  The woman with the two preschoolers screamed as the rear of the car raced straight for her.

  The old man with the newspaper hurried toward them, his jaw slack.

  The woman grabbed the two little children by the arms—one of them cried out in surprised fear—and lunged to her right a split second before Eli’s car backed over the spot where they’d been standing.

  The car came to an abrupt stop with a yip of rubber on the pavement.

  The old man’s mouth snapped shut and his face hardened with resolve as he reached for his shirt pocket. He snatched a pen from the pocket and poised it over the folded newspaper in his other hand. He craned his head forward as he glared at Eli’s license plate, and began to write.

  “Damn you!” the woman with the two small children shouted at Eli’s car. She held onto the children’s arms, badly shaken.

  Eli shifted into drive.

  “I got his number,” the old man said, hurrying to the woman’s side. “He almost killed the three of you, I saw it. Do you have a cell phone?”

  Still badly frightened, the woman turned to the old man with her mouth hanging open.

  The old man said, “Let’s call the police.”

  Eli was oblivious to it all as he sped out of the parking lot and shot onto Park Marina Drive without checking for traffic. An oncoming car honked as it braked and swerved.

  All Eli knew was that he was trembling inside as he held the steering wheel in a death grip.

  Jesus, he thought, I need
a drink.

  4.

  Chloe and the others went from the hospital to Roger’s house. She had what felt like a large rock in her stomach. She could not get Eli out of her mind, could not stop worrying about him, fearing for him. Her gnawing suspicion that something was not right had exploded into a panicky certainty.

  At the hospital, she had pestered Everett for details about what Paaxone withdrawal might do to Eli. But he had been preoccupied with his patients in the back, as well as his friend Falczek, who was very eager to speak with him. When Roger was released, she insisted that he talk to her, tell her everything that had happened with Eli, what he had said, how he’d behaved. Roger suggested they all go to his place to figure out what they should do about Eli. Although Falczek seemed frustrated and uncomfortable with the suggestion, Everett liked the idea.

  The dining room became crowded as they entered and took seats around the table: Roger, with his head bandaged and bloodstains on the shoulders of his shirt; Everett, also with blood still on his shirt; Falczek, looking tired and anxious. Chloe remembered the dinner she and Eli had eaten there at the beginning of the week. It seemed like ages ago now, as if time had been stretched like a long stream of taffy to extend far beyond those few days.

  Mrs. Gonzalez came in with a large pitcher of ice tea and several glasses, all on a tray. As she poured tea, she said, “I’m making some sandwiches if anybody’s hungry.”

  Chloe said, “Could I have some coffee?”

  Mrs. Gonzalez nodded. “It’s already brewing. How do you take it?”

  “Black.”

  “I don’t know about anybody else,” Roger said, “but I’m starving. We got any corned beef in there, Mrs. G.?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “I’d like a corned beef and Swiss on rye, please. You know how I like it.” He looked around the table. “Anybody got any requests?”

  The others made vague gestures, as if to say, Whatever you’ve got. Mrs. Gonzalez turned and left the room.