“You are fooling yourself,” Dr. Tom Marstens, said. He laughed as he popped open another Schlitz, their fifth of the evening, and added, “and you still think Mo Udall is going to be nominated, right?”
“I do.”
“Then, it is you, pal, who needs therapy. Possibly, even shock therapy if you still think that is going to happen.”
“Look…,” Vincent said, “this is Udall’s year. And if he is nominated, he’s President. I mean, if the Democratic party doesn’t win in ‘76, with that hopeless Ford in office, and after the disaster that was Nixon, well…, they might as well fold up their tent and go into another line of work.”
“Ah…., this assumes Ford is nominated,” Dr. Marstens said. “I think Reagan is giving him a real run for his money.”
“How many of those have you had today?” Vincent said as he pointed at the freshly opened can of Schlitz in Dr. Marstens hand.
“This is only my third.”
“Obviously psychiatry doesn’t require a lot of math. It’s your fifth, buddy,” Vincent replied as he smirked. “And, of course, that isn’t counting any of the beers we drank out on the boat.”
“Now, Vincent, you know we don’t count fishing beers. They are an integral part of the process!”
Vincent threw his head back and laughed. “Very true, but, I still think all the hops are catching up with you.”
“You are wrong about Carter,” Dr. Marstens said. “And for God’s sake, you must know this country will never elect a guy named Mo to the presidency. Larry or Curly, yes. Mo…, out of the question.”
“Asshole,” Vincent said with a chuckle. “But…, I can guarantee there will be a Mo in the White House before some washed up former B-movie Actor like Reagan any day.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Dr. Marstens said. He sighed as he sank back into the shabby, brown, Naugahyde Barcalounger. He popped up the footrest and said, “God, I have missed this.”
“Me too,” Vincent said. “We should really come down here more than a couple of times a year.”
“We should,” Dr. Marstens said. “Maybe we should invite the girls to join us in the fall?”
“I don’t know about that, Tom,” Vincent said. “That might change things too much.”
“If we asked them to come, they wouldn’t give us such a hard time about our ‘boys’ trips,” Dr. Marstens said. “I don’t know if it would change things that much.”
“Damn right it would,” Vincent said. He held up his cigar and said, “like no more of these in the house. Marie can’t stand it when I fire up my stogie.”
“Yeah, Gladys hates them, too. That would not be good,” Dr. Marstens said.
“No. As much as I love my wife, if we made this a couple’s weekend, it would be ruined. It is great to have a refuge out here in the middle of nowhere,” Vincent said. “With no phone, no honey-do lists. A place where you and I can fish, smoke, and just drink beer all day. And then, for the rest of the night, we can just sit around and yell about—”
“—Politics?”
“I was going to say, yell about nothing, but, you are right. It does usually end with politics.”
“Well…,” Dr. Marstens said, “for a guy who thinks Mo Udall is going to win the nomination, politics means nothing!”
“You really don’t know what you are talking about, Tom,” Vincent said. “I’m telling you. Mo is going to go all the—”
Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam
Vincent stopped speaking in mid-sentence and spun towards the kitchen at the rear of the cabin. Someone was pounding on the back door, and, from the ferocity of the pounding, they wanted inside — now.
“What the hell?” Dr. Marstens said.
“My thoughts exactly,” Vincent said.
Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam
“I guess I should go see who it is,” Vincent said.
“We both should, but, we should be careful,” Dr. Marstens said. “It is very late, and, I don’t want some sort of Deliverance-moment tonight.”
“Jesus! You had to bring that movie up again. I wish to God we had never seen it,” Vincent said as the two of them walked into the dimly lit kitchen and opened the back door. There, standing on the back porch — quivering, naked, and covered in blood, was Sylvia.
“Holy God!” Vincent cried. “What happened to you, little girl?”
“Where are your parents? What happened? You can tell us,” Dr. Marstens said.
“Take, eat…,” Sylvia said, her tone robotic, her eyes glassy.
“I think she is in shock,” Dr. Marstens said. “We need to get her inside and get her warm.”
“You are right, of course,” Vincent said. “You are the doctor.”
The two of them led Sylvia into the living room. Vincent grabbed an NYU blanket off the back of the broken-down couch. Dr. Marstens took it and wrapped Sylvia in the blanket before starting to wipe the blood off her face. He said, “Vincent, go into the kitchen and bring me a fresh towel and some warm water.”
“Absolutely,” Vincent said as he rushed back into the kitchen. Once inside, and as he started to run the water over his hand, he called back, “what in the hell do you think happened to her? Does she have a cut? That is a lot of blood!”
“It is!” Dr. Marstens said as he checked Sylvia’s pupils for shock. They were fully dilated. Her quivering had not ceased. She even seemed to be getting worse, despite it being warm inside. She was covered in blood from head to foot. The blood, however, was not her own. He turned to the kitchen and said, “It doesn’t appear she is seriously injured. Just some cuts and scratches, but…, this is very strange. I don’t know where all this blood came from. Scratches don’t bleed this much.” He looked into Sylvia’s eyes again and his heart sank.
They had a bleak, lifeless look in them that chilled him to the bone. In his psychiatric practice, working with veterans returning from Korea, and then later, Vietnam, he had seen that same look. A distant, detached, and petrified gaze, dead eyes staring off into space at something too awful to articulate. Eyes that had seen too much, too soon. Eyes that wanted to block out something — terrifying, horrific and beyond human description. Not all wounds are on the surface. Not all injuries can be seen with the naked eye. He, as a psychiatrist, knew better than most. Some things seen, could never be unseen.
“What on earth happened to you, little girl?” he whispered. “You can tell me. I’m a friend. I promise I will never, ever hurt you. You are safe here.”
“Take, eat…,” Sylvia whispered, clutching her hands tighter to her chest.
“How is the water coming?” Dr. Marstens said as he called out to Vincent.
“Still warming up,” Vincent answered as he continued to hold his hand under the running water. “I’m afraid the water heater is on the fritz. I think I will have to…,” He paused as something caught his eye outside the kitchen window. It was a movement out in the woods. He spied a flash of light coming from just past the tree line. “Hey…, I think I see something out back.”
“Let me see what you have there,” Dr. Marstens said as he resumed talking to Sylvia. He pulled her small hands away from her chest and gently prodded her fingers open. When she released her grip, he smiled and looked down into her palms. His eyes widened now, and he lurched backward as if burned by a flaming cinder.
“Oh my God! What the hell is this?” Dr. Marstens exclaimed, his throat suddenly going bone dry. He started to speak again, but barely a whisper could emit from his mouth. He looked down into Sylvia’s palm again, just to make sure he was not imagining things. He was not. He fought back his gag reflex. There, in the pit of her hands, was a tiny leg. It was obviously the limb of a premature baby, and…, there were teeth marks on the thigh. The leg had been partially… eaten!
“Did you say something?” Vincent called from the kitchen. He noticed something else moving at the tree line again. Now it was a bit clearer than before. It was several flashlights beams moving back and forth, coming from deep
in the woods. “Hey,” he called out to Dr. Marstens, “I think someone might be coming for her. Maybe it’s her parents? I bet they must be worried—”
“—Vincent! Turn off the lights!” Dr. Marstens shouted.
“What? What are you talking about?” Vincent said. “What is wrong, why are you—”
“—For God’s sake, Vincent,” Dr. Marstens cried. “Turn off all of the lights — NOW!”
Chapter 29
April 27th, 2017 - UVid Headquarters - Mountain View, California - 4:45 PM
“Is he still out?” Heather whispered as she looked down at Steve, lying prone on the floor of the Eye Bleach Lounge.
“He is,” Sylvia said. “But, he should be coming out soon. He had a pretty nasty ride this afternoon. I had to take him down pretty deep.”
“What was his issue?” Heather asked.
“You know I can’t tell you,” Sylvia said.
“And you know I will pester you until you do,” Heather said. “Must we go through this dance?”
“Forget it. And anyway, it was something far too disgusting to discuss in public,” Sylvia said. “And now…, I really need to get back to —”
“—I know Steve told us he was squeamish about bodily fluids,” Heather said. “I bet he reviewed one of those awful ‘shower’ videos. I know I had a slew of them in my queue today.” She shook her head and said, “It must be the time of year, you know. April showers bring May flowers, and in this case, I bet those showers were golden!” She laughed as she added, “disgusting!”
“It had nothing to do with golden showers,” Sylvia said. “Sheesh! We need to talk about something else.”
“Brown showers, then?”
“Ugh, please,” Sylvia said. “Nancy just gave me a Kit Kat bar earlier. I would like to not taste it on the way back up, if you don’t mind.”
“But, I am getting warm, aren’t I?” Heather said. “I can tell. You would be a lousy poker player.”
“Yes…, sadly, you are getting warm. I have to admit, you have an amazing sense about these horrific things.”
“What can I say?” Heather said. “I am a regular Perve whisperer.”
“Well, it is way worse than… that.”
“Come on, Sylvia,” Heather whispered. “What is it? Just tell me. What could possibly be worse than a brown shower?”
“You really don’t understand the concept of personal boundaries, do you?”
“You know I don’t,” Heather said with a grin.
“Well, you’d be surprised,” Sylvia said as she shook her head. “But, shhhh,” she added as she placed her forefinger over her lips. “You really do need to be quiet, so I can finish up with Steve. I need to bring him out now.”
“Just give me a little hint,” Heather whispered. “You know I hate being out of the dirt loop.”
“Honestly, Heather, you must be the nosiest person I have ever met.”
“No doubt.”
“OK…, well…, have you ever heard of a ruby shower?”
“That’s a new one,” Heather said. “No, I have never heard of it. What is it?”
Sylvia leaned over and whispered something into Heather’s ear.
“Oh, dear God!” Heather shouted. “The things people get off on!”
Sylvia said, “I think that shatters Rule 34 into smithereens. In fact, it may require a whole new rule, maybe numbered 39!”
“It just might,” Heather said.
Sylvia smiled and said, “I am pleased, though, to finally find something to shock the likes of you. It’s a high achievement. So, now that your curiosity has been quenched, can I get on with this? I must really finish things up here.”
“Hey, before you do that,” Heather whispered as she pointed down to Steve, still lying on the floor. “While he is still under, maybe you can plant a few clever ideas in that freshly tilled subconscious of his, eh? Like…, maybe, oh, I don’t know, maybe he is going to feel a little extra generous with our bonus evaluations next month?”
“You do know I can hear you?” Steve said as he opened his eyes.
“What? I thought you were under,” Heather said.
“I told you he was coming out,” Sylvia said. “We were just finishing up when you barged in here.”
“Yeah,” Steve said as he sat up fully. “And you are seriously harshing on my buzz, Heather. Cameron Diaz and Emma Stone had just finished locking up my secret vault when you started yapping. And, of course, they did get a bit dirty and sweaty in the process, so… I was helping them fill up the tub with extra bubbles for their hose down. Scrubby scrubby scrubby.”
“Jesus, Steve,” Heather said. “Even when you are under, you are still a perve.”
“Hey,” Steve said, “you conjured up your dead Grandma to lock away your traumatic memories.” He grinned as he added, “I just happen to find that other, curvier guardians are more effective in locking up mine.”
Sylvia laughed and shook her head. “Well, Steve, I guess it doesn’t really matter who you pick to act as your guardian, as long as it works. So, did it work? Are you able to clear your mind now?”
Steve stood up and stretched. “Oh, yes! Wow! You are amazing, Sylvia. Simply amazing! It really worked! And, I don’t mind telling you, I had my doubts.” He turned to her, winked, and said, “Click… Click… Click…!”
“Click…, Click…, Click…,” Sylvia said.
Sylvia and Heather walked back to their desks. Once there, Sylvia’s phone rang, and she picked up the receiver.
“Sylvia Marstens speaking.”
“Sylvia…, you don’t know me, but…., I really felt I should give you a call,” came the voice on the other line. It was an older woman speaking, and, from her tone, it was obvious she was quite upset.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Sister Margaret Rose,” the caller said. “I worked with Father Hector Morales at Saint Sebastian.”
“Ah…, well…, look, there is no need to reschedule the lunch, Sister,” Sylvia snapped. “I really don’t appreciate being stood up. Especially by a priest who then has his assistant call—”
“—Father Morales is dead,” Sister Margaret said.
“Dead?”
“Yes, dead. He passed away on Tuesday. I have been meaning to give you a call, but…, I have been so busy with the arrangements and all. I had to contact his sister in Mexico City and, it…. It has been very difficult.”
“Oh, my,” Sylvia said. “I am so sorry. What…, what happened? I was supposed to meet him for lunch just this past Saturday.”
“I know,” Sister Margaret said. “He was just leaving to go meet you when he had a massive heart attack in his car. He never made it out of the driveway.”
“How terrible!”
“It is,” Sister Margaret said. “But, of course, we both know where he is now, and that is comforting. I was with him at the hospital the entire time he was in his coma before the end.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Actually…, there is something you can do,” Sister Margaret said. “He briefly regained consciousness in the hospital, right before he passed away. In his delusional state, he thought he had overslept and was late for his lunch meeting with you.”
“Oh?” Sylvia said.
“Yes. He was very insistent I get a package, as well as a message, to you. He had the package beside him in the car when I found him. I know he would want you to have it. His service is tomorrow afternoon at 2:00 PM at the church. If you could come, I would be most appreciative. I know this was one of his final wishes.”
“Yes, of course,” Sylvia said. “I didn’t know Father Morales very well, but, from what I did know, he seemed like a fine person. I would be honored to attend his funeral.”
“He was,” Sister Margaret said. “He was one of the finest men I have ever known. I will see you tomorrow after the service? I will give you the package then.”
“Yes, you can count on me,” Sylvia said. “But…, you said there was a
message?”
“Oh, yes,” Sister Margaret said. “I am so sorry. I am so rattled. Things just aren’t the same without Father Morales.”
“I understand.”
“Yes…, in that brief moment of consciousness, he told me to tell you he was positive that they were going to use Alyssa’s unborn child at the Feast of Moloch on Beltane.”
“What does that mean? And who is this they? And what is Beltane?” Sylvia said.
“I’m sorry. I really don’t know the answers to any of that,” Sister Margaret said. “But, Father Morales was very agitated at the end. He may even have been delirious. I…, I think he knew he wasn’t going to make it, because, right after he said all this he slipped back into his coma. He never woke up again.”
“Oh, this is terrible. I am so sorry. I will be there, tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Sylvia,” Sister Margaret said. “God Bless.”
Sylvia hung up the phone.
“So, what’s this Beltane business all about?” Heather asked as she poked her head above the divider. “And…, did I hear right, did Father ElHottie die?”
“Heather! My God, you are such a snoop,” Sylvia said.
“Guilty as charged,” Heather said as she smiled. “I know, I’m sorry. It is one of the hazards of working in cubicle-hell.”
“Well, don’t be disrespectful,” Sylvia said. “Yes, Father Morales passed away. He had a heart attack on the way to meet me for lunch last Saturday.”
“Oh, that is awful,” Heather said. “I’m sorry I made a joke. I have a sick sense of humor sometimes. It is a classic deflection technique. So, who called you?”
“A nun that works at his church. She has a package he wanted me to have.”
“And all of this Beltane stuff?” Heather asked. “What’s with that?”
Eye Bleach Page 30