There was only one way to find out. He had to get home. Above everything else, he couldn’t shake the sense Zellie was in danger. Something wasn’t right. He was certain of it. Why had she been so stubborn about coming? He should have pressed the issue harder.
The lights of Boston faded behind him but not fast enough. He really did need to get a real car one of these days. He passed through Wooster, then Springfield and finally approached the New York state line. It was eleven p.m., and he still had more than half the way to go.
He pulled into a truck stop for gas. The lot was crowded with idling tractor-trailers. As he stood filling the tank, their rumble sounded like vast subterranean machinery. He dashed inside to grab a cup of coffee, and called the Seneca Hotel and asked for Zellie’s room again.
He wanted nothing more in the world than to hear her voice. He had the clerk try Daphne’s room, but still nothing. Might the two of them be down in the bar having drinks or a late dinner or something? The waitress handed him the coffee, and he paid while a country singer crooned in the background that when he’d come back home all he’d found was a little note on the fridge.
As he jogged back to the truck, he called the front desk again and asked the clerk to check the bar. She was reluctant but agreed, and came up empty-handed, though he wondered how aggressively she’d looked.
A few minutes later, he crossed the border into New York, and soon after that he turned off the interstate. The rest of the way to New Canterbury was on two-lane roads, through one small town after another, with long stretches of dark countryside in between.
* * *
Zellie lay alone on a bed in darkness leavened only by the green glow of an alarm clock on a dresser. Before leaving her, Witner had moved the handcuffs to the front so she could lie on her back but had added shackles around her ankles.
I’m going to die.
Images of her loved ones flashed through her mind in a self-torture she had no control over, and she wept. The thought of Jack Forester and the love they had possibly just discovered made it worse, mocking her with a promise of happiness.
But as the hours passed and nothing happened, the aching terror abated, and her eyes dried. She listened…and thought.
She didn’t know exactly what their plans were. Could this all be a mistake? Could it be that Witner was not what he seemed—that this was being done somehow for her protection? No, that was insane. All she had to do was feel the weight and coldness of her bonds. This could not end well. But don’t give up yet.
How could she have trusted Daphne Gavin? Why had her powers of perception deserted her so thoroughly? For some reason, it had always been that way with women. Her heart swelled with anger at the betrayal, at her own gullibility. She raised her head and looked at the clock. Eleven p.m.
Not long afterwards, she heard a creaking sound—they had left her hearing aid in. The room flooded with light, and dread washed over her. Somebody was approaching. Daphne came into her field of vision, wearing a purple bathrobe.
“Time to get up,” she ordered.
Zellie wasn’t sure she could control her voice. She made no reply, didn’t move.
“Come on, just swing your legs off and stand up. We’re just going out to the next room to talk. Listen—don’t make me have to go get him, all right? You can still walk with the chains on, so let’s go.”
Zellie shook her head.
“It’s your own fault. No one invited you to meddle. I suggest you make it easy on yourself. I don’t have anything personal against you.”
She grabbed Zellie’s arm and pulled her into a sitting position, then helped her to her feet. Without thinking, Zellie laced her fingers together into a two-handed fist and propelled it straight into the other woman’s face. As Daphne screamed and stumbled, Zellie tried to make the door, but the chains tripped her and she sprawled headfirst, the odor of dusty carpet in her nostrils.
Witner’s shoes appeared in the doorway. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Daphne stomping toward her. Pain blossomed in her side—Daphne had kicked her.
“Stupid little whore! Look at what she did, Bryson. My nose is broken.”
“Daphne, mind your temper.”
“You mind your own temper,” she cried. “Where’s the gun? Let’s just get this over with.”
“I said, calm yourself.”
Zellie felt another kick, but this time Daphne’s toes—her feet were bare—connected with Zellie’s hipbone. It hurt, but Daphne’s cry of pain suggested her foot had gotten the worst of it.
“All right, now, that’s enough,” Witner ordered. “Stand up, Ms. Andersen. It’s conversation time.”
He reached under her shoulders and lifted. In a moment, she was up, swaying, facing Witner, who wore a bathrobe that matched Daphne’s. Two lines of blood ran down Daphne’s upper lip, and the bridge of her nose was swelling, her expression furious. Good.
Witner gripped Zellie’s upper arm and forced her to hobble forward. He steered her into the dining room, where there was a long table that could have seated fifteen people.
They weren’t alone.
Two men sat at the far end of the table, staring straight ahead, stiff and unmoving. Zellie blinked and swallowed. Something wasn’t right. Both of them wore old-fashioned suits. One had a gray beard, and the other had mutton-chop sideburns. Their skin was dull and waxy, and their hands on the table were in identical prayer-like positions.
They were mannequins.
Witner laughed as he guided her into a chair at the end of the table opposite the mannequins and forced her down. Then he pulled up a chair and sat next to her. Zellie looked around. Daphne had disappeared. Chills crawled up and down her neck.
“So, once again we sit to talk, Ms. Andersen. But I’m being rude.” He motioned toward the dummies. “Allow me to introduce Dr. Benjamin Rush on the left, and across from him, the Honorable Sir William Osler. They’re sound-activated.”
He rapped the table with his knuckles, in a “shave and a haircut” rhythm—ra-ta-ta ta ta—and the mannequins’ lower jaws began bobbing. A tinny-voiced cacophony broke out:
Good morning, Sir William.
Good morning, Rush, you revolutionary scoundrel.
Laughter.
Why did the egg cross the road?
Because it lost the fallopian way?
No, because it was so inclined.
Laughter.
My gallstone lies over the liver, my gallstone lies over the spleen.
“Enough, please,” Daphne yelled from the kitchen.
Witner rapped the table again and the noise stopped. The weirdness of it redoubled Zellie’s sense of horror.
“That’s just a silly little test program, Ms. Anderson,” Witner explained. “They also contain digitized recordings of medical lectures. I’ve always been interested in puppets, you see. The rest are down in the basement.”
He laughed again, louder, a deep resonant murmuring sound that trailed off then abruptly stopped as he turned from them to her.
“You’re quiet tonight, Ms. Andersen. I understand you and Dr. Forester have made some discoveries, though it’s obvious you didn’t see through dear Daphne. She’s a very good actress, don’t you agree?”
Zellie looked away.
“In any case,” he continued, his voice dropping so low she could hardly hear, “it’s a pity you’re Infected.
She glared at him.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know exactly what I mean.” His voice fell even lower as he leaned toward her. “You don’t have to hide it anymore. You know who I am, and you know exactly what I mean by Infected.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
Daphne called from the kitchen again, “Bryson! If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, please stop that business,” she demanded. “For the love of God, remember what we talked about.”
Zellie noticed with surprise that Daphne’s words made Witner sit upright and blush. S
he’d never seen him display anything but complete self-confidence before.
She was wondering what it meant when something brushed against her left ankle, and she started so badly it nearly toppled her chair. Witner steadied it, and seemed to recover his poise. Two ferrets darted from beneath the table, one chasing the other into the kitchen.
“Nothing to fear,” he informed her. “They’re pets.”
A barefoot and angry-looking Daphne marched from the same room, sidestepping the animals, an ice-pack pressed to her nose and a cup of yogurt in her other hand. She came up to Witner and lifted her foot.
“I think my toe’s broken, too, Bryson.”
Witner touched it.
“Ouch, be careful!”
“It doesn’t look fractured to me,” he said. “It’ll be fine. Don’t be a hypochondriac.”
“It hurts like Hades.”
“Then take some ibuprofen—and be more careful.”
She lowered her foot and sat next to him. She put down the ice pack and began spooning up the yogurt, stopping to glare at Zellie, her eyes dark with hatred.
“He’s not insane,” she hissed.
“Oh, really?” Zellie said, forcing her voice to be calm, looking back and forth between the two of them. “Why would I think that? Just because he tells me I’m ‘infected.’”
Witner glanced at Daphne, and shrugged. “All will be fine,” he said. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Zellie looked at both of them in turn again.
“What happened when you got sick in Boston, Dr. Witner?”
“What?”
“Was Daphne with you then? Does she know all about it?”
Witner leaned closer, so close she felt his breath. She closed her eyes.
“I was not sick,” he growled. “Daphne understands. No one else but her.”
“Bryson, for God’s sake, don’t let her get under your skin,” Daphne scolded. “That’s what she’s trying to do.”
“I can handle this, Daphne,” he replied evenly.
“Bryson, please.”
Zellie’s breath was coming fast, her head feeling light.
“She’s worried, isn’t she, Dr. Witner. She knows how crazy you really are.”
Witner fixed his eyes on her again, and leaned still closer.
“You told me I’m infected with something. You’re a lunatic.”
“Zellie,” Daphne warned, “I’d advise you to watch what you’re saying.”
“Ms. Andersen, there is a purpose at work here of which you have no idea, and if you did—”
Zellie inhaled sharply and shouted. “Before long everyone’s going to know what you are.”
Daphne threw the yogurt cup on the table so hard it bounced over Zellie’s head. She stood and leaned toward her, her face contorting.
“Shut up! You’re looking at a man who’s got the brains of ten thousand like Jack Forester! Neither you nor anyone else is going to push him over the edge. It’s my job to keep him poised there where his energies are focused and where he will continue to do amazing things. So, shut your stupid little mouth, or I’ll make sure you’ll be begging for me to blow your head off before this is over.”
Zellie blinked and decided to push on. She had nothing to lose.
“What’s the Society Carnivalis, Dr. Witner? Everybody knows about it now.”
“You want to see the Society?” Daphne answered for him, pointing at the mannequins. “If there’s any Society, that’s it right there.”
A visible tremor passed though Witner. He half-rose, then sat back down, and appeared to relax, though he continued staring at the mannequins as if expecting them to enter the conversation. But it was Daphne who, stroking his shoulder, finally broke the silence.
“So, what’s next, Bryson? It’s getting late.”
“I don’t think Ms. Andersen has any useful information, so we’re going to sedate her for the rest of the night.”
“Why not just end it? I really don’t like this playing around.”
“Because I do not yet have a definite plan that will tie up all the loose ends. She may be useful. Forester is still out there. He’ll want to find her.”
“Damn it. That trip of his was bad luck.”
“Everything presents an opportunity. You just have to trust me.”
“So, when are you going to have a plan?”
“By the morning, I’m sure. Like Frederick Kekule, some of my best ideas come late at night.”
“I hate it when you get esoteric on me, Bryson. What are you talking about?”
“Kekule was the father of organic chemistry, best remembered for discovering the structure of benzene. The old chemists knew it contained six carbon atoms, but its structure remained a mystery. One night Kekule dreamed of a snake biting its tail. That was it. It’s a ring.”
“Too much information,” Daphne replied, glaring again at Zellie.
It was not exactly a sense of relief Zellie felt knowing she wouldn’t die tonight. As long as there was time, something inside her wouldn’t give up hope.
XXXV
Please Pick Up
It was still well before dawn when Jack pulled into his driveway and skidded to a stop in front of the garage, sending up a plume of slush. He’d reached New Canterbury an hour or so earlier but had gone directly to the hospital. The nurse refused to let him see Gavin, as he’d expected, but she also wouldn’t let him near the medical chart—not even so much as a quick glance at the medication or the vital sign record.
He wasn’t sure if he’d find anything relevant, but it was a good place to start. She was “under orders.” He tried reasoning with her, at which point the hospital security guard marched over and asked what the problem was. Again it was someone he didn’t know.
“Just call Tim Bonadonna, and he’ll vouch for me.”
“I’m not calling anybody this time of night,” the guard said. “Stop harassing the nurse and move on, Doctor.”
He would need to find another way. Fortunately, Tim didn’t mind bending rules for a good cause.
He jumped out of the truck, his leg muscles stiff and tight. As he reached for his overnight bag from the passenger side, a piercing whistle stopped him. What the heck was that? It hit his ears again, sending a chill up his back. It came a third time, sharp and high-pitched, a single note. No bird ever made a song like that. It was coming from overhead.
Cautiously, Jack stepped away from the garage until he could see over the eaves to the roof. In the predawn darkness, he could just make out someone sitting on the peak. The sound came again, softer and now with a trill at the end. It was a pennywhistle.
“Tony?”
“It’s me, Jack.”
“What are you doing up there?”
Tony lifted something. It took a moment for Jack to realize it was his bow.
“Looking out,” Tony said.
“What?”
“Just looking out.”
Jack remembered the night before.
“Have you seen anything, Tony?”
Tony lifted the whistle to his mouth and blew a three-note minor melody.
“Alright, just watch yourself up there,” Jack said. “You could break your neck if you fall. Are you warm enough?”
“Yeah.”
He found Arbus lying on the kitchen floor. The dog lifted his head and yawned, making a groaning sound. Jack knelt and petted him.
“It’s okay. Just me. Pissed and worried.”
In his study, the answering machine’s red light was blinking. It had to be from Zellie. He jabbed the listen button.
“Hi, Dr. Forester, Randy Delancy here. Hope all is well. I wanted to remind you that you’re on clinical duty next Saturday, and to see if I could ask you some questions regarding the schedule for next month. So, maybe you could give me a call when you have a moment? I’ll try again tomorrow.”
That was it. Nothing more.
Jack started to call the Seneca Hotel, but he stopped and hung up. What w
as the point in waking her just to tell her he’d gotten back sooner than expected? She might not hear the phone anyway. He wasn’t thinking clearly. If she answered, it would only disturb her sleep. If she didn’t answer, on the other hand, it would increase his level of worry to no good end. He’d be over there in just a couple of hours to see her in person.
So, he called Tim Bonadonna instead. Tim’s cell phone went directly to voice mail, so he called their landline. Tim kept odd hours and might be up.
After several rings, it went to the answering machine. The canned message was Tim mimicking the sound of a computer-generated voice: The party or parties you are trying to reach is or are currently unavailable. Messages that do not include the caller’s name, phone number, and date and will be discarded. Caveat vendor. Thank you. This is a recording.
Jack shook his head and spoke into the receiver.
“Tim, it’s me. If you can hear this, please pick up—if not, it’s about four-thirty a.m., and things are reaching a critical point. I have to see Dr. Gavin’s medical records, and I’m getting blocked. This is of extreme urgency. I’m going to grab a little sleep, but the phone will be right next to me. Call, amigo.”
Setting his alarm for six, Jack flopped onto the bed, not bothering to undress.
XXXVI
Cold Feet
For some reason—or for no reason—they had left the window cracked open and the blinds up so that Zellie woke to the sound of wind gusting against the wooden shingles and whistling around the corners of the house.
At first her mind played tricks with her; she thought she was on a camping trip and the wind was trying to get in the tent. But when she attempted roll away from it, her wrists and ankles felt the cuffs and soon the living nightmare she was in returned full force.
They had drugged her last night. The last thing she remembered was a needle entering the fold of her left elbow. Why didn’t they just kill her then? She wept as she watched the sky turn gray outside, pine boughs bending and pulsating in the wind.
Final Mercy Page 29
