and eat at the same time and for the moment his hunger was less
compelling than need to tell her about his day. She refilled her bowl
and freshed his.
Beyond the walls of his own small home, he was only slightly more
talkative than a stone, but in Felina's company he was as loquacious as
a talk-show host. He didn't just prattle, either but settled with
surprising ease into the role of a polished comedian. He had learned
how to deliver an anecdote in a way as to sharpen its impact and
maximize Felina's response for he loved to elicit a laugh from her or
watch her eyes with surprise. In all of Clint's life, she was the first
person whose opinion of him truly mattered, and he wanted her to think
of him as smart, clever, witty, and fun.
Early in their relationship he had wondered if her deafness had anything
to do with his ability to open up to her. Ever since birth, she had
never heard the spoken word and therefore had not learned to speak
clearly. She responded to Clint-and would later tell him about her own
day-by way of sign language, which he had studied in order to understand
nimble-fingered speech. Initially he had thought that the m
encouragement to intimacy was her disability, which ensured that his
innermost feelings and secrets, once revealed to her would go no
further; a conversation with Felina was anyway as private as a
conversation with himself. In time, however he finally understood that
he opened up to her in spite of deafness, not because of it, and that he
wanted her to understand him.
his every thought and experience-and to share hers in return-simply
because he loved her.
When he told Felina how Bobby and Julie had adjourned to the bathroom
for three private chats during Frank Pollard's appointment, she laughed
delightedly. He loved that sound; it was so warm and singularly
melodious, as if the great joy in life that she could not express in
spoken words was entirely channeled into her laughter.
"They're some pair, the Dakotas," he said.
"When you first meet them, they seem so dissimilar in some ways, you
figure they can't possibly work well together. But then you get to know
them, you see how they fit like two pieces of a puzzle, and you realize
they've got a nearly perfect relationship." Felina put down her soup
spoon and signed: So do we.
"We sure do."
"We fit better than puzzle pieces. We fit like a plug and socket."
"We sure do," he agreed, smiling. Then he picked up on the sly sexual
connotation of what she'd said, and he laughed.
"You're a filthy-minded wench, aren't you?" She grinned and nodded.
"Plug and socket, huh?" Big plug, tight socket, good fit.
"Later on, I'll check your wiring." I am in desperate need of a
first-rate electrician. But tell me more about this new client.
Thunder cracked and clattered across the night outside, and a sudden
gust of wind rattled the rain against the window. The sounds of the
storm made the warm and aromatic kitchen even more inviting by
comparison. Clint sighed with contentment, then was touched by a brief
sadness when he realized that the deeply satisfying sense of shelter,
induced by the sounds of thunder and rain, was a specific pleasure that
Felina could never experience or share with him.
From his pants pocket he withdrew one of the red gems that Frank Pollard
had brought to the office.
"I borrowed this one 'cause I wanted you to see it. The guy had a
jarful of them." She pinched the grape-sized stone between thumb and
index finger and held it up to the light. Beautiful, she signed with
her free hand. She put the gem beside her soup bowl, on the cream-white
Formica surface of the kitchen table. Is it very valuable?
"We don't know yet," he said.
"We'll get an opinion from a gemologist tomorrow." I think it's
valuable.
"When you take it back to them make sure there's no hole in your pocket.
I have a hunch YOU'D have to work a long time to pay for it if You lost
it.
The stone took in the kitchen light, bounced it from prism to prism, and
cast it back with a bright tint, painting Felina's face with luminous
crimson spots and smears. She seem to be spattered with blood.
A queer foreboding overtook Clint.
She signed, What are you frowning about?
He didn't know what to say. His uneasiness was out of proportion to the
cause of it. A cold prickling sweat swiftly progressed from the base of
his spine all the way to the back of his neck as if dominoes of ice were
falling in a row. He reached out moved the gem a few inches, so the
blood-red reflections on the wall beside Felina instead of on her face.
By ONE-THIRTY in the morning, Hal Yamataka was thoroughly hooked by the
John D. MacDonald novel, The Last One Left The room's only chair wasn't
the most comfort :it.
able seat he'd ever parked his butt in, and the antiseptic smell of the
hospital always made him a bit queasy, and the chili rellenos he'd eaten
for dinner were still coming back on him, but the book was so involving
that eventually he forgot all of those minor discomforts.
He even forgot Frank Pollard for a while, until he heard a brief hiss,
like air escaping under pressure, and felt a sudden draft. He looked
away from the book, expecting to see Pollard sitting up in the bed or
trying to get out of it, but Pollard was not there.
Startled, Hal sprang up, dropping the book.
The bed was empty. Pollard had been there all night, asleep for the
last hour, but now he was gone. The place was not brightly lighted
because the fluorescence behind the bed were turned off, but the shadows
beyond the reading lamp were too shallow to conceal a man. The sheets
were not tossed aside but were draped neatly across the mattress, and
both of the side railings were locked in place, as if Frank Pollard had
evaporated like a figure carved from Dry Ice.
Hal was certain that he would have heard Pollard lower one of the
railings, get out of bed, then lift the railing into place again. Surely
he would have heard Pollard climbing over it too.
The window was closed. Rain washed down the glass, glimmering with
silvery reflections of the room's light. They were on the sixth floor,
and Pollard could not escape by the window, yet Hal checked it, noting
that it was not merely closed but locked.
Stepping to the door of the adjoining bathroom, he said, "Frank?"
When no one answered, he entered. The bath was deserted.
Only the narrow closet remained as a viable hiding place. Hal opened it
and found two hangers that held the clothes Pollard had been wearing
when he'd checked into the hospital. The man's shoes were there, too,
with his socks neatly rolled and tucked into them.
"He can't have gotten past me and into the hall," Hal said as if giving
voice to that contention would magically make true.
He pulled open the heavy door and rushed into the corridor. No one was
in sight in either direction.
He turned to the left, hurried to the emergency exit at the end of
the
hall, and opened the door. Standing on the sixth floor landing, he
listened for footsteps rising or descending and heard none, peered over
the iron railing, down into the well then up. He was alone.
Retracing his steps, he returned to Pollard's room an glanced inside at
the empty bed. Still disheveled, he proceeded to the junction of
corridors, where he turned right an went to the glass-walled nurses'
station.
None of the five night-shift nurses had seen Pollard on the move. Since
the elevators were directly opposite the nurse station, where Pollard
would have had to wait in full view of the people on duty, it seemed
unlikely that he had left the hospital by that route,
"I thought you were watching over him," said Grace Fugham, the
gray-haired supervisor of the sixth-floor night staff. Her solid build,
indomitable manner, and life-worn but kin face would have made her
perfect for the female lead if Hollywood ever started remaking the old
Two Gun Annie or Ma an Pa Kettle movies.
"Wasn't that your job?"
"I never left the room, but-"
"Then how did he get past you?"
"I don't know," Hal said, chagrined.
"But the important thing is... he's suffering from partial amnesia,
somewhat con fused. He might wander off anywhere, out of the hospital,
God knows where. I can't figure how he got past me, but we have to find
him." Mrs. Fulgham and a younger nurse named Janet Soto, helped make a
swift and quiet inspection of all the rooms along Pollard's corridor.
Hal accompanied Nurse Fulgham. As they were checking out 604, where two
elderly men snored softly, he heard eerie music, barely audible. As he
turned, seeking the source, the notes faded away.
If Nurse Fulgham heard the music, she did not remark on it. A moment
later in the next room, 606, when those strains a rose once more,
marginally louder than before, she whispered,
"What is that?"
To Hal it sounded like a flute. The unseen flautist produced no
discernible melody, but the flow of notes was haunting nonetheless.
They reentered the hall as the music stopped again, and just as a draft
swept along the corridor.
"Someone's left a window open-or probably a stairway door," the nurse
said quietly but pointedly:
"Not me," Hal assured her.
Janet Soto stepped out of the room across the hall just as the blustery
draft abruptly died. She frowned at them, shrugged, then headed toward
the next room on her side.
The flute warbled softly. The draft struck up again, stronger than
before, and beneath the astringent odors of the hospital, Hal thought he
detected a faint scent of smoke.
Leaving Grace Fulgham to her search, Hal hurried toward the far end of
the corridor. He intended to check the door at the head of the
emergency stairs, to make sure that he hadn't left it open.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the door to Pollard's room beginning
to swing shut, and he realized that the draft must be coming from in
there. He pushed through the door before it could close, and saw Frank
sitting up in bed, looking confused and frightened.
The draft and flute had given way to stillness, silence.
"Where did you go?" Hal asked, approaching the bed.
"Fireflies," Pollard said, apparently dazed. His hair was spiked and
tangled, and his round face was pale.
"Fireflies?"
"Fireflies in a windstorm," Pollard said.
Then he vanished. One second he was sitting in bed, as real and solid
as anyone Hal had ever known, and the next second he was gone as
inexplicably and neatly as a ghost abandoning a haunt. A brief hiss,
like air escaping from a punctured tire accompanied his departure.
Hal swayed as if he had been stricken. For a moment his heart seemed to
seize up, and he was paralyzed by surprise when Nurse Fulgham stepped
into the doorway.
"No sign of him in any of the rooms off this corridor. He might've gone
up to another floor-don't you think?"
"Uh...."
"Before we check out the rest of this level, maybe I'd better call
security and get them moving on a search of the entire hospital. Mr.
Yamataka?" Hal glanced at her, then back at the empty bed.
"Uh.
yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea. He might wander off to.
God knows where." Nurse Fulgham hurried away.
Weak-kneed, Hal went to the door, closed it, put his back against it,
and stared at the bed across the room. After a while he said,
"Are you there, Frank?" He received no answer. He had not expected
one. Frank Pollard had not turned invisible; he had gone somewhere,
some how.
Not sure as to why he was less wonder struck than frightened of what he
had seen, Hal hesitantly crossed the room to the bed. He gingerly
touched the stainless-steel railing, as if he thought that Pollard's
vanishing act had tapped some elemental force leaving a deadly residual
current in the bed. But no spark crackled under his fingertips; the
metal was cool and smooth He waited, wondering how soon Pollard would
reappear wondering if he ought to call Bobby now or wait until Pollard
materialized, wondering if the man would materialize again disappear
forever.
For the first time in memory, Hal Yamataka was gripped by indecision; he
was ordinarily quick to think and quick to act, but he had never come
face to face with the supernatural before.
The only thing he knew for sure was that he must not allow Fulgham or
anyone on the floor, or anyone else in the hospital to find out what had
really happened.
Pollard was caught up in a phenomenon, afraid that word of it would
spread quickly from the hospital staff to the press. Protecting a
client's privacy was always of Dakota & Dakota's prime objectives, but
in this case it was even more important than usual. Bobby and Julie had
said that someone was hunting for Pollard, evidently with violent
intentions; therefore, keeping the press out of the case might be
essential if the client was to survive.
The door opened, and Hal jumped as if he'd been stuck with a hatpin.
In the doorway stood Grace Fulgham, looking as if she had just either
guided a tugboat through stormy seas or chopped and carried a couple of
cords of firewood that Pa had been too lazy to deal with.
"Security's putting a man at every exit to stop him if he tries to
leave, and we're mobilizing the nursing staff on each floor to look for
him. Do you intend to join the search?"
"Uh, well, I've got to call the office, my boss.
"If we find him, where will we find you?"
"Here. Right here. I'll be here, making some calls." She nodded and
went away. The door eased shut after her.
A privacy curtain hung from a ceiling track that described an arc around
three sides of the bed. It was bunched against the wall, but Hal
Yamataka drew it to the foot of the bed, blocking the view from the
doorway, in case Pollard materialized just as someone stepped in from
the corridor.
His hands were shaking, so he jammed the
m in his pockets.
Then he took his left hand out to look at his wristwatch: 1:48.
Pollard had been missing for perhaps eighteen minutes, except, of
course, for the few seconds during which he had flickered into existence
and talked about fireflies in a windstorm. Hal decided to wait until
two o'clock to call Bobby and Julie.
He stood at the foot of the bed, clutching the railing with one hand,
listening to the night wind crying at the window and the rain snapping
against the glass. The minutes crawled past like snails on an incline,
but at least the wait gave him time to calm down and think about how he
would tell Bobby what had happened.
As the hands on his watch lined up at two o'clock, he went the rest of
the way around the bed and was reaching for the phone on the nightstand
when he heard the eerie ululation of a distant flute. The half-drawn
bed-curtain fluttered in a sudden draft.
He returned to the foot of the bed and looked past the end of the
curtain to the hallway door. It was closed. That was the source of the
draft.
The flute died. The air in the room grew still, leaden.
Abruptly the curtain shivered and rippled, gently rattling the bearings
in the overhead track, and a cool breeze swept around the room, ruffling
Koontz, Dean R. - The Bad Place Page 23
