Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set

by Ellery A Kane

  The old me would’ve left it alone, laughed it off. Ginny had the big mouth. But without her here, I felt different, altered in some inexplicable way. “What would you have figured me for then?”

  “Hmm. That’s a tough one. You didn’t say much on the plane. Hardly looked at me. But then again … to hear you tell it, I’m not much to look at.”

  My cheeks flamed, so I took refuge in the darkness, turning my face from him. “Ginny talks enough for the both of us.”

  “Maybe you like it that way,” he offered. “Then you can be just as mysterious as me.”

  I caught my own eyes in the window, wide with surprise. “I’m about as far from mysterious as it gets.”

  “I know.” A part of me wished he hadn’t agreed, that he’d entertained the idea at least.

  “You think I’m naïve, don’t you?”

  “No. Ginny is naïve. You’re just inexperienced.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  His nod was stern, like a teacher. “Absolutely.”

  Before I could get clarification on that essential distinction, the cab slowed to a complete stop. It was a trick of the flashing lights—blue, then red, blue, then red—the way Levi’s backpack pulsed like a beating heart. His hands left his knees and searched it out, tucking it closer to the seat while I pretended not to see him. “What’s going on?” I asked him, pointing out the window. A line of orange traffic cones dictated our path. A few cars ahead, a stop sign loomed.

  “Looks like some kind of police checkpoint.”

  The driver cursed under his breath and laid on the horn in protest. “Damn criminals, always screwing things up for the rest of us. I tell you, they ought to just take ’em out back and pop-pop-pop. A bullet to the head. Save us the trouble.”

  “Criminals?” I directed my question to the back of his head, where a thin wisp of jet-black hair covered an otherwise bare surface.

  “Yeah. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. What’s his name? Calvert? Culligan? Cull—”

  “Cullen.” The name left Levi’s mouth fast, like it’d been poised on the tip of his tongue all along. “Cutthroat Cullen. What’s he got to do with this traffic?”

  “Dispatch said somebody reported him walking on the freeway. Trying to hitch a ride, I guess.” We inched forward, and an officer waved us ahead. “Or jack one.”

  Levi scoffed. “Bullshit. No way he’s stupid enough to take that kind of risk.”

  The driver shrugged. “The way I figure it, he’s not that smart. Got caught once before, didn’t he? Anyway, I hope you two don’t have nothin’ to hide.” His chuckle made me shiver like I’d packed that gun myself.

  “Evening, folks.” The officer leaned in through the open window. Behind the sweeping beam of his flashlight, his face was all angles and shadows. “We’re looking for this man. Have you seen him?” He held up a laminated poster. Cullen’s mug shot. The words ARMED AND DANGEROUS in bold red type.

  I gulped, murmured no, and waited for Levi to do the same.

  “You really think he’s out here with his thumb up? With all due respect, Officer, that seems unlikely. You’re wasting your time and ours.” Levi’s fingers drummed on his lap—ready—and I saw it all unfolding. The way he would reach toward the black cave of the floorboard, the mouth of his bag gaping, and exhume the thing he buried there. He would point it. Fire it. The bullet an extension of his obvious contempt. The policeman would never see it coming until he did. His knees would fold. His body would crumple. His blood would rain, showering the driver’s bald head. And I’d be next. Collateral damage.

  “Just doing our job, sir. Sorry for any inconvenience.” The officer ushered us past the stop sign and back into moving traffic. I snuck a glance back just to be sure. Still alive. My pulse pounded in my ears, unconvinced, the drum of my heart echoing like a ball bouncing on hardwood. Surely, Levi could hear it. But when I finally mustered the courage to look at him, he did the unthinkable. He winked.

  ****

  It would be a lie to say I was glad to be rid of Levi. We dropped him off at the Dragon Gate entrance to Chinatown, where he disappeared into the lively crowd. But I was relieved to see that black backpack get farther and farther away from me. Far enough so I could pretend I’d imagined it. I found the gate in the guidebook Ginny had given me, a heart drawn next to it. One of her big-city tour stops, no doubt.

  Despite my protests, Levi paid the cab fare for both of us and sent me on my way. “Good luck with Ginny.” That was all he said. I felt his warm hand on my forearm for a heartbeat. Then, he was gone. I sank back against the seat and closed my eyes, immediately exhausted. Levi reminded me of Ginny. He was like a lightning rod, taking the current with him and leaving me dull and empty. This is how it’s going to be. I began the inner monologue I’d been practicing all spring since I accepted a basketball scholarship to Baylor. Me. Lonely. Next year. All the time. Ginny at UT—and me in Waco (or Wacko, as Ginny called it). Better get used to it, Sam.

  “Westin St. Francis,” the cab driver announced. He might’ve been saying bread or rock or carpet. The words sounded just as lifeless as I felt. He opened the door—left it that way—and walked to the trunk, producing the suitcases. “Have a good one.” In Bellwether, most goodbyes were longer than you preferred, even perfunctory ones. But the driver was head down and pedal to the metal before I could even get my bearings.

  I wheeled the bags inside, ignoring the doorman’s offer to help, and found myself at the entrance to another world. A chandeliered, marbled, polished, something-out-of-a-magazine world. One where girls didn’t go missing. Ginny would definitely be here, probably lounging in a chair nearby, watching me. She’d remind me to ask about room 1219, the haunted one, where that jazz musician died. Another heart in her guidebook. And then we’d stay up late, whispering about Levi. I might even embellish a little as payback. I didn’t look for her. I wanted her to see me checking in, nonchalant, like I could do this without her.

  ****

  “Are you sure? Could you just double-check?”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but there are no messages for you.”

  “And no one else checked in? You’re positive?”

  “Positive.”

  I’d walked the length of the lobby too many times to count. Watched the rotating picture screen behind the front desk show the same picturesque views of the Golden Gate over and over again until it seemed I’d been there myself. I avoided the bathroom for obvious reasons, but sat for twenty minutes staring at the oversized clock hanging at the entrance. I catalogued its movements. 9:10 p.m. 9:11 p.m. 9:12 p.m. When the minute hand reached the VI, I went back to the desk, now certain Ginny had checked in before me. She was up in the room, showered, bundled in a comfy robe, and watching a pay-per-view movie. Probably one with Channing. Or Ryan Gosling. Maybe even Jake Gyllenhaal, if she was in the mood for something serious.

  “Are you okay?” The hotel clerk could’ve been in a movie herself. A thriller, judging by her wild eyes and breathy voice. “Do you need help?”

  I didn’t know the answer, but I knew what I had to do. There was no other option. And my phone was staring at me, judging me, chastising me, even from the bottom of my purse. Call her already. It was nearly midnight in Texas. My mom should be fast asleep—except I knew she wasn’t sleeping. She’d be up waiting for my call. And once I told her, everything that happened tonight would be real. It always was. I felt sick with the first ring. The answer came before the second.

  “Samantha.” That was it. She wasn’t screaming. It was worse than I expected.

  “Mom, I know you’re angry. But please don’t hate me.”

  And there it was, the dreaded sigh. “I don’t hate you, honey. More than anything I’m just so disappointed. It’s not like you to disobey me, much less gallivant off to San Francisco.”

  “But you said I could go.”

 
“That was before.”

  “Before what?”

  “You know what.”

  “You seriously expect me to believe you canceled a cruise with Ginny’s mom—a cruise!—and changed your mind about my trip at the last minute all because one of the stupid cows was about to have a calf? C’mon, Mom.”

  “I’m allowed to change my mind, Samantha. As much as you hate to admit it, those cattle are part of our livelihood. And I didn’t think it was safe for the two of you to go alone. You know how reckless Ginny can be.” My mom still blamed Ginny for pilfering the bottle of Grey Goose from the locked cabinet last summer, and I never set her straight. Besides, it had been Ginny’s bright idea to sneak into the city pool with those two senior boys—and that’s how we got caught. “I’m sure Ginny’s parents are enjoying themselves just fine.”

  “Mom?” Now seemed as bad a time as any to tell her. “I can’t find Ginny.”

  “You what?”

  “We got off the plane, and she went to the restroom. It sounds insane, but she never came out. I told the police, and they didn’t—”

  “Where are you?” She was rummaging. I could see her in my mind. She was in a full-on panic, combing through the kitchen junk drawer for a pen. “Specifically.”

  “At the hotel. The Westin St. Francis at Union Square. Room 403.”

  “Listen to me. Stay put. Do not leave the hotel until I get there. I’ll be on the first flight tomorrow. Do you understand me?” Her tone allowed only one answer.

  “Yes.” In the silence—the line dead now—I trembled. My mother’s near hysteria bit at my bones. I had to coach myself to walk, not run, to the elevator. Up. The only direction this trip could go.

  chapter

  five

  red!

  I fished my pajamas—a Duke basketball T-shirt and a pair of sweats—from my bag and sat down on the bed, Ginny’s suitcase at my feet. Opening it felt like an admission. Ginny is not coming back. So I left it there.

  I showered, barely glancing at myself in the mirror, and climbed beneath the softest sheets I’d ever felt. That, of all things, finally did me in. I let my tears dead-end into the pillowcase until it was wet against my nose. I was too tired to flip it. With the heaviness of sleep pressing down on me, I remembered something important. Ginny’s phone. The message. Clare, come find me. Tomorrow. I’d tell my mom then.

  ****

  It was one of those scorching summer days that goes on forever, as far as the hayfield behind Bellwether High. And that’s where I was, knee-deep in kleingrass. Beads of sweat took a long, lazy roll down my back as I walked. Why am I here? Where am I going? To find Ginny. She would be hiding here like before. Our freshman summer. “Who bleeds all over the first boy they kiss?” she’d asked me when I found her, eyes brimming with excitement. She flipped up the edge of her T-shirt to show me the evidence, the bright-red stain along the hem where she wiped her lips, nicked by his braces.

  My jealousy, I kept to myself. “Life isn’t a race,” my mom reminded me. But sometimes it felt like one, and Ginny always got there first. And now, she was back here laughing at me. I could hear her. I plodded toward the sound, ignoring the grass stinging my bare legs. She lay sleeping in the sun, wearing her favorite powder-blue dress. “It’s vintage,” she’d told me when she bought it. “Like Rachel McAdams in The Notebook.”

  A soft breeze blew waves in the thin fabric. Her skin paler than I remembered, her eyelids a muted shade of lilac. I moved closer, intent on waking her, telling her how angry I was. But the buzzing stopped me. The desperate flutter of translucent wings. A fly—black as ash—crawled from Ginny’s mouth, pausing on her lower lip before scurrying down her chin. Then another. And another. And another. So many I could barely make out her face. I screamed, but no sound came. I ran, but my legs anchored themselves to the earth like gravestones. Captive in the swarm, I fell to my knees. And that’s when I saw it. The slit in Ginny’s neck. Razor thin. Bone deep. And red, red, red. Red!

  I woke with a howl rising in my throat, and the blinking red eye of the telephone. I had a message.

  There was a whir, a hiss, like wind slicing through trees. No one spoke at first. And I almost hung up thinking it was a mistake. Then, a voice. Too young and unsteady to be Ginny—that’s what I thought—but it was. The more I listened, I heard the bare bones of her, the familiar lilt, the way she spoke my name. A wave of relief overwhelmed me, and my eyes were watering again.

  “Sam, it’s Ginny. I need you to come get me at Pier 39. I’ll explain when I see you. I’m really sorry.”

  I played the message again and again. So many times I recited her words along with her. And I recognized that whir, that hiss. It was Ginny’s rattled breathing. Was she running? On the map in the guidebook, I traced an arrow shot to Pier 39 via Stockton Street. If I left now, I’d be there in thirty minutes, less if I jogged. I pulled on my sneakers and stashed my phone, wallet, and room key inside the deep pocket of my sweatpants, right next to the broken promise I’d made to my mother. Surely, she would understand. Getting Ginny back was a reasonable exception.

  ****

  The only faces left in the lobby belonged to the clocks. The hanging one and the Great Magneta—the iconic grandfather clock where everybody used to meet, apparently. I discovered that fact myself in the display case at the Westin’s entrance. Ginny was never keen on history.

  In Bellwether, 2 a.m. is black as coal. The kind of black that allows the stars their shine. Summers, Ginny and I would lie down on the hood of her jeep and try to see how many we could count. One night we’d made it to 951 before the coyote howls drove us inside. My first kiss—Tobey, junior running back—had happened there too, but boys don’t have patience for stargazing. They don’t know yet that waiting makes the good things even better.

  In San Francisco, 2 a.m. was lonely and dark. The kind of lonely that makes people do desperate things. The kind of dark that lets them get away with it. The only comfort was the building-sized Burberry model, making smoldering eyes at me. In Ginny’s honor, I took a moment to appreciate the lines of demarcation across his shirtless abdomen.

  I made a right on Post and set a brisk pace, holding my phone in my hand in case I got lost. A mass of a man—I think it was a man—huddled in the corner in front of Tiffany’s, just a mangy shock of hair under a stained blanket. One arm protruded, the nails long and thick as calluses. A left turn on Stockton, and I was jogging now. Ahead of me, a woman stumbled, holding a half-empty bottle in her hand. She braced herself against a storefront as I crossed the street, already feeling breathless and cold.

  “Hey there, girlie!” A voice from the shadows scratched at me as I passed. “Where ya goin’ in such a hurry? Want to have a little fun?” I didn’t look. Couldn’t look. Just kept running. My own footsteps were heavy, my breath ragged in my ears. By the time I reached the Stockton Street Tunnel, I was convinced there was someone behind me. Someone fast and wild tracking the scent of my fear like a wolf. That faceless voice had taken form. This small-town girl, his idea of a little fun. Stunned by the headlights of an oncoming car—blind as a Bellwether deer—I still ran. If this was a game, it was a fast break, a steal, and I plowed down the court with a steely-eyed defender at my heels.

  I forced myself to turn around when I found Washington Square Park—a little patch of grass and a row of trees. There was no one. No one I could see. But it was all I couldn’t see that unnerved me. I consulted my phone. I was close, about a half mile from the Pier. And I had a text from a number I didn’t recognize.

  Sam, please hurry. I’ll be waiting by the sea lions.

  I dialed it back. First ring, I expected Ginny to answer. The second came and went. By the third, I knew it was pointless. What’s up? You’ve reached Marco’s voicemail. You know what to do. Marco? He sounded like a frat boy. A frat boy with an accent like Enrique Iglesias. Maybe Levi was right. Ginny flirted her way in
to the city. I hit redial.

  Most changes happen at a glacial pace. Puberty, for instance. A virtual Ice Age passed between gawkiness and adulthood—measured in pimples and awkward formal dances. But really, it only takes a snap of a finger, a wrong turn, a knife blade to the throat, to take who you are and turn you into somebody completely different. This, for instance.

  “Gimme your phone, bitch.” The mouth—angry for no reason—opened wide and spewed at me. The world closed in and that mouth was all I could see, spittle collecting in the corners of chapped brown lips. A tongue like a cow’s, thick and rough. Corn-kernel teeth. “Now.”

  I offered my phone to the mouth, but I knew it wanted more. “Money,” it said. “You got any money?” I reached into my pocket, uncertain. Did I bring my wallet? Everything before the mouth seemed fuzzy, a dream upon waking.

  “C’mon, baby, I know you do.” It talked sweet and low now, which was worse than the other. The lips smacked softly. “Or maybe you got something else to offer.”

  I gave everything I owned—a handful of neatly folded bills. Unsatisfied, the mouth came closer. Closer still. Until I felt its hot breath on my cheek and sucked in its sourness. I stepped back, but the mouth knew how to hold me in place—“Don’t move, you little slut. Don’t tease me.” And it knew how to keep me quiet—“Scream, and I’ll slit you open.” The mouth recited its vile threats like poetry. Then, the lips parted, setting free a moan, and left a trail of acid down my neck. “Be good to me, and I’ll be good to you,” the mouth whispered.

  No. I silent-screamed the word before I said it. “No!” I heard my voice as an outsider, an observer, a neutral party. It sounded contrived, nearly hysterical. Like a bad actress in a horror flick.

  The mouth was still, but not surprised. It expected a fight. Wanted it even. “No?” Slowly the corners turned up, pleased with itself. “I don’t remember asking.” The mouth pushed itself against mine hard and insistent. It tasted of bitter rot, too putrid to stomach. I smashed my fist into the mouth, my wallet curled in my palm like a brick.