Trifecta

by Pam Richter

  "I want you to take these now."

  "What are they?" Heather asked, looking distastefully at the pills in her hand.

  The doctor didn't answer, just sat there and watched her.

  "I really can't," Heather said.

  "Come now. They'll help you get well."

  Heather shook her head. "I'm not sick."

  "You must take them," the doctor said, emphatically.

  Heather put the pills on the table beside the bed. "I can't take pills."

  "You regurgitated so much you dehydrated yourself. If you refuse, we'll have to give you an injection."

  "Fine," Heather said.

  The doctor gave them both disproving looks and stalked out. "As if I regurgitated and dehydrated myself on purpose," Heather said when the door closed. She took the pills and threw them toward the wastebasket across the room. A bad shot. "Just salt minerals anyway."

  "What was that all about?"

  "I can't swallow pills. And he knows it because they have my medical records. Normally they would rather stick you with needles anyway. Most of the time."

  "They already have your medical records?"

  "Yeah. I come here every six months or so. For tests. I'm fine, really."

  "Do you mind my asking?" Michelle said delicately.

  "I had infantile leukemia. So I normally get tested a couple of times a year. Cancer runs in my family."

  That explained the enormous volume the doctor had been reading from.

  "You never said anything," Michelle said.

  "Freaks some people out...to know you had cancer."

  "I'm really sorry. How old were you?"

  "Six. That's why I never take pills. They used to give me huge ones. And one day I just couldn't swallow them any more. I was small and the pills were so big. I would choke. Every time. It's really in my chart."

  "I believe you." Michelle felt sad imagining Heather as a tiny child trying to swallow gigantic horse pills.

  "But that's not the reason I'm angry at that doctor. He wouldn't believe me when I told him I remembered falling. And why it happened."

  "Why not?"

  "He said it was impossible. See, I thought memories were knocked out of the brain some way when you're hit on the head. But evidently that's not the reason people don't remember accidents. The doctor explained that the brain takes time to make memories. About a half hour. And when you're unconscious your brain can't do it. So most people don't remember when they are in car accidents, or assaulted, or anything like that."

  "But you do."

  "Yes. I remember it vividly. I don't know why I was running over the rocks, or how I got into that bathing suit, but all of a sudden someone called my name. I saw a man standing on the beach below me. He was tall and dark. He was waving and yelling. It surprised me so much that I wasn't paying attention. I slipped and fell."

  "Franklin must have seen him. Or heard him."

  Heather shook her head. "He says he didn't see anyone."

  "Did you recognize the guy?"

  Heather looked uncomfortable. "I can't be sure."

  "But you think you know?"

  Heather nodded, looking down.

  "I'll believe you," Michelle said.

  "It sounds silly."

  "What?"

  "It looked like that new man in the building. The one who gave you the drink with vodka."

  "Omar?"

  "Yeah. It looked like him," Heather said.

  CHAPTER 7

  By the time Michelle got back to the office after visiting Heather at the hospital, it was so late everyone had left. There was a note on her desk, written in large block letters: GO HOME, N.

  Michelle smiled and crumpled the note. Nakamura was very perceptive. She glanced at the yellow roses and wondered if he had read the note from Omar when he was alone in her office. She knew for a fact that the Japanese were terribly devious, and sneaky. Her boss, Tom Mitsuto, routinely listened in on personal phone calls, from a special and probably illegal device on his phone. His intercom could amplify private conversations from any of the offices back to his own. And Nakamura had evidently lived most of his life in Japan.

  But really, Michelle thought as she looked around her office, she might as well go home because there wasn't much she could do. She read the police report about the bank robbery. The thieves got away with approximately $200,000.00 and were still at large. The police were speculating that it was an inside job. The two robbers had been smuggled into the back of the building and hidden in a janitorial closet until the end of the working day, when the tellers had a lot of cash. They wore Halloween masks. Michelle was interested in a superficial way. She didn't feel Heroshi could be held accountable. They had been given the investigative report as a courtesy.

  When Michelle finally arrived home she knew she should call Omar and thank him for the flowers, but she felt almost drugged with the need to sleep and decided to avoid that duty until morning. The flowers, which had earlier seemed so special, now seemed more like an embarrassment. She believed that Heather had indeed seen someone on the beach, but doubted that it really could have been Omar. Still, he was so distinctive looking he would be a hard person to mistake. The thought made her dread any communication with him, fearing irrationally that he would know she suspected him of something.

  As Michelle undressed in the bathroom she glanced at her nude body and wondered if she would ever have sex again. And what would happen if she did? If she didn't tell the man that she had disfiguring scars and just turned off the lights, he would undoubtedly feel them by touch and probably ask for an explanation. Or, if she told him ahead of time, she would have to get into the topic of forcible rape. A guarantee turn-off.

  The next morning Michelle wakened early with fragments of dream visions that came back while she showered and dressed. In the visual, olfactory or auditory perceptual triggers which produced incomplete memory details of the dreams, all she caught were nightmarish visions of Heather in danger and screaming; Omar high on a cliff beckoning to her, his cape flapping around him dramatically, and an image of Nakamura doubled with derisive laughter, pointing at her. The visions were troubling and distasteful and filled with apprehensions. It was like seeing distorted reflections in a macabre fun-house mirror.

  When Michelle, still very tired, reached blearily for her toothbrush she grabbed empty air and then saw it on the other side of the sink. The same thing happened when she reached for her brush. It was in the wrong drawer. She stood frowning for a moment because when you live alone you always know where you leave the things you use each day. It's part habit and part convenience; no one thinks about where the ordinary things are placed. It was like a tiny earthquake had struck and jostled things out of order. She had a strange feeling that she was slowly losing her mind. How could she have misplaced such common objects? It was like the beginning stages of Alzheimer's disease, which must be one of the most terrible realizations that anyone can go through.

  When she got dressed her pantyhose were hung on the wrong hook and her bra was under her slips instead of its own section of the drawer. It was perplexing.

  Michelle mixed cranberry juice and orange juice in a glass and poured whey protein power into the fruit juice. She stirred the mixture, her usual hasty breakfast, as she drank because the protein powder tended to clump on the bottom. With her liquid meal she swallowed a double dosage of vitamins in case she was coming down with some kind of flu. Or some fast acting case of mental imbalance characterized by forgetfulness. The objects that were misplaced in her own apartment disturbed her. And the partially remembered dream fragments seemed like fever induced nightmares.

  She had arranged to pick up Heather at the hospital and bring her home if she was pronounced okay by her doctor. She would drive in to the office afterward.

  Usually she read the newspaper and had a second cup of coffee before leaving, but she was rushed and kicked the newspaper lying at her doorway into her apartment on the way out. Michelle wanted to talk to
the doctor before she took Heather home. The nurse told her he made rounds at 6:00 a.m.

  When the elevator doors spread open in front of her, Omar was standing inside with a woman. The woman was elegantly dressed and looked ready for a night on the town. She was very beautiful, with bright red hair, which appeared uncombed. Michelle took all this in in about a second, and in the next she surmised that the woman must have stayed the night with Omar, after having gone someplace luxurious, and had neglected to bring a change of clothing. Under the circumstances Michelle was embarrassed to catch them in such a delicate situation. And she knew she should thank Omar for the flowers, but couldn't in front of his female friend.

  "Hello, Shelly," Omar said.

  Michelle smiled and nodded, and turned to face the door, watching the lighted elevator buttons as they began the descent.

  "I hope you received the message I sent to your office?" Omar said.

  "We all enjoyed it very much," Shelly said diffidently, feeling rather strange about his reference to the flowers when he had a beautiful woman standing next to him. He was one cool customer.

  On the trip downward she berated herself for contemplating so seriously whether she would go out with him again. As if she had a choice, and as if he would ask, with the evidence of that gorgeous creature beside him. You have made a fool of yourself, Michelle thought. He was just being nice, taking a neighbor for a drink. Then sending the flowers the next day because of the misunderstanding. Goofhead. Dumb. Stupid. Nincompoop. You are really dense, Shelly. She didn't want to acknowledge that she was also feeling sad and disappointed, but did note she felt rather gloomy this morning.

  "I'd like to introduce you to my sister, Michelle. We call her Ginger. Obviously because of her hair," Omar explained.

  Michelle whirled around and shook hands with the woman, murmuring pleasantries. The woman did have a pronounced French accent when she spoke. Omar and Ginger did not look at all alike, except for their exceptional attractiveness.

  "May I call you at work? Perhaps we could go to lunch," Omar said.

  Michelle walked on air out of the elevator.

  Heather was reading the second page of the newspaper in her hospital room, when she let out a tiny shriek, sucked in her breath, and then read with total concentration about the savage rape and murder of a seventeen year old woman here in Hawaii. The murderer had used a knife to cut the woman's pajamas off. The fact that she had been badly mutilated was avoided, as the paper tried to keep out the extravagantly grisly details, but Heather could read between the lines. The newspaper had already nicknamed the attacker 'The Heartbreaker' because the woman's heart organ was missing. Evidently cut out with the knife. Heather read that there was no forced entry into the young woman's apartment. It was contemplated that the man could have been a friend. The article went on to say that this was the second such attack in the last month.

  Heather read the newspaper every single day and had not seen an article on this kind of murder before. So maybe the first attack had not ended in a death. And maybe the police were letting the public know some of the details, now that there were two similar attacks. What bothered her most was the resemblance to what had happened to Michelle in Las Vegas. The man had used a knife to cut the clothes off of his victim. There had been a strenuous struggle. The rape was characterized as brutal and Heather wondered if there had been internal injuries similar to those Michelle had suffered.

  Heather put down the paper and stared into space, trying to decide whether to call the police. If she did they might wonder about her curiosity, but she needed to find out if Michelle was in danger. She decided she would have to call, but she would not mention Michelle's name. Michelle had been under too much stress lately with her horrible job as it was, working ten or twelve hours a day. The fact that Michelle seemed to love fixing plumbing problems, writing dry financial reports and soothing tenants was a mystery to Heather. Heather was very intelligent, and having survived a nearly terminal illness as a small child, believed that the purpose of humankind's short life span was to enjoy it and to take care of the people you loved.

  When Heather heard Michelle talking to the doctor outside her room she quickly folded up the newspaper, shoved it under the covers, and sat on it.

  Heather insisted that they have coffee together at Michelle's apartment, like they did every morning, and there really was enough time, Michelle thought, glancing at her watch. She didn't have to be at work for another hour. As they entered Michelle's apartment, Heather saw the newspaper and bent over to get it. She suddenly stopped and stood still, with her hand over the newspaper for a moment, and then her knees buckled and she landed in the doorway on her hands and knees.

  Michelle grabbed her arm and hauled her up. "What happened? Are you all right?"

  "Strange," Heather said, straightening very slowly. "I got dizzy there for a second. I'm fine."

  "The doctor said you'd have to go back if you get headaches or dizziness. He was very specific. You left against his orders."

  Heather bent over again to get the paper.

  "Wait. I'll get it," Michelle said sharply. She picked up the paper, took it in the kitchen, threw it on the table and told Heather to sit down and not move for a while. Before she made the coffee she gave Heather a glass of water. Maybe she was still dehydrated.

  "I'm fine," Heather said. "Drank so much water I'll be running to pee every five minutes."

  Michelle stared at her worriedly for a moment, "I should bring you to the office today. Totally distract Nakamura and get him out of my hair." She didn't say that she wanted to watch Heather to make sure she was really all right.

  "He's probably already in love with you."

  "No way. He's all business. With you it would be love at first sight. Not that you need any more admirers."

  Heather seemed to brighten at the thought with a small satisfied smile.

  "You aren't planning to go out tonight?" Michelle asked, really alarmed.

  "I won't be carousing and drinking very late."

  "Give me a break," Michelle said, shaking her head and feeling a need to frown and smile at the same time. "Just promise to take it easy."

  Heather nodded solemnly and Michelle wondered which of the several lucky men that Heather nonchalantly dangled would be her date.

  "Don't ask," Heather said. "I won't tell because you'd call and give him instructions in your Nanny voice."

  "Yes, I would."

  "What's that?" Heather said, looking at Michelle's face very intently.

  "What?"

  "That thing on your face. Maybe mascara running?"

  Michelle went into the bathroom to fix her face, but she couldn't see anything amiss. When she got back to the kitchen she saw Heather pouring coffee all over the newspaper. She stood in the doorway for a second to make sure Heather was really doing it on purpose.

  As Michelle stepped on the kitchen tiles Heather turned and smiled. She apologized for spilling her coffee. Then she bunched up the first few pages of the newspaper and wiped up the spill.

  Michelle automatically poured more coffee into Heather's cup and decided to act natural even though her best friend was obviously still dizzy from the accident and acting strange.

  "I saw Omar in the elevator this morning," Michelle said as she sat down again. "He was with this gorgeous creature, all dished up like they were going out. At five-thirty. It turned out to be his sister."

  "You think she's pretty?" Heather asked. "I thought she was kind of pathetic."

  "You've met her?"

  "I saw her when he moved in. She was helping and I introduced myself. She should really stop bleaching her hair like that, though. Dead white. I mean, it's just awful."

  "White hair?"

  "Really, its terrible what some women do to themselves. And she's such a skinny little thing. I felt like feeding her soup or something. Looked like she would faint dead away in a minute."

  "Are we talking about the same person?"

  "I assume so.
It's his sister."

  "The person I met had bright red hair, kind of messy in a sexy way. And she was tall and very curvy."

  "Maybe he has two sisters." Heather paused for a moment. "Or maybe he's just very bad news. Or maybe they're his sisters, but in the biblical sense. Like nuns or something."

  "The one I saw didn't look like any nun," Michelle said tartly. "What was her name?"

  "Omar's Sister. That's how she introduced herself. You see what I mean about pathetic?"

  "They certainly don't sound like the same person," Michelle said.

  "Then maybe he is bad news, like I said," Heather said.

  "Maybe. And maybe I'll find out today, because I think we're going to lunch."

  "I don't like him," Heather said. "I think he's slime."

  Michelle smiled. "I know. And I trust your judgement."

  CHAPTER 8

  Uncomfortable in his stuffy suit and vest in the tropical Hawaiian heat, Professor Middleton needed something cooler. He strolled to the expensive and exclusive clothing shop in lobby of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. There he bought several garish Aloha shirts covered with pink and orange hibiscus flowers. Since he had short, chubby and tanless legs, which looked absurd in shorts, he compromised with ankle length white cotton gauze pants, the kind that were supposed to wrinkle. He also purchased a white straw hat to keep the sun off his face, wrap around sunglasses, and a pair of white leather thongs.

  When he changed into his new attire back in his hotel room and peered in the mirror he laughed, then groaned and shook his head. In place of the dignified professor persona he had developed over the years, Vincent now gazed at the Mad Tourist Nightmare from the Midwest.

  He frowned at his paunchy stomach straining the Aloha shirt-front and at his pathetic white hairy ankles showing under the light pants. Still, it was exactly the innocuous, innocent touristy appearance he sought. He couldn't underestimate the man he was hunting.