by E. C. Bell
“Sounds good.” James closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Did I move?”
“No.” I tried to decide whether to laugh or cry, and couldn’t come up with a definitive answer. “You didn’t.”
“Hmm. This is going to be tougher than I thought,” James said.
The UPS driver revved the motor again, redlining it. James swung his head in the driver’s direction. “That’s not good for the engine.”
The driver growled something I didn’t catch and gestured grandly for both of us to get the hell out of his truck, his goodwill evidently spent.
I maneuvered my way over James, got out of the van, and reached up for him. “Just one step, and we’re out.”
“All righty.”
James appeared to muster every bit of strength he had left and hoisted himself out of the van. He stumbled a step or two, and I grabbed his shirt to stop him. He stood, compliantly enough, as I slammed the door of the van shut, and waved a thank you to the driver, who did not acknowledge us, driving off with a small squeal and a blast of black smoke as something in the engine let go. I didn’t bother watching after the van limped to the street and died blocking two lanes of traffic. I had enough to worry about.
We staggered into Emergency. There, the blood on James caused a flutter and I hoped we were going to get in quickly, until the staff realized it was simply a cut to his hand and we were directed to the waiting area. We sat for a long time, watching the chairs empty around us.
“Thanks for coming with me,” James said.
“You’re welcome.” I glanced over at him. Some of his colour had come back. “Will you be all right alone for a minute? I have to call Mr. Latterson and tell him where I am.”
He looked concerned. “I hope I don’t get you into trouble.”
“It’s all right.” I stood. “You needed my help.”
“If he gives you a hard time—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I walked away from him, and to a bank of phones. I called the office and was immediately directed to voicemail, so I left a detailed message, hoping that he was out at one of his all day lunches and wouldn’t notice I was gone.
“Everything all right?” James asked when I came back.
“Everything’s fine,” I replied, hoping it would be.
“Good.” James shifted in his seat, glancing at the injured and ill littering the plastic chairs in the waiting room. “I don’t like hospitals,” he finally said.
“I don’t either.”
“I hate the smell. And the needles.” He shuddered. “What about you?”
“What about me, what?” I didn’t know whether I wanted to talk about this to him, though I’d started it.
“How come you don’t like hospitals?”
A ghost wandered out from the bathroom and sat beside me, putting his head on my shoulder. I tried to shrug him away, but he didn’t move. I realized he’d fallen asleep.
“God.” I jerked my shoulder up once more, to dislodge him, only managing to work his head into my shoulder. I hate that feeling. They are so cold. I stood and walked a few steps away.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” James looked like he thought my reaction was his fault—which, if I was in a particularly bitchy mood, I could say it was, because he was the reason I was in the hospital in the first place. Because he was injured, I decided to cut him a tiny bit of slack.
“It’s all right.”
The ghost snorted himself awake and moved on to another woman, a grandmotherly type who was waiting for her husband to get his ear reattached. The ghost sighed and settled his head onto her shoulder, falling back to sleep almost immediately.
“I don’t like hospitals because my mom has cancer, and I spent a lot of time in places like this before I moved to Edmonton.” This surprised me. I don’t like to talk about my family.
“Is she going to be okay?”
“She was in remission for a while. Now, it’s not looking good.”
“You said you moved here—isn’t she in town?”
“She lives in Fort McMurray.” I tried to smile, but it was hard. “When I left, she was in remission. Now she’s not.”
“Are you going to go back?”
“Probably not.”
“It must be hard, being away from her.”
“It is.” I couldn’t look at him. “But the rest of the family’s there. She has people around her.”
“I meant, it must be hard on you.”
“I know what you meant.” I was finished confessing. This place was making it hard for me to think.
“James Lavall?” A steely-eyed nurse peered out at the waiting room. “Is there a James Lavall here?”
“Here,” James replied, and pulled himself upright. I tried to help him stand, but he shook his head, then walked toward the nurse. She frowned.
“James Lavall?” she asked again.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, frowning mightily.
“Is this a test to see if I’m coherent?” James asked, reaching in his back pocket with his good hand for his sodden wallet. “I’m James Lavall.”
“Oh.” The nurse glanced at James’ ID, and nodded, as if finally satisfied. “I know a Jimmy Lavall. Guess I was expecting him.”
“Jimmy Lavall’s my uncle.”
“Oh.” The nurse touched his arm and led him a little farther away from me. I leaned and listened as hard as I could, intrigued by the odd conversation they were having. “He helped me out once. Got me a heck of a settlement. Thank him for me, will you? When you see him.”
“What’s your name?”
“Stella. Stella Stevens.” She smiled again. “I bet you look like Jimmy did when he was young. He’s a handsome man, given his age.”
“I’ll tell him that, too,” James said.
“Now let’s get you into room three, shall we, and see what you’ve done to yourself?” She guided him through the big double doors that led to the examination rooms, and I lost sight of them both.
The ghost sleeping on the grandmother’s shoulder shifted, snorting, and I held my breath. I didn’t want to attract his attention again. All he did was drop back to sleep, snuggling in to the crook of the woman’s neck like a child sleeping in his mother’s arms.
Twenty-five minutes later, James burst through the double swinging doors on the arm of the nurse, laughing uproariously, his hand swathed in white bandages. He clutched Stella’s elbow with his good hand, and steered her over to stand in front of me. I was surprised that it ticked me off a bit, him clutching Stella’s elbow like that, but chalked it up to some sort of Florence Nightingale syndrome. After all, I’d practically saved the guy’s life. All she’d done was stitch his hand. I tried to smile.
“Marie, I’d like you to meet Stella Stevens. Stella, this is the woman who saved my life, Marie Jenner.”
“I don’t think I saved his life, exactly.” I laughed way too heartily as I shook the nurse’s hand.
“It was a nasty cut. It was a good thing you brought him in.” The nurse twinkled a smile at James. “I should get back to work. Good to meet you, James. Remember to say hi to your uncle for me.”
“Will do.” James waved at her as she hurried off through the grumbling, hurt throng still waiting for her ministrations. “Shall we get back to work?” I realized he was talking to me, and quit glaring at the nurse.
“Do you think you should? Maybe you should take the rest of the day off or something.”
“No, I’ll be fine. Just have to keep it dry.” He snorted. “Might be tough, the way the basement is, but I’ll do my best.”
“Should we take a bus?” It was either the bus or walking, and I didn’t feel like walking twelve blocks. Inadequate footwear.
“Nah, let’s grab a cab. The least I can do is get you back to work in style.” He walked to the courtesy phones, and in short order a cab was waiting for us.
“I should have thought of that,” I muttered. “I have co
nnections.”
“So do I.” James smiled, and held the door for me. “Milady.”
I got in, scooting over as far as I could so there was room between the two of us in the back seat. No more shoulder holding for me. James gave the driver the address for the Palais, and leaned back in the seat next to me. I swore I could feel heat radiating from the man, and leaned away from him, so I could think.
“How does your hand feel?” I asked. I thought it was a safe question.
“Not bad. Stella gave me a shot. Took the edge right off.” He grinned and held his bandaged hand up for me to see. All the fingers seemed to be in the right places, which was a good sign.
“Are you sure you should go back to work?”
“Yes. I want to figure out what happened down there. A water spigot shouldn’t blow apart like that.” He shook his head, then glanced over at me. “Thanks, again. That was fast thinking on your part.”
“If I’d thought a little bit faster, I could’ve convinced someone in the building to give us a ride there—and back.” I tried to laugh, and almost succeeded. “But any UPS van in a storm, I guess.”
“I guess.” James stared out the side window, then glanced over at me again. “Listen, I’d like to thank you properly. How about supper? Tonight, maybe?”
All right, so he was cute, and I liked sharing a sandwich with him out in front of the building and all that, but there was no way in the world I was dating the guy. There was no dating in my future. I slapped my “let’s be friends” smile on my face. “No can do. Sorry.”
“Oh.” James looked disappointed. “Tomorrow night?”
“Nope.”
“The weekend?”
He wasn’t taking the hint, so I decided to put him out of his misery, quickly. “I think it’d be better if we don’t go out on a date.”
“Oh.” James looked positively wretched. “I wanted to thank you. What if we didn’t call it a date? Just a supper? Two colleagues out for—”
He was making this very difficult, and I sighed. “Maybe. Sometime. Not this week, though.”
“All right.” The smile was back on his face, and I felt like kicking myself. I’m supposed to be strong about stuff like this. Then, I really thought about what he’d said about the spigot.
“James, do you think I could see the spigot? The one that cut you?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Oh, I’m interested. Remember Farley Hewitt, the guy who died down there? Maybe the spigot had something to do with his death.”
“Doing a little sleuthing?” He grinned.
“Maybe a little.” I grinned back. I couldn’t help it. His smile was infectious. “So, what do you think?”
“I’ll get it for you when we get back.”
The silence between us was comfortable. I glanced over at his handsome profile and wished, for a small moment, that I could bend the no dating rule. It could have been fun—but I wasn’t willing to take the chance.
The cab pulled up to the Palais and we got out, walking into the main foyer.
“Give me a minute,” he said, and disappeared through the door to the furnace room. He was back in moments, his good arm wet to the elbow. He held a shard of the spigot in his hand.
“Watch it. It’s sharp.”
“Thanks.” I carefully took the piece of metal, and tucked it in my sweater pocket. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes.” He looked embarrassed. “It was the blood.”
“I know how it is. I lose it over spiders.” I grinned at the look of relief that flooded his face.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. I act like a real girl, screaming, the whole bit.”
“I have trouble seeing that.”
“Well, it’s the truth.” I pointed to the elevator. “I have to get back to work. Thanks for the cab ride.”
“You’re welcome. When we can talk about that supper?”
“Next week.” As I turned away, I tried not to sigh. I’d deal with it when Farley had moved on, and I felt stronger.
“Good.”
Marie:
The Hero, Back at the Office
Mr. Latterson and Farley were both waiting for me when I walked into the office.
“You do know you only have a half hour for lunch,” Latterson started.
“Just tell me you left the idiot at the hospital,” Farley growled at the same time.
I didn’t know who to look at. Decided to deal with the living first, and turned to Mr. Latterson. “There was an accident, in the furnace room,” I said. “James—you know James?”
He shrugged, but didn’t stop me.
“James Lavall, the caretaker for the building. He cut his hand, and the furnace room flooded.”
Mr. Latterson reacted to this news, strongly. “What happened in the furnace room? A flood? How the hell—”
“I don’t know,” I said, deciding for the moment not to mention the spigot. I had no idea why it had blown apart, but I wanted the chance to discuss it with Farley, alone. I hoped that talking about it would spark something in his memory. I hoped.
“James hurt himself, so I helped him. Then I had to take him to the hospital.” I pointed at the phone sitting on my desk. At the red flashing light, indicating a voicemail message. “I called.”
Mr. Latterson stared at the phone. It was obvious he hadn’t seen the light. “Oh,” he finally said. “Oh, well, that’s good.” He patted me on the back, called me a hero, and then disappeared into his office.
Then Farley and I were alone.
“Somebody messed with the spigot, Farley,” I said.
“Your face is flushed,” Farley said acidly. “What, are you falling for that guy?”
I stared at him for a second, then sat down and stared at the top of my desk. “No, I’m not. Give it a rest.”
“Well, quit looking like that, then.” He frowned ferociously, then blinked. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m not—” I started. Farley shook his head impatiently.
“Not that,” he said. “You said something about a spigot. What about it?”
“Oh. Somebody screwed with it. That’s how James cut his hand. He went to turn it on, to run water, you know, and it blew apart.” I pulled the piece of twisted metal out of my sweater pocket and put it on the desk.
Farley stared at it for a long time. “Did the idiot—”
“His name is James. James Lavall. Don’t call him an idiot.” I felt warmth as I blushed. God, now I’m standing up for him. What was wrong with me?
“Did he use a hacksaw on this?” Farley asked, pointing at the spigot.
“No. He said he found it this way. He was trying to change it, when it blew.” I really looked at the metal piece, and understood why Farley had asked the question. It did look like it had been cut. I touched one of the edges, gingerly, then pulled my finger back. No wonder James hurt himself on it.
“Why would someone do this?” I asked.
“The bigger question is, who did it,” Farley replied.
“I don’t have a clue.”
“Maybe Carruthers,” Farley mumbled. “Maybe him.”
“Carruthers? The owner of the building? Why would he do something like this?”
“I don’t know,” Farley said. “Just a thought.” He leaned in, getting as close as he could to the spigot. The piece of metal had cut the varnish, leaving a small white scar.
“Is it ever sharp,” Farley said. “No wonder the kid—James—cut himself. Those edges look like so much razor wire.”
And then, he faded. Most of his light left him. He looked like a smoky smudge curling over my desk, staring at the sharp edges of the broken spigot.
“Farley!” I cried.
“What’s wrong with your voice?” Farley asked, his eyes never leaving the spigot. “You sound like you got cotton in your mouth.”
He faded even more, and when he looked up at me, his eyes looked like two burnt coals, dead black in the grey of his face
.
“It’s funny,” he said. “Razor wire that close doesn’t look dangerous at all.”
Razor wire? What was he talking about? Why was he fading so quickly? This was bad. Even worse than the time before. He was like a black hole, sucking all the light and colour from everything around him. He just kept staring at the spigot as though his eyes were glued to the thing.
“Farley!” I cried. “I can barely see you, what’s going on . . . Farley, don’t go!”
Then Mr. Latterson stuck his head in the room, demanding to know what all the yelling was about. And blink. Farley was gone.
Farley:
To Hell, Again
My hand on the wire, the sound of the hacksaw, the voice, like hearing it through a tube, and then white. Then it would start again. Thirty-five to forty seconds, tops. Over and over and over again. Not being able to hear what the voice was saying past “that would sell on eBay” or some shit. All I could tell for sure was that it was my hand on the wire, and I knew the voice from somewhere.
Jesus, Marie, help me. Please.
Marie:
Again with the Blinking
I didn’t check to see if Farley was hiding somewhere in the office, because I had to concentrate on Mr. Latterson, who was yelling at me because I was being entirely too loud. He said, “Stop wasting my time and money and get back to work.”
“I will, Mr. Latterson.”
When his door shut, I clicked the computer mouse. The only name Farley had mentioned before he disappeared was the owner of the building, George Carruthers. It was time to find out as much as I could about him.
What I found was a big fat zero, zilch, nada. Well, close to it, anyway. George Carruthers owned a bunch of buildings besides the Palais in Edmonton, and he’d recently moved from the Palais to an office in a much more fashionable part of downtown Edmonton.
Other than that, he managed to stay right off the grid. I’d have to figure out another way to get information about him. However, that would have to wait, because Mr. Latterson’s afternoon appointment walked in.
It was Raymond Jackson, aftershave wafting from every pore, as usual.
