Mary popped the door open with the flat of her hand, as the orderly had done. No alarm sounded. She saw black electrical tape holding down the door's latch, and she knew somebody had decided it was better to cheat the alarm than wait for the elevator. It was a good sign, she thought. She stepped into the stairwell and closed the door behind her.
She started down. The next door had a big red one on it. The stairwell continued down, and Mary followed it. At the bottom of the stairwell the door was unmarked. Through its glass inset, Mary could see a corridor with white walls. She opened it, slowly and carefully. Again there was no alarm and no sign of warning on the other side. She walked along the hallway, her senses questing. At a crossing of corridors, a sign pointed to different destinations: ELEVATORS, LAUNDRY, and MAINTENANCE. The smell of fresh paint lingered in the air, and pipes clung to the ceiling. Mary kept going, in the direction of the laundry. In another moment she heard someone humming, and then a husky black man with close-cropped white hair came around the corner, wheeling a mop in a bucket-and-wringer attachment. He wore a gray uniform that identified him as a member of the hospital's maintenance crew. Mary instantly put a mask on her face: a tightening of features, a coolness of the eyes. The mask said she was where she was supposed to be, and she had some authority. Surely a maintenance man wouldn't know everyone who worked in the hospital. His humming stopped. He was looking at her as they neared each other. Mary smiled slightly, said, "Excuse me," and walked past him as if she were in a hurry to get somewhere — but not too much of a hurry.
"Yes'm," the maintenance man answered, drawing his bucket out of her path. As she walked on around the corner she heard him start humming again.
Another good sign, she thought as the tension eased from her face. She had learned long ago that you could get into a lot of places you weren't supposed to be if you stared straight ahead and kept going, and if you masked yourself in an aura of authority. In a place this big, there were a lot of chiefs and the Indians were more concerned with the work at hand.
She came upon an area where there were several laundry hampers standing about. The voices of women neared her. Mary figured one woman alone might not ask questions, but someone in a group possibly would. She stepped around another corner and waited, pressed against a door, until the voices had gone. Then she went on, concentrating on her path and how to get back to the stairwell. She passed through a room full of steam presses, washers, and dryers. Three black women were working there, folding linens on a long table, and as they worked they were talking and laughing over the thumping noise of laboring washing machines. Their backs were to Mary, who moved past them with a fast, powerful stride. She came to another door, opened it without hesitation, and found herself standing on a loading dock at the rear of St. James Hospital, two panel trucks pulled up close and a couple of handcarts left untended.
When she closed the door behind her, she heard the click of a lock. A sign read PRESS BUZZER FOR ADMITTANCE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. She looked at the buzzer's white button beside the door grip. There was a dirty thumbprint on it. Then she walked down a set of concrete steps to the pavement, and she began the long trek around to the parking deck, her gaze alert for security guards.
Joy sang in her heart.
It could be done.
As she worked on the uniform, Mary began to think about her pickup truck. It was fine for around here, but it wasn't going to do for a long trip. She needed something she could pull onto a side road and sleep in. A van of some kind would do. She could find a van at one of the used car dealers and trade her pickup for it. But she'd need money, too, because the trade surely wouldn't be even-steven. She could sell one of her guns, maybe. No, she didn't have papers on any of them. Would Gordie buy the Magnum from her? Damn, she hadn't given any thought to money before. She had a little over three hundred dollars in the bank, and a hundred more stashed around the apartment. That wasn't enough to last her very long on the road, not with a van needing gas and a baby needing food and diapers.
She got up and went to the bedroom closet. She opened it and brought out the boy-sized Buckaroo rifle and telescopic sight she'd taken from Cory Peterson. Maybe she could get a hundred dollars for this, she thought. Seventy would be all right. Gordie might buy this and the Magnum. No, better keep the Magnum; it was a good concealment weapon. He might buy the sawed-off shotgun, though.
As Mary returned to the bed, she caught sight of a figure walking out on the highway in the dim gray light. Shecklett was wearing an overcoat that blew around him in the wind, and he was picking up crushed aluminum cans and putting them into a garbage bag. She knew his routine. He'd be out there for a couple of hours, and then he'd come in and cough his head off on the other side of the wall.
Ought to be ashamed, living like you do with all that money you've saved.
Paula had said that. In the letter Mary had taken from Shecklett's trash and taped together.
All that money you've saved.
Mary watched Shecklett pick up a can, walk a few paces, pick up a can. A truck rushed past, and Shecklett staggered in its cyclone. He fought the garbage bag, and then he picked up another can.
All that money.
Well, it would be in a bank, of course. Wouldn't it? Or was the old man the type who didn't trust banks? Maybe kept money stuffed in his mattress, or in shoeboxes tied up with rubber bands? She watched him for a while longer, her mind turning over the possibility like an interesting insect pulled from underneath a rock. Shecklett never had any visitors, and Paula — his daughter, Mary supposed — must live in another state. If something were to happen to him, it might be a long time before anyone found him. She could easily do it, and she didn't plan on sticking around very long after she took the baby. Okay.
Mary walked into the kitchen, opened a drawer and got a knife with a sharp, serrated blade. A knife used for gutting fish, she thought. She laid it on the countertop, and then she returned to the bedroom and the work on the nurse's uniform.
She was long finished with the job by the time she heard Shecklett coughing as he passed her door. Aluminum cans clanked together; he was carrying the garbage bag. Mary stood at her door, dressed in jeans, a brown sweater, her windbreaker, and a woolen cap. She listened for the clicking of Shecklett's keys as he slid the right one into his door. Then she went out into the cold, her.38 gripped in her right hand and the knife slipped down in her waistband under the windbreaker.
Shecklett was a gaunt man with a pockmarked face, his white hair wild and windblown, and his skin cracked like old leather. Shecklett barely had time to register the fact that someone was beside him before he felt the gun's barrel press against his skull. "Inside," Mary told him, and she guided him through the open door and slid the key out of the lock. Then she picked up the garbage bag full of cans and brought that in, too, as Shecklett stared at her in shock, his pale blue eyes red-rimmed with the chill.
Mary closed the door and turned the latch. "Kneel," she told him.
"Listen… listen… wait, okay? Is this a joke?"
"Kneel. On the floor. Do it."
Shecklett paused, and Mary judged whether to kick him in the kneecap or not. Then Shecklett swallowed, his big Adam's apple bulging, and he knelt on the thin brown carpet in the cramped little room. "Hands behind your head," Mary ordered. "Now!"
Shecklett did it. Mary could smell the fear coming out of the old man's skin, what smelled like a mixture of beer and ammonia. The window's curtains were already drawn. Mary switched on a lamp atop the TV. The room was a dreary rat's nest, newspapers and magazines lying in stacks, TV dinner trays strewn about, and clothes left where they'd been dropped. Shecklett trembled and had a coughing fit, and he put his hands to his mouth but Mary pressed the Colt's barrel against his forehead until he laced his fingers behind his head again.
She stepped away from him and glanced quickly at her wristwatch. Nine-oh-seven. She was going to have to get this done fast so she could find a good deal on a van before she changed to the unifo
rm and made the drive to St. James.
"So I called the cops. So what?" Shecklett's voice shook. "You'd have done the same thing if you heard somebody hollerin' next door. It wasn't nothin' personal. I won't do it again. Swear to God. Okay?"
"You've got money," Mary said flatly. "Where is it?"
"Money? I don't have money! I'm poor, I swear to God!"
She eased back the Colt's hammer, the gun aimed into Shecklett's face.
"Listen… wait a minute… what's this all about, huh? Tell me what it's all about and maybe I can help you."
"You've got money hidden here. Where?"
"I don't! Look at this place! You think I've got any money?"
"Paula says you do," Mary told him.
"Paula?" Shecklett's face bleached gray. "What's Paula got to do with this? Jesus, I never hurt you, did I?"
Mary was tired of wasting time. She took a breath, lifted the Colt, and brought it down in a savage arc across Shecklett's face. He cried out and pitched onto his side, his body shuddering as the pain racked him. Mary knelt down beside him and put the gun to his pulsing temple. "Shit time is over," she said. "Give me your money. Got it?"
"Wait… wait… oh, you busted my face… wait…"
She grasped him by the hair and hauled him up to his knees again. His nose had been broken. The ruptured capillaries were turning dark purple, and blood rushed from his nostrils. Tears were trickling down Shecklett's wrinkled cheeks. "Next time I'll knock out your teeth," Mary said. "I want your money. The longer you screw around, the more pain I'm going to give you."
Shecklett blinked up at her, his eyes beginning to swell. "Oh God… please… please…" Mary lifted the Colt again to hit him in the mouth, and the old man flinched and whined. "No! Please! In the dresser! Top drawer, in my socks! That's everything I've got!"
"Show me." Mary stood up, backed away, and held the gun steady as Shecklett staggered up. She followed right behind him as he went through a hallway into the bedroom, which looked like a tornado had recently roared through. The bed had no sheets. On the walls hung yellowed, framed black-and-whites of a young Shecklett with a dark-haired, attractive woman. There was a picture atop the dresser of Shecklett wearing a tasseled fez and standing amid a group of smiling, paunchy Shriners. "Open the drawer," Mary said, her insides as tight as a crushed spring. "Easy, easy."
Shecklett opened it in fearful slow motion, blood dripping from his nose. He started to reach in, and Mary stepped forward and pressed the gun's barrel against his head. She looked into the drawer, saw nothing but boxer shorts and rolled-up socks. "I don't see any money."
"It's there. Right there." He touched one of the rolled-up socks. "Don't hurt me anymore, okay? I've got a bad heart."
Mary picked up the wad of socks he'd indicated. She closed the drawer and gave the socks back to him. "Show me."
Shecklett unwadded them, his hands trembling. Inside the socks was a roll of money. He held it up for her to see, and she said, "Count it."
He began. There were two hundred-dollar bills, three fifties, six twenties, four tens, five fives, and eight dollar bills. A total of five hundred and forty-three dollars. Mary snatched the cash from his hand. "That's not all of it," she said. "Where's the rest?"
Shecklett held his hand to his nose, his puffed eyes shiny with fear. "That's all. My social security. That's all I've got in the world."
The lying bastard! she thought, and she almost smacked him across the face again but she needed him conscious. "Stand back," she told him. When he obeyed, she pulled the dresser drawers out one after the other and dumped their contents onto the bed. In a couple of minutes it was all over, the pile contained Shecklett's Tshirts, sweaters, copies of Cavalier, Nugget, and National Geographic, handkerchiefs, a full bottle of J. W. Dant and one half killed, and other odds and ends of a solitary life but no money to speak of except for the errant few quarters, dimes, and pennies.
Mary Terror turned to face the old man, who had crushed himself up against the wall, and she said, "Paula thinks you've saved a lot of money. Is it true or not?"
"What do you know about Paula? You've never even met my daughter!"
Mary went to the bedroom closet, opened it, and ransacked it as Shecklett kept asking her how she knew his daughter. Mary overthrew the mattress and then the entire bedframe, finding nothing but TV dinner trays and old newspapers under the bed. She bulldozed through the bathroom's medicine cabinet and tore into the kitchen cabinets, and when her search was over she realized she knew Shecklett a lot better than Paula did.
"There's no more, is there?" she asked, training the Colt on him.
"I said there wasn't! Jesus Christ, look what you did to my place!"
"Give me your wallet."
Shecklett fished it from his pants and handed it over. There were no credit cards, and the wallet held a five and three ones. "Listen," Shecklett said as Mary pocketed the cash and tossed the wallet aside, "you've got every cent now. Why don't you just get out?"
"Right. The faster I get out, the faster you can call the pigs, huh?"
Shecklett's gaze dropped to the gun. He looked up from it into Mary's face, then back to the gun again. His Adam's apple wobbled. "I won't tell anybody," he said.
"Take off your clothes," Mary ordered.
"Huh?"
"Your clothes. Off."
"My clothes? How come you want me to —"
She was on him before he could utter another word. The gun rose and fell, and the old man dropped to his knees with his jaw broken and three teeth loose. Moaning with pain, he began to take his clothes off. When he was finished, his bony white body nude, Mary said, "Get up." He did, his eyes deep-sunken and terrified. "Into the bathroom," she told him, and she followed him in. "Get in the bathtub on your hands and knees." He balked at this, and began to beg her to leave him alone, that he wouldn't tell anybody, wouldn't ever tell anybody. She pressed the gun's barrel against the staircase of his spine, and he got into the tub in the position she'd demanded.
"Head down. Don't look at me," she said. Shecklett's skinny chest heaved, and he coughed violently for maybe a minute. She waited until his coughing was done, and then she slid the knife from her waistband.
"Swear I won't tell a soul." His chest heaved again, this time in a sob. "God, please don't hurt me. I never did anything to you. I won't tell anybody. I'll keep my mouth shut, I swear to —"
Mary picked up a washrag from the sink and jammed it into Shecklett's mouth. He gasped and gagged, and then Mary leaned over his naked body. She thrust the knife into one side of Shecklett's throat, her knuckles scraping the sandpaper of his skin. Before Shecklett could fully realize what she was doing, Mary cut his throat from ear to ear with the serrated blade, and crimson blood fountained into the air.
Shecklett tried to scream around the washrag. As the blood sprayed into the bathtub from his severed carotid artery, Shecklett grasped at his throat with his one hand and started to rise to his knees. Mary put her foot into the small of his back and jammed him down again. His body thrashed and writhed under Mary's strength, blood spewing into the tub as if released from a pulsing faucet. "My name is Mary Terrell," she told him as he bled and died. "Soldier of the Storm Front. Freedom fighter for those without rights in the Mindfuck State, and executioner of the state's pigs." He was trying to get up again, his knowledge of death affording him a last surge of power. She had to bear down hard on him, and his adrenaline flood ceased in a few seconds. He writhed at the bottom of the tub as if doing a breast stroke in his own gore. "Defender of the just. Protector of the weak. Crusher of the Mindfuck mentality, and keeper of the faith."
He had a lot of blood for a gaunt old dude.
Mary sat on the edge of the tub and watched him die. There was something about him that made her think of a baby swimming through a sea of blood and mother's fluid to reach the light. He died not with a shudder or a moan or a final desperate thrashing; he simply got weaker and weaker, until the weakness killed him. And there he lay in the
tub with his life going down the drain, his eyes open, and his skin the color of a fish Mary had once seen washed up and swollen-bellied on a gray beach.
Mary stood up. She slashed the mattress open in the bedroom, just to make sure no money was hidden inside. Cotton wadding puffed out, and it served to clean the blade. Then she left Shecklett's apartment and closed the door behind her, richer by five hundred fifty-one dollars and some change.
The uniform was ready. She took a shower with God cranked up on the speakers, the bass pounding at the walls like an eager fist. Before the day was done, she would be a mother. She scrubbed spatters of blood from her hands, and she smiled in her veil of steam.
6
Big Hands
ON SATURDAY MORNING JUST AFTER ELEVEN O'CLOCK, DOUG stood at the window of Room 21. He watched the clouds move in the pewter sky, and he thought about the question Laura had just asked him.
How long has the affair been going on?
Of course she knew. He'd seen yesterday that she knew; it was in her eyes when he'd told her he hadn't been able to get away from work until long after midnight Friday morning. Her eyes had looked right through him, as if he were no longer truly there. "I don't want to hear it," she'd said, and she'd lapsed into silence. Every time he spoke to her, he was met with the same wall of words: "I don't want to hear it." He'd known she'd be upset because he wasn't there at David's birth, and that fact gnawed at his guts like little piranhas that meant to devour him to the bones, but then he realized there was more to it. Laura knew. Somehow, she knew. How much she knew he wasn't sure, but just knowing was bad enough. All day yesterday and all night last night it had been either "I don't want to hear it" or cold silence. Laura's mother, who'd come to Atlanta yesterday with Laura's father to see their grandson, had asked him what was wrong with Laura, that she didn't want to talk, that all she wanted to do was hold the baby and croon to David. He hadn't been able to say because he didn't know. Now he did, and he watched the pewter sky and wished he could think of something to say.
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