Now I feel fully awake, energized. I don’t want to feel awake and energized. I want to go back to sleep. I relax everything in my body that I can and attempt to rekindle the sleep buzz.
“Good morning, Mister Price. Are you awake?”
Doctor Weiss’ voice shocks me for just a second. I raise my hand.
“I thought so. Your brain waves indicate such.”
You’re monitoring my brain waves? Why?
“If you’re wondering why we’re monitoring your brain waves, it’s because we want to be sure there’s no obvious brain damage, and it’s an easy way to tell when you’re sleeping and what your sleeping patterns are; in other words, how long you stay awake and how long you sleep. It gives us a clue as to how you’re healing.
“We’ve shifted to a different pain killer so that you’d be more alert this morning as we remove your head constraints and bandages.”
Just get on with it.
“We’ll be as gentle as possible, but if there’s considerable pain give us the high-sign and we’ll stop. Okay?”
I raise my hand.
“Let us begin.”
He passes some instructions to an assistant, a nurse I suppose, and I begin feeling things happening. There is pain but never like that which I felt several times while out in the snow when it was more like having an abscessed tooth extracted with a knife and pliers, and without Novocain. I consider stopping him once but bear it out. Whatever the pain is, I deserve to experience.
“Amazing.”
There’s a little plan sequestered away in the back of my mind that says to have patience until I have my eyesight and mobility. At that time I’ll be able to figure out how to end my own life. I would not have ever imagined I’d consider suicide; life is certainly full of surprises.
How long it takes, I have no idea, but suddenly he says, “There. How does that feel?”
I still can’t see.
“Does anything hurt?”
The pain is minor. I raise my left hand.
“Good. Now I am going to remove the bandage covering your ears. If it has been sounding like you are hearing things from inside a water-filled barrel, it’s because that is close to what has actually been happening. Both of your ears have been immersed in a healing solution, as are your fingers and toes. I’ll tell you, Mister Price, the prognosis looks good. We applied a small amount on the tip of your nose and the healing there has been near miraculous. I had my doubts about Zitnik’s ideas but I may have to admit to his genius on this one.”
Wonderful.
“Well, let’s get to it. We’ll start with the right. This will uncover your eye. But please keep it closed until we’re done. I want to drop in some saline when you first open it to assist in your focusing.”
The two of them talk back and forth for the next couple of minutes. The nurse is the same one who was here the first time I awoke. Her voice is gentle, soothing. I wish she would do the talking instead of him. Tanya! That’s not fair to Tanya to be thinking of the nice voice of the nurse. What kind of monster am I to cheat on her in that way? Now I’m glad the nurse is saying little. I don’t deserve to hear voices–only silence, permanent silence. Once I can see again I’ll be able to figure out how to do it. But I must act natural. I must not reveal what my thoughts are. They’ll only stop me and prevent me from doing damage to myself. That would be hell . . . maybe that’s to be my hell . . . to be locked up with my thoughts of guilt for the remainder of my life. What do you want, Tanya? I’ll accept my fate.
“Interesting,” Doctor Weiss mutters.
They’re very gentle. I experience some pain, flinching only once. Maybe I’ll be totally blind and I’ll be locked up in darkness with my guilt–my hell. I won’t be able to tell when people are staring at me–the fingerless, earless, noseless man, with a hole for one eye and a patch for the other.
“Hmm.”
I could hire myself out as a carnival freak. The image amuses me. When I was a kid I would have paid to go see me. Now it would be a great subject for a story, except it would be an autobiography. Not a bad idea. I would have to dictate it, though, except I can’t talk. I’d be a deaf-mute-blind writer.
“Okay, Mister Price. I’m going to drop some fluid in the corner of your closed eye. When I tell you to I want you to blink several times and then leave your eye open while I drop in some more. Then keep blinking until your eyesight clears.”
For whatever reason–something to do with my mental state–I’m convinced I have no eyesight. Just a big waste of time. Some part of me knows I’m going off the deep end, but I really don’t care. The saline solution hits my eye.
“Blink now.”
I blink several times and then look at a fuzzy image of a man with a neatly trimmed black beard and a receding hairline. More drops of saline and more blinking. Gradually the image clears and through my one eye I find reasonable vision. I slowly turn my head expecting excruciating pain. The pain is small and I have surprisingly good range.
“Has your vision cleared?”
“Yes,” my right hand signals.
“Be careful of your head movements. Be gentle with yourself.”
The nurse with the nice voice has blue eyes, blond hair, a big round smiling face and a double chin. However, even at a hundred pounds overweight, she’s cute.
“I must tell you, Mister Price, your healing is . . . I hate to use the word again . . . miraculous. Call Doctor Zitnik,” he says to the nurse. She turns and goes out the door. “You have been here four days. First, I expected to have to remove part of both of your ears and the tip of your nose. They are all completely restored, as if you received absolutely no frostbite. I fail to see how that’s possible, but here you are, the living proof. Second, the lacerations and contusions on your face, although still well evident and should leave considerable scarring, are well advanced in the healing process. At least two weeks already.”
Four days I’ve lay here. What has been happening? Is Tanya dead or does she also lie in a bed somewhere?
“I want to take a look at the interior of your mouth. Because Zitnik’s formula is only an external application, we were not able to administer it to the damage to your tongue and the roof of your mouth.”
I try moving my tongue but it feels like it’s the size of a small watermelon.
“Please don’t try to talk.”
No chance there, Doc.
He pulls out a pen light and shines it in my eye. “Good,” he says. “Now, slowly, gently, open your mouth. If it hurts too much, stop.”
It hurts too much before he even gets a peek. I indicate so with my left hand, bringing the ball of gauze in front of his face.
“Right. I won’t push it for right now. What I want you to do is continue to work at opening your mouth. Do gentle exercises with all your facial and jaw muscles. I’ll have the nurse come in and help you with that. Before you know it you’ll be drinking from a straw.
“What I want to do now is look at your fingers.” He spends the next couple minutes unwrapping my right hand. As he finishes, the nurse returns. Each of my fingers is in what looks to be the finger of a thick, gray glove. “Is there any pain here?”
Instead of raising my left hand I carefully shake my head.
“Good.”
The nurse brings a pan of water and a cloth. He starts with my thumb by rolling the gray finger back. It’s filled with something that looks a lot like dirty mayonnaise. The nurse wets the cloth and wipes my thumb clean and then they both look at it. I flex it and the doctor pokes at it.
“Do you feel that?”
I nod yes.
“Does it hurt?”
I shake no.
“Amazing.”
They proceed to expose and clean the rest and then do the same to my left hand. I’m holding my hands up in front of me, looking at the undamaged, wrinkled fingers when Doctor Zitnik comes in. He actually smiles.
“Well?” Doctor Weiss says.
Zitnik examines my fingers and e
ars, and then looks at my face. “Yes. Just as I expected. Very good, Mister Price. I guess you are good for something. You make an excellent test subject.”
If I could I’d laugh. Instead I indicate with my hand I want something to write on.
“I’ll get a pad for you,” the nurse says and disappears.
While she’s gone Zitnik attempts to get me to open my mouth. Although I try he gets no further than Weiss. My jaws feel as though they are locked in concrete and any effort to unlock them creates blinding pain. He does a little massage but that’s no help. I end up shoving his hand away. When the pain subsides, I see that the nurse has returned with a note pad and pen.
I write, “Where is my wife?”
A look passes between them and then Doctor Weiss says, “Her injuries were much more life threatening than yours. Apparently she had a bad fall, maybe off the fence you tried to climb. She has been flown to Denver. We do not have the facilities here to treat her injuries. She was also very badly frostbitten. Doctor Zitnik’s formula has been prescribed for her and I expect by now they’re seeing the same thing we’re seeing with you.”
Life threatening! “What other injuries?” I write.
Weiss takes a deep breath. “She broke her back and a couple of ribs, one of which penetrated a lung. It appears as though you carried her some distance.”
I close my eyes and imagine what I did to her by doing that. Did I have any choice? I probably did, but with things sticking out of my face I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I pick up the pad and write, “Yes,” and then close my eye. I’m sorry, Tanya. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to say, what else to ask.
“I spoke with her doctor just a few hours ago. Her prognosis is very good. The puncture in her lung was small; however, any puncture is major no matter how small. She’s still in intensive care, but he expects she’ll be out of there in a day or so.”
“Will she walk?” I ask.
“Too soon to tell. But right now, walking is not the issue. Repairing the lung is. Her recovery is going to be long.”
Another nurse pokes her head in the door. “Doctor Weiss. You have a call from Doctor Murgall.”
“That would be him, your wife’s doctor. I’ll return with what he tells me.”
I nod my head and he leaves. I tear off the used up sheet and then write, “How were we found?”
“Security sent a truck in to drive the back road in hopes of seeing your tracks,” says Zitnik. “At the rate the snow was falling they had little hope, but they, or you I would say, got lucky. You crossed the road only seconds in front of them.”
“I saw the truck lights,” I say.
“By the time they spotted your tracks and got to you, you were both unconscious. You probably wouldn’t have lasted another twenty minutes. It was the snowstorm, however, that saved you from the cats.”
I write, “Not before they got Aileen.”
He nods. “Yes, yes. Aileen. Too bad.” To the nurse he says, “Could we be alone for a few minutes?”
“Certainly,” she says and then leaves.
Zitnik pulls a chair over close to the bed and then leans into me. “You have made a considerable mess of things, Mister Price. But then you are a reporter and that is what reporters do. Lance is in Denver with your wife attempting to do some damage repair before she starts being asked questions. It’s in hers and your best interest that she cooperate with him and create a plausible story that won’t bring authorities in to look us over. With that story it’s in our best interest that she live and recover well. Her death could open an investigation. However, if she doesn’t cooperate, her death by some unrelated cause may become more advantageous.” He leans back. “Do you get my meaning?”
I stare with as much anger as I can muster in my broken face, and with my one beady eye.
“I need a confirmation that you understand.”
I nod my head.
“Wonderful. I wish you could talk to her yourself and let her know how important cooperation is, however, that appears to be impossible right now. We shall pray that Lance does his job well.”
I close my eye and lay my head back.
“I expect Doctor Weiss will be returning with some good news. I’ll leave you alone with your thoughts.”
When I open my eye again a few minutes later I’m alone. Alone with my thoughts! I’d be better off wrestling with the sabre triplets than with the memories and images in my head. I need my journal, or my computer. All my life I’ve channeled my anger, frustrations and depressions into words on paper. For me that’s been my therapy and right now I need an entire staff of therapists.
When Doctor Weiss comes in he’s accompanied by the nurse and Victor Vandermill.
“Welcome back, Mister Price.” Vandermill’s voice is low, a bit somber, yet it fills the room. The others seem to shrink into the background in his presence. I see how Aileen found it hard to stiff-arm his advances. At six-two or six-three, with square broad shoulders, he carries an air of not only authority, but also total control. He takes my hand, shakes it and then looks at my fingers. “So this is Zitnik’s miracle. I’d say you owe a lot to him.” He drops the hand and looks at my face. “Yes, a hell of a lot.” He steps away and turns toward Doctor Weiss. “Armin has a report on Mrs. Price so I should let you hear that.”
Doctor Weiss pauses for a second on his cue and then says, “Doctor Murgall expects to take her out of intensive care in the morning. She’s awakened only long enough to ask about you. She’s rather drugged up, as you can imagine. The treatment to her extremities has produced the same results as it did with you. There’s no long-lasting damage from the frostbite. Needless to say Doctor Murgall is rather excited. As far as the prognosis of walking again, that’s way too early to tell. He does seem to have a reserved hopefulness. Even if she does I’d expect years of physical therapy.” He looks at Vandermill.
“Thank you, Armin. I’d like to speak in private with Mister Price, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Weiss says and then he and the nurse depart.
Vandermill sits in the same chair as Zitnik. “I know you cannot talk, Zach, but I see you have a pad of paper. I think we need to exchange some understandings.”
I nod my head, but I keep my guard up.
“There’s one thing I want to ask first. Did you see the cats take Ms.. Bravelli?”
“No,” I write. “I was unconscious. Tanya saw it and told me.”
“Hm.”
I analyze his face for grief. I don’t see it? I write, “The cats are efficient. She didn’t suffer.” I consider my words for a second and then write, “I know about your relationship with her.”
He smiles. “I know of yours as well.”
Shit! “Why do you let me live?”
He holds his hand up. “Water under the bridge and all that. Besides, your death would accomplish nothing. I think you’ll suffer enough under the wrath of Mrs. Price.” He raises his eyebrows.
“Yes,” I write.
“I hired you to write the story. I still need it written. From the sound of it you and Mrs. Price are going to have a very long recovery from your hiking accident and astronomically high medical bills.”
I stop him and write, “Hiking accident?”
“Oh, yes. Lance will assure your wife that Sans Sanssabre will pick up the bill despite the fact that your accident was no fault of ours. Your fall off the cliff edge was entirely the fault of inexperienced hikers. As you are freelance and she is an independent contractor, you have only minimal medical insurance. Here is my offer, Zach. Work with me on this story and you won’t have to worry about any of the bills, and Mrs. Price won’t have to worry about working until she is fully recovered.”
“What does, ‘working with you’ mean?”
“You write what you want to write, absolutely no restrictions, except that I’ll be the first, final and only editor. The first draft is yours. The second and subsequent drafts are mine.”
“In other words,
I’m your puppet.”
“That’s the price.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what not to write to begin with?”
“I don’t want to choke your creative juices. I will tell you that what I have in mind is a sequel to Aileen’s book, which I’m sure you’ve seen. We’ve kept excellent accounts of everything that has taken place since the discovery of our twenty-eight thousand year old Smilodon in Bravelli Caverns. All of that is at your disposal. Lance will be able to get that for you when he returns.”
I remember Aileen telling me of how she wrote, Smilodon: Seven Inches of Death, and the editing he did. She claimed it as hers only because her name was on it. Below the surface she knew it was his, and that irritated her. Could I do the same thing and let it roll off my back?
“With everything you have riding you should be able to get very creative, don’t you think?”
I give Vandermill the same evil eye I gave Zitnik. Two cuts from the same bolt of cloth. The only difference being that Zitnik’s end of the bolt is tattered. Vandermill’s end is warped.
“Do we have an agreement, Zach?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“No, you don’t; however, I think things would go much smoother if you came on board fully instead of as an angry participant.”
He’s right there, as much as I hate to admit it. “Give me a little time,” I write. But I realize immediately I don’t need much time. It’s for Tanya, and Christi and Rebecca. The girls need their mother and I need their mother. She needs the best care that can be provided and if I have to sell my soul to get it for her, I will. I cross out the previous line and write, “We have an agreement.”
“Wonderful! As soon as possible we’ll get you moved back up to your apartment.” He shakes my hand again. “I’ll pass the results of this meeting on to Mister Evans so that he can make arrangements on your wife’s behalf. She’ll have the best of care.”
My soul is now sold.
Chapter 35
The officers of Sans Sanssabre are to be feared more than the animals they recreated.
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 29