Burning Man

by Alan Russell

  My partner also rode with me. We were going to drop him off at an animal clinic not far from the hospital. Sirius had suffered some cuts during his skirmish. Or maybe he’d incurred the wounds another way. Some escape artists have been known to dislocate their shoulders in order to get out of a straightjacket. It was possible he’d gotten hurt making his escape from the car.

  “So, how did you do it?” I asked him.

  The four doors of my car had been locked, and the windows had only been opened a few inches. But like any good magician, my furry escape artist wasn’t explaining how he performed his trick.

  Maybe Sirius’s rescuing me was another miracle. Of course it was possible that he’d managed to push the glass from one of the open windows out far enough for him to wiggle out. But all of that didn’t explain how Sirius had known something was wrong before we reached the monastery, and before the attack on me. Maybe my shaman was right and Sirius was my guardian spirit.

  A few hours after being admitted to the hospital, I started feeling like myself again. During my stay I had been visited by Anna Nguyen, a detective assigned to my case. I told her everything I remembered about my attackers. Nguyen used her youth and good looks to draw out almost everything I knew. She was a good artist and was able to draw my attacker’s tattoos almost exactly as I remembered them. The only thing I didn’t give Nguyen was my suspicions: I had a pretty good idea who the “Prophet” was.

  After Nguyen left, I was ready to take off myself. Among health workers it’s universally acknowledged that doctors make the worst patients. Cops probably rank second on the pain-in-the-ass scale. I buttonholed my doctor as he came in to check on me.

  “When can I leave?” I asked.

  “You’ll need to stay overnight,” Dr. Fish said. My physician’s name was matched only by his personality.

  “I suppose that decision was made after you did a wallet biopsy and discovered the state of my health insurance?”

  Dr. Fish decided to take a moment to point out the errors of my ways. Even with managed health care, doctors can still find the time to do that.

  “When you arrived at this hospital,” he said, “you were experiencing dizziness, had lingering issues from the compression of your air passages, showed trauma to your neck, had problems with your balance, had two cracked ribs, and you told me there was a ringing in your ears. It was clear you were suffering from a mild concussion, as well as physical trauma from being beaten.”

  “That was a few hours ago,” I said. “Now I’m more worried about boredom doing me in.”

  Dr. Fish decided to study my charts rather than listen to me. He made a few notes on my paperwork. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he was writing DNR in big letters. After finishing with his scribbling, Fish swam off.

  I punched the call button with my finger, and it wasn’t long before a nurse appeared. “I’d be grateful if you could get me some writing paper.”

  The nurse, a petite Asian woman, happily nodded at my request. In heavily accented English she asked, “Do you want it for a letter?”

  I shook my head and said, “Last will and testament.”

  The nurse managed to keep a frozen smile as she beat a quick retreat. A short time later, paper and pen were delivered to me; maybe my condition was more serious than I thought. Nguyen might have been assigned to my case, but I had more than a passing interest in it myself. When I cleared my own books, I was going to find these three. I began making my own notes from the attack. I was halfway through my memoirs when I heard a whispered conversation out in the hallway and a familiar voice saying, “I’d appreciate it if you gave this to the detective.”

  Maybe it was the hushed words that had made me take notice; maybe I became aware of what was being said just because the speaker’s voice was one I really wanted to hear.

  I called out, “I would much rather that you gave it to the detective in person.”

  There was a little more whispering, and then I heard a throat clearing and Lisbet Keane appeared at the doorway. Blushing red, she gave me a half-wave and then took a few halting steps into the room. She didn’t meet my eyes and didn’t seem to know where to look.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you,” she said.

  “I am glad you came. I would have called you, but they took away my cell phone.”

  Lisbet’s call had saved my life. She had phoned me just before I was attacked, and heard enough of my beating to call 911. Lisbet had even added the magic words “a police officer is being attacked at the Monastery of the Angels” to the emergency operator. Her call had received immediate attention.

  “In fact, I’d be bounding out of my bed to shake your hand and thank you if they hadn’t taken away my underwear and put me in this ridiculous gown. So please accept my apologies that you didn’t hear from me, and that I don’t know quite what to say to the person that saved my life other than I owe you big time.”

  “I only made a call,” she said.

  “I don’t think I’d be alive if you hadn’t made that call.”

  She wasn’t comfortable being my savior and looked more ready than ever to leave. I patted the chair next to me and said, “Have a seat. Please.”

  Lisbet took the kind of tentative seat you do when you’re playing musical chairs and expecting the music to start up again.

  “Was it some kind of attempted robbery?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Some people wanted to hurt me.”

  Lisbet grimaced and still managed to look good. “Who and why?”

  I didn’t like seeing her look so uncomfortable, so I said, “I’m thinking it might be some goons sent by the Book of the Month Club. They were really pissed off when I decided to cancel my membership.”

  That got a smile out of her, and also made her remember the package she was holding. “Speaking of books,” she said and handed me the bag. “There’s a silly get-well card, and a little gift. I didn’t know how long you’d have to stay here, so I tried to think of what I could get you that might help pass the time.”

  “Your being here helps pass the time better than anything I can think of.”

  I opened the bag and pulled out a copy of Michael Connelly’s The Drop.

  “I haven’t read it,” she said, “but I know it’s about an LAPD detective.”

  “Maybe I should take notes when I read it so I can learn how to be a real detective.”

  Lisbet edged forward another inch in her chair, and looked that much closer to taking off. Embarrassed, she said, “I guess it wasn’t the best choice.”

  “No, it’s my lame sense of humor that wasn’t the best choice,” I said, and then I reached out and lightly touched her hand.

  She relaxed enough to take up a little more of the chair’s real estate, and I thought of something that might keep her there a few more minutes.

  “Do you have a sweet tooth?”

  “I have thirty-two of them.”

  “Do me a favor and get that bag over there.”

  Lisbet followed the direction of my finger and then brought me the bag I’d been holding when I was attacked. The cops on the scene had gathered my goodies and brought them to the hospital. Now I saw a use for them. Dottie from the gift shop had suggested I might get lucky with their chocolates. I hoped she was right.

  I pulled out the box. “Here’s a token of my esteem for saving my life.”

  Lisbet smiled and said, “If I had known saving lives involved chocolate, I might have made it my full-time vocation.”

  In a Forrest Gump voice I said, “Momma always said life was like a box of chocolates.”

  “Hand-dipped chocolates,” Lisbet said, reading the box. What she read next surprised her: “‘Monastery Candies—better than the best.’”

  “You know the nuns wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true.”

  “Nuns made these?”

  I nodded. She studied the box once more, ran her fingernail under the slogan, and said, “I suppose we owe it to science to find out if these c
hocolates really are better than the best.”

  “Apparently, the nuns didn’t have to take a vow of humility.”

  “It’s not bragging if you can back it up,” Lisbet said, opening the box and passing a chocolate my way.

  As I stuffed it into my mouth, I said, “I am sure this violates the hospital’s Jell-O dessert laws.”

  Lisbet had already bitten into her chocolate, and her rapturous sounds reminded me of how the cartoon character Snuffles reacts after eating doggy treats. She didn’t quite levitate like Snuffles, but I think I saw one foot leave the ground.

  “The nuns didn’t lie,” she said.

  “There is a commandment or two that frowns upon that.”

  “Another?” Lisbet said, holding the box out to me.

  “The rest are for you.”

  “You’re the one that’s a patient in the hospital.”

  “I’ll let you in on a secret. If they don’t release me in the next few minutes, there’s going to be a prison break.”

  “But I thought they were holding your underwear and cell phone as ransom.”

  “They are, but extreme circumstances call for extreme measures.”

  “Doesn’t knowing about your prison break make me an accessory to the crime?”

  “It does. And let’s not forget that you’re already complicit in the receipt of a bribe.”

  “You led me down that slippery slope.”

  “I was helped by the nuns.”

  “I can resist everything but temptation,” she said and started chewing on a second chocolate.

  “It’s good to know you’re human.”

  “And not a saint?”

  Lisbet’s tone was playful, but there was an edge to it. The look she gave me also suggested she had some issues with her nickname.

  “People respect you,” I said. “That’s why they call you that.”

  “I’m no saint. I take in abandoned newborns and see to their burials because I think it’s the right thing to do. It’s not as if I believe that God spoke to me and told me what to do. I know a lot of people think that what I do is strange, and that the only possible explanation is that I’m a bit touched.”

  “I am glad you’re not a saint. I can deal with strange just fine, but I’m not very good with sanctity.”

  “What about you?” she said. “I’ve given up my halo, but you still have your pedestal.”

  “What pedestal is that?”

  “You’re a hero, a modern-day knight-errant that braved dragon fire to bring a notorious villain to justice.”

  “Now that you saved my life, I’ll let you be the hero.”

  “I dialed three digits. That’s all.”

  “And all I did was my job. The news of my heroism was greatly exaggerated. But there are perks. Did you know that this is Go to Lunch with a Hero Week?”

  “That somehow escaped my notice.”

  “Well, it’s true. That means your civic duty requires you to have lunch with me, and me with you.”

  “I’m not one that usually shirks her civic duty.”

  “Nor am I. You mind if my partner joins us? Sirius pouts a lot if he thinks he’s being excluded.”

  “I am all for Sirius joining us, but I’m wondering if the restaurant will be as welcoming.”

  “We know all the restaurants in the city that are dog friendly. My partner’s favorite watering hole is this microbrewery with a nice outdoor patio. I always order a burger and brew, and he has a burger along with a water bowl, and we’re both happy.”

  “They ever mix up your orders?”

  “That happens all the time.”

  “I think I’ll order a salad to alleviate the confusion.”

  Suddenly I was feeling a whole lot better.

  An hour after Lisbet took her leave, I announced that I was leaving the hospital and demanded my cell phone and underwear. The powers-that-be didn’t think my leaving was a good idea and decided that I should have the exercise of jumping through hoops before departing. My final act of contrition was waiting on my release papers. As I watched the billing clerk work on my file, I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by her long, rainbow-colored, painted fingernails. Her talons rivaled those of Manchu royalty, but somehow she was still able to clack away on the computer keyboard.

  “Dr. Fish wanted you to sign this,” she said.

  Her index fingernail, about as long as a letter opener, tapped imperiously on the signature line. I glanced at the paper and saw the acronym AMA in several places.

  “American Medical Association?” I asked.

  With curt emphasis she said, “Against medical advice.”

  I signed where she told me, but not in my usual scrawl. With very neat handwriting, I penned in the name Mary Baker Eddy.

  “You’ll also need to sign this,” the clerk said.

  The last time I’d had that much fine print thrust under my nose was when Jenny and I bought our house. “Am I promising my firstborn?”

  Bored, she said, “You’re agreeing to be liable for payment if for any reason your health insurance doesn’t cover treatment received during your stay.”

  “It’s been my experience that only two professions wear masks: bank robbers and doctors.”

  She was not amused. I doubt whether an MRI could have found her smile. It had to be an oversight, but for some reason I wasn’t offered a wheelchair ride to the curb.

  I sprang Sirius ten minutes later. The clerk at the animal clinic was considerably friendlier than her counterpart at the hospital. Most kids grow up wanting to work with animals. There’s a good reason for that. The alternative is to work with humans. When I signed Sirius’s paperwork, there were no notations of AMA.

  When Sirius was brought out for me, I took a knee, and then I went nose to nose with my friend, giving him a hug and getting in return a tongue on my face and a whipping from his tail. His eyes were shining; mine were a little wet. They’d had to shave a few patches and sew him up where he’d sustained cuts, but he didn’t look too bad.

  We weren’t more than a dozen steps out the door when Sirius paused at a fence post and lifted his leg for a long pit stop. “Save some,” I told him. “I was thinking we could do a drive-by at the hospital where I was staying.”

  It was an unnecessary request, of course. I have never seen my partner run out of ammunition.

  I drove in the freeway’s slow lane. My only goal was to get home in one piece. Earlier I’d taken some codeine with Tylenol, but the meds felt as if they’d worn off already. Any movement of my neck hurt and my ribs ached like hell. It didn’t help knowing my injuries would stiffen up and get worse overnight, but I wasn’t about to cancel my next day’s appointments, especially after what had happened.

  The shaman-mobile was in Seth’s driveway. There was also another car, but that wasn’t unusual. Seth is the exact opposite of a hard-body LA surfer, but that doesn’t stop him from being incredibly popular with the opposite sex. I have accused him of getting into the shaman trade for the purpose of learning how to concoct aphrodisiacs. He has never denied it.

  Before getting out of the car, I sent Sirius out on reconnaissance. In my old age and after almost being killed, I was getting careful. Sirius wasn’t gone long and came back wagging his tail. According to him, no bad guys were anywhere near our house.

  The two of us went to Seth’s door. I tapped lightly and hoped I wasn’t intruding at a particularly bad moment. Before opening the door, Seth turned on the front light. I had hoped he wouldn’t do that.

  “I’d almost given up on you,” Seth said, and then he stopped talking when he got a good look at my face.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t bring Sirius earlier, but we ran into a little trouble.”

  He motioned for us to come inside, but I shook my head. “Early flight,” I said, “remember?”

  “I remember telling you I didn’t think much of the idea of you going north, and judging by how you look, I especially don’t think it’s a good idea now.”

>   Instead of commenting on what happened I said, “I appreciate your taking Sirius. As you can see, he picked up a few bumps and bruises but the vet says he’s okay. I hope to pick him up in the early afternoon.”

  “We’ll manage. Will you?”

  “I’ll try to keep my soul as intact as possible through tomorrow.”

  I don’t think Seth knew whether I was joking or not. I don’t think I knew either.

  CHAPTER 14:

  NOT SO SAINT QUENTIN AS EXPLAINED BY THE DEVIL

  The whisper of his voice played off the cold, concrete walls and sought me out even before we were in sight of one another. “But the wilderness found him out early and had taken vengeance for the fantastic invasion. I think it had whispered to him things about himself which he did not know, things of which he had no conception till he took counsel with this great solitude—and the whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating. It echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core.”

  There was a momentary pause, followed by his insinuating words: “I worry about you being a hollow man, Detective Gideon.”

  I answered the voice before yet being able to see the face. “That’s nice,” I said. “Have you been rehearsing just for me?”

  “You hear those whispers, don’t you, Detective? Those are Conrad’s words from Heart of Darkness.”

  “Thanks for the Cliffs Notes.”

  Ellis Haines’s cell in San Quentin was in the Adjustment Center, known as the AC, the death row that housed the worst of the worst. He had been placed in one of the six so-called quiet cells, a segregated area that had the most stringent security in the Q. Others in the Adjustment Center included Richard Ramirez, the so-called Night Stalker, and Richard Allen Davis, the murderer of twelve-year-old Polly Klaas. Charlie Manson had once spent time in one of the quiet cells in AC.