I was partly immersed in water.
Then the silence was broken.
First I heard buzzing insects.
Then I heard a splash.
Much later, I learned that the splash was caused by the dip of an oar.
I tried to move, but my body refused to respond. Although it had dutifully telegraphed that it was attached to my consciousness, it was as yet unready to acknowledge that higher authority. I lay inert while my mind shouted orders and my body ignored them.
But my ears worked. I could hear more splashes, one upon the other, louder and louder, closer and closer. Belatedly, I remembered I had eyes. The uncomfortable pressure on my left cheek told me that my head was turned to one side. I tried to open my eyes. The lower eyelid seemed to be sealed shut, but the other one responded.
I saw mud. And sedge weed.
Then I saw a man’s boot.
I felt strong hands lift me, and once again, the world went black.
* * *
When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. I lay there for long minutes, willing myself back to life. Perhaps it was hours; I’m not sure. It felt as if every joule of energy had been methodically drained from me while I slept.
At least I was alert enough to be thankful I was still alive. I took inventory. One by one, I checked my limbs. I could move them, and when the effort didn’t generate assaults of leaping pain, I concluded that they were intact. As for the rest of my body, there was no acute pain: just pervasive, debilitating exhaustion.
I tried to take in my surroundings. The window blinds next to my bed were pulled all the way down. From the absence of any light leaking in around the edges, I deduced it was nighttime. The room itself was dimly lit from a small light above the door, and I could see that the single bed opposite mine was unoccupied.
My left arm was hooked to an intravenous feed. I tracked the line upward. It was connected to an inverted glass bottle. I strained to read the label on the bottle, but the angle defeated me. I tried to sit up. Instantly, my head swam, and I felt nauseated. I dropped back on the pillow and waited for the sensation to pass.
There was an old visitor’s chair next to my bed, its wheat-colored arms discolored by a thousand sweaty palms, the beading of its vinyl cushions ragged and cracked. Behind it, running under the window, a cast iron radiator ticked quietly, proving that my ears were still working.
I need a phone.…
I rolled my head. The top of the bedside table was bare.
Looking around again, I realized the room had an old-fashioned feel about it. I decided I must be in one of those old Catholic hospitals.
Meaning: no in-room telephones.
I felt about with my hands, hunting for a call button to summon a nurse. Finding nothing, I craned to check the wall above my bed, hoping to spot a lanyard to pull. No luck. The only thing mounted above me was a mercury manometer with a dangling blood pressure cuff.
I considered shouting, but I was so desperately tired, I couldn’t find the breath to do it.
I fell asleep.
34
The deputy was sitting on the vinyl chair. He had pulled it closer so he could hear me. At that moment, he was chewing on the end of a pencil and looking confused.
I was eyeing him and thinking: You’re confused?
Yes, I was groggy, and my speech was slurred—making me suspicious about what the medical staff might have been adding in my IV—but by now I was pretty confused myself.
The cop’s name tag read TATTERSALL, and his shoulder patch told me he was from the Putnam County Sheriff’s Office. When I woke up and found him sitting there, the first words out of my mouth were “Where am I?”
“Putnam Community Hospital, ma’am.” He told me how two fishermen had found me half-drowned on the western shore of the St. Johns River, twelve miles north of Palatka.
“That would make sense,” I slurred. “I was on that—” I coughed weakly. “I was in that train wreck on Tuesday. What day is it?”
His gun belt creaked as he leaned forward, craning to hear me. “What day is it?”
I nodded.
“Today’s Saturday, ma’am.” He scratched his ear. “What train wreck?”
“The Amtrak wreck! That train that fell in the river!”
“Ain’t heard of a train wreck.”
I stared at him.
His brow knitted.
Silently cursing, I sank back into my pillow. Just my luck to get saddled with the dumbest cop in Florida.
He took out a notebook. “Could you please tell me your full name, ma’am?”
“It’s Claire Talbot.… Claire spelled C-l-a-i-r-e; Talbot, T-a-l-b-o-t.”
“Miss or Mrs.?”
“Ms.”
He looked up. “Like that magazine?”
I suppressed a sigh. “Yeah. Capital m, small s. Like the magazine.”
“Any middle name?”
“Alexandra.” I had to spell it for him.
“Address?”
I gave it.
“That’s in Gainesville?”
“That’s what I said!” I was getting impatient.
“Phone number?”
I gave it to him. He scratched his head for a second, asked me to repeat it, and wrote it down.
At that moment, the door hissed open and a pretty redheaded nurse appeared. She was wearing a starched white uniform, complete with cap.
Okay, I thought, maybe not a Catholic hospital, but definitely a traditional one.
“Time’s up, Norm! The lady needs her rest.”
The deputy rose slowly to his feet. His eyes lingered appreciatively on the nurse’s tidy form for a second and then swung back to me. “I’ll come back when you’re feeling better, ma’am.”
My irritable attempt at a contemptuous reply morphed into a coughing fit. The cop left hurriedly while the nurse busied herself settling me down and pouring a glass of water.
“You’ve given us quite a scare,” the nurse said. Her name tag read: G. HOPKINS, R.N.
“Scared myself,” I croaked.
She smiled gently. “I’m Gertie. What’s your name, hon?”
“You don’t know?”
“There was no identification … I mean, on your person.”
“Oh … right. It’s Claire. Claire Talbot. I really need to make a phone call.”
“You’ll have to wait until the doctor says you can get up. Is there somebody I can call for you?”
“Can’t you just bring me a phone?”
She looked at me strangely.
“Okay, could you please call someone for me? Sam Grayson. He’s the State Attorney in Gainesville.”
“Sure.” She felt in the pocket of her uniform. “I left my pen. I guess the number’s in the book?”
“Yes. Just tell him where I am, and he’ll come for me.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks. And now—” I made a face. “—I really have to pee.”
She opened a drawer in the bedside table and pulled out a bedpan.
“I’d rather use the bathroom.”
“I’m sorry, but the doctor was firm about you being confined to bed.”
“Well, maybe you should call him.”
She assessed me, weighing her response. “Okay. I’ll do that. Then I’ll phone your friend. Meanwhile…” She held up the bedpan.
I sighed and capitulated. She got me organized and stepped away. When I finished, she removed the bedpan and carried it to the bathroom. I heard the toilet flush, and she returned to my bedside.
“So, it’s Mr. Grayson, right?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Sam Grayson.” I examined her face. Something about it seemed familiar. “Gertie, can I ask a question?”
“Sure.”
“Does your mother live in Florida?”
The question seemed to startle her. “My mom passed away three years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean … It’s just…”
“What?”
“I me
t someone who looked a bit like you, but older.”
“Where was that?”
“On the train.”
“You talked about a train. In your sleep.”
“Oh?”
“Actually, you were yelling,” she said with a little half smile.
“Sorry.”
She shrugged and started straightening my blankets. I moved my hand and caught one of hers. “Gertie, did anyone else survive?”
She looked at me warily. “Survive?”
“Survive the wreck.”
“Nobody else was brought here,” she said carefully. “To our hospital.”
I could see she was trying to protect me from a shock, so I let it go. She checked my IV and then asked, “Are you hungry?”
“Starving!”
“That’s a good sign. Okay, officially it’s not mealtime, but I’ll see what I can scare up.”
“Thanks.”
She turned to leave, but then stopped. “Miss Talbot…”
“‘Claire’ is fine.”
“Claire. Do you mind if I ask what kind of work you do?”
“I’m a lawyer. Why?”
“A lawyer? No kidding! Okay, well…” She hesitated, shook her head, and said, “Forget it.”
Now I was curious. “Tell me.”
“Um, okay. Did you ever…” Now she seemed thoroughly embarrassed. “Did you ever, uh … you know, work as one of those exotic dancers?”
“No.” I suppressed a smile. “Why?”
“Oh. It’s just … that tattoo on your back. I’ve never seen that before.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But, you know, I’d kinda like one myself.”
She left me thinking about what a strange pair she and Deputy Tattersall were.
* * *
I didn’t see the deputy again.
Instead, shortly after I downed a bowl of surprisingly tasty buttermilk soup, half a tuna sandwich (white bread; crusts removed), and a tumbler of pale apple juice, I received a new visitor.
Dr. Arthur Bland was just what his name implied—five foot nothing, with a flavorless personality, a colorless face, and eyes as pale as a mackerel. Moving at a snail-like pace, he checked my pulse and blood pressure, reviewed what I assumed was my chart—he had carried it in with him in a buff folder—and then stood perfectly still next to my bed, just looking at me.
I said, “I need to get out of this bed!”
“I’m sorry. I’m not your GP.”
“Well, who is?”
“Dr. Weaver. He’ll see you on rounds tomorrow morning.”
“Then who are you?”
“A consultant. Dr. Weaver asked me to see you.”
“What kind of a consultant?”
After a beat, he replied, “Psychiatric.”
Warily, I asked the obvious question. “Because?”
“Dr. Weaver has expressed some concerns.”
“Concerns? He’s never bothered to speak to me about them! I’ve never met the man!”
“He’s been speaking with Nurse Barnes.”
“Gertie?”
“Yes. And with the police officer who visited you.”
“That idiot!”
Dr. Bland cocked his head. “Idiot?”
“He didn’t even know about the wreck!”
“Do you mean … the train wreck?”
“Yes! The Amtrak wreck! On Tuesday!”
“Miss Talbot…”
“What?”
“There hasn’t been a train wreck.”
“Are you crazy? I should know! I was in the lounge car when it happened! I was ejected out a window, which is probably what saved my life!”
Bland continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “I’ve also been told that no one in the State Attorney’s Office has heard of this Sam Grayson person.”
I lay there, staring at the man’s expressionless face. “Tell me please … where, exactly, am I?”
“You are in room number 202 in the Putnam Community Medical Center, in Palatka, Florida.”
I let out an exasperated breath. “Let’s start again. Forty miles west of here is the city of Gainesville.” I looked at him sharply. “Are you with me so far?”
“Yes, Miss Talbot. I am aware of the city of Gainesville.”
I spoke slowly, as if to a child. “In that city, at 120 West University Avenue, is the Office of the State Attorney. There, a truly resourceful investigator will have no trouble finding Mr. Sam—not Samuel, his birth certificate says ‘Sam’—Grayson, State Attorney for the Eighth Judicial Circuit.” I rattled off the telephone number. “Alternatively, if that task is too challenging, someone could easily contact the Gainesville Police Department and ask to speak with Detective Sergeant Jeff Geiger. That’s spelled G-e-i-g-e-r. Sergeant Geiger and I did not part on the best of terms, but since I was one of Gainesville’s leading prosecutors until about one month ago, he might be persuaded to admit that he knows me!”
Dr. Bland said, “I see.” He lowered himself onto the vinyl chair, took out a pen, and began writing in my chart. Finally, he raised his eyes from the page. With a level gaze, he said, “Tell me about this train wreck.”
When I was a teenager, I became addicted to a British television series called The Prisoner. The series had actually been produced in the late ’60s, but it was shown on our local PBS affiliate during the ’90s. After devotedly watching a dozen or so episodes, I discovered that only seventeen episodes had been filmed. I remember being infuriated because by then I was hooked. The main character in the series was a former British secret agent. When he resigned from his job, his employers arranged for him to be knocked out with some kind of drug and abducted to a mysterious, isolated village. Although he was given free run of the community, in fact he was a prisoner. Every time he tried to escape the village, the attempt was foiled.
The thing that had really stuck with me was that the village was populated with dozens—or maybe it was hundreds—of seemingly ordinary people whose primary aim was to fuck with his head.
My first thought, as I stared into the piscine eyes of the creepily bland Dr. Bland, was of that television show.
My second thought was less fanciful.
“What time is it?” I demanded.
Bland moved his arm. His unblinking gaze flicked away and returned. “Five forty-two P.M.”
“Thank you. This discussion is over. Tell your invisible friend, Dr. Weaver, that I will be discharging myself at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. And please tell Gertie I’d like to see her.”
“Anything else?”
The little bastard’s condescending smirk set me off.
“Yes! Whether you believe it or not, I am an attorney! And a damned good one! If you try to put some bogus Baker Act hold on me—you’re familiar with the Florida Mental Health Act of 1971, I trust?—I will sue your ass from here to the next century! Now, get out of this room!”
The smirk vanished. He closed the chart folder and stood up. “As you wish.” He left without another word.
Gertie appeared a few minutes later. She was wide-eyed. “Dr. Bland was all red and angry when he came to my station. What on earth did you say to him?”
“I threatened to sue him.”
She gawped. “Wow!”
“Gertie, did you tell him that no one’s heard of Sam Grayson at the State Attorney’s Office?”
“I’m sorry, Claire. I talked to two people! They said they didn’t know him.”
I studied her face. There was no sign of guile. She must have called the wrong office. I decided to let it go and focus on the present. I took a deep breath. “Okay, first off—” I lifted my arm and rattled the IV line. “—I want this thing out. No one’s shoving any more drugs into me!”
“Oh! I’ll have to call Dr. Weav—!”
“No, Gertie! As of this moment, I’m treating this intravenous line as an assault on my person. Please take it out of me now, or I’ll tear it out!”
“Okay, just wait! I’ll be
right back.” She hustled out of the room and reappeared in seconds with alcohol, a swab, and a bandage. She got to work.
“Thank you,” I said when the job was complete. I sat up. “I would walk out of here right now, but I don’t relish finding my way home in the dark. And, I suppose the hospital has a business office that will want my insurance details.”
“Dr. Weaver asked them to leave you alone until you’re better.”
“Well, I’m officially better! I’ll spend the night here and discharge myself first thing in the morning. I’ll need my clothes.”
“They’re in here.” She opened a small closet. I could see my jeans, top, and underwear neatly folded on a shelf. “They were all muddy. I sent them down to the laundry.”
“Thank you. That’s was very kind.” I peered. “I had a jacket.…”
“Not when you were admitted.”
“Damn! I must’ve lost it in the river.” I settled back, feeling suddenly weary. “If you see the doctor—”
“You mean Dr. Weaver?”
“Yes. Tell him if he tries to put me back on an IV, or sends some nurse in here”—I looked her in the eye—“to give me a shot in the middle of the night, I’ll have him charged with assault and battery.” I paused. “What have you people been giving me, anyway?”
“Just a sedative. Diazepam.”
It took me a second. “Wait a minute! Are you saying the doctor ordered a sedative for a drowning victim?”
“That’s just the thing.…”
“What?”
“You were found on the riverbank, but you weren’t a drowning victim. You were barely a Grade One.”
“Which is … what?”
“The lowest classification for a near-drowning. Grade Ones almost never end up in the hospital. They usually recover at the scene. The fishermen who found you said you were breathing and there was no foam around your nose or mouth. When they brought you to the ER, your vitals were good and there was no fluid in your lungs. It’s just that we couldn’t wake you up! There was no sign of a head injury, but you kept thrashing and crying out like you were having a nightmare. After you pulled off your oxygen mask a few times, they intubated you. But then you pulled out the tube, so Dr. Weaver told us to just sedate you and keep you under observation.”
Time of Departure Page 18
