I try to move my head to look around, but it’s too bright. My eyes are fully dilated. If this mirror was working properly, I’d see two deep black pits in my skull, swallowing every drop of light.
Her head rocks forward and she spews a litany of half-spoken words that I can’t understand. But in the hall, her hall, there are more voices.
“Any change in her condition?”
“She’s got a lot left in her system.”
“Has he decided yet?”
“He has what he needs. He’s going to operate tonight.”
At this, the girl’s head snaps up.
“No!” she barks.
And I mean barks. Over and over, and then she starts throwing herself into the mirror, near my face. I try to scramble away, but my arms only flop around, striking the glass in the same spot she does, so I can’t tell if the new cracks are from me or her. She’s kicking hard now, and I hear keys rattling in the door, hers or mine I can’t tell, someone fumbling quickly to get inside.
“Orderly! Orderly!” a voice shouts in her hallway.
She parrots it with each kick, orderly!
The door opens, and a man in a pale-brown uniform skids in. The glass bows out above me with every kick the girl lands. If she’s trying to get out, she’ll have to hurry. Security will be on her in three steps. She spins and throws a table at the guard, then takes off full tilt for the wall. Straight at me.
I see the soles of both of her feet. They hit the wall, the mirror, and explode through. I don’t feel any glass on my face, but she’s broken in, her legs kick for a second before the security guard seizes her shoulder. A split second later, her legs, the legs in the bathroom with me, bend awkwardly above the knee with a vicious snap. The legs are all I see now, in my lap, cleanly severed. In the mirror, a shape fills the doorway, a tall man in a long white coat. I know him. He preps a needle. Charges at the girl, telling security to hold her down. I swear the Doctor is smiling. And then the light becomes too much and I have to squeeze my eyes tight.
When I look again, the mirror shows an orderly row of stalls, or beds, and where the girl’s legs, my old legs, would have landed. Splayed on the floor, are my legs. My metal replacements.
The floor is clean. No blood anywhere. Empty. A clean room is just a space waiting for a mess to be made.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Our city is old, used, too broken to renovate or gentrify. Our architecture is ancient. The buildings are well-worn. It rains, things fall apart. The building where I was held, Saint Something-or-Other, I don’t even remember the name.
Saint Jude’s.
Saint Jude’s Hospital for lost causes. Or rehabilitation. This was a turn-of-the-century brick-and-mortar monstrosity that health officials gave up on long ago. This was where poor people came for government-funded treatment. To detox, to heal broken bones, what have you. The police department even housed low-level criminals and suspects on the third floor. One day the whole facility got shut down. Unsafe. The bleeding hearts were worried that some convict might innocently hurt him or herself.
They were right in a way. Dr. Robert bought the building, and he hurt a lot of people. It sits on the fringe of the Breeding Ground, ostensibly another warehouse for medical equipment storage. But there are rooms that are still used to house people, and torture them. This is where I’ve woken up.
My lips are gummed together, and I’ve got cottonmouth. But I know I’m awake now. This is real. I’m out of the hellhole. Call me Alice, because I’ve come through the other side of the looking glass. Who says drug-induced hallucinations can’t be helpful? Everything started and ended here. My second life. My daughter’s life. My husband’s wrong turn. It all goes back to the Doctor. Memories, memories!
Everything swims in a bath of blue and green. My mouth tastes like burnt metal, and my thighs drum fast on the floor as my hands clutch at nothing. Someone is ramming my head against the ground, picking me up, dropping me.
Oh, it’s just me.
I’m having a seizure. It feels good, because it means that I’m awake and alive. I hear footsteps pounding across tile, some shouting, and then someone pushing their knee down hard into my chest, holding down my arms, trying to hold my head still.
A few more jolts and I’m done. My head is splitting, every heartbeat feels like a small explosion in my temples. I feel each wave of blood travel from my heart through my chest, up my neck, into my head, down into my hands, feet that don’t exist. Rusty water sloshing through empty pipes that have outlived their usefulness.
Someone is asking me if I’m okay.
An orderly moves in, pushes back the men who were holding me down. One of them helps me sit up as the others escort everyone out.
“How soon ‘til the Doctor sees her?”
“Fuckin’ junkies…”
“I think she’s awake…”
“Who gives a shit, she can’t understand me…”
Their voices fade down the hall, and my eyelids are pulled back, my mouth swabbed, my wrists plugged into an IV. Clean needle. But my veins are like overcooked pasta, big, fat, floppy and ready to break apart.
I’m in a paper gown, defenseless. The door to the room is still open, and it’s silent in the hallway. So quiet it sounds like the noise is being drained from my room. I hear it wash out through my door, trickle through the empty halls before something starts to cut through.
Footsteps, purposeful, slow. He turns the corner, a vision in white. Crisp white pants, white vest and jacket, white latex gloves, white outdoor coat, white hair, white beard. Always so sterile.
I try not to give him the pleasure of seeing that I’m scared shitless, but the smile on his face tells me he knows. He’s the kind of guy that always knows.
“How’s my favorite patient today?” Dr. Robert asks.
I say nothing.
“I’m off duty, business to take care of in the city, but I thought I’d come say hello…Same room, you know,” he says, looking around. “It’s been repainted since your last visit. We had trouble getting the bloodstains out. But, as always, you’re safe. Nobody knows you’re here. You can’t get out, and only my staff can get in.”
He reaches into one of the big pockets on the outside of his coat, his hand closing on something.
“I brought you a note,” he says, moving to the far side of the room. “I’m going to set it on this table over here, and when you’re well enough, you come and read it.”
He starts to walk away, then stops and goes back to the note. He pulls something small and white from his pocket, holds it up. It’s rounded, triangular.
“See this? I got the idea from a little boutique store by the highway in the desert. They tumble rocks, polish them, engrave inspirational words on them. I think they’re intended for those suburbanite Zen gardens. Who knows? But, I do like the spirit. This one says Motivation.” He sets it on top of the note. “I have another just like it holding some things down on my desk. I do like matching pairs.”
I start to ask him what his plans are, but I know he’d only tell me it’s on the note. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing my voice.
“I almost forgot,” he adds, moving quickly to my IV.
When he gets close, my hands jerk up, and I can’t tell whether it’s to protect myself or attack him. I’ll never know, because my wrists are restrained to the bed frame. I have limited movement. The Doctor looks at this and smiles.
“Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself,” he grins. “I’m sure your stomach is just burning right now, your muscles probably feel dry as jerky. I’ll take care of that.”
He pulls a small syringe from his pocket and adds it to the IV pickup tube.
“A little Clearwater to ease your suffering. Pure, by the way. I’ve added a few new ingredients. I usually don’t do market focus groups, but do let me know how you like it. Your dreams should be quite pleasant. I’ll have the restraints removed while you’re out.”
He goes to the doorway, s
topping by the little table with the note. “Don’t rush things. Last time you were here, you hurried, and wound up hurting your knee,” and he taps the paperweight for emphasis.
He looks at me, no smile, just a blank predator’s stare, for a good minute. He wants to make sure I understand. That’s my kneecap on the table. He has the other one in his office. He keeps trophies.
He leaves, and the noise slowly trickles back into the room, the hospital sounds, intercoms, squeaky shoes on the floor…lights buzzing…heart beating…sheets moving like rip-stop nylon like…light forcing its way into my eyes and blinding me from…
Nothing.
* * *
There’s a battered sign at my feet, a little hand-embroidered thing. It says:
“Declare the past, diagnose the present, foretell the future; practice these acts. As to diseases, make a habit of two things—to help, or at least to do no harm. —Epidemics, I, xi.”
I step over it carefully, through a doorframe, and into a dusky room with boarded windows. There’s a table at the far end, chipped pressboard top and shiny steel legs. There’s a woman lying on the top, I think she’s naked, but she’s covered in a blanket, and she’s in pain. The Doctor hovers around the table, still dressed in white, but now he’s not as clean. He looks at me, tells me, “You’re not too late.”
This is a replay of some long-buried memory. I don’t feel any fear as I approach him. I’m not sure who the woman on the table is, but she’s definitely pregnant. Her wrists are bound by nylon cord that’s stretched under the table, her legs are chained down.
Fortescu pulls out a wicked-looking jigsaw, shows it to the lady. “She’s a little drugged, so she can’t scream. But look at her, you can see it in her eyes…”
He strokes the woman’s forehead, smoothes her hair back. “Don’t worry,” he tells her, “you’ll get to see your baby before you die. A bit premature, but better early than never, right?”
He moves the saw close to her belly, pushing the tip in ever so slightly, and the woman’s body goes rigid, convulses. Her eyelids flutter, and then she’s gone.
He throws the saw down to the floor. “Damn it! Almost had it that time.” He removes his surgical gloves and tosses them on the woman’s face. “Heart attack. I wish I’d have had the stethoscope on her. To hear that explosion!” He laughs, his eyes are wild, “How’s the father?”
“Dead,” I hear myself reply. I pull a small camera from my pocket. “I got some real Kodak moments. I’ll tell Shakes we want glossy prints this time, not matte.”
I can’t believe any of this could have happened, but part of me knows it did. Part of me knows I was there.
Interrogating. Asking questions. It’s one of the things I used to be good at. I could make anyone talk, given the right tools. Joe called me the queen of DBT.
“Smile,” I tell the Doctor, and he wipes a hand through his hair, leaving a blood smear on his forehead. He poses above the remnants of the mother on the table, the valiant hunter, and I snap away.
We share a laugh.
“Burn that print,” he says.
“Of course.”
And the room fades to dark, lights flashing red to black, which I know is the blood flowing behind my eyes. I’m still alive. I’m just out of it. Just a sidetrack, a temporary thing.
When the lights come back, I’m in a cleaner room, the furniture done in orange, the light bulbs orange. Another desk, this time two men sit on one side and the Doctor sits on the other. One of the men is in a form-fitting tailored suit, and I recognize him as Big C, in his Pompidou phase. The Doctor looks resplendent now, his white suit reflecting the light, making him look like the Sun King of the Underworld.
Making a deal, carving things up. Parts of the city go to different people. I’ve walked into the middle of this meeting, and the men aren’t too happy about it. Pompidou throws a fit, screaming, pounding the table, his accent difficult to decipher. In his novel, he called this kind of talk “FauxFrench,” which is what he used when talking to the media. “HoFrench” was for the girls. I remember all of this because I had a run-in with Pompidou, tried to discuss his politics in the un-friendliest terms possible. Neither of us enjoyed it much, he less than me.
His right arm sports a cast wrapped in purple velvet. The one he called his “pimp hand” for “keepin’ them in line.” I ask him how it’s healing and he sneers at me. I tell him he should call it his bitch hand, because he hits like a bitch. He’s up and out of the chair, going into his suit pocket for a gun, but the Doctor stops him with a simple gesture.
Fortescu asks me to wait in the hall. Private meeting, he says. He smiles too politely, in a way that tells me perhaps I was the topic of conversation. The kind of look your boss gives you when he knows you only have a week left before he fires you. He asks me again to wait in the hall, then goes on talking with Pompidou, which means he’s no longer speaking to me.
I step back, sinking into the wall, plush orange velvet. I rock back on my heels. The fabric turns liquid, viscous, sucking at me, pulling me in, embracing me…
* * *
I break the surface of a still pool. Cold air on my face. Above me, a negative night sky, bright white with black dots where stars should be. It’s a tile ceiling. There are lights blazing on me from two directions, and I can’t see anyone else in the room, just silhouettes.
“We must keep you clean,” a voice, the Doctor. “Bedsores, infection, all common problems.”
I’m determined to keep my silence until speaking can gain me something. Right now, I’m not sure. There are questions I could ask, should ask. But something in me knows the Doctor, knows he’s waiting to hear something, the wrong thing. Right for me, wrong for him, or vice versa.
“Your face is still dirty,” he says, approaching me.
His fingers splay and rest on my forehead, thumb just under my nose. He pushes down and I submerge. I didn’t have time to draw a full breath. My body’s in panic mode. When I thrash, I feel my arms tied to the sides of the tub overhead, my waist anchored to the tub floor.
I don’t think the Doctor wants me dead. Not yet. But he’s not letting me up. He wants something from me.
I’m drowning, have been for months now, probably years. Soaked, always soaked because the rain never stops.
I feel blood vessels burst in my right eye. My chest spasms, my lungs push out old air, desperate for something to keep me going. Anything.
Above, I feel an IV needle inserted into my wrist, something dripping in, my body going ice cold. Muscles screaming, my body going hypoxic. Stealing oxygen.
My heart slows, beats grow heavy like a series of slamming doors, the lights going out after the crew has cleaned up and everyone’s gone home.
Maybe I’m still underwater, maybe they’ve pulled me out.
I hear him say, “I just don’t have the heart for this anymore. What shall I do with you?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Compartmentalize. Organize. Multi-task. I can do this.
I want to stay alive. I want information. Inhale. Focus. Picture my brain as a structure, a Japanese paper house. Four separate rooms. I can build more if I need them, and I can visit whichever I please.
Room one: my body. My organs strewn about, connected to the whole structure, plugged in, fully powered. Make sure things stay this way.
Room two: all glass. I can look out and assess my surroundings. Plan my next move.
Room three: a library. Books line the walls. No Frances here. I know these books, the stories of my life. I’m writing them. Every time I learn something I can add to these books. I can go back and re-read, edit. Make everything make sense.
Room four: a mirror. I’m here with the Doctor. He’s on the other side of two-way glass, with my physical self out there in the real world. No torture yet, he says it won’t be necessary when the withdrawal symptoms really start to kick in. He’s got me on a drip, gives me drugs to keep my motor running, then pulls the rug out, let’s me start to crum
ple. He can probably keep this up for days before my body gives up.
Behind the glass, he’s talking to me about all of the things I’ve done right. Thanking me for what I did to Vasili. He was afraid he was going to have to farm the work out. But, he says, I am ever his trooper. Most people, when they get fired, they move on, find new things to do with their lives.
“I’m not done yet,” I tell him, and strangely enough, he gets it on the first try.
“Oh, I hope not,” he says. “For once, I’d like to be proved wrong. My guess is, there’s a limit to what the human heart can take. A little string tying emotions directly to vital functions. You wind the string too tight, it snaps, and that’s that. I want to find out if it’s possible to kill someone by breaking their heart.”
“Sure,” I tell him. “Why not?” I add. Then, “What the hell are you talking about, anyway?”
I retreat behind the glass, listening to his voice, slightly muffled, his lips moving just out of sync with his speech.
“I want to walk you back through the halls of your mind. I want to explore with you. I want you to remember everything.”
“Is this about the red case?”
“This is about a lot of things.”
I look out from the room in my mind, forehead pressed against the glass. I decide to rise for another question, my face just breaking the surface of the glass.
“What about Veronica Madden?” I ask.
“That’s funny,” he says, then pauses. “I thought I was asking the questions here. She’ll be along. You won’t like it one bit.”
He draws a needle from the table next to my bed, and I feel the walls in all four of my rooms buckle. My little house is about to implode. He pushes the tip into the IV chamber, then pulls it back out without pushing the syringe.
“I don’t think the gentle approach is doing you much good,” he says. “Let’s be direct.”
Miss Massacre's Guide to Murder and Vengeance Page 23
