by Brad Munson
She was glad to see them go. She slept like a stone after that.
Eight
“One, two … three. Gently now. Gently!”
Clink. Tinkle-tinkle. Rustle.
“Can't you be careful, Ruthie? God!”
The last word was hissed with such familiar frustration that Lisa recognized it immediately: that chubby nurse. The one who was always angry and someone. Carol or Karen or …
“Sorry, Carrie. I almost lost his feet!”
They were putting another patient in Lisa's room, in the far bed under the window, and they were doing their best not to wake Lisa while doing it.
It didn't really matter. She had barely slept at all since her family had left. She'd just drifted, thinking, rearranging her life, revisiting all the stupid things she'd done. Giving thanks for all the lucky breaks she'd had. She still felt … light, somehow. She'd felt that way ever since she'd awakened. Buoyed up, even as the activity and tension in the hospital around her seemed to grow louder and more frenetic by the hour.
It must be the storm, she thought. Traffic accidents, power failures, slip-and-falls. I can only imagine.
Angry Carrie and the unfortunate Ruthie finished their work and tip-toed out of the room. Lisa could hear the indistinct but obvious scolding continue as they moved away, down the hall to the nurse's station. When they were far enough away, Lisa turned and looked at her new neighbor.
They had closed the curtains around the second bed, blocking her view of the patient and the window beyond. As quietly as she could, she sat up, put her legs over the edge of the bed, and stood up.
She didn't wobble as she got to her feet. Her legs were as steady as ever; even the athletic bandage on her right arm didn't put her off-balance. She was even rather pleased with herself as she padded across the cruelly cold linoleum and parted the curtains just enough to see …
A man. In his late forties, maybe early fifties, with thinning hair and a very bad complexion. Eczema or shingles or something.
It was a surprise to her that it was a man at all. She thought the standard policy in hospitals was to keep the genders separate. Maybe they really were running out of space, even though she thought Dr. Chamberlain – Geoff – had said something to the contrary.
Ah, yes: Geoff. If she were ten years younger and half as smart as she thought she was, that bod would be in serious –
“You're supposed to be asleep in your bed,” said a voice from the doorway. “That's one demerit.”
She caught her he breath and turned to see Geoff Chamberlain leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed. He was shaking his head in mock disappointment. “What a terrible patient,” he said.
“You can't keep a good woman down,” she said. “Besides, I couldn't sleep.”
He nodded and pushed himself off the door frame. “I'm not surprised. It's as busy as Grand Central out there.”
“The storm?” she asked.
He nodded “That and … something else. I don't know, strange things.”
“Like?”
He started to tell her – she could see his mouth open and his brow crease, as if he was trying to find the words. Then he abruptly stopped himself and shook his head. “Nothing. Never mind. Guess I'm just not used to actually working, that's all. It's usually so quiet here.” He waved his silver clipboard in a herding motion. “Come on, now. Back to the bed. Mr. Felikian has so many sedatives in him he'll be out for twelve hours or more, and it's way too early for you to be up and about.”
There was a sudden crash of glass down the hallway, followed by Angry Carrie's classic hiss: Ruthie!
The young doctor couldn't help himself; he grinned and shook his head. “Boy oh boy,” he said, looking away. “Long night ahead.”
Lisa hadn't moved from her place by the curtains. “And what are you doing back here anyway? I thought you had the night off.”
He grimaced at that. “Well … it got busy.”
“What about the birthday party? How did it go?”
He took a breath and said, “Great! Just not long enough,” and started to wave her back to the bed again. “Come on, now …”
… and a strange, shimmering shadow passed over Geoff Chamberlain's face. No, Lisa corrected herself: it wasn't a shadow at all. It actually seemed to come from inside him, like a sudden series of ticks or a rash. A … pebbling that passed through his skin in a single pulse: cheek and temples, mouth and chin, left to right, then … gone. It was the strangest thing she had ever seen, and yet in an instant she knew exactly what it meant.
He's lying, she told herself. He just told me a lie.
This is what a lie looks like.
She stared at him for so long, waiting for it to happen again, that he asked her what was wrong. “Head still hurting?” he asked, frowning.
“No,” she said quickly. “Not at all. I'm just being stubborn. I really can't sleep.” She looked away from him long enough to walk to the bed and sit down on the edge of the mattress, all the time thinking, What the hell was that?
“Ah,” he said, tapping his clipboard thoughtfully against his chin, “I see. Clinical insomnia.”
That sounded worrisome. “From the concussion?”
“Oh, it's not a medical condition,” he said. “It's sleeplessness caused by being in the clinic.”
She smiled and shook her head. He grinned in response and sat on the bed next to her, an appropriate distance away. “Don t worry,” he said confidentially. “The truth is, it happens all the time.”
She nodded. “So what really happened at the party?”
He was prepared this time. “Not a thing,” he said. “Just ended early and I came on back.”
She put a hand lightly on his arm and Spoke. “Tell me the truth,” she said, and then jumped in surprise at the strange bell-like tone in her voice: rich and deep like no sound she had ever made before. It was absolutely beautiful … and absolutely irresistible.
Geoff Chamberlain didn't even hesitate. “It was the worst party I've ever been to in my life,” he said promptly, and in a perfectly natural tone. “I didn't know two-thirds of the guys that were invited, and most of them were already drunk by the time I got there. They ordered a stripper, which I specifically told them not to do, and the woman who showed up went ballistic halfway through her dance and accused one of the local assholes of being a kiddie-porn junkie. I had to get her out of there before he killed her. And it turned out she was right: he got even more shit-faced after she left and made a drunken, blubbery confession to everyone there, asking for forgiveness.” He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed deeply. “It was right about then that I figured being here was better than being there, so I faked an emergency call from the Clinic and came back.” He took in a breath, started to say something more … then forced himself to stop. He blinked. He blinked again. “And I have absolutely no idea why I just told you all that.” He swallowed hard, deeply embarrassed. “It was completely unprofessional. Way out of line.”
She just looked at him for a long moment. “Well,” she said finally, “don't worry. I asked.” Internally, she told herself the truth: I made you. First I knew you were lying, and then I forced you to tell me the truth.
What the hell was happening to her?
He passed a hand over his face again as if he was waking from a deep sleep. “Yeah. I know. But … I …” He shook himself and stood up abruptly. “Look, I don't really want to give you medication on top of that blow to your head, but can I get you a glass of milk at least? All that good ol’ L-tryptophan? Or maybe a second pillow?
She decided to try it again. She cleared her throat and said “Let me stay awake so …”
… No. That wasn't the voice. No bell-like tone, no golden echo. Geoff Chamberlain just gave her a weary smile and shook his head. “Come on,” he admonished, “don't do that.”
She tried a different tactic. She touched his arm again, cocked her head just a little, and gave him her best, most persuasive smile. “Please, Geoff. C
an't I at least walk down to the magazine rack in the lobby? Five minutes with an old New Yorker and I'll drop right off, I promise.”
And that worked. Just like it always does, she thought. The young doctor shook his head and sighed theatrically, but he gave in. “Oh, all right,” he said, and stood up.
Bingo, she thought, but she knew there was nothing magical here. It was the same tactic she'd been using to sell houses and get dates since before she got out of high school. That other thing – that voice – that had been different. That was special, somehow.
The young doctor chuckled as he crossed to the door. “Hell,” he said, “I think I could release you right now, but I wouldn't want your husband to come out at this time of night. Especially not in this weather.”
“Ex-husband,” she said, wondering why it mattered even as she said it.
“Right,” he said, and held open the door for her. “Sorry.”
She rushed past him, close enough to smell his cologne. It was something rich and spicy. She liked it.
The corridor was steadily, horribly lit by old-fashioned fluorescents. Lisa had been unconscious when they brought her in; this was her first view of the rest of the hospital, but she was unsurprised. The corridor itself looked like any other hospital corridor she'd ever seen: pale linoleum painted with arcane lines and symbols, oatmeal-colored walls studded with boxes and racks, gurneys and carts and trays scattered the length of the hall. The only unexpected moments came when she realized that she was on the first floor – that there was only a first floor here.
Clinic, she realized for the first time. Not 'hospital' or 'medical center. 'And they weren't talking Mayo Clinic here, either.
Geoff must have sensed her surprise. “Just your typical docs in a box,” he said as they moved slowly toward the main nurse's station.
Another lie, she realized, but she let this one pass. She had assumed she was in one wing of a much larger building; instead – and she looked over her shoulder to check – she was one of no more than a dozen patients in half a dozen rooms.
“Tidy,” she said, meaning something else entirely. She pulled her robe a little more tightly around her. Suddenly she didn't feel nearly as safe and well-cared-for as she had before.
“Tiny, more like it,” Chamberlain said. “But it's more than adequate for Dos Hermanos about ninety-nine percent of the time. Tonight, though, it's not adequate. I'm not sure anything would be adequate.”
They reached the nurse's station. She saw that it doubled as their general reception desk: a small carpeted space scattered with boxy, intentionally uncomfortable sofas and armchairs. Beyond that was a wide expanse of floor-to-ceiling sheet glass windows and set of double doors: the street entrance to the Clinic itself.
He waved at the other wing, beyond the circular desk. “Got a few more patient rooms, an OR, and storage down that way,” he said. “Emergency's back that way, kind of in the middle and back. It opens on the street behind us. Complete with three treatment areas, a waiting room, and usually no waiting – usually.” He switched his attention to Angry Carrie. “Dr. Pandajura still back there?”
“Yes, Doctor,” she said promply, still seething about something. “He's handling the bleeder. Nothing else new yet.”
“Yet,” he agreed. He started towards the racks and tables covered with slightly dog-eared magazines, ready to make Lisa actually fulfill her promise, when the glass double doors beyond them rolled open with a deep animal groan. A handsome, well-groomed, almost sleek older man stalked in, back straight and eyes blazing. He had a large head with a high, domed forehead, made even larger by a prominent brow and a receding crown of brilliant silver-white hair. His suit was impeccable charcoal; his nails were freshly manicured, and his padded shoulders were impressively broad. “Call Deseret Nine Fifty-Six Fifty,” he said in a deep and commanding tone. “Immediately. Immediately. Call Deseret Nine Fifty-Six Fifty.” He pronounced the first word in an odd, old-fashioned way: Dezzer-AY.
Lisa heard Angry Carrie say, “Oh, shit,” under her breath. But Ruthie – round and eager to please, her nurse's cap perched on her helmet of shiny, entirely artificial blonde hair like a misshaped halo – rose to the occasion. “Mr. Mayor!” she said. “Quite a night to be out. Now what's all this, what can we do for you?”
He walked right up to the station and stooped. “Can't you see?” He was very concerned, deeply perturbed. “Do they let blind people work in hospitals now?”
Geoff Chamberlain put a gentle hand on Lisa's arm and whispered, “Wait here.” Then he stepped forward, swift and smooth, and put on an easy smile. “Mr. Mayor. Thank you for stopping by.”
The older man turned to him, clearly relieved to be speaking to a male. “I don't want to have to say it again, Doctor. Call Deseret Nine Fifty-Six Fifty, and do it now.”
“It's already been done, Your Honor,” Geoff said.
The mayor frowned at that. “Then … where are the trucks? The lights? Where … why is there still so much of it everywhere?” Suddenly he didn't seem quite so certain. Now he was almost a little … afraid.
“They're … on their way,” the doctor lied. “Solving problems along the way, I'm sure. They'll be checking in any minute now. But in the meantime, Your Honor, can I offer you a room to rest in? Or maybe buy you a drink in the cafeteria …?”
The double doors grumbled and pumped open again. “Nice try, Doctor, but subtlety is lost on him,” said the new arrival: an older woman, just as immaculately groomed as the mayor, who walked into the lobby with a grim certainty and an unmistakable air of noblesse oblige.
“Mrs. Lazenby,” Geoff said, sounding both relieved and cautious. “Glad you could stop by as well.”
She came up and slipped her around through the mayor's, who looked at her with an air of mild surprise. “Oh,” he said. “Finished with … whatever it was … you were doing? Already?”
She ignored him. “We were on our way to the Center for the meeting,” she said to the doctor and nurses. She didn't seem to notice Lisa or her hospital gown at all. “Charles got out to put in the bags; I got out to buy a cheap umbrella at the AM/PM – and of course, they didn't have one.” She shrugged and pressed herself a little harder against Mayor Lazenby – a little too hard to be entirely affectionate, Lisa thought. “And his Honor here took it into his head to get out and make a site inspection, all by his lonesome. I'm just glad the pretty lights attracted him.”
“Deseret Nine Fifty-Six Fifty,” he said, sounding just a little defensive.
“You bet, sir,” Geoff said, as if he knew exactly what that meant. Then to Mrs. Lazenby: “What is that, exactly?”
She almost smiled. “Back when we started this place – us, the Deschanels, Milton Squire and the rest – Dos Hermanos' telephone exchange was “Deseret” – an old biblical word, I think. Deseret Nine Fifty-Six Fifty was the number you would call for municipal services: electricity, trash collection –”
“And sewage,” Chamberlain said. “Got it. 'Where are the trucks? Where are the lights?’”
“Precisely.” She pressed her already thin lips together even more tightly. Their understanding seemed to galvanize the mayor all over again.
“And where are they, Miriam? They must be – come now, really, there must be … them. Those. In '58, when the wind storm came and knocked Gabe right on his ass, on his ass it knocked him, there was the big yellow truck, just like the one from the stories. You remember that! Sand everywhere, everywhere, grit between your teeth and in your eye holes and up your gee-dam crack it was, up your crack –”
She sighed and patted his well-tailored arm. “That was a long time ago,” she said. She started to tug him back towards the doors. “Now let's get going. We don't want to be late for the meeting.”
She suddenly stopped herself in mid-turn and swiveled back, focusing on Geoff Chamberlain for the first time. “You're coming, of course,” she said. It was not a request.
“I'm on duty,” he said, and Lisa was surprised to hear a n
ote of real nervousness in his voice. “Doctor Prad–”
“I don't give a rip about the Indian,” she said, dismissing the thought with a wave. “You. Someone from the Clinic must represent the civil defense system in this town. Someone other than Peck, that is. You must appear and reassure everyone that all is well with this weather, and that you can handle the emergency when the Little Girls are recovered. Forensic evidence and rape kits and all that.”
“Rape kits? Jesus, Mrs. Lazenby, do you know something I don't?”
She glared at him. “Not at all,” she said. “I simply want you to be there and be confident with these people.”
… and that strange dull rash, that pebbling, ran under her carefully applied makeup like a wave of rough water: up her neck, over her mouth, across her cheeks to her temple and into her hair.
Liar, Lisa told herself. She knows more about the Little Girls than she's telling. Something important. Something bad.
In the next instant, Lisa herself was taken aback. Because she didn't know anything about the Little Girls, or what was happening to them, or why the mayor's wife, of all people, should know anything about anything.
“Tell the truth,” Lisa blurted out without thinking. “Tell us what you know.”
Miriam Lazenby spun on her. Lisa could see every ounce of the woman's considerable energy focused inward, fighting for control … and yet she couldn't help herself. Could not stop her mouth from saying, “I'm frightened. Actually, I'm terrified. I believe the Little Girls are dead. That the ugly, evil thing that has been hiding in this town for centuries is finally taking hold.”
She stood motionless, silent, frozen into astonishment by her own words. Lisa could see it in her eyes. What the hell did I just say? Why did I even speak?
The mayor was completely oblivious to his wife's paralysis. “No,” he said, and pulled his arms from her. He was flushed now, upset, almost waxy with fear. “No, we need the lights. We need the truck and the lights and the big diggers that the beaners drag in to pull it all up, pull it all up before the water comes to choke us.”