by Brian Hodge
He greeted Tuesday morning from a repository of empty bottles, in clothes reeking of rancid sweat. MTV droning in never-ending rapid jumpcuts, held in check at the mental periphery. Sightless, he stared at everything, nothing. Dust motes drifting through shafts of sunlight, changing course when caressed by air currents too small to be felt. Victims of fate and circumstance, subject to whims they could not see, powers they could not fight.
Limbo. We are the dust of the earth.
He ignored the ringing of the phone late in the morning. It could ring until the wall caved in. Later still, he let the knocking persist at his door. A familiar thud, a familiar voice he recognized as preceding his own on the air, back when life was good and sane and normal. He was getting skilled at this game, ignoring the door as it shuddered in its frame, the rattle of the knob, grateful he’d at least had the foresight to lock it hours before.
At last, the intruder must have conceded defeat, gone away.
I only touched her, and how many times had he told himself this? Just like I only touched Popeye.
But the two of them were dead, and how. The connection had come somewhere in the predawn hours, a recollection of flaring tempers accompanying hands-on contact. Denial was now a moot point. But he at least had an answer to the question that had plagued him right up until last evening at Tappers.
What happens if I meet somebody I can’t stand? Simple. I can wipe them right out. Because not only can I heal disease and injuries…
I can inflict them.
His hands were more than five-fingered enemies, as he had regarded them last night. Lethal weapons, in and of themselves, and just what the hell was happening?
Flukes, that’s all they were, the optimist tried to reason, even while the realist pissed in his face. Flukes, two freak incidents stacked up against uncounted healings, legitimate and pure. Flukes brought on by extremes of anger and pain, the wrong person in the wrong mood at the wrong time.
Options were frightfully scarce. He could shut himself up within these walls, cloistered from the world while paying bills by remote control. And when his meager savings ran dry, panhandle the streets in the thickest pair of gloves he could find.
What to do, he pondered this while the calendar brought more days of obsolescence. The phone continued to ring, and the knocking continued at his door. And Paul, sitting in the hallway floor, willed the caller to hang up, the intruder to go away. Biting his lip at the sound of the voice on the other side of the door, Peter twice, once Lorraine, and he buried his face into crossed arms and clenched shut his eyes, trying not to think of how she had looked, how she had felt, how she had tasted.
The TV, soundtrack to remembrances of Popeye, drippy and bloated, and Mrs. DeWitt, the amazing human pincushion. He drank everything of potency, with power to dilute the mind, and found it somehow obscene that, despite it all, physically he felt better than he ever had in his life.
Mentally, well, another story. Somewhere in the gulf of time his skull had become an iron skillet, his blood hot grease, his brain raw eggs. Listen to them sizzle, listen to them pop, and just where could he go from here?
Go on like before? Head on straight and hands to himself whenever the interpersonal started to heat up? He had to live with it no matter what. It wouldn’t be easy, yet it was the only chance for redemption he knew. You can’t drown if you don’t get your mouth wet; you can’t kill if you keep your hands safely tucked away.
It took three days to figure that out? Thursday night, still in the same clothes and smelling as ripe as a gym locker. He found the phone, dialed the KGRM request line, took a deep breath when David Blane answered. The voice that launched a thousand naps.
And Paul told him not to worry, he was safe, he was well, he would be there later on in the morning.
Sincerity must have been his strong point, and he’d never realized it. Three days of AWOL behavior was inexcusable, but he found it surprisingly easy to get away with. Lies, or convolutions of the truth, whichever. He told them that he had witnessed something, had been devastatingly upset, and that the police had asked him not to talk about it. Lawyers too; he threw that in as an afterthought. Co-workers were curious, but of course, yet they did not press.
Fine. Put it behind him, and settling into the booth again felt as comfortable as slipping his hand into a well-worn glove. Here was his one true lifeline, and he hurled himself at it headfirst. His opening barrage, then the day’s burning question: “Can you play air guitar in a vacuum?” The air swallowed him whole. Legitimate commercials, then a decoy he’d made recently — Motley Cruex, guaranteed to soothe groupie-induced jock itch. On to the news unfit to print: Mud-wrestling at the Vatican to determine a new pope, a new film starring Clint Eastwood and Patrick Swayze, Dirty Harry Dancing.
The first hour of his shift became two, became three, home stretch now, he was surfing the airwaves in glory. The request line blinked, and he answered.
Just when did it begin, this creeping sense of the awry? The phone call began so typically, “Could you play—”, and then the coughing, how could anyone live with a cough like that? So harsh, so wracking, lungs filling with phlegm like water into a glass. He held the phone away from his ear, listened to it continue, stop please stop that, and was he to blame? Hadn’t some minuscule detail of the caller’s voice sounded like Popeye, and triggered immediate bad associations?
Oh fuck, did I do that to him?
Paul’s voice, the voice of the city’s alternative underbelly, Lethal Rock Radio. Fifty thousand watts behind his voice, giving it the power to reach out and touch someone, and wasn’t his voice an extension of himself?
I’M KILLING YOU!
The song he had played last came to an end, dead air, a hiss of static pulsing from the speakers, listen closely now, and you can hear what lives in the white noise … whispered voices, murmurs of conspiracy—
set them free, Paul, set them all free
in the hands it’s in the hands
the hands
they feed on you, Paul, they all feed on you
set them free, they hate it here
they hate you, Paul, they all hate you
hate them just once with your hands, your hands
The scratch of the turntable needle stuck in the album’s runoff matrix, around, around, the noise becoming the rhythmic sweep of a reaper’s scythe, and watch them fall by the scores.
He let the phone clatter onto the control board, lurching to his feet while the chair tipped onto the floor, and he whirled, the walls of the booth closing in. The sound of nails driven from above, and the booth had become a coffin. Seal in this killer, this heretic, bury him alive.
The microphone aimed at him, reaching across the booth, a new kind of spear—
touch them, Paul, the voice can roar
the voice can kill
rotted meat, you can smell it
smell them, Paul, kill and eat
He bellowed, wrapping arms around head, and charged the door of the booth, couldn’t stay here, and he burst through with explosive fury, free at last.
The hallway felt cool and open. He stumbled to the wall, slid along several feet, the only way he could remain upright, and yes, they were around him now, co-workers coming to investigate. Their voices swirled, look how pale he is, ad nauseum, and Paul finally slid down to the floor.
Catch you on the flipside.
“So what’s the deal, Paul? It’s not like you to wig out during the middle of a shift. It’s not like you to wig out at all, up until this week.”
Had the Captain spoken? Yes. Yes, he had. Paul tried to focus, at least long enough to maintain conversation. Lying on David Blane’s office couch, staring at the ceiling, it was all too easy to lapse into a world of disjointed fragments. Fragments felt safer. You don’t care for one, just float off toward the next.
A smorgasbord of realities, focus…
“As far as I’m concerned,” David said, “you walking off the air won’t be mentioned again. But,
man, you can lose your license for pulling something like that.”
True enough. FCC regulations, no laughing matter. Bureaucrats just can’t take a joke.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Dave. I just don’t know.” He combed mental files, let’s start under PARANOIA, looking for excuses, what’s another lie among friends? “Maybe I just wasn’t ready to come back to work after all. That phone call, I just started hearing things, I — I freaked.”
“And scared that guy half to death, I hear, dropping the phone and screaming like that.” Behind his desk, David sighed, rumpled and with the slept-in hair of a wildman. Red eyes, sleep interrupted by Sherry’s worried phone call. To a person working normal hours, this was like getting yanked from bed at two in the morning. “And you can’t tell me anything about what’s going on with you? I mean, I know you had a neighbor that got killed, does that have anything to do with this?”
Mayday, mayday. “Don’t press, Dave, please?”
He shuffled papers in frustration, straightened a stack of CDs. Drummed fingers on desk. “I caught the first hour of your shift. You were sounding great. You know, I can say for a fact that if you keep your head on straight, you’ll go a lot farther than KGRM. The way you were sounding today, you could kick ass in markets a lot bigger than St. Louis. But if you start getting a rep as a flake, man, you can kiss it goodbye, and that’s the honest truth.”
This is going nowhere, Paul thought. David’s intentions were noble, but he had no idea what was going on beneath the surface. For that matter, am I any better off?
“Do you want some vacation time? Another week or so?”
“It wouldn’t hurt.”
“No, it wouldn’t. I haven’t announced this yet, so you’re the first to hear it, but we’re getting a new GM next week. You’ll make a lousy first impression if you pull another zinger like today. So consider yourself on vacation until—” he checked a desk calendar “—until a week from Monday. September sixteenth. Think you can show up like your old self then?”
“I’ll give it a try.” What humiliation, treated like a tantrum-prone child.
Captain Quaalude gave a worn-out smile. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” Shaking his head. “Shit, man. Deejays. I’m not used to acting like a station manager.” He stood at his desk. “Hang loose a couple minutes. The vacation schedule’s still in Popeye’s office. I better make sure this won’t conflict with anyone else’s.”
Moments later, Paul sat up on the couch. Both feet on the floor, one giant step for mankind. He looked at a table, the day’s Post-Dispatch in loose sections. Any diversion was welcome. Main news? Too heavy. Comics? Not in the mood. Section F, a guide to upcoming events. Who’s up to what, when, where, and how much it costs to watch. Perfect for the man on vacation, too much time and blood on his hands.
He browsed. Club and movie listings. Art exhibits, seminars, and singles minglers. Plenty of ads. Fly with us, eat here, your perfect getaway weekend. And whoa, what’s this?
An upcoming revival crusade featuring TV evangelist Donny Dawson, Tuesday evening at six-thirty at the Cervantes Convention Center. Miracles of restoration of body and spirit performed right before your eyes, promise.
Well. So much for one night of vacation. Only ten to go.
Chapter 17
If patience really was a virtue, he figured he was eligible for sainthood. Saint Mike, indeed, patron of muckrakers. It was Monday, his fourth day in Oklahoma, and Mike Lancer had packed in over a week’s worth of boredom. At least the woodland was a pleasant change of scenery from Florida sand and palms, if sadly devoid of bikinis.
After arriving late Friday morning, Mike had rented a car, then checked into a motel and unpacked. Reviewed his Dawson file and local maps while sprawled atop the bed with a meatball hoagie. The only place he knew to begin digging was the Dawson complex on the southern outskirts of the city. Fingers crossed. For if he crapped out there, then his editor could very well demand his backside, served up with a helping of humility.
Dawson’s little world appeared the same in person as in the ministry literature. Junior college or minimum security prison, take your pick. He cruised through the vast parking lot just off South Squire Road, surprisingly well used on a weekday morning. Then he realized, these cars probably belonged to the slave-wage mailroom employees. Dawson’s ilk always seemed to find a fertile supply of such workers: low on IQ and imagination, and slow to question ethics and tactics. Beyond the lot stood the assortment of buildings, tan brick against a blue sky, interconnected by treelined walks. Far beyond, what had to have been the Dawson home was scarcely visible through the trees. Accessed by its own private drive branching off from the lot, but a formidable gate kept it blocked.
Of course he had to get back there. Some way. Just a peek.
Two choices: He could park here among the rest and stroll back as nonchalantly as possible — which was risky, for while security appeared lax, that didn’t mean it was nonexistent. Or he could stash the rental nearby and trek a backway path through the woodland. A greater inconvenience, but until he had a better lay of the land, it was no doubt the safer option.
Mike backtracked, left the car a half-mile up the road in the dusty lot of a cut-rate carpet and tile outlet. Compact binoculars around his neck, he ducked into the woods and blazed a steady trail to what he hoped would be a hidden vantage point from which to observe Dawson’s home.
The word fiasco quickly came to mind. He was used to beaches, palms, hot tarmac. Not underbrush and vines, creepers and treachery hidden beneath leaves. Once he stepped on an angled branch, sent it springing up like a booby trap to rap him in the crotch. His resulting oath sent birds into flight.
Onward, until he was within twenty-some feet of the bordering treeline. Snarls of undergrowth between the trees offered ample hiding space, and for a time he merely watched the front. A lone car was parked on the drive’s cul-de-sac, a small, older model Chevy. Gray, sensible, no frills.
After a glance through the binoculars, he jotted down the license number, then prowled to catch a view of the back of the house. He froze; someone was tending to a pair of Irish setters inside a large pen. Dirty coveralls, an iron-gray buzz cut — the man was probably a groundskeeper. He trudged away minutes later.
Nothing of note until four o’clock, when another car came wheeling back. Flashy red Mazda, and when the driver stepped out, Mike was rapt, oh man, so good to know blondes of this caliber were not exclusive to Florida and southern California. She let herself into the house with her own key — interesting — and a few minutes later the Chevy’s owner emerged, puttered away. She was an unassuming little thing, all the more by contrast. Short dark hair, a way of moving that was more scurry than walk.
Mike waited until dark, until hunger and boredom drove him back out. He retraced his path, a paragon of care; wrench his ankle in a hole, and he might not be found for years. A skeleton in white drawstring slacks and pastel yellow shirt and leather Top-Siders, no socks. Quite the attire for the budding woodsman.
He drove for hamburgers, catnapped in the car for a couple hours, then cruised back to resume his vigil at ten-thirty. At midnight the earlier routine repeated: new car, driver with house key, and the blonde departed in her Mazda. These looked for all the world like shift changes, the new arrival some sturdy old woman, her car a heavy sedan. As well, the one light burning on the third floor never winked out.
Some quick math: The blonde had been there for eight hours, would this one stay until eight in the morning? He bet she would, and headed for his motel, shower and shuteye. Back after dawn, dressed more sensibly for tramping through the woods, and fortified with a bit of food and coffee and a wad of toilet paper. The midnight car hadn’t moved, and in the daylight he pegged it as an Olds Delta 88.
At eight o’clock that Saturday morning, the wallflower arrived in her drab Chevy Nova, and the apparent cycle began all over again. After that, the pattern was easy to establish. Three women, eight-hour shifts. Donny was on t
our, Amanda supposedly in El Salvador, and no one else was coming or going besides the three mystery ladies.
Short-term goal: Find out who they were, for which he would have to wait until Monday morning. He spent the duration sitting tight, making sure there were no deviations from the schedule he had plotted, no additional players. Neat and clean in both respects.
Early Monday, Mike phoned a contact and sometimes poker and drinking buddy who held a secure, boring job with the Florida Department of Motor Vehicles. Always good for a favor. Mike read off the license numbers, then waited on hold while the guy accessed computer networks, dug out routine information on the owners. Mike jotted down the results in a personal shorthand that would stultify an army codes expert.
Staring at the notes — and the plot thickens — he grinned. Three names, three addresses. Unrelated women, apparently, unmarried. And all three registered nurses, hot dog, a common denominator. Plainclothes nurses, now this was interesting.
Mike kicked back on his bed, poured a snort of George Dickel Sour Mash into a plastic bathroom glass. Morning, but what the hell, celebration was in order. For he was willing to lay down serious cash betting what those nurses were up to.
And who their patient was.
Monday afternoon, four o’clock, a stakeout of a different sort on South Squire Road. He sat behind the wheel of his rental, engine idling, in the lot of the carpet and tile dealer. A sweaty bottle of Jolt notched between his thighs.
As expected, Edie Carson soon came piloting her Nova past his position, heading north for the city, and Mike slid out in leisurely pursuit. No confrontations today, strictly reconnaissance, get more of a handle on this woman.
Wisdom suggested focusing attention on one nurse and one alone, and try to breach her wall of security, if possible. The decision as to which to choose hadn’t taken long.
He had right off dispensed with Alice Ward, the midnight to morning nurse, she of juggernaut bosom and bulldog face. She looked like a brick wall, which left him to choose between the younger two nurses, judging solely on appearances. Stereotypes, a risky proposition in any undertaking.
