by Keith Taylor
Jack nodded, still distracted, wondering about Cathy. “Yeah. Well, I used to be. I’m not licensed any more, but…” A thought struck him. He hadn’t told Parsons about his job. “How did you know I was a doctor?”
Parsons pointed to the kitchen counter. “Your ID. You left your wallet and phone in your pants when Joan took them for the laundry. I’m real sorry, but she didn’t notice them until they came out the machine. Your cash is drying on the table, but I’m afraid your phone bought the farm. Still, it’s not like there’s any signal right now. I guess it was a useless brick anyhow.”
Jack looked over to the counter with dismay. A few hundred dollars in bills were drying on a dish cloth, and his wallet and phone were sitting beside them.
He knew Parsons was right. The phone was useless without a signal, but that wasn’t the point. It was holding the last message he’d received from Karen. The thought that it had been wiped from existence in a washing machine… well, it felt as if she and Emily had just taken another step further away from him. He was heartbroken and angry, but he didn’t want to lay it on Parsons.
“It’s OK,” he said. “I guess it was my fault for forgetting to take them out of my pocket.”
Parsons nodded. “Still, I wish I’d checked before Joan threw your clothes in the machine. I’m real sorry about that.”
The sheriff looked up at a knock on the back door, where a wiry man with a patchy attempt at a beard stood tapping his wristwatch. He dropped his toast to his plate and sighed. “Well, looks like they’re playing my song. I’ll be right with you, Ray,” he called out to the newcomer, pushing back his chair and brushing an avalanche of crumbs from his shirt. “I guess I’d better head on up to the church and see what’s going on. You and Doug stick around here and eat your fill. Joan’ll take care of anything you need, just ask.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Jack replied, distractedly. “We’ll be just fine.”
“Then I’ll catch up with you in a little while.” He turned to his wife. “Honey, you take care of these boys for me. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
Joan gave him a hurried goodbye and returned to her conversation with Doug, who was spinning some unlikely yarn about a distant relative of his being thirty seventh in line for the throne. Jack returned to his breakfast as Parsons left by the back door, deep in whispered conversation with the man.
He couldn’t put his finger on it, but as he poked at his cooling pancakes he suddenly felt a strange sense of unease. It was the same feeling he often had in bars in less respectable parts of town, where men passed illicit substances to each other in dark corners and women plied their trade on the street outside. It was the tense feeling of his brain whispering to him, watch yourself, warning him to make this his last drink.
There was something prodding at his mind, like a tongue at a loose tooth, but just as it seemed set to become clear it began to float away again, maddeningly close but just out of reach. It was… it was something about his phone. Some memory from last night, a half remembered snapshot of a moment caught by a half asleep mind.
He dropped his fork to the plate and leaned back, his stomach full and his mind clouded by a near fatal overdose of carbs and sugar. He suddenly felt like he needed a breath of fresh air, just to clear his head.
“I’m gonna go take a walk for just a minute,” he said, pushing back his chair, but it was clear that neither Joan nor Doug had heard him. She was too busy listening with rapt attention to whatever story he was weaving about centuries of bizarre, inbred English aristocracy.
Jack scooped up his phone and wallet from the counter, slipping the still damp bills into the breast pocket of his shirt to dry. The rest he tried to tuck into his jacket pocket, but then he remembered that he was wearing the sheriff’s windbreaker, not his suit jacket. He ran his hands down the sides and realized there were no pockets there, so he dropped the phone and wallet in his pants pockets, stepped out onto the porch and arched his back, taking a deep breath of the cool air.
Now he looked around properly for the first time since they’d arrived. Plumas Creek looked to be a small town. Barely a village, in fact. Aside from the motel all he could see were maybe fifty or sixty small homes, neat little boxes tightly clustered in a small suburb of three or four streets. The Mobil station was visible just a few dozen yards up the road, partially hidden in the trees, and on the far side of the houses he could see the spire of a small wooden church a couple hundred yards to the south. To the north was a steep hillside covered in a thick growth of ponderosa pine trees.
Apart from that there was nothing. Plumas Creek was just a small settlement perched up in the hills, with a single road leading in and out. It was hard to tell what anyone up here might do for a living, but the motel suggested that tourism might be a part of it.
Jack made his way across the parking lot to his room, and as he stepped inside and saw his bed he was suddenly overcome with fatigue, no doubt the result of eating a stack of pancakes as big as his head. After months of surviving on the thin gruel of hotel minibars he wasn’t accustomed to eating quite so well, and even though he’d only awoken an hour ago the prospect of a nap seemed inviting. He kicked off his shoes, dropped to the bed and grabbed the TV remote, flicking on the set.
There was only static and color bars on every channel. The set was an old CRT with rabbit ears sticking out the top, and Jack couldn’t see anything nearby that might be a digital receiver. He squinted at the set, and he almost laughed out loud when he saw that there was a VCR player built in beneath the screen.
“What decade am I in?” he muttered to himself, flicking off the TV and tossing the remote to the bedside table.
He turned to his side, trying to find a comfortable position on the firm, spongy pillow, but however he moved it seemed that comfort was always just out of reach. It barely felt like a pillow at all, but an armrest pulled from a sofa, firm and unyielding. Eventually he gave up, pushed it aside and rested his head on a crooked arm until he felt halfway comfortable.
It was still nagging at him. Something about… God, why can’t I think straight? Was it Cathy’s disappearance that was bothering him? He thought about it for a moment, and… no, that wasn’t it. It unsettled him, sure. He still couldn’t figure out why on earth she’d decided to leave without saying goodbye, or taking her own truck, but when it came down to it he’d only known the girl a few hours. Hell, he didn’t even know her last name. For all he knew she could have been crazy. There didn’t seem much point worrying about her.
No, it was something else. Jack stared at the floorboards, trying to clear his mind to allow the thought to creep to the forefront, as elusive thoughts so often do when you just stop thinking about them for a while. He let his eyes trace the intricate, flowing patterns formed by the grain of the wood, all the way from the door to the foot of the—
That was it.
Jack sat bolt upright in the bed, a sudden chill shivering down his spine as he remembered what Parsons had said back in the kitchen.
“I’m real sorry, but she didn’t notice until they came out of the machine.”
When it came to his belongings Jack was a creature of habit. Functioning alcoholics usually are. They know they can’t trust themselves to keep track of everything after the booze has started to seep into the blood, so they develop systems. Routines. Little habits to keep their little world ticking over, habits that became so ingrained in the mind of a drunk that they’d still follow them even if they’d forgotten their own name and couldn’t walk straight anymore. Even if they suspected that the warm patch in their crotch might be the result of an accident.
Jack stared down at the floor, at the ruined suit jacket sitting in a heap beside the bed. The right arm was torn off, and what remained was covered in so many tears and stains it was only good for dish rags, but the silk lining was still intact.
He leaned over and scooped it from the floor, shaking it out and pulling open the left lapel. There, sewn into the lining, was a discreet slanted
pocket, the perfect size for his cellphone. On the other side was its twin, this one just large enough for a slim wallet with a couple of cards and a few bills.
He always kept his things in those pockets. Always. The habit was so ingrained he’d reach for those pockets in his sleep. His pants pockets were too shallow for his brick of a phone in any case.
He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as he realized what this meant.
Someone had been in his room.
Someone had taken his wallet, and destroyed his phone. And they’d done it intentionally.
Parsons was lying to him.
΅
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A SMALL MERCY
KAREN AWOKE TO yelling. Loud, furious screeching that forced her to shrink back.
“What do you mean, you won’t help him?” An angry female voice rang in her ears. “You’re helping her!”
“Ma’am, please try to understand.” This was Ramos now, his voice much lower, calming and conciliatory. “I didn’t say I won’t help him. I’m saying I can’t. I’m sorry, there’s just really nothing I can do for him now.”
“You mean there’s nothing you can do now you’ve given her all the good medicine!” A fist slammed against a surface. “Why the hell does she get to live and my Ron dies? Who the hell gives you the right to play God?”
Karen pried open her eyes, crusted with sleep, and squinted at the bright strip lighting in the ceiling above her. She was… well, she didn’t know where she was. The floor was hard and cold. The lights were blinding. Her vision was blurry. She’d swear she was imagining it, but just a few inches from her face she saw the shiny plastic faces of a dozen smiling babies staring back at her, glassy-eyed.
“Doc?” Her voice cracked, and after just one word she doubled over in a coughing fit that robbed her of breath. Her ribs stabbed at her. Each new jolt of pain brought on another another spasm, another cough, and after just a few seconds she was gripped with panic. She was suffocating.
Through tear filled eyes Karen saw Ramos appear at her side, holding a bottle of something to her lips. “You’re OK, you just need some water,” he said, as another cough sent the first mouthful spraying. “It’ll pass, Karen, just relax. You’ll find your breath.”
The second mouthful made it all the way down her throat, though the burning sensation as it went down made it feel as if she’d aspirated at least half of it into her lungs. Ramos tipped the bottle again, and finally the coughing began to subside enough to let her take a ragged breath.
“Where…?” Where’s Emily, she wanted to ask, but her throat gave up before she could manage it. Just speaking a single word felt like her throat was full of razor blades.
“It’s OK,” Ramos assured her. “Everything’s OK. You’re both going to make it. You’re safe.”
Karen still couldn’t see clearly, but behind Ramos she saw a shape approach down the… aisle? Am I in a supermarket aisle? It was a woman, but Karen could only tell by the sound of her voice. She was just a blurred lump through Karen’s tear filled eyes.
“Well if she’s gonna be OK she doesn’t need all this stuff any more!” the woman yelled, her voice high pitched and frantic. “Get it out of her!” she demanded.
Ramos turned back to her, his voice climbing in volume to match hers. “You don’t understand!” he insisted. “Stop! None of this will do him any good. I’m sorry.”
The woman came closer, and Karen felt Ramos pull her towards him, shielding her from… the attack? Is this an attack? Is she attacking me?
“Save my Ron!”
The looming shape of the woman reached down, grabbed hold of something and pulled, and a moment later Karen felt a searing pain shoot through her right arm. She tried to scream as Ramos fought the woman off, but her voice didn’t come. All she could do was roll up into a ball and clutch her arm.
What’s happening? It felt like she’d been stabbed, but whatever weapon the woman had used she must have left it buried in her arm. The pain was still there, growing, moving as if a knife was digging around all the way down until it scraped across the bone.
Ramos jumped to his feet and tried to wrestle her attacker away, but as he launched himself towards her Karen felt like she’d been stabbed again. The pain was agonizing, and this time she found her voice. Her scream was deafening. She could feel it tearing her throat to shreds, but she just couldn’t hold it in.
“Please stop!” Ramos cried, pushing the woman back. “Look what you’re doing to her!”
Karen pulled herself into a tighter ball, desperately trying to protect herself from whatever the woman was doing, and finally the searing agony began to subside. Her attacker dropped her arms to her sides, and as Karen blinked away the tears and her vision began to return she looked up to find the woman standing above her, her shoulders heaving in great, sorrowful sobs.
“My Ron,” she wept, tears flowing down her cheeks. “Please help my Rooooooon.”
It was only then that Karen realized what had happened. In one hand the woman was clutching a thin rubber tube that ran to a transparent bag hung from a shelf a few feet above Karen's head. The other end of the tube, she noticed with a shiver, was attached to her arm with a length of tape, and beyond that a needle that dug beneath her skin. The woman had been tugging on it, trying to tear the needle out of her arm, and from the rivulets of blood flowing across her skin it looked like she’d almost been successful.
Ramos took the woman in his arms, comforting her as he carefully slipped the tubing from her hand and dropped it to the floor. “It’s OK. Come on now, it’s OK,” he whispered in a soft voice. “Go be with Ron. I’ll be along in a minute. I may have something that can help him.”
The woman squeezed Ramos tight, her shoulders still heaving as she tried to speak. “Thank you, doctor. Oh, God bless you. God bless you!”
Ramos pulled away. “It’s OK. Now go on, Ron needs you by his side.”
She walked away, wiping away the tears as she rounded the corner and vanished, and Ramos turned back to Karen with a sigh. “I’m sorry about that. Are you OK?”
Karen tried to sit up, supporting herself against what she could now see was a display of diapers. “I’ll live,” she croaked, her voice still scratchy. “Doc, where are we? Where’s Emily, and who the hell was that psycho bitch?”
Ramos reached out to take her arm, gently peeling away the strip of tape and sliding the needle from beneath her skin. Already her forearm was turning an angry shade of purple where the needle had been tugged back and forth.
“In order, we’re in a pharmacy, somewhere near… hell, I don’t know, somewhere west of Sacramento. Emily’s safe and sound. She’d taking a nap out in the car. And that woman—”
“You mean she’ll live?” Karen interrupted.
Ramos smiled. “Emily? Yes, she’ll be fine. Her treatment was a lot simpler than yours, in fact. Just a little topical antihistamine. Tell me, did you know that Emily suffers from allergies?”
Karen frowned, confused. “Yeah, she’s allergic to… to soy, and she’s had a few issues with dairy the last couple of years.”
“And synthetic fabrics?”
“What? I…” Karen’s mouth dropped open as it dawned on her what Ramos was saying. “Are you telling me she doesn’t have radiation sickness?”
He nodded. “Just a common allergic reaction to the cheap ass polyester in Jared’s Hawaiian shirt. It gave her a rash wherever it touched her, and I guess the vomiting was just a combination of her throat closing up and a little stress. She’ll be perfectly fine.”
“Oh, thank God!” Karen cried, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders that had been grinding her into the ground ever since the bridge. “Thank you so much, Doc. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
Ramos pointed to the end of the aisle and lowered his voice. “Well, you can start by cutting that woman a little slack. She’s about to lose her husband.” He tore open a pack of gauze with his teeth, spitting out the wrapper as
he taped a square over the bruised puncture wound on Karen’s arm. “How are you feeling? Any nausea? Headache? Confusion?”
Karen shook her head. “No, I feel fine. Better than fine, actually, apart from my arm and the fact that I don’t have the slightest clue what the hell is going on.”
Ramos smiled. “Good. That’ll be the result of my tried and tested strategy of giving you everything I could squeeze down an IV short of the kitchen sink. You’ll feel on top of the world until it all wears off.”
“And then?” Karen braced herself for bad news. “What happens afterwards?”
“My best guess?” Ramos gathered up a few blister packs and rolls of bandages from the floor, stuffing them into a plastic bag. “You’ll live, so long as we can get you on a course of Filgrastim.”
“Filgrastim?”
“It’s a granulocyte-colony stimulating factor.” He noticed Karen’s questioning look. “Don’t worry, you don’t need to know the details. Your white count is too low, and Filgrastim will stop you dying from the flu while your immune system recovers.”
Karen shrugged. “You’re the doc, Doc. If that’s what I need, sign me up. Jab it in me, or whatever you need to do.”
“They don’t have it here,” Ramos said, helping her to her feet. “It’s usually only prescribed to chemo patients, so it’s not the kind of thing your average Rite Aid keeps behind the counter.”
“So we still need to go to the—”
“The safe zone, yeah. That’s the only place I know we’ll be able to find it.”
“Then OK, no time like the present. If we have to go, let’s get it over with.”
“First I have to take care of a patient.” He began to walk in the direction of the frantic woman, but just before he reached the end of the aisle he stopped abruptly, turned back to Karen and leaned in, speaking quietly. “Hey, ummm, try not to react when you see this guy. It’s… not pretty.”
