Final Mercy
Page 30
Finally, the door opened. Moments later, he forced her toward a set of stairs that led to the basement. When he switched on the light, she saw how steep and long the flight of steps was, and she thought of wrenching away and diving head-first, ending it herself. Then the moment was gone, and the gesture too much against her nature in any case.
Ice filled her mind as she came to the bottom step, every cell within her crying out against the thought of being extinguished. The sole of one foot touched the cold concrete, then the other; and with his hand tight on her arm, he made her shuffle along a cleared path through the clutter, the leg shackles biting into her ankle bones with each step.
They passed the two mannequins that had sat at the table the night before, now propped on boxes near the foot of the staircase, leaning against each other mute and lifeless, their eyes seeming to follow her.
She knew it could come at any moment—a blow to the head or a wire wrapped around her neck. She tried to find some neutral object to focus her attention on, tried to empty her soul of memory and grief. She must pray and not give in to terror. It would soon be over. And maybe there was a way out.
Suddenly the pressure on her arm was gone. She gasped involuntarily, her neck tensing.
“Here we are, Ms. Andersen,” he said.
Her throat too tight to form a word, she flinched as his arm moved upwards. But he only pulled on a light-string, and two long fluorescent bulbs flickered to life. Witner was still wearing his bathrobe. He cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted back toward the stairs.
“Daphne, come down. I need you.”
Zellie’s gaze careened around the room, bouncing off an old green overstuffed chair with badly frayed arms to a bookcase full of magazines, then a dusty cupboard, then over near the wall to a large chest freezer. The two ferrets scurried past her feet. Like sports fans trying to find a good seat, one hopped up on the old chair and the other onto the top of the freezer, where it skidded off the far end.
Trembling, she looked at Witner.
“I have to use the bathroom,” she said.
“Oh, I think that can wait. Daphne, where the devil are you?”
Daphne’s legs appeared on the stairway. She was still in her bathrobe and moving slowly, one step at a time. As she came toward them, Zellie saw that her face was pale, and her right hand was clutching her stomach.
“You’ve finished breakfast, I see,” Witner said.
“I think I’m coming down with what Mitchell had. I do not feel well.” Passing Zellie without a glance, she swatted the ferret off the chair and sank down. “I’m feeling nauseous, Bryson. Do you have any medicine upstairs?”
“A nauseous person is one who induces nausea in others, Daphne. A person who is experiencing the symptom of nausea is feeling nauseated.”
“Thank you for the fucking grammar lesson. You’re such a sympathetic person. So, what’s the plan?”
“Everything has fallen neatly into place. We have a perfect plan”
“Bully for us,” she said. “I’m getting a headache, too. Damn that lawyer. I’m going back to bed.”
“Would you please let me use the bathroom?” Zellie murmured.
“You need the bathroom?” said Daphne. “Not before me—I feel the runs coming on.”
“I’d always intended to build a lavatory down here,” said Witner. “Never got around to it, though, so I’m afraid both of you are out of luck.”
“Then hurry up,” said Daphne. “What’s your plan?”
“Simply this. When Dr. Forester returns to New Canterbury from Boston this afternoon, the hotel will have an important message for him, ostensibly from Ms. Andersen. This letter will reassure him that all is well, but that he must meet Ms. Anderson and yourself, Daphne, at Hinkle’s marina this evening.”
“All right. Then what?”
“Once there, the ever-impetuous Dr. Forester will make the ill-advised decision to take a boat out for a brief cruise designed to impress you two ladies. Unfortunately, he will not have reckoned upon just how foul the weather is. And, against Hinkle’s advice, out you all will go.”
Daphne looked up at him. “And?”
“Why, the boat will capsize, of course, and all will drown.”
Zellie squeezed her eyes shut.
“Bryson?” said Daphne.
Something in the woman’s voice made Zellie open her eyes and look at her.
Daphne was slouching forward, her face gray and glistening with sweat. A thick golden chain had slipped from beneath her robe and now dangled in front of her, swaying as her chest rose and fell. Without warning, her back arched, and she vomited onto her feet.
Zellie looked at Witner. He wasn’t in the slightest concerned. In fact, a faint smile was playing on his lips.
“You have every right to feel ill, Daphne. You’re dying.”
Daphne gasped, and more vomit splattered on the concrete.
“Within several minutes, you will be dead, and the Infection you carry will be neutralized.”
She looked up, eyes blinking rapidly, not comprehending.
“I might as well tell you while you can still hear me,” Witner continued. “First of all, when that ridiculous plastic surgeon you married was dying, it was I who made sure your father-in-law believed you were having affairs, even though you weren’t.”
Daphne’s head sagged, and she vomited again.
“It was an experiment at first. I was curious to see how it would affect the general situation, and I had always been interested in wearing down Dr. Gavin’s ego.”
Daphne’s mouth opened, but she was clearly too weak to say anything.
“So, I befriended you. That was fate, Daphne. It didn’t take me long to discover your intense ambition to rise in the world, and once I realized you would stop at absolutely nothing, that you were, in essence, an amoral creature, it became obvious you would be useful. I was not mistaken. They sent you into my life for a purpose.”
Daphne eye’s closed.
“Behind the scenes, you helped me initiate the Medical Media program and last night you brought Ms. Andersen. But your usefulness to us has ended. Yes, that’s right, Us. The Society and I, the Society you mock.”
More vomit trickled off her chin.
“The orange juice I gave you this morning contained cyanide, which, by the way, is not checked for in routine autopsies. Your body will be dragged from the lake as a drowning victim, along with the corpses of Dr. Forester and Ms. Andersen. And Fred Hinkle, too. After your boat capsizes, he and I will attempt a rescue, but alas, the only survivor will be me.”
Daphne slid from the chair, rolled onto her back and began convulsing, her legs and arms thrashing, weaker and weaker.
Witner turned to Zellie.
“Once one is Infected, Ms. Andersen, there is no cure. This is the final mercy for you all.”
Daphne’s body went limp; vomit filled her mouth and ran down her cheeks. But the horror wasn’t over yet. Her right arm rose several inches then fell. As if making a final comment on the state of affairs, her sphincters relaxed; and from between her sprawled legs a pool of urine spread, darkening the cement as the stench of feces filled Zellie’s nose.
The next moments were a blur. Witner dragged Daphne’s body to the freezer. Zellie stumbled and sank to her knees, watching him open the lid. A single thought erupted in her mind—I’ve got to warn Jack.
Witner worked the limp corpse into the freezer.
“The interesting thing about the imagination, Ms. Andersen, is that I did not realize I needed to kill Daphne until this morning. But this is perfect, and the need so obvious. By midnight tonight, there will be no one left who knows the true nature of my mission. Now, in you go. I’m going to be late for rounds at the hospital.”
He tried to heft her to her feet, but her legs would not cooperate. So, he dragged her. She grabbed the edge of the freezer and pushed away, but he grabbed her hair near the scalp and pulled her neck back until she could barely breathe.
There was a soft clunk, and she lay in the fetid darkness with only a dead woman for company.
XXXVII
Twisted
Jack’s eyes shot open. It was eight o’clock—he’d overslept by two hours. Jumping out of bed, he immediately called the hotel.
“Good morning. Please connect me to Zellie Andersen’s room.”
“Are you Dr. Forester?”
“Yes, why?”
“There’s a message here for you from Ms. Andersen.”
His heart surged. “Excellent! What is it?”
“It’s a letter.”
“Friend, I don’t care whether it’s a letter or a smoke signal, just read it to me.”
“It says ‘Personal and Confidential—for Dr. Jack Forester’s eyes only.’”
“I’m Jack Forester, and I’m asking you to open it and read it, please.”
“I’m going to have to ask my manager.”
“You remind me of a nurse I know.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. Go ask you manager, if you have to.”
“Let me put you on hold.” He came back a minute or so later. “I’m sorry, sir. It has to be hand-delivered.”
“Give me a break.”
“Do you want to talk to the manager, sir?”
“Never mind, I’ll be there in ten minutes. Put me through to Ms. Andersen’s room.”
He let it ring for a full minute before hanging up. Dressing quickly, he was heading for the door when the phone rang.
“Zellie?”
“Don’t you wish,” said Tim. “Hey, got your message. What the hell’s up?”
“Dr. Gavin’s medical records—I need to see his medical records, Tim. Can you get them for me?”
“Can I get you his records?”
“The nurse and the guard up there keep putting up barricades. This is essential.”
“Tell you what, I’m about to enter the morning meeting. I’ll arrange for myself to be assigned the Gavin security slot today. Seeing as I’m going to put my livelihood at risk for you, may I ask why you need his records?”
“Because I watched Snow White last night.”
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say that?”
“Tim, there’s no time to explain.”
* * *
It was getting harder and harder to draw breath, and her chest felt like it was being crushed in a vise and pierced with needles. Her face had begun to tingle.
It had only been several minutes since the lid was closed; there had to be plenty of oxygen left. This must be hyperventilation. To make it go away, she held her breath. Even doing that, however, she nearly choked as her gorge rose. Fighting it, she focused on thinking of a way out of here.
When she was a child, she’d heard of kids getting locked in old refrigerators or freezers and suffocating. Once, when she was a teenager, she’d found an old abandoned fridge in a field near her house, and she had taken a rock and smashed off the latch so it would never trap anyone. It would take someone with a twisted mind like Witner to do something like replace a safety latch with an old, dangerous one.
She made her next few breaths slow and measured, and sure enough, the sense of suffocation lessened. She reached up and began examining the locking mechanism with her fingers. Thank God her hands were shackled in front rather than behind.
She felt a metal rod not much thicker than a pencil protruding down from the lid where it met the front wall of the freezer. She jiggled it and discovered a small amount of play. The sense of chest tightness was returning, and she forced her breathing to slow. Think! And don’t make any sudden movements. Too much activity, she realized, might cause her to slip from on top of the dead woman and become wedged in beside her. The thought of that made her nearly retch again. Stop. Think.
She lay still for moment, letting her breathing settle. She could feel the bones of Daphne’s face under her head. The cold was intense, and she began to shiver.
Examine the lock again. You’ve got to warn Jack. Don’t give up yet.
Her fingers relocated the prong. It was cold and smooth. It had to be part of the locking mechanism, hooked into a little ridge inside the wall. If she could get her finger behind it and pull hard enough…
* * *
“I’ll need to see ID first,” the clerk said.
Jack glanced down at the young man’s name tag.
“Listen, Jim, I was in such a hurry to get here I forgot my wallet.”
“Sorry, sir, I’ll need to see some identification before I can give you the letter. That’s hotel policy for confidential messages.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like I’m a stranger or something.”
“You are to me.”
“Listen—” Jack began.
“You listen, sir. I don’t make the rules. Most people I know carry IDs.”
Something in Jack snapped. He grabbed the clerk’s tie and yanked him halfway over the counter.
“You’d better take that smug look off your face, Jim. I haven’t had all that much sleep in the last couple of days, and I’m worried about my friend. So, give me my letter or I’m going to climb in there with you.”
The young man’s face went white. At that moment, an Asian woman emerged from the back office and did a double take. She marched over.
“What’s the problem here?”
He released the clerk’s tie.
“I’m Dr. Forester. The problem is that Jim, here, won’t give me a letter that belongs to me, and this is urgent.”
“Jim, why didn’t you give the gentleman his letter?”
“Because it’s marked confidential, and he doesn’t have ID.”
“I see,” she said. “Good work.” The woman turned icy eyes on Forester. “Sir, I cannot release the message from the safe without a copy of your ID. I’d be happy to call the police to help us straighten this out.”
“Forget it. I can get some ID at the hospital. I’ll be right back.” He looked over at the clerk. “Sorry, kid.”
* * *
Zellie couldn’t get her finger behind the prong—there wasn’t enough room. She needed something to work behind it. Anything. A strip of cloth would do.
She tried to tear the hem of her skirt, but her fingers slipped off and the cuffs brought her wrists up painfully short. She then attacked her blouse, but the fabric was heavy and the seams over-sewn. Tears of frustration running down her cheeks and pooling in her ears, she unbuttoned it and tried shearing it with her teeth. If she could only get it started!
Frustrated she sank back. She was going to run out of oxygen. She had to think of something else.
A mental picture came to her—Daphne’s necklace. Swallowing hard and steeling herself, she rolled over, working her arms around, feeling the springy give of Daphne’s ribs as she moved. She must have forced gas out of the dead woman’s stomach because an awful, rotten odor suddenly ravaged her nose. She gagged and turned her head away.
No! Don’t vomit. You’ll just make it smell worse.
She continued turning, her shivering intensifying, until finally she was facing the corpse. She felt for the necklace. It was slimy. She tugged on the chain, sliding it around Daphne’s neck until she felt the clasp. Her fingers were so numb with cold she could barely feel it.
Willing all of her dexterity into the tips of her fingers, after several minutes of effort, she felt the ends of the necklace part. She pulled it carefully from around the dead woman’s neck. Fighting against a renewed wave of shivering, Zellie reversed the process and was soon lying face-up again.
The work had been exhausting. Her arms and legs felt like bars of lead, and a different tightness was closing around her chest now. The air she drew in felt lifeless and
stale. Taking no time to rest, she said a prayer and set to work.
It was more difficult now to find the prong because her arms felt so heavy. But she did, and managed to gradually work the chain of the necklace behind it. Though the chain was fairly thick, there was a risk the links would rupture. If it broke, there would be no other chance. What if she doubled it to made it stronger? Yes.
She set to work again, rethreading one end of the chain back through the narrow space behind the prong. It took four or five tries, but she succeeded.
Saying another prayer, she wrapped the loose ends around her fingers and pulled. To her astonishment, the prong immediately moved a full inch. She felt rather than heard a click, but the lid didn’t rise. She released the pressure, and the prong sprang back to its original position. What was going on?
Of course—she needed to push against the lid for it to open when the prong was disengaged. She brought her knees up against the undersurface and again pulled on the necklace.
To her utter delight and relief, a crack of light appeared. It was very dim—Witner must have switched off the light. She raised her knees and a little more light appeared. But the most magical thing was the air—its sweetness and warmth. She could feel strength flowing into her muscles with each breath.
Witner had said he was leaving for the hospital, but he would have to shower and dress first. He might decide to come back to check on her. She gripped the now completely exposed prong in the fingers of her right hand and pulled the lid down so that only the slightest sliver of light remained. If only she had normal hearing.
She saw a flash of movement and felt the lid press against her hand. Oh, please, no. Someone was pushing it shut again! The prong started to ease back into its hole. Her fingers tightened around it.
But the pressure on the lid, for some reason, grew no heavier. She saw another flash of motion through the crack, and the pressure grew slightly heavier; but now she could hear a faint scratching on the lid.
The ferrets. They had seen the lid move and were investigating. A groan of relief escaped her, but she didn’t dare relax yet. She must wait before emerging—make completely certain he had left. How long? Ten minutes? Twenty?