by P. N. Elrod
The bile surged inside. Maybe I was going to be sick, after all. I backed out again, the rain whirling around me, and leaned on the cab for support.
I heard a close, sharp thud.
My feet slipped away from under me. I toppled forward against the cab, cracking my chin hard on the wet roof.
Thud.
I felt the second blow and sprawled flat on my face on the streaming road. Water bounced up from the paving, stinging and filling my eyes.
The third was much harder. My head was firmly braced against the unyielding road surface. Whoever was doing it could bring a lot of momentum to bear with their downward swing.
The fourth.
I couldn’t hear the rain hissing anymore. The world was reduced to cottony silence and the softly pulsing light beneath my eyelids.
The fifth.
The light was gone.
I don’t remember the sixth or seventh.
Just as well.
7
RAIN pelting against my sodden coat.
Light.
A hand on my wrist.
Mitch, are they—
My God, Elma, get back in the car. Fear in his voice.
Footsteps. A door slams shut.
The man keeps saying my God over and over again before he finally backs away and leaves.
His voice raises in a shout, then a curse.
The wet rush and roar as a car drives quickly past.
Rain.
Wind.
Another car. The road under me announces its approach.
He shouts again. This time it stops. Light pierces my sightless eyes. Voices.
. . . get to a phone . . .
. . . Trent place, just up the road . . .
. . . police first, it’s too late for . . .
More lights, more voices. Questions.
An eternity of rain and wind.
. . . thought something was wrong so we stopped . . .
. . . Johnnie Banks, don’t know who the other fella . . .
Hands probe my pockets.
. . . out of town. Must be his car behind Johnnie’s . . .
The light gets stronger. It beats on me like the rain. Hands turn my body. Rain strikes my face.
. . . cracked open like an egg . . .
Want to scream. Can’t.
. . . multiple blows with a blunt instrument, both of ’em. That’s as much as I can tell . . .
. . . musta been a robbery, but who . . .
Hands on my body, lifting me.
The rain stops. Full daylight. Blinding, burning, killing daylight.
Want to scream. Want to scream.
They drop a blanket on me. The rough fabric covers my face. Grunting and swaying, they carry my body out of the wind.
The blanket diffuses the light a little.
Can’t move or talk.
A car rumbles under me.
Hands and movement. Hands tugging, pulling at me, at my clothes. No way to tell them to stop.
Searing white light cuts into my brain. Cold air on my bare skin. Icy water sluices over me. Nose and mouth clog with it. They turn my head. The water drains away.
Hands probe my broken skull.
Can’t scream.
. . . we’d like to respect it, but in the case of a homicide, we have to have the doctor . . .
Arguments drift over me. One voice is vaguely familiar.
Someone closes my light-blind eyes. Red and black patches drift under the lids.
. . . notify his family . . .
. . . working for me, it’s my job to . . .
The voices fade. They throw a heavy sheet on me. Out of sight. Out of mind.
The sun works free of the clouds. It beats silently against the covering.
Someone lifts the sheet. The sun flashes over me like a furnace. Something is shoved under me, firmly pushed under the small of my back.
It’s the peace of the grave.
Out. Out. Out.
Sweet night.
A voice. A question.
And pain. Far too much pain.
“. . . hear me? Jack?”
My head feels like a bomb crater. If I lie very, very still, it might not get worse.
The voice whispers anxiously.
I remember the rain and the road and yes, I can hear you, so shut up.
A hand touches my bare shoulder. He tries shaking me awake. It moves my head. I scream. It comes out as little more than a bubbling exhalation.
“Jack?”
Dear God, stop the pain.
“Can you hear me?”
More bubbles. The taste of mud.
“Jack?”
A series of small coughs. Someone whimpers.
The questions stop. He carefully turns my head to the left. It eases the pressure on the cracked and broken plates of bone. He’s as gentle as possible.
It’s too much.
Out.
A clock ticking. A heart beating. Both are nearby.
“Jack?”
The pain had subsided a fraction. This was heaven by comparison.
“Can you hear me?”
Leave me alone.
“Can you understand me?”
Yeah, now go away for a few weeks.
“Please answer me, Jack.”
I inhaled to speak, but couldn’t get the mouth to work.
“What’s my name?”
If you don’t know, you’re in worse trouble than I am.
“Answer me.”
Inhalation. “Charl . . .”
A long sigh of relief. Not from me. He’d been afraid. Of what?
“Do you know what happened to you?”
“Road . . . rain.”
“Yes, you were driving.”
And then I stopped. An accident?
“You found the taxi,” he prompted.
John Henry Banks. Johnnie Banks. Slumped over, mumbling nonsense. His head smashed in . . . no more, I don’t want to think.
“Do you know who did it?”
God, was that me asking Banks or Escott asking me? I really couldn’t tell.
“Did you see them?”
“Hurt. I hurt.”
“I know. Do you need blood?”
I needed something, like an aspirin the size of a boxcar. “Try.”
He put a thin rubber tube to my lips like a straw. I drew the stuff in. It was no longer warm from being in the animal, but still wonderful. The blood spread through me with its promise of life and healing, and then I didn’t think about anything until it was gone.
“Better?” he asked, his voice faint.
“A little.”
He pulled the tube away and ran some water, cleaning up. He liked to have things clean and neat. The water stopped.
“Can you open your eyes?”
Why not? The darkness seeped away for an instant. Escott’s worried face hovered close to my own and was gone.
“Did you see anything?” he asked.
“Yeah. Fine.”
F-fine. The last thing Banks had said and then—
“Try it again.”
I did. They stayed open a few seconds longer. “Okay?”
“Excellent. They’re a nice healthy red.”
The white-hot hammer and anvil on the side of my skull wasn’t pounding quite so hard.
“Think you’ll be able to travel soon?”
He had to be out of his mind. I didn’t want to move for a month.
“I have to get you out of here before morning.”
You’d better have a damn good reason. “No. Rest.”
“Yes, at least for now. Do you know who did it?”
That question again. “Banks knew. They get me?”
“You were struck from behind. The doctor found wood splinters in your scalp.”
Multiple blows from a blunt instrument. The phrase repeated through my brain like an echo from a dream. Wood. Deadly, deadly wood. No wonder I was so helpless. “How bad?”
“You’ve a hell of a fr
acture, they hit you several times. I was worried you might not be—did you see them at all?”
“No.”
I noticed the general darkness, or rather the absence of artificial light for the first time. He was also keeping his voice low, almost to a whisper. Faint outside illumination came from a high, uncurtained window. The dimness turned his skin ghost white and simplified his features.
As I drew air to speak, the smell crashed in: formaldehyde mixed with the sweetness of old death. A chill shuddered all through me that had nothing to do with the cold air.
“Where?”
“I’m afraid we’re at the local funeral parlor,” he explained, as though embarrassed by the fact. “It doubles as the coroner’s examination room in the case of questionable deaths or homicides.”
“Deaths?”
“I’ll go into details when you’ve rested. You’re much better than you were, much better than I’d hoped. After that fresh blood has had a chance to work in you we’ll see about getting you out.”
“Out?”
“My position with the local authorities is anything but cordial, and I’ve no wish to be arrested for body snatching. It will be much easier for both of us if the body in question is able to move out under its own power.”
The meaning and import began to sink in. Instead of a bed, I was on a high metal table wearing only an old sheet. “I’m dead—I mean, more so than usual?”
“As far as the law is concerned, yes.”
I had a nightmare flash in my head of a sealed coffin with muddy earth being heaped on top.
“Not yet.” He’d stopped me from moving. “We’ve time—almost the whole night, if you need it.” He found a chair and sat down to wait.
Well, if he was in no hurry, neither was I. I rested and felt my battered head ache and listened to the clock tick. For something to do, I counted the ticks, getting up to thirty before losing track. This went on for as many times as I had fingers since I curled one up whenever I lost the count. When I’d twice made fists, I tried a little movement. My arms worked, the legs responded, but the head wasn’t ready to coordinate anything more complicated than that.
The clock ticked and Escott breathed, and one by one, I curled my fingers. It was something I used to do to trick myself to sleep on bad nights. Sleep would have been a better way to pass the time, but I no longer really slept. I missed it.
After an hour, I managed to get my legs off the table and was trying to push myself upright. My head was impossibly heavy. Escott got up to help.
“Shoulders only,” I told him.
“Right.”
Supporting the base of my neck, he helped boost me to a sitting position. I wobbled dizzily like a baby, but didn’t fall. The sheet slipped down a little and I wrinkled my nose in disgust.
“Christ, don’t they ever wash this stuff?”
He took my complaining as a good sign. “I’ve some fresh clothes for you. The ones you were found in are a bit of a write-off.”
“My wallet?”
“The police have your personal effects.” He produced a sack, pulling out some pants, a clean shirt, and some slippers.
“My shoes?” I’d brought only one pair.
“They’re locked in that room over there.” He nodded at a closed door.
“How’d you get in?”
“Through a rear window with a glass cutter,” he said casually.
The dizziness from sitting up gradually passed. I felt the back of my head with supreme care—even my hair hurt. It was still fiery and tender, but the hammer and anvil had finally stopped pounding.
“What’d they do to me here?” I was remembering the not-so-gentle probing hands on my scalp.
“You were given a preliminary exam on the scene and pronounced dead, then they brought you here for—” He stopped.
“Jesus, Charles, an autopsy?”
He could only nod, looking as queasy as I felt.
The doctor’d make a fast Y-incision and scatter pieces of me over the counters in jars full of preservative. Dear God. My arms wrapped tightly around my chest and stomach in reaction.
“What stopped them?”
“I did, I said I had to notify your family first, and then I told them you were a Christian Scientist.”
My jaw dropped of its own accord, as it usually does when I don’t understand something. “Huh?”
“I said they were like orthodox Jews in that their religion absolutely forbade autopsies.”
“Does it?”
He suddenly smiled. “Actually, I haven’t the least idea, but it worked for the time being, and that’s all that matters.”
“Why didn’t you say I was an orthodox Jew?”
“I could not because you were out driving round after sunset on a Friday, the beginning of their Sabbath; something a practicing Jew would have avoided.” He offered me the shirt.
I slowly dragged it on. It was clean and crisp with starch, but I still felt soiled. I wanted a scalding hot tub and a long vacation—in that order. He steadied me as I slid off the table to pull the pants up over my rump.
“We still staying at the inn?”
“Officially, I am. We’ll just have to sneak you in somehow.”
“They think—”
“You’re dead. Yes, I’ve received much sympathy, at least in some quarters.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“The police have told me not to leave town for the moment. They’re probably strapped for suspects. It was fortunate for me that I was down in the lobby listening to the radio with some of the other guests during the critical time the crime took place or I would be in a very awkward position.”
“Why should they suspect you?”
“Why not? Many people are murdered by their friends.”
“And Banks?”
“I’m a stranger in town and Mr. Banks mentioned us to a few of his drinking cronies.” His head went down and he leaned tiredly against a counter. “I should have been more careful. All my questions concerning the Franchers and that fire . . . I blundered badly and poor Banks paid for it.”
“It might not even be connected to us.”
“Can you believe that?”
I didn’t answer that one. “You couldn’t have known what would happen.”
He shook his head, not really listening. “I am very much to blame for this, Jack. The police are not far off in their suspicions. The investigating officer is no fool, he knows I’m not telling him everything.”
“And you can’t, can you?”
“Not so that I would be believed and not without solid evidence. If Barrett is behind this, we need proof, and if we obtain proof, how may he be brought to justice?”
“If?”
“I am as yet uncertain of his guilt.”
“After all this? Why?”
“I shall be glad to tell you, but elsewhere, if you please. Preferably at the inn so I can establish an alibi for part of this night. When they come in tomorrow and miss you, I shall certainly have to face some questioning. My strong objections to the autopsy will not have been forgotten in so short a time.”
“What’ll you do?”
“My best performance of moral outrage—after they inform me of the abduction of my poor friend’s remains.”
“Couldn’t I just show up and say it was all a mistake and claim catalepsy or something?”
He shot me a look.
“No, I guess not.”
“Do you feel ready to go?”
“After I get my shoes back.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t. They’re bound to notice.”
“You think they’ll worry about a pair of shoes when the whole body takes a walk?”
He couldn’t argue with that one and nodded.
If I took things slowly, I could move. At the locked door, I leaned against it and seeped right through without even trying hard, which was a surprise. It took a lot more effort and concentration to solidify, though. Dematerialized, there was no disco
mfort, but I was reluctant to stay that way out of a sneaking fear of not being able to come back again. My head was tender inside and out and I wasn’t planning to do anything fancy for a while.
The adjoining room was an office with wooden cabinets and functional furniture. My muddy, wrinkled clothes were scattered over a long table along with Banks’s blood-spattered garments. Feeling sick and sad, I made myself look at them and remembered him.
I grabbed up my shoes, took off the evidence tag, and slipped them on. When I returned to the other room, Escott was just putting away a length of rubber tubing and a quart-size milk bottle.
“Is that what blood comes in these days?” I asked.
“It does when I collect it.”
“How’d you get it this time?”
“I looked for and found a likely farm late this afternoon. If you were to recover—and I’m very glad you have—it seemed logical to provide for it. Blood appears to be the universal panacea for all your ills, and I wanted to be prepared.”
“Thanks.”
He shrugged it off, not one for gushing gratitude. It only embarrassed him.
“What’d you tell the farmer, that you were making blood sausage?”
“No, but that is a good suggestion. I said I was collecting blood samples from some of the area livestock.”
“Didn’t he think it kind of strange?”
“Yes, but fortunately the fellow was a Democrat, and that helped. I said I was a veterinarian working for the NRA and our branch of it was researching blood ailments in cattle. We needed samples for testing and offered monetary compensation for each pint collected.”
“Sounds crazy to me.”
“He must have thought so as well, but as they say, money talks. I got the samples.”
“I’m glad.”
“Well, you did buy me dinner the other night. . . .” He turned back to the table I’d spent the day on and swept up a small dark packet and shoved it into his bag.
“What’s that?”
“A sample of your home soil. I managed to sneak it in under you when no one was looking.”
“You think of everything.”
“Not always,” he muttered, and I knew he was mulling over Banks’s death.
He climbed onto a counter next to the wall and pushed open the window above it. The way was clear and he wriggled through. I wasn’t up to such exertions and did my usual vanishing act, reappearing at his side, but staggering a little. I’d had to fight to come back again, and it was draining. He caught my arm and led me away.
