Coldwater Revenge

by James A Ross

  Tom sat in the booth across from the cash register and flipped through a juke-box menu of unfamiliar titles while he waited for his brother to come back from the men’s room. When had Coldwater gone country? Outside, an old Buick Park Avenue inched into the gravel parking lot and unloaded a quartet of senior citizens out past their bedtimes. Behind it an equally ancient Camaro fishtailed to a stop and ejected a pair of leathered-up teenagers. The skinny one slithered through the oldsters like a rat through a cane field. The other hung back with a posture and expression like he was having a gastrointestinal moment. The door to the diner flung open and a blast of chill air hit Tom in the back of the neck.

  “Shut it, please,” said Tom, not bothering to turn his head.

  “Shut yours,” said a voice, at once insolent, adolescent and unmistakably high. Only the high part didn’t piss Tom off. He pointed a finger at his reflection in the window and through it to the Coldwater patrol car parked outside. “See that car with the bubble light? I leave in that. You can, too, if you don’t shut that door.” Tom spoke to his reflection in the window and to the pasty, cadaverous face above and behind it.

  The face lifted and scanned the row of empty booths in either direction. “Bullshit.”

  Tom pointed his chin at the plate across the table. “He’s in the can. That’s his meatloaf you’re freezing. Go ahead, keep standing there.”

  A spike haired moon-face appeared above the deaths-head in the window refection. “Wassup, Cashin?”

  “Nothing, Mulvey. You stink.”

  The draft on the back of Tom’s neck disappeared and sound of metal heel taps receded. Joe reappeared, looking colorless, clammy and ill.

  “You okay?”

  Joe put his hand on the edge of the table and eased himself into the booth. “Threw up in there. That city of yours can have that effect on people.”

  “You look like death.”

  “Don’t say that, Tommy. Not even in jest.”

  “Sorry. I’ll drive home, if you’ll let me do that siren and bubble light thing.”

  Joe grunted, “Don’t touch the toys. I need to get to bed soon. Feels like I’m coming down with something.”

  “You look like you’re going to fall over.”

  “Enough!” The “Look” was their mother’s. Only flashing out from under a buzz cut, the similarity gave Tom the creeps. “Tell me how you think you know Sharp was lying.”

  Tom smiled. “You’re going to like this. It’s a trick one of my litigation partners taught me. One I’m glad Dad didn’t know.” Joe lifted the palm of his hand to his forehead and squeegee-d a line of sweat into his hair. “What color was the tuxedo you wore at your Senior Prom?”

  Joe leaned his head back and appeared to search for an answer in the far left-hand corner of the diner where the ceiling and walls converged. “John Travolta, ‘Saturday Night Fever’ white.”

  “And what song did the band play when King and Queen danced?”

  He closed his eyes, tilted his head to the right and his face to the left. “Can’t remember.”

  “And if the Coldwater High School varsity football team played the Jefferson High School cheerleaders in a bowling tournament, and you had to design the bowling shirts, what would they look like?”

  Joe closed his eyes and this time turned his head up and to the right. “See-through,” he grinned.

  “True. True. And not true,” said Tom.

  Joe grunted. “Okay, smart boy. Explain it to me.”

  Tom smiled. “I’m kind of fuzzy on the science and so was the guy who explained it to me. But it has something to do with different kinds of material being stored or created in different parts of your brain.”

  “You and your ex have got brains on the brain.”

  Tom grinned. “Yeah, well you’re going to thank me for this. Think about the questions I just asked. One asked you to retrieve a visual memory, one a sound memory and one asked you to make-up an image.”

  “Okay.”

  “When you were searching for the visual memory, your eyes went up and to the left. When you tried to remember a sound, your eyes went sideways to the left. And when I asked you to make-up an image, they went up and to the right-–the opposite of where they went when I asked you a question where you had to retrieve an actual memory.”

  “‘The eyes are the windows of the soul’?” Joe quoted.

  “Exactly. Eye movements track the part of your brain that you’re accessing in response to a question. Sights, sounds, and feelings are stored in different areas of the brain and they’re made-up in different areas, too.”

  “And how does this tell you when someone is lying.”

  “It doesn’t. But if you ask somebody for a memory and their eyes go to the left, it tells you that they’re accessing a real memory. They may not tell you the truth about the memory, but they’re accessing something they’ve actually stored. For a sound, the eyes and face go to the side, for a feeling, they go down and the chin comes in. If the eyes go to the right, they’re creating, not accessing. Like your see-through bowling shirt. They’re making it up.”

  “You get paid for this?” Joe snorted.

  “It’s not foolproof like fingerprints and lie detectors. My partner’s a litigator. He uses it in depositions and cross-examination to let him know if he’s on the trail of something or not. He says it only works about 80% of the time. The signals tend to be reversed in lefties: and some people are mixed dominant—you know, throw righty and bat lefty. But if you establish a baseline by asking them for an obvious memory that they have no reason to make up, like the prom tuxedo question, then you can figure out what their signals are.”

  “Forget Dad. We’re lucky Mom never knew this.”

  “Amen.”

  “So what did Sharp let slip? And how did you keep track?”

  Tom moved some dishes and rested his hands on the table. “When you showed him that photo of Billy, Sharp made a big show about peering at it closely and then looking up and away, as if he was really trying to search his memory. But when he did it, his eyes went up and to the right. When you asked him if Susan had a sibling, they went the same way—up and to the right. But when you asked him where U-Labs was, his eyes went the opposite way—up and to the left. That doesn’t mean he was telling the truth when he said Montreal, but it does mean that he was searching an actual memory.”

  “But he told us about Billy. He brought it up.”

  “Eventually. I think one of the questions spooked him into thinking you were going to find out anyway.”

  “And why would he lie about knowing if Susan had any brothers or sisters?”

  “I don’t know. But it was after he didn’t recognize Billy’s photo when you showed it to him the first time, and before your questions jogged his memory.”

  “Sounds like mumbo-jumbo.”

  “It’s not what lawyers call admissible evidence. But if I ask you now whether Susan took her clothes off again when you gave her the anti-date rape idea, are you going to look me in the eye?”

  Joe didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to be listening. His mouth hung open and beads of sweat oozed from the pores of his face. His breath came shallow and rapid.

  “Hey,brother, are you okay?” Stupid question.

  Joe tried to stand, but his legs buckled and he fell backward into the booth, anointing the linoleum with undigested meat loaf special.

  CHAPTER 15

  Joe kept heaving long after there was nothing left to expel. Tom gave him water but it didn’t stay down.

  “Sheriff’s drunk!” Howls of derisive laughter erupted from the punks in the corner booth. Joe didn’t seem to hear. The waitress hovered briefly and then disappeared. The four gray heads in the booth near the bathrooms exchanged hushed whispers.

  Tom lifted Joe onto a clean stool and propped him there while he fumbled with the keypad on his cell phone. Joe’s hand gripped Tom’s shoulder, and his head snapped forward retching foul air.

  “Drunk as shit!”


  Sliding from the stool, Joe fell to the floor and lay there breathing hard and fast. Tom dialed 911. As soon as the line opened he started talking. “Trudy’s Diner Route 6. We need an ambulance. The Coldwater Sheriff collapsed here a few minutes ago… vomiting. Can’t catch his breath… Yes, he conscious, but he can’t talk… Right. What? How soon?” Tom closed the phone and squatted next to his brother. “There’s an ambulance on the way, Joe. The waitress called already.”

  Joe didn’t look up or respond. The skin on the back of his neck was a slick, clammy and white. His breath between heaves came like a collapsed sprinter’s.

  Tom put a hand on the back of Joe’s suddenly soaking shirt. He didn’t look up. The hooters kept their distance, but not their tongues. “Sheriff’s shitfaced!”

  The paramedics arrived before Tom’s teeth ground to stubs. They lifted a padded cart up the steps of the diner and parked it next to the cash register. One put a paper mask over his mouth and latex gloves on his hands. He took Joe’s wrist and pulse while the other asked questions.

  “Has this man consumed any alcohol?

  “No,” said Tom. “Nothing.”

  “What did he eat?”

  Tom pointed to the floor. “Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, string beans, Diet Pepsi. Same thing I did.”

  From the end of the diner came a taunting duet. “He’s drunk!”

  Joe opened his mouth and sucked in rapid, shallow breaths.

  “He said he was feeling something in the car before we got here.”

  “When did he start vomiting?”

  “About ten minutes ago. He hasn’t spoken since. I don’t think he can.”

  The paramedic kneeling beside Joe took a metal cylinder from his backpack, cut open a sealed bag containing a plastic mask and tube, connected the tube to the cylinder and put the mask over Joe’s face. Joe clamped a hand over the plastic and lifted his head. His breathing began to slow. Then he yanked it away, bent over and heaved air.

  “Let’s load him,” said the paramedic who had given Joe the mask. He and the other paramedic scooped Joe under the arms and eased him onto the cart, then pushed and pulled, one at each end, through the door, down the steps and into the back of the ambulance. The one who had asked all the questions got behind the wheel while Tom and the other climbed in the back with Joe. The siren echoed in the closed space while the vehicle sped down the road.

  Tom watched the paramedic unload boxes and bags from a cabinet on the metal wall beside the door, strap a blood pressure cuff on Joe’s arm and shine a penlight into his pupils which were now the size of dimes. Pressing a button on the plastic box strapped to his shoulder, the paramedic began to speak crisply. “Vomiting, hyperventilation.” He looked at the dial on the blood pressure cuff. “75 over 40”.

  The box cackled. The paramedic took a baggie containing a pair of wires with jacks and buds at either end and plugged them into the radio. He put one in his ear and let the other dangle at his throat. The cackling stopped. “Does he have any food allergies?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Tom.

  “Would you know?”

  “He’s my brother.”

  The paramedic lifted the wire at his throat and repeated Tom’s answer into the bud. “Was he in any industrial facility today? Near any noxious chemicals or fumes?”

  “We spent the day in Manhattan.”

  The paramedic’s eyes flashed and his mouth tightened. “This isn’t a joke.”

  “Neither is my answer. That’s where we were. All day. There and in a car.”

  The paramedic relayed what Tom had said and then asked, “Did you stop anywhere?”

  “No. We left Coldwater this morning at about six a.m., drove to New York City, had a two hour meeting in a midtown law firm; he took a walk while I had another meeting and then we drove back. The only place we stopped is that diner back there where we both ordered the same meal.”

  Joe stopped heaving and for the moment he was still. When he opened his mouth it sounded like a shake being sipped through a straw. The paramedic dropped to one knee and moved his ear close to Joe’s mouth. “Can you breathe?”

  Joe made eye contact, sipped a breath and moved his head slowly from side to side.

  The paramedic spoke into the bud. “Tracheal blockage. Deteriorating. Possible anaphylactic shock.” He opened the door-side cabinet and removed another plastic box. Inside was a row of labeled ampules and half a dozen disposable syringes. He selected one of the ampules, loaded a syringe and then did the roll up the sleeve arm wiping drill while Joe made straw sucking noises and his eyes followed the needle as it disappeared into the muscle of his shoulder.

  “What are you giving him?”

  “Point three cc’s of epinephrine”

  “Which is what?”

  “A bronchodilator and antihistamine. Your brother’s breathing tube is closing. This may open it.”

  Tom found himself counting silently like in a game of touch football before the ball is snapped: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.

  “How soon?”

  “Ninety seconds, if it works.”

  Tom counted ten Mississippis. “What if it doesn’t?”

  “Another three cc’s, then Benadryl, if he can swallow some pills. Though that doesn’t look likely.”

  Joe’s mouth hung open, his breath was a guttural stutter.

  “Then what?”

  “Then we open it.” The paramedic grabbed another box and extracted a sealed bag with a finger sized tube and scalpel visible through the clear plastic. “Manually.”

  Joe’s eyes widened and the pores at the edge of his scalp began to leak like a garden hose.

  * * *

  Bright florescent light and jarring sounds filled the Coldwater Hospital Emergency Room. A mix of sour and astringent odors assaulted Tom’s nostrils. The paramedics lifted the padding beneath Joe’s limp body and slid him onto a white metal gurney. Two women in pale green scrubs took it from there, pushing the gurney like a bob-sled down the hall and through a swinging door labeled: No Admittance.

  Tom had been inside the Coldwater Hospital only once since his baby brother was born. Now he felt like he was taking him back like he was under warranty or something. He had not seen Joe so sick since the Christmas they both had measles and chicken pox at the same time. What the hell could it be?

  Tom found a men’s room and applied wet paper towel and hand soap to remove the congealed vomit that had splattered his pants and shoes. What he couldn’t remove, he patted dry and left feeling damp and pungent. At the end of the hall he found an alcove of vending machines and traded a pocket of change for a cup of something scalding. Then he found a waiting room and sat in it.

  Coldwater isn’t a big town; but Saturday night in its only emergency room seemed to draw a crowd. Among the families and friends of the night’s unlucky, the fugue of anxiety, fatigue and mindless fidgeting made a viscous soup. No one paid attention to the blaring television mounted half way up the wall; but no one moved to replace it with silence either.

  For the first time in nearly an hour, Tom felt his heart decelerate and his lungs relax from sucking air as through a snorkel. But his senses remained quickened as if they knew this was a pause in the action, not the end of it.

  Leaving the vending machine swill on a stack of magazines, he went for a walk down the hall beyond the nurses’ station. When the hall abruptly ended, he took the branch to the left, counting on the finite possibilities of building construction to eventually bring him back to where he started. Wandering past rooms filled with smells and groans, he tried to distract himself from the puzzle of Joe’s collapse by turning to the puzzle of that afternoon’s interview with the former NeuroGene owner.

  The signs of financial fiddle at the small biotech company were neon. The only surprise was that Sharp and Willow had cheated each other and not some innocent buyer. Sharp was lying about not knowing Billy Pearce and about where he was when Billy was killed. Though that di
dn’t make him Billy’s killer, or even tie him to Billy’s death. But why lie? There was more digging to do than there had been a few hours ago, and Joe was in no condition to pick up a shovel.

  That happy thought led to another and another, until Tom realized that while he was asleep in the car, Joe had probably called home to let them know when they’d be back and that by now they were long overdue. He found a corner with a cell signal and punched in Joe’s home number. The line opened on the first ring.

  “It’s about time, young man.”

  “He… llo mother. Psychic as well as beautiful?”

  “It says ‘Tom’ right here on the machine.”

  “Right.” His eyes sought the ceiling. “I’m afraid we’re going to be late.”

  “You’re already late,” said Mary. “Everyone’s gone to bed.” An exaggerated sigh punched through the ether. “You’re not still in New York, are you?”

  “No we’re….”

  “If you are, you might take your brother to one of those clubs. He could use some fun. He works too hard.”

  “We’re in Coldwater, Mom. Joe got sick when we stopped for a bite at Trudy’s Diner.”

  “What? That’s a greasy spoon? He should know better.”

  “I had to take him to the Emergency Room.”

  “Why? Just bring him home and roll him in bed. He’ll be fine in the morning.”

  “He has to stop vomiting first.” The revelation was met with silence. Tom filled it with, “Maybe he’s got a bug, Mom. I don’t know. But I thought it was better to bring him here and let a doctor figure out what he’s got, than bring him there and maybe give it to you and the kids.” The silence continued. Tom sensed a quiet dusting of a lifetime’s experience weighing the fibs of small boys.

  “I’m not getting a good feeling, Tommy.”

  “You’re tired, Mom. I should have called earlier.”