"Then I suppose the bullet was stopped by bone at some point."
"Deflected, yes, but not stopped. Both slugs were found in soft tissue.
And that's another amazing thing-no shattered bones, not even a small
fracture. A very lucky man."
Father Wycazik nodded. "When the two slugs were removed from his body,
was there any indication they were underweight for .38-caliber
ammunition? I mean, maybe the cartridges were faulty, with too little
lead in the bullets. That would explain why, even though it was a .38
revolver, the shots did less damage than a pair of .22s."
Albright frowned. "Don't know. Could be. You'd have to ask the police
. . . or Dr. Sonneford, the surgeon who took the slugs out of Tolk."
"I understand Officer Tolk lost a great deal of blood."
Grimacing, Albright said, "Must be a mistake about that on his chart. I
haven't had a chance to talk to Dr. Sonneford today, it being
Christmas, but according to the chart, Tolk received over four liters of
whole blood in the operating room. Of course, that can't be correct."
"Why not?"
"Father, if Tolk actually lost four liters of blood before they got him
to the hospital, there wouldn't be enough in him to maintain even
minimal circulation. He'd have been dead. Stone cold dead."
Las Vegas, Nevada.
Mary and Pete Monatella, Jorja's parents, arrived at her apartment at
six on Christmas morning, bleary-eyed and grumpy from too little sleep,
but determined to take up their rightful posts by the brightly trimmed
tree before Marcie awoke. Mary, as tall as Jorja, had once been almost
as shapely as her daughter too; now she was heavy, girdled. Pete was
shorter than his wife, barrel-chested, a bantam rooster who seemed to
strut when he walked but was one of the most selfeffacing men Jorja had
ever known. They came burdened with presents for their only grandchild.
They had a present for Jorja-plus the usual gifts they brought every
time they visited: well-meant but annoying criticism, unwanted advice,
guilt. Mary was hardly through the door before she announced that Jorja
should clean the ventilation hood above the range, and she rummaged
under the sink until she found a spray bottle of Windex and a rag, with
which she performed the chore herself. She also observed that the tree
looked underdecorated-"It needs more lights, Jorja!"-and when she saw
how Marcie's presents were wrapped, she professed despair. "My God,
Jorja, the wrapping papers aren't bright enough. The ribbons aren't big
enough. Little girls like bright papers with Santa Claus on them and
lots of ribbons."
For his part, her father was content to focus all of his discontent upon
the huge tray of cookies on the kitchen counter. "These are all
store-bought, Jorja. Didn't you make any homemade cookies this year?"
"Well, Dad, I've been working a little overtime lately, and then
there're the classes I'm taking at UNLV, and-"
"I know it's hard being a single mother, baby," he said, "but we're
talking fundamentals here. Homemade cookies are one of the best parts
of Christmas. It's an absolute fundamental."
"Fundamental," Jorja's mother agreed.
The Christmas spirit had been late in coming to Jorja this year, and
even now she had a tenuous grip on it. Subject to her parents'
well-intentioned but infuriating nonstop commentary on her shortcomings,
she might have lost the holiday mood altogether if Marcie had not put in
a timely appearance at six-thirty, just after Jorja had slipped a
fourteen-pound turkey into the oven for the big meal later in the day.
The girl shuffled into the living room in her pajamas, as cute as any
idealized child in a Norman Rockwell painting.
"Did Santa bring my Little Ms. Doctor kit?"
Pete said, "He brought you more than that, pumpkin. Look here! Just
look at all Santa brought."
Marcie turned and saw the tree-which "Santa" had put up during the
night-and the mountain of gifts. She gasped.
"Wow!"
The child's excitement was transmitted to Jorja's parents, and for the
time being they forgot about such things as dusty ventilation hoods and
store-bought cookies. For a while the apartment was filled with joyous,
busy sounds.
But by the time Marcie had opened half her gifts, the celebratory mood
began to change, and in crept a little of the darkness that would
reappear in a far more frightening form later in the day. In a whiny
voice that was out of character, the girl grumped that Santa had not
remembered the Little Ms. Doctor kit. She discarded a much-wanted doll
without even taking it out of its box, moving to the next package in the
hope that it contained Little Ms. Doctor, clawing at the wrappings.
Something in the child's demeanor, a queerness in her eyes, disquieted
Jorja. Soon Mary and Pete noticed it as well. They began urging Marcie
to take more time with each present, to get more pleasure out of each
before rushing on to the next, but their entreaties were not successful.
Jorja had not put the doctor play-kit under the tree; it was hidden in a
closet as a final surprise. But with only three boxes left, Marcie was
pale and trembling in anticipation of Little Ms. Doctor.
In God's name, what was so important about it? Many of the toys already
unwrapped were more expensive and more interesting than the
play-doctor's bag. Why was her attention so intently and unnaturally
focused on that single item? Why was she so obsessed with it?
When the last of the gifts beneath the tree and the last of those from
Mary and Pete were opened, Marcie let out a sob of purest misery. "Santa
didn't bring it! He forgot! He forgot!"
Considering all the wondrous presents strewn across the room, the girl's
despondency was shocking. Jorja was disconcerted and displeased by
Marcie's rudeness, and she saw that her own parents were startled,
dismayed, and impatient with this unexpected and unjustified tantrum.
Suddenly afraid that Christmas was collapsing into ruins around her,
Jorja ran to the bedroom closet, plucked the crucial gift from behind
the shoe boxes, and returned to the living room with it.
With frenzied desperation, Marcie snatched the box from her mother.
"What's gotten into the child?" Mary asked.
, 'Yeah," Pete said, "what's so important about this Little Doctor?"
Marcie tore frantically at the wrappings until she saw that the package
contained the item she most desired. Immediately, she grew calm,
stopped trembling. "Little Ms. Doctor. Santa didn't forget!"
"Honey, maybe it's not from Santa," Jorja said. She was relieved to see
the child she loved emerging from that strange and unpleasant mood. "Not
all your gifts came from Santa. Better look at the tag."
Marcie dutifully searched for the tag, read the few words on it, and
looked up with an uncertain smile. "It's from . . . Daddy."
Jorja felt her parents' staring at her, but she did not meet their eyes.
They knew that Alan had gone off to Acapulco with his latest bimbo, the
airhead blond named Pepper, and that he had not bothered to leave so
much as a card for Marcie, and they no doubt disapproved of Jorja
letting him off the hook like this.
Later, when Jorja was in the kitchen, squatting in front of the oven,
checking on the turkey, her mother stooped down beside her and said
softly, "Why'd you do it, Jorja? Why'd you put that louse's name on the
gift she wanted most of all?"
Jorja slid the rack partway out of the oven, bringing the turkey into
the light. With a ladle, she scooped the drippings from the pan and
basted the roasting bird. Finally she said, "Marcie shouldn't have her
Christmas ruined just because her father's a jackass."
"You shouldn't protect her from the truth," Mary said quietly.
"The truth's too ugly for a seven-year-old."
"The sooner she knows what a louse her father is, the better. You know
what your dad heard about this woman Alan's living with?"
"I sure hope this bird's going to be done by noon."
Mary would not drop the subject. "She's on the call list of two
casinos, Jorja. That's what Pete heard. You know what I mean? She's a
call girl. Alan's living with a call girl. What's wrong with him?"
Jorja closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Mary said, "Well, if he wants nothing to do with Marcie, that's fine.
God knows what diseases he's picked up living with that woman."
Jorja pushed the turkey back into the oven, closed the door, and stood
up. "Could we not talk about this any more?"
"I thought you'd want to know what the woman is."
"So now I know."
Their voices dropped lower, became more intense: "What if he comes
around some day and says, 'Pepper and I want Marcie to go to Acapulco
with us,' or Disneyland, or maybe just stay at their place for a while?"
Exasperated, Jorja said, "Mother, he doesn't want anything to do with
Marcie because she reminds him of his responsibilities."
"But what if-"
"Mother, damn it!"
Although Jorja had not raised her voice, there was such anger in those
three words that the effect on her mother was immediate. A hurt look
crossed Mary's face. Stung, she turned away from Jorja. She went
quickly to the refrigerator, opened it, and looked over the contents of
the overloaded shelves. "Oh, you made gnocchi."
"Not store-bought," Jorja said shakily. "Homemade." She meant to be
conciliatory, but she realized that her comment might be misconstrued as
a snide reference to her father's dismay over store-bought cookies. She
bit her lip, and fought back scathing tears.
Still looking into the refrigerator, a tremor still in her voice, Mary
said, "You're going to have potatoes, too? And what's this-oh, you've
already grated the cabbage for coleslaw. I thought you'd need help, but
I guess you've thought of everything." She closed the refrigerator door
and looked for something she could do to occupy her and get them through
this awkward moment. Tears were visible in her eyes.
Jorja virtually flung herself away from the counter and threw her arms
around her mother. Mary returned the hug, and for a while they clung to
each other, finding speech both unnecessary and impossible.
Holding fast, Mary said, "I don't know why I'm like this. My mother was
the same with me. I swore I'd never be like this with you."
"I love you just the way you are."
"Maybe it's because you're my only. If I'd been able to have a couple
others, I wouldn't be so tough on you."
"It's partly my fault, Mom. I've been so touchy lately."
"And why shouldn't you be?" her mother said, holding her tight. "That
louse walks out on you, you're supporting yourself and Marcie, going to
school. . . . You got every right to be touchy. We're so proud of
you, Jorja. It takes such courage to do what you're doing."
In the living room, Marcie began shrieking.
What now? Jorja wondered.
When she got to the living room archway, she saw her father trying to
persuade Marcie to play with a doll. "Look here," Pete said, "dolly
cries when you tilt her this way, giggles when you tilt her that way!"
"I don't want to play with the dumb doll"' Marcie pouted. She was
holding the make-believe plastic-and-rubber hypodermic syringe from the
Little Ms. Doctor kit, and that unsettling intensity and urgency had
taken possession of her again. "I want to give you another shot."
"But honey," Pete said, "you've already given me twenty shots."
"I've got to practice," Marcie said. "I'll never grow up to be my own
doctor if I don't start practicing now."
Pete looked at Jorja with exasperation.
Mary said, "What is it with this Little Ms. Doctor thing'?"
"I wish I knew," Jorja said.
Marcie grimaced -as she pushed the plunger of the fake hypodermic.
Perspiration glistened on her brow.
"I wish I knew," Jorja repeated uneasily.
Boston, Massachusetts.
It was the worst Christmas of Ginger Weiss's life.
Although Jewish, her beloved father had always celebrated Christmas in a
secular spirit, because he liked the harmony and good will that the
holiday promoted, and after his death, Ginger had continued to regard
December 25 as a special day, a time of joy. Until today, Christmas had
never depressed her.
George and Rita did all they could to make Ginger feel a part of their
celebration, but she was acutely aware that she was an outsider. The
Hannabys' three sons had brought their families to Baywatch for several
days, and the huge house was filled with the silvery laughter of
children. Everyone made an effort to include Ginger in all the Hannaby
traditions, from popcorn-stringing to neighborhood caroling.
Christmas morning, she was there to watch the children attack the
mountain of gifts, and following the example of the other adults, she
crawled around on the floor with the kids, helping them assemble and
play with their new toys. For a couple of hours, her despair abated, and
she was assimilated by the Hannaby family in spite of herself.
However, at lunch-rich with holiday delicacies yet essentially a light
meal, just a hint of the extravagant dinner feast to come that
evening-Ginger felt out of place again. Much conversation involved
reminiscences of previous holidays of which she'd not been a part.
After lunch, she pleaded a headache and escaped to her room. The
splendid view of the bay calmed her but couldn't arrest her spiral into
depression. She desperately hoped Pablo Jackson would call tomorrow and
say that he had studied the problem of memory blocks and was ready to
hypnotize her again.
Ginger's visit to Pablo had distressed George and Rita less than she had
expected. They were upset that she had gone out alone, risking an
amnesic seizure with no friend to help
her, and they made her promise she would allow either Rita or one of the
servants to drive her to and from Pablo's apartment in the future, but
they did not attempt to argue against the unconventional treatment she
had sought from the magician.
The bay view's capacity to calm Ginger was limited. She turned from the
window, got
up, and went to the bed, where she was surprised to find two
books on the nightstand. One was a fantasy by Tim Powers, an author she
had read before, the other a copy of something called Twilight in
Babylon and she had no idea where they had come from.
There were half a dozen other books in the room, borrowed from the
library downstairs, for during the past few weeks she had had little to
do but read. But this was the first time she'd seen Powers' book and
Twilight in Babylon. The former, a tale of time-traveling trolls
fighting their own secret war against British goblins during the
American revolution, looked delightful, the type of exotic story that
her father had enjoyed. A slip of paper laid loosely in the front
identified it as a review copy. Rita had a friend who was a reviewer
for the Globe, and who sometimes passed along intriguing books before
they were available in the stores. Evidently, these had come within the
last day or two, and Rita, aware of Ginger's tastes in fiction, had put
them in her room.
She set the Powers book aside for later delectation, and she took a
closer look at Twilight in Babylon. She had never heard of the author,
Dominick Corvaisis, but the brief summary of the story was intriguing,
and when she had read the first page, she was hooked. However, before
Koontz, Dean R. - Strangers Page 28