Chill Waters

by Hovey, Joan Hall

  Mel Willis jerked awake, straightened in his chair. He adjusted his hat. “Wasn’t sleep,” he said, relieved it wasn’t Sorrel; he’d be walking a beat tomorrow if the old man had caught him. Might anyway, if this doctor ratted on him. “Just closing my eyes for a minute or two,” he said.

  “Well, it’s that kind of night.”

  Not for a second did Officer Mel Willis imagine the man exchanging small talk with him was anything other than what he presented himself to bea respected doctor. Mel also believed that whoever attacked that girl and left her for dead, was long gone from the area. Probably some transient passing through, seizing an opportunity that came his way.

  Some thought the boyfriend did it, but it was Mel’s theory that they would have found her body in the woods, or dumped in the bay, if he had. Not in the backroom of the place where she worked.

  The sort of thing that was about to happen to Officer Mel Willis happened to other people, in other places. Or on some TV cop show. Not to a guy in a sleepy hospital like this one.

  “I’m going to be in there for a few minutes,” the doctor said, patting Mel’s shoulder in empathy. “Why don’t you go down and grab yourself a coffee, pal. You look like you could use one. I know the feeling. I’ll hold the fort till you get back.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if…” Hot coffee sounded awfully tempting.

  “Give yourself a break while you’ve got the chance,” the doc said. He gave Mel a knowing grin. “I’m guessing you’ve still got a few more hours of duty before you’re out of here, right?”

  Seconds later, the nurse glanced up from her book as Officer Willis passed by her station, but it never occurred to her to question his leaving his post.

  Eleven

  A shadow fell across her bed and Heather opened her eyes expecting to see the nurse standing there with her medication. But it was not Nurse Lewis, nor Doctor Halstead, either. Doctor Halstead was older than this doctor, and had white hair and chubby cheeks. He’d always reminded her of the doctor in Norman Rockwell’s illustration hanging in her father’s muffler shop. She took in the graying hair, the glasses and mustache. Something familiar about him. Also familiar was one of the voices she’d heard outside her door only moments ago. Or was that a dream?

  As his eyes held hers, the pattern of her heartbeat peaked on the monitor beside her. Why doesn’t he say something? Then he smiled, a slow smile devoid of humor, and a paralizing terror filled her, flooding her mouth and throat with the taste of old pennies long buried in the earth.

  “Ah, yes. I see you do remember me.” Thin lips stretched further over predatory teeth as he smiled his death grin. Behind the glasses, his eyes were cold and merciless. “I thought you were dead when I left you,” he said matter-of-factly. “You looked dead enough. Well, we’ll just have to remedy that.”

  He slid the pillow from under her head.

  Oh, no. Please, please dear God, somebody help me. She fought to escape the confines of her bed, but three broken ribs refused to allow it. In her struggle, she did manage to tip over the I.V. bottle on its stand, was rewarded with a flicker of panic on his face. But before it could crash to the floor and summon help, he caught and righted it. Heather opened her mouth to scream, could feel it stretched in its silent cry, but again, no sound came.

  He cocked a mocking brow at her. “What’s the matter?” he whispered. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” came a voice from the doorway. “May I ask what you’re doing? This is Doctor Halstead’s patient.”

  Relief surged through Heather, tears of gratitude rolled down her cheeks as the nurse, frowning, came further into the room, carrying a miniature cup containing a small white pill. “She’s also supposed to be under police guard,” she said. Her voice was firm, but Heather heard the vague uncertainty underneath. “Why is Officer Willis no longer outside her door?”

  “So many questions. Well, for your information, I sent the poor man for a coffee. He was asleep on the job.” He spoke easily, with just the right note of annoyance. "And I’m well aware of whose patient she is. Doctor Halstead asked me to look in on Miss Myers. Since I’m going to be out of town for a few days, and since I was in the buildingI’m Doctor Whittaker, by the way, Nurse" His eyes flicked over her name bar “Lewis.”

  His name was clearly supposed to allay any concerns, but it rang no bells with Janet Lewis. Still, she was reluctant to question him further. Years of conditioning, she would later tell police. He was a doctor, after all. She was only a nurse.

  His broad back was to Heather, white in its doctor’s coat. Her panicked gaze moved upward to the queer indentation where his hair ended, and she realized he was wearing a wig.

  He sounds so convincing. Just the way he did in the store. “Just give me what you have in the till, and you won’t get hurt.” Oh, please don’t believe him, Nurse Lewis. Past his shoulder, Heather tried desperately to catch the nurse’s eye. Look at me. Please look at me.

  But Janet Lewis was intent on what the doctor was saying. He spoke respectfully to her, but with a certain professional reserve that said he was a man quite willing to go out of his way to oblige a colleague, but he was also a busy man. And he was probably tired, too, Janet thought, sensing a certain edginess beneath the calm exterior.

  “I’ll be out of your way in just a minute, Doctor,” she said, pouring water into the glass. “She’s been experiencing some discomfort tonight.” Her attention focused on her task, she did not see the horrified disbelief in her patient’s eyes, or the desperate plea within their depths. Although when she turned to give Heather her pill she did notice with some dismay that the I.V. needle had slipped out of the back of her hand.

  Feeling suddenly and uncharacteristically clumsy, acutely aware that the doctor was waiting for her to finish, probably judging her abilities as a nurse, or lack thereof, she replaced the needle. “Don’t know how that happened,” she muttered. After practically force-feeding her patient the pill, she quickly exited the room, closing the door after her. No! The voice inside Heather’s head screamed. Come back. Don’t leave me!

  He waited a few seconds to be sure the nurse had really gone. Then slowly, he turned to Heather, picked up the pillow once again. Smiling down into the wide, terror-filled blue eyes, he said with deadly softness, “Almost got away. And I was kind of rooting for you too. Really.”

  Heather mouthed the words, Please no, as the pillow slowly came down onto her face, blocking out all light. All hope.

  At exactly 2:26 a.m. Iris Brandt bolted upright in her bed, clutching her chest and gasping for air, with the horrible sensation of being suffocated.

  Hearing footsteps on the landing below, Tommy froze where he was. When he was satisfied that the clanging feet were racing to the lower level, he let himself breathe again.

  Then he was facing a grey metal door with the number 3 painted above a narrow rectangular pane of fireproof glass. At the sound of an approaching gurney, he shrank back against the wall. A white-haired black man pushing an empty gurney rattled past the door and on down the corridor.

  Tommy wiped sweaty palms on his jeans, and slumped down on the top step. Had to get himself together. His nerves were jumpy as hell.

  The last thing Heather needed was for him to go in there and lose it. She needed to concentrate on getting better, so he had to be strong for her. He would help her make it through this. He didn’t know how, exactly, but he would.

  Right now he just wanted to see her, to hold her and let her know how much he loved her and that he was there for her. He would also vow that the creep who did this to her would be punished. But the first thing he had to do, he thought, getting to his feet, was to make it to her room without being seen. There might be a little problem with that, especially considering that her mom had told him a policeman was guarding her door. He would beg if he had to. Throw himself on the guy’s mercy. “Just for a minute,” he’d say. “You can come in with me.”

  One step at a time, Tommy P
richard. You got this far.

  Inching the door open a crack, he peered cautiously around it. Seeing a doctor headed in his direction, going flat out, Tommy eased the door closed, stood well back until he passed. Then he opened it again, and, heart pounding like a trip-hammer, stepped into the highly polished corridor.

  Complete quiet surrounded himan eerie hush. While beneath it he could hear the faintest murmur of machinesthat great technology that kept hearts pumping, lungs breathing. Or maybe the sounds were just inside his own head.

  The air was heavy and too warm, filled with unspoken dangers. Tommy hated hospitals at the best of times. He hated the smells, the sounds. He knew it was because of that time when he was five and an ambulance had rushed him in here in the middle of the night with an attack of appendicitis. He’d never forget his terror at waking up in the shadowy quiet of his room, peering through the bars of his bed, like a trapped rabbit. He’d been crying for his mother, when suddenly a monster in white loomed over him, clamped a big hand over his mouth, cutting off his cries, terrifying him. “Quiet,” she’d commanded before thrusting a big needle into his arm.

  When he woke the next morning, his mother was at his bedside, smiling tenderly down at him, stroking his damp hair, telling him he’d just had a bad dream, that was all. There were no monsters—especially monsters in white.

  Her smile floated from his mind as Tommy looked up at the red numbers on the wall. Red arrows pointed left and right, guiding him in the direction he needed to go.

  Creeping ghost-like down the corridor, Tommy’s sneakers were soundless on the floor. He checked the numbers on the doors; even numbers were on his right.

  300…302…304…

  Her room had to be just around the next turn past the nurse’s station. Luck was with him. The nurse had her back to him, flipping through a box of files. He slipped quickly past her, worried that she might sense him there, but she didn’t. So far, so good. 306…308…310…312…314…

  He stopped, his heart seeming to stop with him. So where was the cop who was supposed to be guarding her door? While he was relieved that no one would be keeping him from Heather, he was also angry that no one was looking out for her. What if the guy decided to come back? Didn’t anyone give a damn?

  What would he say to her? For the millionth time, he blamed himself for not being there when she needed him. Why didn’t I know? He wiped impatiently at a tear. Knock it off. She damn well doesn’t need you blubbering all over her like a baby, Prichard. What was he waiting for? Someone to see him standing here? Tommy pushed the door open. The room was dark. “Heather?” he said softly.

  As he took a tentative step forward, steel glinted in the sparse light coming from the window, outlining her bed. Taking another step into the room, the scent of flowers wafted to him. Nearly tripping over the blanket puddled on the floor, his heart gave a small skip. He picked it up.

  Something was wrong.

  Approaching her bedside, his bewildered eyes took in the hair spilling from beneath the pillow that lay over her face – her smooth pale arm hanging limply by the side of the bed…

  Though Tommy’s brain snapped frantic photos of the scene, it had not yet had time to process them. The unthinkable did not yet register. That would take a few more seconds.

  “Heather?”

  Officer Mel Willis was just returning with his second cup of coffee, which tasted only a tad better than he imagined the cleaning agent in Sam’s scrub bucket would taste. But at least it woke him up. And it was hot. He’d passed a minute or two (fifteen in real time) chatting with the old man on whether or not Tyson still had the fire in him. Sam was a die-hard fan of the bad-boy boxer.

  Mel’s steps halted at the sight of the young man stumbling wild-eyed out of Heather Myer’s room. Dread and horror slammed through him, turning the coffee in his gut into acid. He’d heard it said that before you die, your life flashes in front of you. It was exactly like that for Mel, except that it was his career that flashed before his eyes.

  The boy turned to look at him. As their eyes locked, Willis’ training went into gear. The coffee in his cup splattering its dark liquid against the wall, Mel went for his gun, simultaneously assuming the crouch position.

  Twelve

  At 2:51 a.m. Rachael woke to the wailing of sirens. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa listening to the storm rage outside her window. The wind had howled beneath the eaves, moaned down the chimney, and Rachael was strangely lulled by its mad symphony.

  The room was still warm but the fire had waned. She rose and placed another piece of wood on the burning embers. She watched until it caught, then went out to the kitchen.

  More sirens. They seemed close. She wondered what had happened. She looked out the small window over the sink, but could see only her own pale reflection in the rain-battered glass.

  Lightning flashed silent and eerie in the window, casting the old elm tree in unearthly light. So stark were its tortured branches, it no longer resembled the tree she had climbed in and swung in as a child, but some evil apparition. Like a tree in one of those old Bela Lagosi flicks that had held her spellbound.

  You saw too many of them. Feeling the headache returning, she washed down a couple more Tylenol to hopefully ward it off. She’d been living on the damn things lately.

  The sirens had stopped. Silence now.

  She went back to thinking about those old movies, about how the scary stuff always seemed to happen in the midst of a thunderstorm. As she stood there, a blinding flash of lightning turned night into day. Rachael’s heart lurched at the sight of someone standing out by the old elm tree. They were staring straight in at her.

  Darkness fell again and the watcher was gone. A fleeting silhouette caught in the blue-white glow, like a negative of a photograph, instantly swallowed up by the night. She could see nothing now, only the blackness and the rain streaming down the glass, and her own reflection. But she sensed him out there. Her pulses were racing, her mouth dry. The fine hairs on her arms tingled as if brushed with electricity. I saw someone. I know I did.

  Moving closer to the window, Rachael waited for the next flash of lightning to confirm what her eyes had clearly seen. Iris Brandt’s words echoed in her mind: “You’re in danger here, Rachael. Terrible danger.” She shivered involuntarily.

  The next flash came but revealed only the tree in its contorted shape. No one standing beside it. Her imagination? A trick of the lightning, maybe. You’re losing it, Rachael.

  Thunder cracked, reverberating through her body, giving her a sense of being caught in the eye of the storm. She moved away from the window.

  A torrent of rain rattled the windows in their casings. Lightning stabbed the objects in the room in otherworldly light, making them appear to jerk about in a mad, convulsive dance, as if alive. Drained and exhausted, as if the storm, rather than infusing her with its energy, was stealing what little she had left. I need to go back and lie down. I don’t feel well.

  As she was about to go into the living room, the bulbs in their three tulip-shaped shades flickered threateningly. She stood perfectly still. “No, please,” she whispered.

  She fixed the lights with her gaze, as if she might impose her will on them to remain bright and steady, but they flickered a second timeand againdimming lower and lower, finally abandoning her to the darkness.

  Damn! What next?

  She felt her way long the edge of the counter, closed a hand around the last drawer handle. Pulling it open she rummaged inside for the broken candles and the card of matches she’d seen there earlier.

  Her fingers fumbled over curtain hooks, a corkscrew, an iron caster from a long discarded item of furniture, its owner apparently figuring it would come in handy at some point. At last her hand closed around a short, chunky candle. The smooth, waxy feel of it lent comfort. She came up with four candles in all, in varying lengths. She found the matches, lit one of the candles and set it on the kitchen table, dispelling a layer of the thick, inky darkness. />
  She placed two more candles at either end of the counter, bringing welcome light into room. The flames made wavering circles on the ceiling. The last candle, she took into the living room, letting the small flame guide her step. She was about to set it on the mantle, when someone knocked on the front door. She spun around, the movement creating a draft that blew out the flame. Now only the glow from the fireplace kept her from being in total darkness.