Sandman

by William W. Johnstone

  Connie Kelly sat in her kitchen and drank coffee, waiting for the hospital to call.

  Janis and Carla and Melissa and Carol and Jean read the morning paper, passing it around, each of them going over the short article several times.

  “Do you think Paul had anything to do with this, Janis?” Melissa asked.

  “I think he had everything to do with it. I think he wants Dad out of the way. He can work Mother, get her to eat out of his hand. I’ve seen him do it. And as soon as he gets Dad out of the way, I’m next. You can believe that. He hates me.”

  “You mean we’re next, don’t you?” Jean corrected. “We’re all in this thing together, aren’t we?”

  “I hate to say it,” Melissa put in, “but I think we’ve got to get some boys in on this.”

  “Who?” Janis looked at each of the girls.

  “Bing and Roy for certain,” Melissa suggested. “How about it?”

  “Suits me.” Janis shrugged. “But you might all do better by backing out of this.”

  “No way!” the girls told her.

  * * *

  The County Medical Examiner, Dr. Larry Carleson, whose offices and lab were in the hospital, checked his findings for the third time and then shook his head. It just was not possible. There had to be some mistake. Things like this did not occur. They were medically and scientifically impossible.

  But there it was, right in front of him, and he damn sure couldn’t deny it.

  The sand held life, of a sort the doctor had never seen before. But the blood was dead. Medically speaking. Devoid of functioning cells and corpuscles. His tests had proved that nothing in this blood would support life. The protoplasm, platelets, erythrocytes, leucocytes.

  But it was alive.

  Damned if I know how, Carleson thought.

  He looked at the pile of sand that the officers had sworn was once a humanlike arm. His people had tested it. It was sand. But not all desert sand. The samples had contained crystalline rocks, quartz, and pieces of coral, and of snail and clam shells. There was also evidence of basalt, the black rock from a lava flow.

  In other words this sand was a mixture of sands found in various parts of the world. That didn’t make any sense to him.

  But nothing about the bizarre happenings of the past ten days made sense.

  Something moved just within range of his peripheral vision. He turned his head. But there was no one in the lab with him.

  Settle down, Larry! he told himself. Just calm down.

  But the feeling that he was being watched would not leave him.

  Larry looked down at his right forearm. “That’s funny,” he muttered. “I never noticed those bite marks before.”

  He dismissed the marks as ant or flea bites.

  Disgusted with himself for his old-maidish feelings of fear, he expelled air sharply, rose from the stool, and walked to the door. He didn’t want any more coffee, but maybe some fresh air would clear his mind.

  Larry felt there was a perfectly logical explanation for all of this nonsense, and he was determined to find it.

  Or die trying! The words popped into his head.

  He shook them away.

  Typing the blood had been crazy enough. A, B, and O. Combined. That in itself was wacky.

  At the door, Larry once more experienced the odd sensation of being watched. He turned and gave his lab the once-over. Nothing was out of place.

  With a snort of disgust, he shook his head and stepped out into the quiet corridor, scratching the bite marks on his forearm. The damned things itched.

  As soon as the door had closed behind Larry Carleson, the sand on the table began to transform itself into a stumpy arm and hand. The fingers worked back and forth, as if the sand itself had experienced some sort of stiffness. Then the arm snaked itself to the edge of the table and, fingers grasping the table’s edge, swung down and dropped to the tile floor. There the arm lay pulsing for a moment, as if seeking direction, but finally, using its fingers, it began to pull itself across the floor to the wall alongside the door.

  It seemed to sense the door, and stopped, waiting on the floor, off to one side.

  Only a few seconds passed before the door opened. A young orderly stepped in. He opened his mouth to call for Dr. Carleson, but before he could speak, he felt something fumbling at his ankle.

  The young man looked down and opened his mouth to scream.

  Some sort of hand had attached itself to his ankle.

  His foot flew out from under him as the hand jerked, and Glen Holland hit the floor hard, banging his head. But that pain was slight compared to the torment in his leg, and it was spreading upward, to his groin, and into his belly. He felt a million ants were attacking him. He tried to scream, but only a grunting sound came from his throat.

  He beat his hands against the floor, trying to get somebody’s attention; he could not understand why he could not scream.

  His mouth was dry and stuffed with something.

  It was . . .

  Sand.

  Glen began to thrash about on the floor as excruciating pain engulfed him.

  That lasted for only a few seconds, and then the young man felt nothing at all.

  His seeing but totally uncomprehending eyes watched as grains of sand began to whip all around him, some of them seeming to come under the door, from out in the corridor.

  One grain of sand can easily escape a broom or mop or vacuum cleaner.

  Get up! the words popped into his head.

  He clumsily drew himself to his feet, swayed for a moment, got his balance, and then opened the door to step out into the hall.

  He stood for a moment, watching a few people, all dressed in white, like him, walk up and down the corridor.

  Some of them spoke his name.

  Glen jerked his head up and down.

  He did not know what to do, did not know who he was, did not know where to go.

  Kill!

  Glen half-closed his eyes, and tried to understand what kill meant.

  Destroy!

  He thought he knew what that meant.

  OK.

  Glen thought that was a fine idea. But what? He looked around him. The corridor was deserted. He saw a door and figured maybe somebody was behind it, somebody he could destroy.

  Weapon!

  Glen’s sandy brain was muddled. To his left was a door marked JANITOR. Maybe he’d find something in there.

  He did. A hammer.

  Smiling like an idiot, Glen once more stepped out into the hall. He lurched up the corridor and turned into the first door he came to.

  A ladies’ restroom.

  The yelling and screaming and hollering and cussing made his head feel funny. Grains of sand dropped off of his face.

  That made the women holler even louder.

  And Glen did not like the way some of the women were pushing and shoving him.

  So he swung the hammer and smashed one right between the eyes. Left a funny little mark on her head. Her eyes just rolled back and she fell down.

  Glen laughed and laughed.

  Now all the women in the little room were yelling and screaming, and they were crowded into one corner.

  Glen lifted both arms, one hand grasping the handle of the hammer, and he grunted at the women.

  One of them picked up a large metal wastebasket and held it in front of her.

  Glen swung the hammer.

  He looked down. Another woman was bleeding out of her nose and mouth and ears.

  Stupid-looking.

  The woman with the wastebasket swung it, hitting Glen in the face with one edge. It didn’t hurt, but it knocked him down and he lost the hammer.

  Then Dr. Mary Beth Fletcher entered the restroom. She stopped short at seeing Glen fumbling around on the floor, trying to find his weapon.

  Then she kicked the hammer away from him and started screaming for orderlies.

  Glen looked up at her.

  He opened his mouth to speak, his jaw working up
and down. But nothing that made any sense came out.

  Just gibberish.

  Fletcher noticed the flat dullness of the young orderly’s eyes, the sandy snot that dripped from his nose.

  Glen had always been full of life, joking and kidding with everybody; he was kind and gentle with the patients and would do anything a doctor or nurse asked of him.

  The restroom was now crowded with people.

  “Get her out of here.” Mary Beth pointed to the injured woman. “And call Dr. Belline. She’s got a fractured skull, possible brain damage.” She looked at Glen. “Come on, Glen. Come with me.”

  Glen tried to tackle her, but Mary Beth was too quick for him. Several burly orderlies grabbed him and forced him out into the hall.

  But Glen broke loose from them and lurched up the corridor, knocking people away as he stumbled off.

  He staggered into a room and locked the door.

  A knot of doctors and technicians and nurses had gathered. “What the hell happened, Dr. Fletcher?” one of them asked.

  The women who had been in the restroom came out and began talking, all at once. Mary Beth shook her head and walked a few feet from them.

  Behind the locked door, Glen began to scream.

  Security came running.

  “Call the police,” Mary Beth told one guard. “Tell them to hurry.”

  Glen’s screaming became high-pitched, a one-note wailing.

  A nurse touched Mary Beth’s arm. “Doctor? That woman in the restroom just died.”

  “Damn!” The word exploded from Mary Beth’s mouth.

  At the far end of the hall, Dr. Carleson stepped out of his office. He was furious. Someone had just stolen his sandpile.

  “You jerksl” he shouted. Everyone in the hall turned and looked at the doctor. “That’s my sand and I want it back. If you don’t return it, I’m going to hold my breath until I turn blue and just die!”

  Slater, Clineman, and Belline had just rounded the corner, intent on seeing what all the fuss was about. They stopped cold when Dr. Larry Carleson plopped down onto the floor and went into a tantrum, kicking and yelling and beating his hands against the linoleum.

  Mary Beth reacted first. She gestured to the orderlies who had handled Glen.

  “You men who touched Glen, go take hot showers. Scrub until you’re raw.” She pointed to a nurse. “Get gowned and gloved, and burn their clothing. Move, damn it!”

  She turned to Clineman, who was kneeling beside Carleson. “Don’t touch him,” she warned.

  Clineman nodded. “Ah, Larry,” he said.

  Larry stopped yelling and bouncing around, and looked at Clineman. “You old coot! You’d better gimme back my sand. I’ll tell on you if you don’t!”

  Clineman blinked, shook his head. “Larry . . . who are you going to tell?”

  “I’ll tell Mommie and Daddy you took it, and I’ll tell them you been peekin’ into the girls’ restroom.”

  Clineman stood up. “Get him to a bed,” he told two male nurses. “He’s had some sort of breakdown.”

  Larry kicked his feet and squirmed about on the floor, waving his hands. “Havenothavenothavenot-havenot!”

  Mary Beth noticed the red marks on Carleson’s forearm. They looked like ant bites. She pointed them out to the other doctors.

  “Some sort of reaction?” Dr. Slater said, a hopeful note in his voice.

  “I hope that’s all it is,” Clineman responded. “Gowned and gloved before anybody touches him.” He looked at Larry. “We’re going to help you find your sand, ol’ buddy.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise. Come on, get up.”

  Mary Beth walked to the ME’s lab and pushed open the door.

  Larry stood up and cupped his hands to his groin. “I gotta weewee!”

  Clineman pointed to the men’s john. “Right over there, Larry.”

  “Toooo late!” Larry yelled, and lifted his hands. There was a dark stain at his crotch. “I had an accident, I had an accident!” he said in singsong; the grin on his face was a silly one.

  “That’s all right, Larry.” Clineman reassured the medical examiner, a man rated tops in his field. A man who had just weeweed in his underwear after losing his sandpile.

  “You gonna ’pank me?” Larry pouted, sticking a thumb into his mouth.

  Clineman assured Carleson he was not going to spank him. Then Larry was led away, to the psychiatric wing. To be restrained.

  Mary Beth walked up to the other doctors. “The sand the police brought in is gone.”

  “Gone!” Slater blurted out. “Who would take it? And why?”

  Mary Beth looked down and her face paled. “Back up!” she told her colleagues, pointing to the floor.

  A trail of sand led to the room in which Glen had locked himself.

  “Dear God in Heaven!” Clineman whispered.

  SIX

  “How do you want us to play this?” Mike asked the group of doctors.

  The research wing of the hospital had been cleared, but Glen continued his high-pitched wailing behind the locked door.

  One of Larry Carleson’s assistants had quickly put samples of the sand under a microscope.

  It was alive. Sort of. In a way. But he didn’t know what kind of life it was. He’d sure as hell never seen anything like it.

  “However we handle it,” Clineman said, “we must be very careful not to come into direct contact with Holland. I want all your officers to be masked and gloved.”

  “They’ve been schooled in the handling of AIDS patients,” Mike assured him.

  Clineman nodded his head almost absently, then turned to one of Carleson’s staff. “Have you found anything that will destroy this life form?”

  “Fire.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Not that we’ve been able to ascertain in fifteen minutes,” the researcher said curtly.

  Clineman smiled and patted the young man on the shoulder. “Sorry, Bobby. It’s a tense time for all of us. Please keep trying.”

  Bobby nodded and walked back into the lab.

  Several officers were standing by, gowned and gloved and masked.

  Mike hit the door several times. “Glen Holland. This is Mike Bambridge, chief of police. Come on out, Glen.”

  The wailing never missed a note.

  “Do you kick the door in now?” Mary Beth asked.

  Mike smiled. “That’s TV and movie stuff, Doctor. Besides that, it’s damn hard on the feet.” He motioned to an officer. “Bust it, Charles.”

  The officer picked up a twelve-pound sledge hammer and walked to the door. He hit the knob one accurate blow and knocked it out. It hit the far wall, having flown through the air with the speed of a bullet.

  The door swung open. The lights were on in the room, and Glen Holland was sitting on the floor, wailing sounds coming out of his mouth. Snotty sand leaked from his nose and mouth. The stench was awful.

  Glen looked at the crowd. Then a wild light appeared in his eyes. He gripped a scalpel in his right hand. Slowly, he stood up.

  “Drop the knife, Glen!” Mike warned, jacking back the hammer on his .357.

  Glen charged, screaming.

  Half-a-dozen pistols barked, the slugs all striking the orderly in the chest. He slumped back against the wall, bloody sand leaking out of the smoking holes in his stained jacket.

  But he was a long way from being dead.

  Mike took aim and shot him between the eyes. Part of Holland’s head struck the wall behind him. Bloody sand gushed out of it, all mixed up with gray matter and fluid.

  Glen slumped to the floor.

  He smiled at the shocked cops and doctors.

  He was still a long way from being dead.

  One of the cops stepped into the room and tossed a blanket over Glen’s head. Then he and several others wrestled Glen face-down onto the floor and secured him with restraining straps.

  “We can’t keep him in the hospital.” Dr. Slater finally found his voice.r />
  “No,” Clineman agreed. “Ah ... take him to that unused trailer out back—the old portable inoculation unit. House him there.”

  “After that, come back and scrub down, lots of soap and hot water. Your clothing will be burned,” Dr. Fletcher ordered. “And this floor has to be sanitized.” She looked at a shocked and pale janitor. “Get to it and be careful.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  Mark was not released from the hospital. The doctors could not bring down his low-grade fever, and his blood pressure was fluctuating and could not be controlled.

  Dr. Larry Carleson was placed in isolation in the hospital proper, and Orderly Holland was strapped down in the trailer behind it. His heart had been shattered by two .357 slugs, copper-jacketed hollow-noses. Both lungs, his stomach and liver and spleen had been hit. And he had been shot in the head.

  But he would not die.

  Medically, it was impossible.

  Yet it was happening.

  Anyone who went near Carleson or Holland approached them fully gowned and masked and gloved.

  Everybody who had come in contact with the contaminated sand was checked for those strange red marks. But so far, only Carleson and Holland had been affected.

  No one had thought to check Mark Kelly.

  Yet.

  And Inspector Stanford Willingston and retired NYPD detective Leo Corigliano requested a meeting with Chief Mike Bambridge of the Tepehuanes Police Department.

  Mike looked at their credentials, grunted, and waved the men to seats in his office.

  Leo closed the door; which did not go unobserved by Mike.

  “The Chief Inspector of the Commonwealth of the Bahamas and a retired NYPD lieutenant who now runs a hot-shot PI agency. Now”—Bambridge smiled—“I got to wonder why an odd couple like that would team up and come to Tepehuanes?”

  “Perhaps to offer our assistance, Chief,” Stanford said.

  “Why would I need your assistance, Inspector? Are you speaking of some specific case that is currently open in our files?”

  Stanford did not mince words. “Voodoo, black magic, creatures that appear to be made of sand, and a child of Satan, plus murder. I don’t believe you are fully cognizant of the enormity of the problems facing this community, Chief Bambridge.”