by Dean Koontz
A few minutes after Susan woke from her nap, the bedside phone rang. She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Susan?”
“Yes.”
“My God, I was so relieved to hear you were out of the coma. Burt and I have been worried half to death!”
“I’m sorry. Uh ... I ... I’m not really sure who this is.”
“It’s me. Franny.”
“Franny?”
“Franny Pascarelli, your next-door neighbor.”
“Oh, Franny. Sure. I’m sorry.”
Franny hesitated, then said, “You ... uh ... you do remember me, don’t you?”
“Of course. I just didn’t recognize your voice at first.”
“I heard there was some ... amnesia.”
“I’ve gotten over most of that.”
“Thank God.”
“How are you, Franny?”
“Never mind about me. I waddle along from day to day, fighting the dreaded double chin and the insidious, ever-expanding waistline, but nothing ever really gets me down. You know me. But my God, what you’ve been through! How are you?”
“Getting better by the hour.”
“The people where you work ... they said you might not come out of the coma. We were worried sick. Then this morning Mr. Gomez called and said you were going to be okay. I was so happy that I sat down and ate a whole Sara Lee coffee cake.”
Susan laughed.
“Listen,” Franny said, “don’t worry about your house or anything like that. We’re taking care of things for you.”
“I’m sure you are. It’s a relief having you for a neighbor, Franny.”
“Well, you’d do the same for us.”
They talked for a couple of minutes, not about anything important, just catching up on neighborhood gossip.
When Susan hung up, she felt as if she had at last established contact with the past that she had almost lost forever. She hadn’t felt that way when she had spoken with Phil Gomez, for he had been merely a voice without a face, a cipher. But she remembered pudgy Franny Pascarelli, and remembering made all the difference. She and Franny were not really close friends; nevertheless, just talking to the woman made Susan feel that there truly was another world beyond Willawauk County Hospital and that she would eventually return to it. Curiously, talking to Franny also made Susan feel more isolated and alone than ever before.
Dr. McGee made his evening rounds shortly before dinnertime. He was wearing blue slacks, a red plaid shirt, a blue vee-neck sweater, and an open lab coat. Chest hairs, as black as those on his head, curled out of the open neck of his shirt. He was so slim and handsome that he looked as if he had stepped out of a men’s fashion advertisement in a slick magazine.
He brought her a large, prettily wrapped box of chocolates and a few paperback books.
“You shouldn’t have done this,” Susan said, reluctantly accepting the gifts.
“It’s not much. I wanted to.”
“Well ... thank you.”
“Besides, it’s all therapeutic. The candy will help you put on the weight you need. And the books will keep your mind off your troubles. I wasn’t sure what kind of thing you liked to read, but since you mentioned Philip Marlowe and Raymond Chandler yesterday, I thought you might like mysteries.”
“These are perfect,” she said.
He pulled up a chair beside her bed, and they talked for almost twenty minutes, partly about her exercise sessions, partly about her appetite, partly about the remaining blank spots in her memory, but mostly about personal things like favorite books, favorite foods, favorite movies.
They didn’t talk about Peter Johnson, the Quince look-alike she had seen this morning. She was afraid of sounding hysterical or-even-irrational. Two dead ringers? McGee would have to wonder if the problem wasn’t in her own perceptions. She didn’t want him to think she was at all ... unbalanced.
Besides, in truth, she wasn’t entirely sure that her perceptions weren’t affected by her head injury. Her doubts about herself were small, niggling, but they were doubts nonetheless.
Finally, as McGee was getting up to leave, she said, “I don’t see how you have any time for a private life, considering how much time you spend with your patients.”
“Well, I don’t spend as much time with other patients as I spend with you. You’re special.”
“I guess you don’t often get a chance to treat an amnesiac,” she said.
He smiled, and the smile was not conveyed solely by the curve of his finely formed lips; his eyes were a part of it, too—so clear, so blue, filled with what seemed to be affection. “It’s not your amnesia that makes you so special. And I’m sure you’re very well aware of that.”
She wasn’t quite sure of him. She didn’t know if he was just being nice, just trying to lift her spirits, or whether he really found her attractive. But how could he find her appealing in her current condition? Every time she looked in the mirror, she thought of a drowned rat. Surely, his flirting was just a standard part of his professional bedside manner.
“How’s your roommate been behaving?” he asked in a very soft, conspiratorial voice.
Susan glanced at the curtain. “Quiet as a mouse,” she whispered.
“Good. That means she’s not in pain. There isn’t much I can do for her, but at least I can make her last days relatively painless.”
“Oh, is she your patient?”
“Yes. Delightful woman. It’s a shame that dying has to be such a long, slow process for her. She deserved a much better, cleaner exit.”
He went to the other bed and stepped behind the curtain.
Yet again, Susan failed to get a glimpse of Mrs. Seiffert.
Behind the curtain, McGee said, “Hello, Jessie. How are you feeling today?”
There was a murmured response, nearly inaudible, a dry and brittle rasp, too low for Susan to make out any of the woman’s words, even too low to be positively identifiable as a human voice.
She listened to McGee’s side of the conversation for a minute or two, and then there was a minute of silence. When he came out from behind the curtain, she craned her neck, trying to see the old woman. But the curtain was drawn aside just enough for McGee to pass, not an inch more, and he let it fall shut immediately in his wake.
“She’s a tough lady,” he said with obvious admiration. Then he blinked at Susan and said, “In fact she’s more than a little bit like you.”
“Nonsense,” Susan said. “I’m not tough. For heaven’s sake, you should have seen me hobbling around this bed today, leaning on poor Mrs. Baker so hard that it’s a miracle I didn’t drag both of us down.”
“I mean tough inside,” McGee said.
“I’m a marshmallow.” She was embarrassed by his compliments because she still couldn’t decide in what spirit they were offered. Was he courting her? Or merely being nice? She changed the subject: “If you drew back the curtain, Mrs. Seiffert could watch some TV with me this evening.”
“She’s asleep,” McGee said. “Fell asleep while I was talking to her. She’ll probably sleep sixteen hours a day or more from here on out.”
“Well, she might wake up later,” Susan persisted.
“Thing is—she doesn’t want the curtain left open. She’s somewhat vain about her appearance.”
“Mrs. Baker told me about that. But I’m sure I could make her feel at ease. She might be self-conscious at first, but I know I could make her feel comfortable.”
“I’m sure you could,” he said, “but I—”
“It can be excruciatingly boring just lying in bed all day. Some TV might make the time pass more quickly for her.”
McGee took her hand. “Susan, I know you mean well, but I think it’s best we leave the curtain closed, as Jessie prefers. You forget she’s dying. She might not want the time to pass more quickly. Or she may find quiet contemplation infinitely preferable to watching an episode of ‘Dallas’ or ‘The Jeffersons.’”
Although he hadn’t spoken sharply
, Susan was stung by what he had said. Because he was right, of course. No TV sitcom was going to cheer up a dying woman who was teetering between drug-heavy sleep and intolerable pain.
“I didn’t mean to be insensitive,” she said.
“Of course you didn’t. And you weren’t. Just let Jessie sleep, and stop worrying about her.” He squeezed Susan’s hand, patted it, and finally let it go. “I’ll see you in the morning for a few minutes.”
She sensed that he was trying to decide whether or not to bend down and kiss her on the cheek. He started to do it, then drew back, as if he were as unsure of her feelings as she was of his. Or maybe she was only imagining those intentions and reactions; she couldn’t make up her mind which it had been.
“Sleep well.”
“I will,” she said.
He went to the door, stopped, turned to her again. “By the way, I’ve scheduled some therapy for you in the morning.”
“What kind of therapy?”
“PT—physical therapy. Exercise, muscle training. For your legs, mostly. And a session in the whirlpool. An orderly will be around to take you downstairs to the PT unit sometime after breakfast.”
Mrs. Seiffert couldn’t feed herself, so a nurse fed dinner to her. Even that task was performed with the curtain drawn.
Susan ate dinner and read a mystery novel, which she enjoyed because it kept her mind off the Harch and Quince look-alikes.
Later, after a snack of milk and cookies, she shuffled to the bathroom, supporting herself against the wall, then shuffled back. The return trip seemed twice as long as the original journey.
When the night nurse brought a sedative, Susan knew she didn’t need it, but she took it anyway, and in a short time she was sound asleep—
“Susan... Susan... Susan... ”
—until a voice softly calling her name penetrated her sleep and caused her to sit suddenly upright in bed.
“Sasan ... ”
Her heart was hammering because, even as groggy as she was, she detected something sinister in that voice.
The night lamp provided little light, but the room was not entirely dark. As far as she could see, no one was there.
She waited to hear her name again.
The night remained silent.
“Who’s there?” she asked at last, squinting into the purple-black shadows in the corners of the room.
No one answered.
Shaking off the last clinging threads of sleep, she realized that the voice had come from her left, from the curtained bed. And it had been a man’s voice.
The curtain still encircled the bed. In spite of the gloom, she could see it. The white material reflected and seemed even to amplify the meager glow of the night light. The curtain appeared to shimmer like a cloud of phosphorus.
“Is someone there?” she asked.
Silence.
“Mrs. Seiffert?”
The curtain didn’t move.
Nothing moved.
According to the radiant face of the nightstand clock, it was 3:42 in the morning.
Susan hesitated, then snapped on the bedside lamp. The bright light stung her eyes, and she left it on only long enough to be sure there was no one lurking where the shadows had been. Jessica Seiffert’s shrouded bed looked far less threatening in full light than it had in darkness.
She clicked off the lamp.
The shadows scurried back to their nests, and their nests were everywhere.
Maybe I was dreaming, she thought. Maybe it was only a voice calling to me in a dream.
But she was pretty sure that tonight had provided the first dreamless sleep she’d had since coming out of her coma.
She fumbled for the bed controls and raised herself halfway up into a sitting position. For a while she listened to the darkness, waited.
She didn’t think she would be able to get back to sleep. The strange voice had reminded her of the Harch and Quince look-alikes, and that seemed like a perfect prescription for insomnia. But the sedative she had been given was evidently still doing its work, for in time she dozed.
6
All day yesterday a storm had been pending. The sky had looked beaten, bruised, and swollen.
Now, Tuesday morning, the storm broke with no warning other than a single clap of thunder so loud that it seemed to shake the entire hospital. Rain fell suddenly and heavily like a giant tent collapsing with a whoosh and a roar.
Susan couldn’t see the storm because the curtain around the other bed blocked her view of the window. But she could hear the thunder and see the brilliant flashes of lightning. The fat raindrops pounded on the unseen windowpane with the force of drumbeats.
She ate a filling breakfast of hot cereal, toast, juice, and a sweet roll, shuffled to and from the bathroom with more assurance and with less pain than she’d had last evening, then settled down in bed with another mystery novel.
She had read only a few pages when two orderlies arrived with a wheeled stretcher. The first one through the door said, “We’re here to take you down to the physical therapy department, Miss Thorton.”
She put her book aside, looked up—and felt as if February had just breathed down the back of her neck.
They were dressed in hospital whites, and the blue stitched lettering on their shirt pockets said Willawauk County Hospital, but they weren’t merely two orderlies. They weren’t anything as simple as that, nothing as ordinary as that.
The first man, the one who had spoken, was about five feet seven, pudgy, with dirty blond hair, a round face, dimpled chin, pug nose, and the small quick eyes of a pig. The other was taller, perhaps six feet, with red hair, hazel eyes, and a fair complexion spattered with freckles under the eyes and across the bridge of the nose; he was not handsome, but certainly good looking, and his open face, his soft-edged features, were distinctly Irish.
The pudgy one was Carl Jellicoe.
The redhead was Herbert Parker.
They were the last of the four fraternity brothers from the House of Thunder, friends of Harch and Quince.
Impossible. Nightmare creatures. They were meant to inhabit only the land of sleep.
But she was awake. And they were here. Real.
“Some storm, isn’t it?” Jellicoe asked conversationally as a cannonade of thunder shot through the sky.
Parker pushed the wheeled stretcher all the way into the room and parked it parallel to Susan’s bed.
Both men were smiling.
She realized that they were young, twenty or twenty-one. Like the others, they had been utterly untouched by the passing of thirteen years.
Two more look-alikes? Showing up here at the same time? Both of them employed as orderlies by the Willawauk County Hospital? No. Ridiculous. Preposterous. The odds against such an incredible coincidence were astronomical.
They had to be the real thing, Jellicoe and Parker themselves, not dead ringers.
But then, with stomach-wrenching suddenness, she remembered that Jellicoe and Parker were dead.
Dammit, they were dead.
Yet they were here, too, smiling at her.
Madness.
“No,” Susan said, shrinking back from them, moving to the opposite edge of the bed, tight up against the tubular metal railing, which burned coldly through her thin pajamas. “No, I’m not going downstairs with you. Not me.”
Jellicoe feigned puzzlement. Pretending not to see that she was terrified, pretending not to understand what she really meant, he glanced at Parker and said, “Have we fouled up? I thought we were supposed to bring down Thorton in two fifty-eight.”
Parker fished in his shirt pocket, pulled out a folded slip of paper, opened it, read it. “Says right here. Thorton in two-five-eight.”
Susan wouldn’t have thought she’d known Jellicoe and Parker well enough to recognize their voices after thirteen years. She had met both of them for the first time on the night that they and the two others had beaten and murdered Jerry Stein. At the trial, Jellicoe had not spoken a word on the wit
ness stand, had never even taken the stand, for he had exercised his rights under the Fifth Amendment to avoid incriminating himself; Parker had testified but not at length. Indeed, she didn’t recognize Carl Jellicoe’s voice. But when Herbert Parker spoke, reading from the slip of paper he had taken from his shirt pocket, Susan jerked in surprise, for he spoke with a Boston accent, which was something she had nearly forgotten.
He looked like Parker. He spoke like Parker. He had to be Parker.
But Herbert Parker was dead, buried, and rotting away in a grave somewhere!
They were both looking at her strangely.
She wanted to look at the nightstand, behind her, to see if there was anything she could conceivably use as a weapon, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off them.
Jellicoe said, “Didn’t your doctor tell you we’d be taking you downstairs for therapy this morning?”
“Get out of here,” she said, her voice strained, tremulous. “Go away.”
The two men glanced at each other.
A series of preternaturally brilliant lightning bolts pierced the cloud-dark day, shimmered on the rain-washed windowpane, and cast stroboscopic patterns of light and shadow on the wall opposite the foot of Susan’s bed. The eerie light briefly transformed Carl Jellicoe’s face, distorted it, so that for an instant his eyes were sunken caverns with a bead of hot white light far down at the bottom of each.
To Susan, Parker said, “Hey, listen, there’s really nothing to worry about. It’s only therapy, you know. It’s not painful or anything like that.”
“Yeah,” Jellicoe said, now that the incredible barrage of lightning was over. He wrinkled his piggish face in an unnaturally broad smile. “You’ll really like it down in the PT department, Miss Thorton.” He stepped up to the bed and started to put down the railing on that side. “You’ll love the whirlpool.”
“I said, get out!” Susan screamed. “Get out! Get the hell out of here!”
Jellicoe flinched, stepped back.
Susan shook violently. Each beat of her heart was like the concrete-busting impact of a triphammer.
