by Dean Koontz
toured the hospital unassisted, but he played to their expectations and used the wheeled walker.
From time to time, he halted, leaning against the walker as if in need of rest. He took care occasionally to grimace—convincingly, not too theatrically—and to breathe harder than necessary.
More than once, a passing nurse stopped to check on him and to advise him not to exhaust himself.
Thus far, none of these women of mercy was as lovely as Victoria Bressler, the ice-serving nurse who was hot for him. Nevertheless, he kept looking and remained hopeful.
Although Junior felt honor-bound to give Victoria first shot at him, he certainly didn’t owe her monogamy. Eventually, when he had shaken off suspicion as finally as he had shaken off Naomi, he would be in the mood for a dessert buffet, romantically speaking, and one éclair would not satisfy.
Not limited to a survey of the nursing staff on a single floor of the hospital, Junior used the elevators to roam higher and lower. Checking out the skirts.
Eventually he found himself alone at the large viewing window of the neonatal-care unit. Seven newborns were in residence. Fixed to the foot of each of the seven bassinets was a placard on which was printed the name of the baby.
Junior stood at the window for a long time, not because he was pretending to rest, and not because any of the attending nurses was a looker. He was transfixed, and for a while he didn’t know why.
He wasn’t afflicted with parenthood envy. A baby was the last thing he would ever want, aside from cancer. Children were nasty little beasts. A child would be an encumbrance, a burden, not a blessing.
Yet his curious attraction to these newborns kept him at the window, and he began to believe that unconsciously he had intended to come here from the moment he guided his walker out of his room. He’d been compelled to come. Drawn by some mysterious magnetism.
Upon arriving at the crèche window, he had been in a buoyant mood. As he studied the quiet scene, however, he grew uneasy.
Babies.
Just harmless babies.
Harmless though they were, the sight of them, swaddled and for the most part concealed, first troubled him and then quickly brought him—inexplicably, irrationally, undeniably—to the trembling edge of outright fear.
He had noted all seven names on the bassinets, but he read them again. He sensed in their names—or in one of their names—the explanation for his seemingly mad perception of a looming threat.
Name by name, as his gaze traveled across the seven placards, such a vast hollowness opened within Junior that he needed the walker for support as he had only pretended to need it previously. He felt as if he had become the mere shell of a man and that the right note would shatter him as a properly piercing tone can shatter crystal.
This wasn’t a new sensation. He had experienced it before. In the night just passed, when he awakened from an unremembered dream and saw the bright quarter dancing across Vanadium’s knuckles.
No. Not exactly then. Not at the sight of the coin or the detective. He had felt this way at Vanadium’s mention of the name that he, Junior, had supposedly spoken in his nightmare.
Bartholomew.
Junior shuddered. Vanadium hadn’t invented the name. It had genuine if inexplicable resonance with Junior that had nothing to do with the detective.
Bartholomew.
As before, the name tolled through him like the ominous note of the deepest bass bell in a cathedral carillon, struck on a cold midnight.
Bartholomew.
None of the babies in this crèche was named Bartholomew, and Junior struggled to understand what connection this place had to his unrecollected dream.
The full nature of the nightmare continued to elude him, but he became convinced that good reason for his fear existed, that the dream had been more than a dream. He had a nemesis named Bartholomew not merely in dreams, but in the real world, and this Bartholomew had something to do with…babies.
Drawing from a well of inspiration deeper than instinct, Junior knew that if ever he crossed paths with a man named Bartholomew, he must be prepared to deal with him as aggressively as he had dealt with Naomi. And without delay.
Trembling and sweating, he turned his back to the view window. As he retreated from the crèche, he expected the oppressive pall of fear to lift, but it grew heavier.
He found himself looking over his shoulder more than once. By the time he returned to his room, he felt half crushed by anxiety.
A nurse fussed over him as she helped him into bed, concerned about his paleness and his tremors. She was attentive, efficient, compassionate, but she wasn’t in the least attractive, and he wished she would leave him alone.
As soon as he was alone, however, Junior yearned for the nurse to return. Alone, he felt vulnerable, threatened.
Somewhere in the world he had a deadly enemy: Bartholomew, who had something to do with babies, a total stranger yet an implacable foe.
If he hadn’t been such a rational, stable, no-nonsense person all of his life, Junior might have thought he was losing his mind.
Chapter 21
THE SUN ROSE above clouds, above fog, and with the gray day came a silver drizzle. The city was lanced by needles of rain, and filth drained from it, swelling the gutters with a poisonous flood.
St. Mary’s social workers did not arrive with dawn, so Celestina was given the privacy of one of their offices, where the wet face of the morning pressed blurrily at the windows, and where she phoned her parents with the terrible news. From here, too, she arranged with a mortician to collect Phimie’s body from the cold-storage locker in the hospital morgue, embalm it, and have it flown home to Oregon.
Her mother and father wept bitterly, but Celestina remained composed. She had much to do, many decisions to make, before she accompanied her sister’s body on the flight out of San Francisco. When finally her obligations were met, she would allow herself to feel the loss, the misery, against which she was now armored. Phimie deserved dignity in this final journey to her northern grave.
When Celestina had no further calls left to make, Dr. Lipscomb came to her.
He was no longer in his scrubs, but wore gray wool slacks and a blue cashmere sweater over a white shirt. Face somber, he looked less like an obstetrician engaged in the business of life than like a professor of philosophy forever pondering the inevitability of death.
She started to get up from the chair behind the desk, but he encouraged her to stay seated.
He stood at a window, staring down into the street, his profile to her, and in his silence he searched for the words to describe the “something extraordinary” that he had mentioned earlier.
Droplets of rain shimmered on the glass and tracked downward. Reflections of those tracks appeared as stigmatic tears on the long face of the physician.
When at last he spoke, real grief, quiet but profound, softened his voice: “March first, three years ago, my wife and two sons—Danny and Harry, both seven, twins—were coming home from visiting her parents in New York. Shortly after takeoff…their plane went down.”
Having been so wounded by one death, Celestina could not imagine how Lipscomb could have survived the loss of his entire family. Pity knotted her heart and cinched her throat so that she spoke in little more than a whisper: “Was that the American Airlines…”
He nodded.
Mysteriously, on the first day of sunny weather in weeks, the 707 had crashed into Jamaica Bay, Queens, killing everyone aboard. Now, in 1965, it remained the worst commercial-aviation disaster in the nation’s history, and because of the unprecedented dramatic television coverage, the story was a permanent scar in Celestina’s memory, although she had been living a continent away at the time.
“Miss White,” he continued, still facing the window, “not long before you arrived in surgery this morning, your sister died on the table. We hadn’t delivered the baby yet, and perhaps couldn’t have done so, by cesarean, in time to prevent brain damage, so for both the sake of the
mother and child, heroic efforts were made to bring Phimie back and ensure continued circulation to the fetus until we could extract it.”
The sudden change of subject, from the airliner crash to Phimie, confused Celestina.
Lipscomb shifted his gaze from the street below to the source of the rain. “Phimie was not gone long, perhaps a minute—a minute and ten seconds at most—and when she was with us again, it was clear from her condition that the cardiac arrest was most likely secondary to a massive cerebral incident. She was disoriented, paralysis on the right side…with the distortion of the facial muscles that you saw. Her speech was slurred at first, but then something strange happened….”
Phimie’s speech had been slurred later, as well, immediately following the birth of the baby, when she had struggled to convey her desire to name her daughter Angel.
An affecting but difficult-to-define note in Dr. Lipscomb’s voice brought Celestina slowly out of the office chair, to her feet. Perhaps it was wonder. Or fear. Or reverence. Perhaps all three.
“For a moment,” Lipscomb continued, “her voice became clear, no longer slurred. She raised her head from the pillow, and her eyes fixed on me, all the confusion gone. She was so…intense. She said…she said, ‘Rowena loves you.’”
A shiver of awe traveled Celestina’s spine, because she knew what the physician’s next words would surely be.
“Rowena,” he said, confirming her intuition, “was my wife.”
As if a door had briefly opened between this windless day and another world, a single gust rattled rain against the windows.
Lipscomb turned to Celestina. “Before lapsing into semi-coherence again, your sister said, ‘Beezil and Feezil are safe with her,’ which may sound less than coherent to you, but not to me.”
She waited expectantly.
“Those were Rowena’s affectionate names for the boys when they were babies. Her private nonsense names for them, because she said they were like two beautiful little elves and ought to have elfin names.”
“Phimie couldn’t have known.”
“No. Rowena dropped those names after the twins’ first year. She and I were the only ones who ever used them. Our private little joke. Even the boys wouldn’t have remembered.”
In the physician’s eyes, a yearning to believe. In his face, a squint of skepticism.
He was a man of medicine and science, who had been served well by hard logic and by an unwavering commitment to reason. He wasn’t prepared easily to accept the notion that logic and reason, while essential tools to anyone hoping to lead a full and happy life, were nevertheless insufficient to describe either the physical world or the human experience.
Celestina was better equipped to embrace this transcendental experience for what it appeared to be. She was not one of those artists who celebrated chaos and disorder, or who found inspiration in pessimism and despair. Wherever her eyes came to rest, she saw order, purpose, exquisite design, and either the pale flicker or the fierce blaze of a humbling beauty. She perceived the uncanny not merely in old houses where ghosts were said to roam or in eerie experiences like the one Lipscomb had described, but every day in the pattern of a tree’s branches, in the rapturous play of a dog with a tennis ball, in the white whirling currents of a snowstorm—in every aspect of the natural world in which insoluble mystery was as fundamental a component as light and darkness, as matter and energy, as time and space.
“Did your sister have other…curious experiences?” Lipscomb asked.
“Nothing like this.”
“Was she lucky at cards?”
“No luckier than me.”
“Premonitions?”
“No.”
“Psychic ability—”
“She didn’t have any.”
“—might one day be scientifically verifiable.”
“Unlike life after death?” she asked.
Hope, on many wings, hovered all around the physician, but he was afraid to let it roost.
Celestina said, “Phimie wasn’t a mind reader. That’s science fiction, Dr. Lipscomb.”
He met her stare. He had no response.
“She didn’t reach into your thoughts and pluck out the name Rowena. Or Beezil or Feezil.”
As though frightened of the gentle certainty in Celestina’s eyes, the doctor turned away from her and toward the window once more.
She moved beside him. “For one minute, after her heart stopped the first time, she wasn’t here in St. Mary’s, was she? Her body, yes, that was still here, but not Phimie.”
Dr. Lipscomb brought his hands to his face, covering his nose and mouth as earlier they had been covered with a surgical mask, as though he were in danger of drawing in, with his breath, an idea that would forever change him.
“If Phimie wasn’t here,” Celestina said, “and then she came back, she was somewhere during that minute, wasn’t she?”
Beyond the window, behind veils of rain and fog, the metropolis appeared to be more enigmatic than Stonehenge, as unknowable as any city in our dreams.
Behind his masking hands, the physician let out a thin sound, as though he were trying to pull from his heart an anguish that was embedded like a bur with countless sharp, hooked thorns.
Celestina hesitated, feeling awkward, unsure.
As always in uncertainty, she asked herself what her mother would do in this situation. Grace, of infinite grace, unfailingly did precisely the needed thing, knew exactly the right words to console, to enlighten, to charm a smile out of even the miserable. Often, however, the needed thing involved no words, because in our journey we so often feel abandoned, and we need only to be reassured that we are not alone.
She placed her right hand on his shoulder.
At her touch, she felt a tension go out of the doctor. His hands slipped from his face, and he turned to her, shuddering not with fear but with what might have been relief.
He tried to speak, and when he could not, Celestina put her arms around him.
She was not yet twenty-one, and he was at least twice her age, but he leaned like a small child against her, and like a mother she comforted him.
Chapter 22
IN GOOD DARK SUITS, clean-shaven, as polished as their shoes, carrying valises, the three arrived in Junior’s hospital room even before the usual start of the working day, wise men without camels, not bearing gifts, but willing to pay a price for grief and loss. Two lawyers and a high-level political appointee, they represented the state, the county, and the insurance company in the matter of the improperly maintained railing on the observation platform at the fire tower.
They could not have been more solemn or more respectful if Naomi’s corpse—stitched back together, pumped full of embalming fluid, painted with pancake makeup, dressed in white, with her cold hands clasping a Bible to her breast—had been reposing in a casket in this very room, surrounded by flowers and awaiting the arrival of mourners. They were all polite, soft-spoken, sad-eyed, oozing unctuous concern—and so full of feverish calculation that Junior wouldn’t have been surprised if they had set off the ceiling-mounted fire sprinklers.
They introduced themselves as Knacker, Hisscus, and Nork, but Junior didn’t bother to associate names with faces, partly because the men were so alike in appearance and manner that their own mothers might have had difficulty figuring out which of them to blame for never calling. Besides, he was still tired from his recent ramble through the hospital—and unnerved by the thought of some baleful-eyed Bartholomew prowling the world in search of him.
After much oily commiseration, sanctimonious babble about Naomi having gone to a better place, and insincere talk of the government’s desire always to ensure the public safety and to treat every citizen with compassion, Knacker or Hisscus, or Nork, finally got around to the issue of compensation.
No word as crass as compensation was used, of course. Redress. Requital. Restitutional apology, which must have been learned in a law school where English was the second language. Even atonement.
>
Junior drove them a little crazy by pretending not to understand their intent as they circled the issue like novice snake handlers warily looking for a safe grip on a coiled cobra.
He was surprised they had come so soon, less than twenty-four hours after the tragedy. This was especially unusual, considering that a homicide detective was obsessed with the idea that rotting wood, alone, was not responsible for Naomi’s death.
Indeed, Junior suspected that they might be here at Vanadium’s urging. The cop would be interested in determining how avaricious the mourning husband would prove to be when presented with the opportunity to turn his wife’s cold flesh into cash.
Knacker or Hisscus, or Nork, was talking about an offering, as though Naomi were a goddess to whom they wished to present a penance of gold and jewels.
Sick of them, Junior pretended that he was just now getting their drift. He didn’t fake outrage or even distaste, because he knew he might unwittingly oversell any strong reaction, striking a false note and raising suspicions.
Instead, with grave courtesy, he quietly told them that he wanted no settlement for his wife’s death or for his own suffering. “Money can’t replace her. I’d never be able to spend a penny of it. Not a penny. I’d have to give it away. What would be the point?”
After a silent moment of surprise, Nork or Knacker, or Hisscus, said, “Your sentiment is understandable, Mr. Cain, but it’s customary in these matters—”
Junior’s throat wasn’t half as sore as it had been the previous afternoon, and to these men, his soft, coarse voice must have sounded not abraded, but raw with emotion. “I don’t care what’s customary. I don’t want anything. I don’t blame anyone. These things happen. If you have a liability release with you, I’ll sign it right now.”
Hisscus, Nork, and Knacker exchanged sharp glances, nonplussed. Finally, one of them said, “We couldn’t do that, Mr. Cain. Not until you’ve consulted an attorney.”
“I don’t want an attorney.” He closed his eyes, lowered his head to the pillow, and sighed. “I just want…peace.”
Knacker, Hisscus, and Nork, all talking at once, then falling silent as if they were a single organism, then talking in rotation but interrupting one another, tried to advance their agenda.
Although he had made no effort to summon them, tears spilled from Junior’s closed eyes. They weren’t drawn from him by thoughts of poor Naomi. These next few days—perhaps weeks—were going to be tedious, until he could have Nurse Victoria Bressler. Under the circumstances, he had good reason to feel sorry for himself.
His silent tears accomplished what his words could not: Nork, Knacker, and Hisscus retreated, urging him to speak to his attorney, promising to return, once more expressing their deepest condolences, perhaps as abashed as attorneys and political appointees could get, but certainly confused and unsure how to proceed when dealing with a man so untouched by greed, so free of anger, so forgiving as the widower Cain.
Everything was proceeding precisely as Junior had envisioned in the instant when Naomi had first discovered the rotten section of railing and had nearly fallen without assistance. The entire plan had come to him, wholly formed, in a blink, and during the following two circuits of the observation deck, he had mulled it over, seeking flaws but finding none.
Thus far, there were only two unexpected developments, the first being his explosive vomiting. He hoped he would never have to endure another such episode.
That Olympian purge had, however, made him appear to be both emotionally and physically devastated by the loss of his wife. He couldn’t have calculated any stratagem more likely to convince most people that he was innocent and, in fact, constitutionally incapable of premeditated murder.
He had experienced considerable self-revelation during the past eighteen hours, but of all the new qualities he had discovered in himself, Junior was most proud of the realization that he was such a profoundly sensitive person. This was an admirable character trait, but it would also be a useful screen behind which to commit whatever ruthless acts were required in this dangerous new life he’d chosen.
The other of the two unexpected developments was Vanadium, the lunatic lawman. Tenacity personified. Tenacity with a bad haircut.
As his drying tears became stiff on his cheeks, Junior decided that he would most likely have to kill Vanadium to be rid of him and fully safe. No problem. And in spite of his exquisite sensitivity, he was convinced that wasting the detective would not trigger in him another bout of vomiting. If anything, he might pee his pants in sheer delight.
Chapter 23
CELESTINA RETURNED TO Room 724 to collect Phimie’s belongings from the tiny