“Brigitte, this is Josephine Garner, Gavin’s former wife. She just flew in from California.”
“Hello and welcome. I’m Mr. Curtis’s nurse until seven tonight. Would you like me to take you to his room?”
Josephine extended a handshake and exhaled. “Yes, that’d be good.”
She turned, offering her designer purse to Beverly. “Can you keep this for me?”
“Of course I will. William, hand her some more tissues.”
He offered three and held up his thick book in his other hand. “I’m only a third of the way through, so take as much time as you need.”
Josephine gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thanks again for coming.”
The nurse led her through a set of double doors into the unit.
Half an hour later, the door clicked open again, and Billy wedged a bookmark in the middle of his book.
Josephine emerged alone. Beverly was quick to hand the purse back to her, along with more Kleenex.
“Thank you,” Josephine said, dabbing the mascara at the corner of her eyes. “The nurse told me that coma patients can hear people talk to them.”
William said, “I seriously doubt that with all the drugs that they have him—”
A hard nudge and a dirty look from Beverly silenced him.
He defensively asked, “What?”
A nervous laugh escaped from Josephine. “I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I told him that we were here, that we loved him. That I… I loved him.”
Beverly clasped Josephine’s free hand. “I think that’s good, dear, and really brave of you. That could be just what he needs to wake up, and they do sometimes. A lot of times, they do.”
She signaled to William like a stage actor who had forgotten his line.
“Uh, yeah, right. All the time. If I know Gavin, he’s just faking it to get out of the last few stops on the book tour.”
The rebuke from Beverly was instantaneous. “William Randolph Cavanaugh! That’s an awful thing to say! How could you even think of—”
“No, it’s okay, Beverly. It’s funny. He’s right. Gavin hates doing tours.” Josephine’s expression turned curious. “I want to ask you something, though. When you were in there, did you notice anything odd?”
“Like what exactly?” Beverly asked.
“Did you see his hands—his fingers?”
“Are you talking about how they were moving?”
This got William’s attention.
“Yes.” The answer snapped out of Josephine. “His fingers were moving the entire time I was in there. The nurse said that she’d seen something like it once before and not to worry. But what did you think of that?”
“I dunno. I just figured it was a reaction to the medicine or something.”
“No, the nurse said it wasn’t.”
“What are you saying, dear?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but did it… do you think he was typing?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I can see how it would look like he was typing. Yes, I could say that, possibly.” Beverly turned to her husband with a questioning look.
“Don’t ask me,” William said. “I haven’t even been in there yet, but there have been cases of coma patients dreaming. They told us he’s not brain dead—in fact, far from it. So I guess it’s possible that he could be—”
“Sleep-typing?” Beverly said before he could finish.
Josephine nodded as she formed a half-smile.
William scratched the back of his neck. “I know one thing. If he is writing, or sleep-typing, as you say, I guarantee you that he’s not writing a Damien Marksman story.”
Josephine smiled. “That’s true.”
Beverly looked confused, not getting the joke.
He stroked his beard. “However, I do wonder—sincerely wonder. What story do you think Gavin Curtis is writing now?”
It was Beverly who saw her first and quickly moved to place herself between the woman and Josephine.
“Jeez Louise!” William exclaimed, nearly dropping his book. “How long have you been standing there?”
The old woman with the harelip ignored the question and took a step closer to the trio. Pointing to an old publicity photo of Gavin in the newspaper she was holding, she asked, “Are you this? The writer?”
Josephine, ever the publicist, moved from behind Beverly’s human shield and extended a hand. “Are you a fan? Do you read Damien Marksman books?”
The old woman asked again, “You are this? For him?”
Josephine shot a glance behind her to William, who seemed to be scanning the area for security. When their eyes met, he shrugged.
Josephine turned back to the woman, who looked like she was wearing a homemade dress. Before she could answer, Beverly said, “Yes, we are Mr. Curtis’s… family. Are you a Gavin Curtis fan?”
Satisfied, the woman folded the paper away and addressed Josephine. “No, I’m not reading the stories, but I come telling you something, something important for your ears.” Though she was not an attractive woman, the three could not take their eyes off her as she said, “He did good thing when he jumped. He stopped—”
A gasp from Beverly called William into action. Pointing an index finger at the woman, he rebuked her. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’d better turn around and head back out that door before I put my boot up your—”
Josephine lifted a hand, stopping him short. Her voice wavered, but she managed to ask, “What do you mean—what good thing? He stopped what?”
“My daughter. He keep her from doing bad thing, very bad. It over now.”
Beverly moved to steady Josephine.
William demanded, “What are you talking about? Is this some kinda prank or something?”
The old woman shook her head from side to side. “He not jump because of sad. He jump to keep bad away—to protect.”
Josephine was crying again.
“No sad, no sad,” the old woman said in a comforting tone. “Wait, I have something for happy.” As she pulled the green, pear-shaped necklace from around her neck and over her head, she asked, “You the wife? The writer wife, no?”
Josephine sniffed and nodded repeatedly.
“This for you, for happy. It’s gift.”
Josephine waved her hands before her in refusal. “I can’t… you don’t need to do that.”
“The writer stop my daughter from doing bad thing. It’s gift.”
After a few seconds of looking into the persistent stare of the woman, Josephine gave in. She stooped to allow the woman to place the necklace over her head. “Thank you. What’s your name?”
The woman ignored the question. “It make you happy to wear it, you see. It make you happy very soon.”
Josephine received another tissue from William as Beverly offered a comforting shoulder squeeze.
“I will go now, but remember I said the writer not jump because of sad.”
“I’ll remember,” Josephine said, drying her eyes.
“Good to remember this. Bye now.”
The three watched in stunned silence as the odd harelipped woman walked down the hallway.
The pear-shaped necklace had some weight, but it wasn’t too heavy. Josephine clasped a hand around it and squeezed.
She was surprised at how warm it felt.
THE END
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bsp; Acknowledgements
A big thanks to friends and family who gave their support to this project (even though it had no robots this time). Of special note is the input from Team Armageddon members Jason Aydelotte, Shannon Winton, Carrie Patel, Dominick D’Aunno, Erik Hailey, and Christian Roule. A special thanks goes out to Vicki Estes who tirelessly served once again as my first reader and to the talents and unfailing guidance of my editor, Hilary Comfort.
No frogs were harmed in the making of this book, except for that one (and that was a long time ago).
Thanks for reading,
GWP
About the Author
George Wright Padgett has always had a passion for storytelling.
Born in Houston, Texas, he grew up consuming a steady diet of science fiction and comic books. His time is divided between being a husband and father of two, a jazz piano player, a graphic artist, and a playwright. With whatever time is left over, he writes science fiction, horror, and the occasional mystery while sitting on the sofa next to his mini dachshund, Jenny.
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Text ©2014 by George Wright Padgett
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Padgett, George Wright
Cruel devices / George Wright Padgett
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951634
ISBN 978-1-9388216-6-0
First Edition
ePub Edition
Cruel Devices Page 21
