by Amy Cross
I wait for a reply, but not it seems like it's her turn to fall silent. I've got to admit, after her little stunt earlier in the tunnel system, I kind of like turning the tables a little.
As we make our way past some kind of old harvesting machine, and then past a tractor, I finally see the silhouette of the farmhouse up ahead, picked out in black against the starry night sky. There's loads more farming equipment than I expected, with big metal drums and even shipping containers that look to have been dumped here when the last family moved out, and there's even an old truck over by the house itself. To be honest, when I told Ramsey it was a shame the farm is abandoned, I was kinda just parroting stuff I've heard my parents say, but now I can see that it's really true. A place like this could be really cool if someone did it up properly. If I was rich, I think I'd -
“Hey!” Ramsey hisses suddenly, grabbing my arm and forcing me to stop. “I thought you said this farm was abandoned!”
“It is. Why do -”
She grabs her phone from my hand and covers the brightly-lit screen. “Then who the hell is that?”
Before I can ask what she means, I realize I can hear footsteps somewhere up ahead. Ramsey pulls me down behind a set of oil drums, and then a moment later we both peer over the top. As my eyes adjust a little to the darkness, I see the light of a flashlight over by the truck. Someone just came out of the pitch-black farmhouse, leaving the door wide open, and a few seconds later we both duck down as the flashlight's beam swings straight toward us.
Part Two
Save Me
Eight
Sheriff James Kopperud
“What's her name?” I gasp, sitting up suddenly, only to find that I'm in a hospital bed. I look around, completely dazed for a moment, before spotting movement next to me. Turning, I see that Harry is sitting in a chair in the corner. Staring at her, I can't help wondering if I'm hallucinating.
“Hey,” she says finally, with a nervous smile. “They said you'd probably wake up soon. They said that'd be a good thing. Obviously they don't know how cranky you can get.”
I continue to stare at her, half-expecting that she'll suddenly vanish in a puff of smoke. Why would she bother coming to the hospital? I get that she called an ambulance to have me taken away from the bar, but why would she come all this way and then sit next to my bed?
“They also said you might be a little confused,” she tells me. “I told them that'd be about standard.”
“Where am I?” I ask, thinking back to the moment when I collapsed in the bar's restroom. I look down at my hands and see a couple of wires running to a nearby machine. I look like a patient. I look like someone who's sick. “What's all this for? I fainted, that's all. Why are they overreacting?”
“James -”
“It's ridiculous,” I continue, pulling one of the wires away, only for a machine next to the bed start beeping. I'm sure some busybody nurse'll show up soon to stick her nose in my business. “Shut that thing off,” I mutter. “It's giving me a headache.”
“James, I think maybe you should -”
“Can you help me?” I ask. “Can you find my clothes? Where are my clothes?”
“James, you need to wait for the doctor.”
“Where are my clothes?” I yell, sitting up on the bed and reaching down to pull the other wires away. “Can you find them? Can you at least do that for me? Or do you only help people when they really don't want it? Come on, if you're here, you might as well make yourself useful.” I glance at her and immediately see that she looks a little scared, but maybe she deserves to feel scared. Maybe that way, she'll learn to leave me alone. “I didn't ask you to call an ambulance,” I continue, trying not to panic. “I'd have been fine.”
“A doctor's coming to talk to you.”
“Well, I don't want a doctor coming to talk to me!”
“They seem to think it's important, James.”
“I don't give a crap what they think! I'm getting out of here!”
“Why are you so upset?” she asks. “What are you trying to avoid?”
At that moment, a nurse enters the room and comes over to me, and he immediately starts spewing out all the usual well-meaning bullshit that these people come up with. Meanwhile, Harry excuses herself, mutters something about giving us space and about getting back to the bar, and heads out of the room. Now she's delivered me to these people on a platter, I guess she thinks she can bail and go back to her regular life. I turn to call after her, but suddenly I spot another familiar face standing in the doorway.
Doctor Alexander. The last person I wanted to see. Doesn't she realize that if I wanted to talk to her, I wouldn't have been ignoring her calls for so long?
***
“The tumor is pressing quite hard against your gallbladder,” she says calmly, as we sit in her office. “In turn, that pressure is one of the causes of the extreme pain you've been experiencing, and it's also linked to the constipation. It's why regular pharmacy diuretics won't have been helping much. There's a physical pressure that no amount of medication is going to relieve.”
She looks down at her notes for a moment.
“The secondary tumor is -”
“Can we cut this part out?” I reply, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. I already fought tooth-and-nail to be allowed out of the bed and into Doctor Alexander's office, and now I'm itching to go home. I'm dressed and I have my shoes on, and really I'm just here to humor the doctor for a few minutes, to make her feel like she's doing her job. “The pain's gone,” I continue. “If the pain's gone, then there's no problem, is there? I can figure out the rest by myself.”
“You're on some very strong pain-killers, James.”
“Well give me more of those and I can be on my way.”
“That's not quite how it works. You can't live on pain-killers.”
“Why not?”
She sighs.
“I have work I need to be doing,” I add. “Do you know who I am?”
“I do.”
“So do you think I can afford to just sit here and ignore my responsibilities?”
“I'm sure you have deputies who can deputize for you.”
“There's a body,” I continue, even though I know I shouldn't tell her about the latest investigation. “An actual murder victim, waiting to be identified. Waiting for her murderer to be caught. Do you understand now why being here at the hospital is a waste of time?” I'm starting to feel breathless, but I can't let her see that. She'd only add it to her stupid list of symptoms. “My job is about life and death. Do you have any idea what that's like?”
“Well...” She hesitate for a moment. “I am a doctor, James.”
“The people you treat are going to die anyway,” I point out. “I have to get out there and make sure that no innocent, healthy people get killed.”
“You've been avoiding my phone calls.”
“Damn straight. Of course I have.”
I wait for a reply, for her to snap back at me with some kind of zinger, but she simply watches me with a hint of sadness in her eyes. I swear, she actually seems to pity me.
“What do you want?” I continue, shifting again. I know I'm being a little argumentative, but I can't help myself. I've got an unsettling feeling creeping between my ribs, and I want to get out of here. “So I avoided your calls. So what? I knew I was sick, I didn't need to know the exact details, did I? There's a tumor on my gallbladder and another on my liver and maybe another somewhere else and maybe the cancer's spreading, but I really don't need to know. I just need the appropriate medication to deal with the pain. That's your job, getting rid of the pain. The rest, I can deal with alone.”
“James -”
“Unless you've changed your mind and you think you can operate?”
“James -”
“Or am I terminal case?” I ask, interrupting her again. I'm sure she thinks I'm agitated, but in truth I'm just trying to cut through the bullshit. “The last time we spoke, you said you'd have to investigate
the possibilities, but I saw that look in your eyes. I could tell the so-called possibilities weren't exactly going to amount to much. I mean, if you want to operate on me, I'll head right along and jump on the table. Anything practical is fine. It's just the wishy-washy crap that doesn't interest me. If I'm still just dying, then I don't need you for that.”
“Have you spoken to your family about this?”
“About what?”
“About the fact that you're...”
She hesitates, as if she doesn't want to finish the sentence. She's a coward.
“There's a therapy approach I'd like you to try,” she continues finally. “It's quite new, but it's shown promise in trials and it could reduce the size of your tumors. It's a study, but I know the people in charge and I'm sure I could get you included.”
“Would it get rid of the tumors?”
“James -”
“Would it get rid of them completely?” I continue, even though I know the answer. “Would I be cured?”
“You've had three operations in five years, and -”
“Three useless operations,” I point out.
“A combined radiation and chemical therapy approach is the only option right now,” she adds. “Your tumors can be managed, and their growth can perhaps be significantly delayed. I'm not making any promises, but if you take the therapy option, you could double the time you have left. You could get six months, maybe a little more. Wouldn't you like that time to spend with your family?”
I stare at her for a moment, feeling pretty irritated by her bland, one-size-fits-all concern. Frankly, I don't even know where to begin pointing out how wrong she is about all of this. She's a hopeless case. She'll never understand.
“You don't know anything about my family,” I tell her finally.
“You have a daughter, don't you?”
I nod, even though it's none of her goddamn business. She's just a busy-body, useless pencil-pusher who spews out the same false hope to every poor soul who gets dragged into her office. Of course, if I say it like that out loud, she'll just think I'm angry.
“Have you spoken to your daughter recently, James?”
“Does that matter?”
“You told me once that you're divorced.”
“Should I call my ex-wife and let her know I'm dying?” I ask, barely able to spit the words out as I feel a ball of contempt in my gut. “Would that be a good idea? Give her the heads-up to start planning a party?”
“Are things really that bad between you?”
“No, things are great. Why else would she have divorced me and taken my daughter to the other side of the country?”
She sighs.
“I'm done here,” I continue, getting to my feet. There's still a flicker of pain in my gut, but I can handle that at home. I can take a few extra pain-killers and, if that doesn't work, there's always whiskey and self-discipline. “Thanks for the attempt to help, but I'm kind of in the middle of an important investigation. Unlike you, I actually can make a difference.”
I turn and start shuffling toward the door. I'm moving at the speed of an old man, but I'll fix myself up as soon as I'm out of this goddamn hospital.
“The therapy program will buy you some time, James,” she calls after me. “If you don't try the therapy, you need to start thinking about how you're going to break the news to your daughter. If you do try the therapy, you have a little longer to plan all of that. You can delay telling her, because you'll have longer.”
I reach for the handle, but then I hesitate for a moment.
“Because she doesn't know you're dying, does she?” she asks.
I want to tell this stupid woman to go to hell, but suddenly all my anger feels like it's draining away.
“Or maybe you won't call her either way,” she continues. “She lives on the other side of the country, isn't that what you just said? I guess you don't need to tell her. You can just wait until you die, and then she can find out some other way. That'll be nice for her, won't it?” Her voice trails off for a moment. “Taking the therapy program would most likely mean your daughter won't have to be given that news for a little while longer. You can maintain radio silence for an extra five, six, maybe nine months. You can kick the can further down the road, not only for yourself, but for her too. Delay the moment when she has to hear about her father's death.”
I hesitate for a moment, before turning to her.
“If you walk out of here tonight,” she adds, “you'll spend every spare moment wondering whether you should call her. If you stay for the therapy, you can put off thinking about that for a while. If I were in your position, and if calling my estranged daughter really wasn't an option, then I know what I'd choose.” She pauses. “What's her name?”
“Ramsey,” I whisper, shuddering slightly in the process.
“So for Ramsey's sake, James,” she continues, “why don't you sit down and let me tell you about the treatment program?”
Nine
Leanne Halperin
“Do you think he heard us?” I whisper, after what feels like the longest time. We've been crouching down behind the metal drums for ten, maybe fifteen minutes now, and the flashlight on the far side of the yard was switched off a long time ago. We even heard the farmhouse's front door swing shut, and there have been no more footsteps.
So maybe he's gone.
Maybe we got lucky.
I wait, but Ramsey doesn't say anything.
Next to me, the stupid dog is sitting quietly, although I'm terrified he'll start making a noise at any moment.
“He's gone, right?” I continue finally, hoping against hope that she'll agree and say we can make a run for it. Ramsey's smarter than me, she's more experienced with bad things in the world, so I'm certain she'll know what to do. Hell, any minute now she'll probably start laughing and tell me to stop panicking. “He wouldn't just be standing there in the darkness, still waiting for us. Would he?”
I can just about make out her face, and she seems to be peering toward the farmhouse through a gap between two of the metal drums.
“I mean, that'd be creepy right?” I add.
Still, no reply.
“Do you see anything?” I hiss, leaning closer to her.
She shakes her head, while keeping her gaze fixed on the gap.
“So do you think it's safe to make a run for it?”
“Wait,” she whispers. “And keep your voice down.”
“But if he's gone, then -”
“He's not gone.”
“Oh.” I feel a thud of fear in my chest. I know I should stay silent, but I figure nobody would be able to hear us whispering unless they were almost on top of us, and at least I'm certain there's no-one that close. Besides, if the guy knew where we were, he'd probably have come over to us by now. He's probably just some old, angry farm dude. “How do you know he's not gone?”
“Did you hear the front door slam shut?”
“Ages ago.”
“Me too, but he didn't go in. He pushed it shut and stayed outside.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very.”
I pause for a moment, as my mind races to figure out all the possibilities.
“So what does that mean?” I ask finally. “It doesn't have to mean anything bad, does it?”
“It means he shut off his flashlight and pushed the door shut, and it means I didn't hear him leave. So it means he's still out here somewhere, in the dark. Call me crazy, but I don't like that idea very much.”
“But we don't know he's dangerous.”
“No, we don't.”
“He might be up here for some totally legitimate reason.”
“He might.”
“He might be friendly.”
“He might.”
“He might want to help us.”
She pauses. “He might.”
“And...”
My voice trails off as I realize that I'm sounding a little desperate.
“I mean, we might be ov
erreacting,” I add finally. “It's probably cool, he's probably supposed to be up here and we're just trespassing, that's all. Maybe he's more scared of us than we are of him.”
“Like a spider?”
“Um... I guess.”
“You never know,” she replies. “Then again, maybe he's got night-vision goggles and he's watching us right now!”
I turn and look around at the darkness, and for a moment I imagine somebody out there, watching our every move. I even imagine my own face, bathed in static-filled green light with white-glowing eyes.
“Thanks for putting that image in my head,” I whisper.
“I'm just saying, we don't need to find out who this guy is. We don't need to know. We just need to get the hell out of here. Maybe he's a knife-wielding maniac. Maybe he's a good guy and he called the cops. Maybe he's Santa Claus and Jesus Christ and Dawson Leery all rolled into one. Either way, I'd rather leave without having to talk to him. Wouldn't you?”
Next to me, Keanu starts pawing at a patch of dirt.
“Quiet!” I hiss, reaching out and stroking his flank.
“We can't go through the yard,” Ramsey continues, keeping her voice low. “We'll go back around the barn and onto the field again, and then we'll just head toward the road. The shortcut's out of the question now, but if we take the long way round we should be able to make it without bumping into this guy.”
“My legs are tired.”
“Mine too.”
“So maybe the shortcut is -”
“No way,” she says firmly. “I'm not risking it.”
“Okay,” I reply, figuring that she's probably right. At least she's taking charge. I like that. “Let's just -”
Before I can finish, Keanu suddenly turns and starts barking furiously at the darkness. I spin around, terrified that I'll find a figure looming toward us, but all I see is the silhouettes of out-buildings against the night sky. Maybe the guy's out there, maybe Ramsey's right and he has night-vision glasses and a ton of other equipment. Keanu is clearly angry at something, and now the hackles on the back of his neck are standing up like crazy.
