“And maybe in eight years. Yeah?"
“Yes, that's true, but unlikely. And, Alda, even if he comes around soon, he might be ... well, nonfunctional."
“You dumb crud, you dumb pile of—I ought to break your legs for knocking him into left field. I wanted to show this toughass his broad, let him see her, know I got her and he's still the hind-tit sucker. I really did. That would've told him who's down the crapping toilet and who's doing the flushing. This jerk really pissed me off, you know? Just lying there zonked he pisses me off. Bullshit about taking me out, telling me to screw myself in every available orifice. Orifice, that's in your ear, isn't it?"
“Not exactly. Alda ... is that why you had Groder bring the woman back here?” The doctor sounded surprised, almost critical.
“Why not? He had to come back here to get Claude, didn't he? We need them both together, don't we? Anyhow, that was before you erased the jerk's brains, or whatever the hell you did. I don't even think you know what the hell you were doing."
“Alda ... if you recall ... when you insisted on a form of electroshock to soften up Claude, because he felt he was so brilliant the thought of violence to his brain would terrify him, I mentioned that we're not a psychiatric hospital, not equipped for ECT. You remember my saying that, don't you?"
From the corner of my eye I could see Cimarron poking a finger at the gray metal box atop its bright red cart near me on my right. “I remember you saying we could use those goddamn paddles for the same thing."
“I said we'd try it, yes, Alda. But ... if you recall ... I compared employing a defibrillator for ECT to performing surgery with a hacksaw, which I thought stated my expectations succinctly, and rather well if I do say so my—"
“Oh, shut up, for Christ's sake."
“Well ... yes. But, Alda, what difference does it make now? We're through with him, aren't we?"
“Well, yeah ... I guess you're right, Doc. But I wanted to ask him about some other things he probably messed up. Like Foster. I'm not going to let that little black sonofabitch get away with screwing me. I'll give you odds this jerk had something to do with Foster taking a walk. What was it you said Connie told you?"
There was a tickling in my nose. I wanted to sneeze—knew I couldn't. Must not sneeze.
“Miss DeFelitta reported that Scott saw Andy leaving Toker's house, but she doesn't know what happened after that. Andy just didn't come back. There's no evidence Scott had anything to do with his disappearance."
“No evidence? The sonofabitch had something to do with everything else, didn't he? Why make an exception? He could tell us plenty, if you hadn't fried—"
“Alda, even if he were functional, I don't believe he'd tell us anything. He's ... crazy. It's simply ridiculous—"
The tickling kept getting worse, as if the whole inside of my nose were being brushed with tiny feathers.
The rumbling voice was saying, “He'd spill it all if I could show him his big-titted broad, Doc—she's the only reason he stayed clammed for so long. Even you ought to be able to figure that out."
The sneeze was so close to exploding I could feel the involuntary short intakes of breath, the tightening of muscles at the back of my throat and jaw as in the beginning of a yawn. Automatically, I started to move my right arm, rub a finger under my nose—and, of course, felt pain run from wrist up to shoulder as the strap around my wrist resisted movement. But I felt something else ... I thought.
Cimarron dropped his voice to what might almost have been called a rumbling whisper, and said to Grass, or Blass, to the doctor, “Well, hell, let's get it done. That's the important thing now, finish it with Claude and his kid. Jesus, you ever see such a great pair of tits, Doc?"
The other thing I thought I'd felt was my right arm moving upward toward my chest—and it shouldn't have moved at all. I tried to pull my left wrist upward and sideways but it was almost immobile. The wide leather strap was stretched across my thighs, its ends fastened out of sight beneath the table on which I lay. Two thick leather loops securely affixed to the strap imprisoned my wrists, the loops cinched tight and held snug by three-pronged buckles like the large-size buckle of a man's belt. Those buckles were still tight; they hadn't loosened. But something...
“She really is a beautiful woman. Alda, it does seem almost a shame—I mean, perhaps before you dispose of her, of them, it might not hurt if I enjoyed a little time—"
“Knock it off. Don't even mention that kind of crap again or I'll deck you. Jesus, all we've got going here, maybe thirty or forty million bucks, and you're thinking about a piece of ass."
Through slitted eyes I could see the soiled brown strap around my right wrist. Three or four inches of the skin above the leather band was red and raw, already thinly scabbed with dried blood. But I pulled my right hand up, felt it move toward my face, saw it move an inch or two, saw the strap slide against the table's edge on my right. In my struggles, jerking and twisting, I must have loosened the strap's concealed end where it was secured beneath the table. Probably one more good yank and it would come free.
Wonderful—and then what? My left wrist and both ankles were still almost immobile. I was unarmed. And, very likely, considering the aches and pains in an infinity of muscles that I had already become painfully aware of, I would not be able to move with more alacrity than an arthritic centenarian.
But it was something. It was a wiggle. Not much, true. But for the first time in quite a while I began to think, not about how or when these bastards were going to kill me, but about living. Maybe. And maybe was good enough.
Cimarron was saying softly, the words barely audible enough for me to hear them, “OK, let's go, get it done. We'll work on this jerk afterward, one more time. If he's come around by then, he'll spill, believe me. When I tell him they're both dead, he'll cave in and puke everything. You take care of the machinery, Doc, I'll take care of getting guys to spill their guts—"
That's when I sneezed.
The word “sneezed” is entirely inadequate. I'd been trying to suppress the explosion for so long that the last sucking intake of air literally squeaked in my throat, and then all the breath in my lungs shot out through my mouth and nose with the sound of a small hurricane escaping from a foghorn.
The mini-convulsion pulled my head and upper body off the table, and there was no way I could prevent the gobbling howl that followed the sneeze, as sudden movement combined with that pressure from inside me to send saw-toothed and fiery messages to what seemed like every nerve in my arms and legs and torso. If pain was the color black, my entire body would have turned at least blue.
“SHEE-IT!” That was Cimarron.
“Sweet Christ!” That was the Doc. “He must have been just lying there, pretending—Alda, he probably heard everything we said."
“Shee-it. The lousy ... Hey, so what? You said it yourself. What difference, except ... yeah. Oh, yeah.” Cimarron actually sounded pleased, not at all unhappy.
Well, I was in a sweet pickle now. No more playing possum, pretending to be out cold. No way I could even annoy all these guys—five of them, Cimarron and Doc and Derabian and Cowbody plus one other I didn't know, a short husky guy wearing a knee-length white jacket or robe. No way out of the pickle this time...
Something stirred up there inside my skull, a lively wormlike wiggle. I followed it with—well, not exactly with full powers of mind, but with a strangely detached attention. At one time I'd wondered, briefly, if these guys might just go away and leave me here alone, knowing I was half dead or at least unconscious. Not much chance of that even when I'd wondered about it; no chance at all now. I knew the defibrillator they'd used on me was exactly where it had been before, black electrical cord running to an outlet in the wall, paddles resting atop the gray metal case, everything the same except that the juice was turned off now. All they had to do was turn it on again and —
No, I wouldn't last through more of that nightmare. Maybe something would survive, but it wouldn't be me.
Cimarron's deep voice was rumbling, “How about that, Michelle, baby? Loverboy's come back. Why don't I just roll you over there, chickie-babe, and let you take a good look at your tough guy ... and vice versa? You like that, kid?"
I moved back up inside my head to that wormlike wiggle, to a little thought of some kind trying to move around, grow. I followed it along a silvery stream ... and stopped swallowing. Tried to think of juicy delicious things—rare prime ribs ... chilled martinis in frosted glasses ... a full round breast with large areola and prominent nipple ... a vine-ripened tomato warm in the summer sun.
It was very hard. It wasn't working.
“Here we go, kid. I'll just roll you over next to Loverboy. Scott's his name, right? Shell Scott? Well, from now on we call him Jerk, from the way he jerked and flopped around. Let's go look at the Jerk, Michelle baby."
I could hear strained, muffled noises, probably Spree trying to protest, say something, words stopping behind the gag in her mouth. But I pushed my thoughts away from that, turned again to those images that hadn't worked. I remembered thinking moments ago of the pickle I was in, and put all the mental energy I could gather together into thinking of that: a pickle. Not a sweet pickle but a sour one. I made it as real as I could, concentrated on it, brought it up to my mouth. I felt it crunch between my teeth. And that did it. Finally, it was working.
My eyes were half open, slanted left. Cimarron had pushed Spree in her wheelchair over next to the table, near to me, only three or four feet away now. I could see her eyes, wide, staring at me.
Cimarron took his time, enjoying himself, chuckling about Lover-Jerk and other hilarious inventions. But after a minute or so of that, the miserable sonofabitch said, “Lift his goddamn head up, Doc, so the Jerk can get a real good look”—and ripped Spree's blouse easily in his big hands, split it from top to bottom, then like a man snapping a thread broke her brassiere apart in the middle, pulled it aside, baring—and humiliating—my lovely Spree.
I almost blew it then. Almost; not quite.
I felt the doctor's hands at my head and neck, lifting me. I went along with it, opening my eyes a little wider and starting to moan. Softly at first, then louder, the sound rising in intensity and also rising up the scale, “mmmmMMMMgummMMM,” like a mindless humming from behind clenched teeth.
I let my head turn so I was looking at Cimarron, not at Spree, at him. I couldn't let myself look at Spree. She was trying to turn her head away but Cimarron held it solid and still with one big hand. “Take a look, Jerk,” he said to me, twisted but real pleasure in the higher than normal pitch of his voice. “Thanks for this gorgeous hunk of broad,” he said to me. “No more for you, pal, it's mine now."
I stared at him wide-eyed, trying to focus on a distant horizon, or at the dizziness of swirling space I'd left not long before, and let my lips move, let my teeth unclench. Warm saliva slid over my lower lip, oozed down my chin. I felt it moving slowly, slimily, under my jawbone, onto the curve of my neck.
Saliva, mixed with little-bitty bits of sour pickle.
“SHEE-IT!” Cimarron yelled. “Goddammit.” He swung his big head to look at Dr.—something. I'd lost it there for a minute ... Blass, Dr. Blass. “You dumb sonofabitch!"
The doctor, for a change, ignored him, moved to my side, still holding my head. He turned my face toward him, cool, professional. I moaned a little for him, let my head tilt to one side. Not much spit left, so I slid my tongue around, pushed it against my teeth, managed maybe a quarter teaspoon of yuck.
Dr. Blass remained cool. “So?” he said, looking across my prone body to Cimarron. “It makes a difference?” At which point he simply let go of my head, and allowed it to fall like a loose coconut, clunk against the table. There was some padding to cushion the clunk, but it still jarred my skull and whatever marvelous stuff was still inside it. Suddenly the room was filled with that pinkish-gray fog, or smoke, again. I hadn't been aware that it had cleared up for a while.
* * * *
Everyone had left a minute or two ago, except for the short husky guy in the knee-length white robe. He sat in a chair just inside the door, getting out cigarettes, starting to light a smoke.
I'd spent this last minute, and more—while Cowbody and Dr. Blass pushed the two wheelchairs out, Cimarron following the group—pulling with my right hand, trying to get the end of that leather strap even looser. It was difficult, because there was little sensation left now in my hands and wrists, but just as my guard took the first drag on his smoke the strap came free.
I stopped moving, waited for the husky guy to look away, or take another drag. After a minute or so he rested his head on the back of his chair, eyes gazing at the ceiling. I squeezed the fingers of both hands together, released them, kept it up until they started to ache and burn as circulation picked up and blood flowed more freely under the rubbed-raw redness of my wrists.
Husky was looking right at me. I watched him from almost closed eyes, realizing I had to make my move soon whether he was looking at me or not. I didn't know how well, or how fast, I could move if I somehow did get the chance to sit up, or even get onto my feet. But that, too, I would have to discover as it happened. If it happened.
Because Cimarron—and Spree and Romanelle—had been gone for at least ten or fifteen minutes now. I guessed. I wasn't at all clear about how much time had passed. Or much else, for that matter. But I knew there was urgency, a necessity for speed, that I had to hurry. I wasn't entirely sure why, but I felt it had something to do with killing...
Husky was looking down, reaching for an ashtray on the floor next to his chair. I pulled my right arm across my body, the loose strap whispering against the table's side, grabbed the tongue of leather at the buckle around my left wrist, yanked. Husky was still looking down, grinding out his cigarette. The three metal prongs slipped from holes in the leather and suddenly my left wrist was free. I clawed at the buckle around my right wrist, at the same time pulling against the strap and levering myself almost to a sitting position, clenching my jaws to avoid letting out an audible grunt or groan. It felt as if knives were twisting inside my stomach and up and down my spine. But I got the buckle open. Both hands were free. The long leather strap, now loose at one end, slid from the table's left side and slapped the floor. One of those buckles hit something metallic with a startlingly loud clanging noise. Husky's head snapped up. His eyes stuck on me as I leaned toward the defibrillator, holding myself partially erect by straining against the straps still around my ankles.
“Hey!” Husky yelled, bending forward. He came up out of his chair fast, took one long leaping step toward me.
Aslant, tilted sideways and with my gut burning, right arm extended and stretching, I twirled the small black dial as far right as it would go, thumb nipping the switch from “Off” to “On.” The tiny green light started to glow.
The straps around my ankles helped now, providing leverage as I leaned farther to my right, both hands reaching for those two crazy paddles that not long before had been against my head. Husky loomed on my left, a blur, reaching for me. Each of my hands closed around the twin handles of one of the paddles, thumbs finding those protruding buttons, and I didn't try to hold back the grunts or strangled noises that came out of my mouth as I felt what seemed like muscle and flesh and bones tearing inside me when I moved.
No sound from the gray metal cabinet. Except for that small green light there was no way to tell if it was on or still dead. But I was sitting almost straight up when Husky reached me, thrusting his hands toward my face. I simply moved my right arm hard left, my left arm in a high arc and then down, and managed to slap the two paddles briefly into place at opposite sides of his head as I pressed the buttons with my thumbs.
It was very sloppy. I almost missed him entirely. But for half a second each of the paddles was touching him, and—no question—the gray metal box was turned on.
Half a second was enough. Maybe more than enough. One instant Husky's face was a couple of feet from me, contorted, lip
s stretched wide, eyes staring. The next instant that face was blank, emptied of expression, as if whatever had animated it was erased and only a plastic mask remained.
He went down loosely and didn't move. He was out cold—maybe dead. I didn't much care which, and I had no time to find out. I was unbuckling the leather straps from my ankles, sliding my legs from the table, getting my feet onto the floor. There was an aching band of muscle and flesh up the back of each calf and thigh. My left ankle felt sprained. But I could walk, if I didn't mind hobbling a little. And I didn't mind.
Before hobbling out I checked Husky, on the floor. Not his pulse; I thought he might have a gun or some kind of weapon on him. But he didn't. So I left him there, moved through the larger office next to this room and on to the door, cracked it and looked out. The long polished corridor stretched away to my right, as it had the last time I'd been here to find Claude Romanelle—months ago, years ago, whenever. The corridor looked endless. I went out, started down the long, long hallway toward the elevator at its end.
I was dizzy, light-headed, getting used to the pain of movement, as much as one can get used to it, but not to the fullness and fuzziness in my head, the feeling that at times I was not walking but swimming through something thick and clinging instead of air, like a man wading neck-deep in quicksand.
I made it into the elevator, down to the main floor, turned left and walked a mile or two, left again for another mile or two, stopped at what looked like the main nurses’ station in a large lobby.
A uniformed woman, about fifty, looked at me, stepped closer. I said, “I was just talking to Mr. Cimarron and Dr. Blass. I'd like to know where they are now."
She gave me a strange look. Her eyes dropped to my chest, rose slowly to my face. Oh, yeah, I'd forgotten about that. I wasn't wearing a shirt. They'd stripped me to the waist up there, before playing Ping-Pong with my heart. Odd I remembered that but forgot I wasn't wearing a shirt. Or maybe not so odd; the shirt wasn't all that important.
Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 33
