There was nothing more to be done that night. I went home, took a hot bath, then fell asleep as soon as I lay down on the bed.
Nightmare time. I'd have expected something to do with werewolves and goblins, but it wasn't like that at all. I was at the bottom of some desert valley in which the colors were all wrong; low, green plastic sky, gray cactus and sagebrush, purple sand and stone. I was surrounded by figures that looked like people, but weren't. As if to confirm my suspicion, one of them pulled back his lips to reveal long snake-fangs. Slowly, in ballet-unison, all of the figures lifted their arms and wriggled their fingers: suddenly the air was filled with the deadly, rustling song of rattlesnakes. Then the figures began to change into snakes. A few, unable to complete the transition, exploded soundlessly. The rest completed their metamorphosis-almost; I was ringed by rattlesnakes with human faces.
It was all too absurd to take seriously. I knew I was dreaming, and I decided to wait patiently until I woke up.
My patience became a little strained when the snakes started to crawl toward me. Dream or not, the human faces on the scaled, limbless bodies repulsed me. I didn't want to be bitten. I instinctively reached out for a rock; one of the snakes hurtled through the air and buried its fangs in my right thumb. It hurt far more than such dream-things should, and I was relieved to feel the heavy-lidded, swirling sensation of vertigo that was always my passport to consciousness. The screen inside my head went blank and I slowly became aware of my bed, my pillow, the sheet over me, the hum of the air conditioning.
I was definitely awake, but my thumb still hurt. Something was wrong.
Something was gnawing on my thumb.
Tiny needles of fire and ice were vibrating in my flesh, grinding down to the bone. I sat bolt upright in bed and shrieked when I saw the dark, fluttering shape hanging from my thumb. I jumped out of bed and violently shook my hand, but the thing wouldn't come off. Bony, cold wings flapped against my hand, and I knew with sudden, chilling certainty what it was-and what was wrong with it.
Groaning aloud with revulsion and terror, I reached over with my left hand, wrapped my fingers around the bat and yanked it off my thumb. It took all my willpower to hang on to the writhing animal, but I knew I had to keep my head. My entire body was quaking, oozing sweat, but I managed to walk across the room, turn on the light and examine the bat. It had worked one cold, skin-covered wing free and was flapping it against me in a mindless, disease-powered frenzy. Its body kept churning, and I could feel its tiny, clawed feet scratching against my palm and wrist. The maw with its tiny needle teeth was covered with froth and blood. The flesh on my right thumb where it had been chewing was shredded; blood and flecks of saliva covered my hand.
I gagged and tasted sour bile in the back of my throat. Desperately hoping that it was all a dream-within-a-dream, I screwed my eyes shut and waited to wake up. But I was awake. The tiny, muscular body squirmed; I could feel its soft, throbbing belly, wirelike veins, slimy feces lubricating my hand. In a few more seconds it would wriggle its way free.
Fighting off a strong compulsion to vomit, I staggered back across the room and used my free hand to remove the pillowcase from my pillow. I dropped the bat into it, then beat the shape to death with a shoe. Groaning and whimpering like a maniac, I kept pounding the stained pillowcase long after the creature inside it was dead.
I wrapped the package in plastic, washed off my hands with alcohol and bandaged my thumb as best I could. I tried to keep my mind off what I knew was inevitably before me as I dressed, picked up the plastic bag and went down to my car. I couldn't stop shaking. With the bundle on the seat beside me, I careened through the night streets of Manhattan to the university Medical Center. I didn't want to die that way, and I tried not to think of the deadly germs coursing through my system at that very moment, being carried by my bloodstream toward my brain.
Chapter 11
"It's rabid," Joshua Greene said. "I'm sure you suspected it."
I gripped the edge of the examining table on which I was sitting, winced as pain streaked through my freshly cleansed and bandaged right thumb. I was in my shorts, and felt cold. "Of course," I said. "Healthy bats don't normally make a habit of chewing on people's fingers."
"You know what has to be done, don't you?"
"Yeah. I know. How many shots am I going to need?"
"I'm not sure. We'll start off with one a day, vary the dosage and take blood samples as we go along. Maybe we can get away with six or seven. I'll start you off, and your regular doctor can give you the rest."
"My doctor's away for a month. I'd just as soon you took care of it, if you don't mind. I'm beginning to feel at home here. How's my little friend?"
"The same," he said stiffly. "My team of specialists is setting up a new battery of tests for this afternoon. Right now, let's concentrate on you."
Greene asked me questions about my height and weight, then left the room for a few minutes. He returned with a hypodermic needle that looked at least nine inches long. He prepared the syringe and came toward me. I lay back on the examining table and stared at the ceiling.
"Antirabies serum is injected directly into the abdominal wall, Dr. Frederickson-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know all about it. If you're going to start sticking needles into my gut, you may as well start calling me Mongo."
"Very well. And if you're going to continue an investigation on behalf of one of my patients, you may as well call me Joshua. Now that we've broken down the social barriers, let's get back to the matter at hand."
He paused, narrowed his eyes and stared at me hard. "There is no cure for rabies once the symptoms have appeared," he continued. "That can be anywhere from two to eight weeks, depending on how well the victim handles himself. No cure. I emphasize this because I suspect you could be a difficult patient."
I sighed, shook my head. "You've got to be kidding. Order a stool specimen, and I'll meekly ask you what color you'd like."
"Good. You sound very cooperative. Since there's no cure for rabies, we use the classic Pasteur treatment. I'll be injecting a weakened rabies strain into you. Your system will then build up antibodies in time to defeat the main strain that the bat infected you with. The serum I'll be giving you is prepared from duck embryos. We have some synthetics, but I still consider this the best."
"Lord love a duck."
"Please listen," Greene said evenly, but with absolute authority. I listened. "The point is that you must rest in order to let your system build up the necessary antibodies. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Good. You've probably heard that the shots you're going to get are painful. It's true. Besides pain, you'll probably experience nausea and extreme fatigue as a result of the injections. As I said, you should rest as much as possible if you want to get away with the minimum number of shots; but then, you'll probably be happy to. Here comes Number One."
I put my hands behind my head, closed my eyes and clenched my teeth as Greene daubed on some local anesthetic, then slowly slid the tip of the needle into my abdominal wall. He worked slowly, expertly, negotiating the needle through the tough, striated muscles. When he had the needle properly inserted, he slowly pressed the plunger. My stomach felt as if it were being filled with hot metal. He finished, slowly removed the needle. When I started to get up, he put a hand firmly on my chest.
"Take it easy for a few minutes," he said. "You'll be able to contain the nausea if you eat small amounts, fairly often. If your stomach hurts, take aspirin."
"What are the odds I could end up with rabies anyway?"
Greene shrugged. "Very slim, since we've started the injections within hours of your being bitten. That's assuming you do as I tell you. Where did you manage to find a rabid bat?"
"In my bedroom," I said, swallowing hard. My mouth tasted like something purple. "A more interesting question is how it got there, and I've been giving that some thought. It occurs to me that the bat might be a small memento from the same people who put Kathy i
nto a coma."
Greene frowned. "Are you serious?"
"I may be rabid, but I'm not paranoid. I live on the fourth floor of an apartment building. How many bats do you find flying around Manhattan?"
"They're here, and they're quick. Did you leave your window open at any time during the past few nights?"
It was true that I had-to air out the apartment after a particularly smoky party. Still, I wondered: I had a chain on my apartment door, but someone could have slipped the bolt lock, let the bat in, then closed the door again. It was a Wednesday morning, and in the past three days my name had undoubtedly been added to a few enemy lists. It was possible that a rabid bat had flown in through a window I'd left open over the weekend, but the potential relationship between being bitten by a bat and the occult business I'd been investigating was just too poetically neat to ignore.
"Have you eaten anything since last night?" Greene asked.
"Uh-uh. Seeing that little critter hanging off my thumb seems to have taken away my appetite."
Joshua Greene smiled. It made him look quite handsome. "You're pretty peppy for a guy who's just had his first antirabies shot. Would you like a lollipop or a cup of coffee?"
"Actually, Joshua," I said, sitting up, "I'd like some information."
"Really?" he said quizzically. "Are you thinking of becoming an M.D. in addition to your other accomplishments?"
"Only if the shots don't work and I end up howling at the moon. What's your opinion of healers?"
He gave me an amused grunt. "You trade me in for a healer and you'll find yourself howling at the moon and frothing at the mouth in a very short time. Does that answer your question?"
"I'm not sure."
He thought about it for a few moments. "A faith healer is fine for someone whose illness is psychosomatic," he said seriously. "That's assuming, of course, that the sufferer is a believer."
"What about a psychic healer who's supposed to be able to heal in a way that has nothing to do with religion?"
"Nonsense," Greene said evenly.
"That's straight enough," I said, and almost doubled over with a spasm. I waited, and after a few moments the twitching stopped.
"I'll have the nurse bring you some coffee," Greene said. "Then you should get something to eat. After that, you may want to go home and sleep. You're going to be very tired."
"Thanks," I said, getting down off the table and starting to dress. "Tell me: do you know Dr. Jordon?"
When I didn't get an answer, I looked up at him. "Eric Jordon?" he asked guardedly.
"That's him."
"Is he your regular doctor?" "No."
"A friend?"
"An acquaintance. He's affiliated with the Medical Center, isn't he?"
Greene looked uncomfortable. "I. . uh, I don't believe he's been affiliated here for five or six months."
"Oh? What hospital is he affiliated with now?"
Greene looked nervously at his watch and cleared his throat. "I'm not sure he's affiliated with any hospital at the moment," he said quietly.
"Isn't that odd? I'd think it would be tough going for a doctor who didn't have hospital privileges somewhere."
Greene put his hands in his pockets and lowered his head. "These sound like the kind of questions a private detective might ask. Are they?"
"Yes," I said quietly. I liked Greene and wanted to be up-front with him. Besides, I didn't have time to be clever; I'd tried that with Krowl, and had probably lost an important source of information as a result.
"Malpractice suit?"
"No, Joshua. I can't go into detail, but it involves a case I've been working on simultaneously with the Kathy Marlowe matter. Believe me, I wouldn't be asking you about Dr. Jordon if this other case, in its own way, wasn't just as important. It involves a woman's life and a man's freedom. Dr Jordon has access to information that might answer some important questions, but he's being very uncooperative. I'm trying to find out why. That's all I can say, except to assure you that anything you tell me will be held in strict confidence."
"Is Dr. Jordon being. . charged with anything?"
"No. I'm just trying to understand his behavior."
Greene shook his head and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. "Look … I appreciate your frankness, but you have to understand that professional ethics prevent me from discussing a colleague."
"Sure, Doctor," I said with a sigh. "I understand perfectly." I finished dressing and started toward the door.
"Wait a second," Greene said tensely.
He disappeared out into the corridor, and I waited impatiently, in a hurry to be on my way. Greene returned five minutes later with coffee in brown plastic cups. He motioned for me to follow him into a small office just off the emergency room. He closed the door after us, then offered me a cigarette. It tasted like chalk. I ground it out and sat down in a straight-backed chair.
"How's your stomach feeling?" Greene asked casually as he sat down on a leather divan across from me.
"It hurts."
He nodded. "You're the first private detective I've met," he said easily, stirring his coffee with his little finger. "It must be interesting work."
"Sometimes," I said curtly, putting down the cup and starting to rise. "I'd love to chat with you, Joshua, but-"
"For example," Greene said forcefully, still stirring his coffee. "I imagine you have procedures for finding out things about, say, a doctor you are interested in."
"Sure," I said softly, slowly settling myself back down into the chair. "We clever, real-life private detectives have procedures for finding out absolutely anything. But some procedures are more time-consuming than others."
"I thought so," Greene said, refusing to meet my questioning gaze. "And of course, almost all your time at present is being used to try to find out what's been done to Kathy." He covered his mouth with a long, tapering hand, coughed drily. "Assuming you did have the time, how would you go about checking on a physician?"
I stared hard at the doctor, but he refused to look up from his coffee. By then the liquid had to have grown stone cold, but he kept right on stirring. "I'd start by asking questions of his patients and colleagues-if they'd talk to me. After that, I'd use my contacts in the various Court Clerks' offices to see if there'd been any malpractice suits filed against the doctor; how many, if any, and what their disposition had been. That's exactly what I will do-when I get the time."
Greene lighted a cigarette, took two quick, deep drags, then ground it out. "I see," he said, carefully wiping an ash smudge off his index finger. "After a lot of digging, you might very well discover that this particular doctor had had a number of malpractice suits filed against him; enough, in fact, to eventually cost him his hospital affiliation. Then you'd investigate further and find that he hadn't been able to get another one. Of course, it would probably be helpful if you could find out about the relationship this particular doctor had with his partner." He cleared his throat. "Assuming, of course, that the doctor you were investigating had a partner."
"It would be helpful," I said tightly. "Also very time-consuming. Doctors don't like to talk about each other."
"Oh, I know all about that. But, if you persisted, you just might discover that the senior partner was dissatisfied with the relationship and was taking steps to dissolve this partnership. I'm not sure what any of this would have to do with your investigation, but it certainly might answer a few of your questions about the doctor."
"It certainly might," I said, fairly springing up out of the chair. "You've got my number; you'll let me know right away if there's any change in Kathy's condition, right?"
For the first time since we'd entered the room, Greene lifted his eyes to meet my gaze, smiled easily. "Right."
"In the meantime, I'm going back to work on finding out what's been done to Kathy."
Greene raised his eyebrows. "I told you: you're going to find that you're very tired and sore. And you must rest."
"Yeah. Well, I'm just going to have
to put it on remote control. I'll walk and talk very slowly."
Joshua sighed. "Any leads at all?"
"My cup runneth over with weirdos, but I can't say for sure that any one of them qualifies as a lead. You still don't think there's any possibility Kathy could be suffering from some psychological trauma?"
He shook his head. "Forget that notion. There's no witchcraft involved in Kathy's condition, Mongo. Whatever's wrong with her has a physical cause. I'm sure we'll have the answer as soon as we learn what the question is."
On the way out, I raised my bandaged thumb in the air. "Thanks for the tender loving care, Joshua. And thanks for the discussion on private detectives."
Joshua Greene had been absolutely right: I was exhausted, and it felt as if I had a permanent cramp in my stomach. I tried to eat some breakfast, but I couldn't even get started on it. I went back to my apartment and lay down, but I couldn't find anything even remotely resembling a comfortable position. I got up and took three aspirins, then sat on the edge of the bed and idly rummaged around in my emotions.
Despite Greene's assurances, I was still very much afraid of the deadly germs that were loose in my system. I was more than a little angry, and I was beginning to feel sorry for myself. That wouldn't do at all. If I couldn't sleep, I had to do something. I picked up the phone and dialed Bill Younger's private number. The Senator answered on the first ring.
"Senator, it's Frederickson."
"Frederickson," Younger said gruffly, his voice strained. "I was just getting ready to call you."
"How's your daughter?"
"Linda's. . worse. I'm. . not sure even Esteban will be able to help her if she has to wait much longer. I'm getting ready to hold that press conference you suggested in the first place."
"That could cost you your career, and it won't necessarily get Esteban out."
"I have to do something, Frederickson. Have you been able to find any new evidence?"
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