by P. N. Elrod
“Busy night,” Doc commented.
“I can handle it.”
“Never said you couldn’t, girl. You’ll get Frank home again.”
“If they know what’s good for them. Newton, I told you to get this one out of here. And don’t forget about Mac and Lester.”
Newton stepped forward to take me away. Once more, he had to call on Doc for help getting me down the hall.
“Third time’s the charm,” he said as they dragged me to the steam room. “We’ll see if we can’t keep you here, eh?”
“Your bedside manner stinks,” I muttered, not looking forward to being locked up.
“So they keep telling me.”
Someone had installed a couple of eyebolts on either side of the outward-opening door since my last stay. Propped in a corner was a steel rod borrowed from a rack of barbells and stripped of its weights. Thread (he rod through the bolts and you’d have to break the door itself to make an escape. In my present state, I had serious doubts about my ability to break so much as an egg. They dropped me onto a tile bench and Doc lifted and straightened my legs along it. His face was serious again. He tried to take my pulse. I jerked my arm away.
“Lemme ’lone, will you?”
“You’re mighty sick, kid. I can’t fix it if you won’t let me.”
“Then don’t bother.”
He acquiesced with a pitying shrug. Maybe there’d been one too many lapses to his Hippocratic oath for him to take any extra trouble over an obviously dying man. “Come on, Newton.”
Newton all but raced him out in his haste to get away. He couldn’t have been in much of a hurry to help Mac and Lester; perhaps he’d caught a little of the deathsmell coming from me. They shut the door and fixed the rod between the eyebolts.
Their steps faded. Silence. Not even the sound of my heart for company, but I’d long grown used to that. I breathed every few seconds just (o make sure I still could. It was more than Vic was doing.
Two hours to go. Two hours plus whatever time it might take to drive to the Stockyards; I had to last that long. The waiting would be pretty awful, but at least Angela had set a definite limit for it … if I could take her at her word. No doubt she’d be glad to be rid of me, dead or alive.
Despite the lack of real air circulation in the room, the sweat eventually cooled and dried except where it had soaked into my clothes. Unpleasantly damp, but nothing I couldn’t put up with. I drifted in my cocoon of skin and resisted the urge to check the time every other minute. Doing that would only make the wait seem longer.
Dry, painful swallow. My throat and mouth might have been coated with dust. I stopped the irregular breathing to conserve what little moisture remained. Shut away from the others, I had no distractions from the internal discomforts. The cut on my hand burned, my stomach was knotting up again, and my head kept wanting to float off by itself.
Since I was still stuck here, Escott would know that I was in a bad way. Maybe he could manage to have some blood on hand for me, as he’d done before when I’d been in trouble. Of course, he was hardly fit for climbing fences at the Stockyards himself. It was nice to think about, but not something I could count on. Coldfield was very much in the way on that one. He wouldn’t be fobbed off with a made-up story about a rare medical condition. On the other hand, tell him the truth and he might take it as an insult to his intelligence.
Someone quietly slid the rod from its eyebolts. I allowed myself a glimpse at the time. It was still tar too soon. Angela wouldn’t even have left to make her meeting with Chaven yet. Hope jumped within me. Perhaps Escott’s call had been meant to test things out. Coldfield or Isham could have somehow slipped past the alarm system….
Sheldon walked in.
So much for a daring rescue.
He stood high over me and stared down and said nothing and he did this for a very long moment. Sweat popped out on the back of my neck, making it itch. I didn’t move, because in his good hand was one of those damned wooden Indian clubs.
“Doc says not to worry, but I know better,” he informed me, lifting his cast a little so I’d know what he was talking about. His voice was as flat as Opal’s, but subtly different. Where she instantly said what was on her mind, he’d been thinking things over. He wanted to be certain I understood him.
I said nothing.
He leaned in close. The thick stink of booze was on his breath. “I can tell when that quack is feeding out a line of bull. I seen him makin’ those kind of promises to other guys that didn’t come true. You know how that feels when it’s your turn?”
I tried to focus on him. No good. He was just too drunk for it to work, even if I’d been up to full strength.
“It’s a lot of shit. They’re already startin’ to call me names for it; Lefty, Crab Claw. They think it’s pretty damn funny when a guy needs help to get dressed. You think it’s funny?”
An answer to that one would only make things worse. I kept my mouth shut tight.
“It ain’t funny at all. Can’t do anything worth doing now. Takes twice as long for everything else. And it hurts. Don’t think it doesn’t. That’s how I know. It hurts deep down in the bones, in between the bones. Doc says I’ll get better but I know I won’t. Won’t be able to handle a gun as good, sure as hell can’t fight. About all I’ve got left is this.”
He hefted the club and tapped it experimentally against the white tile near my head. It made a small, hollow echo in the little room.
“Don’t take much practice for one of these. You crippled me, you son of a bitch, and I’m gonna pay you back.”
I caught his eyes once more. I had to break through or die. That sickening realization didn’t help my concentration, but did heighten the emotions involved.
He wavered. I pushed.
This was worse than it had been with Kyler, infinitely harder. Even with his drunkenness getting in the way, Sheldon was easily the more vulnerable, but I was weak and getting worse as I used up what little was left to me. Fear kept me going.
He shook his head, eyes blinking as though struck with a too-bright light.
“Wha … you …”
I spoke his name. Softly. Names have power, more than we care to admit to ourselves. I spoke again, steady whispers to cloud his brain with dreams of rest and peace. He stopped blinking. I stepped up the pressure, keeping my voice even and low the way I did with the cattle in the yards. Eyes fixed and growing dull, he began to gradually slip into sleep.
The club dropped as his fingers relaxed, making a shattering crack as it landed. He jumped as though from an electric shock, snapping wide awake, tearing free of my influence.
No. I was too near it now to give up. The blood pulsing through his veins was mine.
Before he could make another move, think another thought, I had both hands on his neck. It was like another shock to him. He tried to pull away. I held on. He tried to break my grip. I held on. A minute was all I needed to knock him out, maybe less. He heaved backward. I held on. This was as even a fight as I’d ever had with a man since my change. The sheer terror of what would happen to me if I lost this one kept me going. A minute, just a minute more of strength … a few … seconds … longer…
But he got his good arm up between us and managed to pry one of my hands loose. I instantly grabbed his arm before he could slip away, and despite the poor leverage and bad angle pulled him over and down. His slippered feet went out from under him on the smooth floor. The crown of his head smacked solidly into the wall on my left.
He dropped flat across my chest like a bag full of anvils. Any breath left inside me whooshed out and stayed there; it was just as well that I didn’t really need it. His cast dug into my gut. I tried to shove him off, but couldn’t budge him.
This was it. I was too far gone to move now. Within a foot of his throat and I hadn’t the strength to reach it.
Wait. Rest.
God, the bloodsmell was coming right through his skin and clothes. I was going crazy from it.
&nb
sp; Rest. He’s not going anywhere, either.
His uninjured arm was close enough. It would do. Better a trickle than nothing at all. I worked first one hand free and then another, resting from each effort, but not for long; a disturbing mental picture of sand streaming out of an hourglass kept popping into my brain.
I twisted his arm up, pushing back the thin cloth of his sleeve. My teeth were out and ready. Considering my haste and desperation, I made a surprisingly clean cut on the inside of his elbow.
I drank without thought, without control. Bitter hot strength slowly soaked into my exhausted body, killing the hunger, easing the thirst. I was blind and deaf to everything as liquid life flowed into me from toes to fingertips.
Instinct combined with long practice told me when I’d had enough. I drew away, leaving behind little more than a red mark and two small holes hardly worth noticing. All would fade away soon enough. He was alive, but wouldn’t be feeling well for the next few days, not so much from the blood loss, but from a concussion. The tile wall I’d slammed his head into was unforgivingly hard.
With a thankful heave, I boosted Sheldon’s limp body off, letting him slump to the floor. I could almost smile at him. He’d come in to either kill or cripple me and ended up saving my life. Perhaps that was why I felt no guilt taking human blood for food this time. I wasn’t proud of it, and not about to make a habit of it, but the crushing weight of conscious irresponsibility wasn’t there now. I’d done what was necessary. No regrets.
Besides, I had other things to worry about, like getting the hell out of here.
My head felt heavier than before; not uncomfortable, but not normal. As I got to my feet, the feeling became more pronounced. It didn’t stop me from stumbling out the door, though.
Decision time. Try the window again, or sneak out through one of the doors? Walls. I could walk through them now, but didn’t like doing that, to seep through the wood and plaster like some kind of water leak….
I shook my head. It would have to be practicality over preference. Going out any other way would set off the alarms. Okay, right through one of the walls, and Angela and her merry men could spend the rest of the night trying to figure it out. Jack Fleming, the new Houdini, special midnight shows only, children half price….
Bumped into Doc’s makeshift operating table. Bloodsmell lingered on it. My own. Vic’s. Somehow knew the difference. Poor old Vic, blown to bits … bit … no rhyme there. Blown to bit … bit … bit right into … bit off more than I could … poor old Vic, dead and no one to mourn him. A sudden tear burned down my cheek, followed by another, and a groan of despair that seemed to belong to someone else.
I pushed the table away, staggering into a bicycle with only one wheel mounted on a special stand. It teetered and crashed over. I stared and decided it wasn’t my fault. The owner shouldn’t have left it out like that.
Maybe he’d been trying to fix it; the damn thing wouldn’t be going very far until he put the other wheel on. The groan changed into a sluggish laugh that only ran down after I forgot what was so funny.
Time. Wasting time. Gotta get away.
The air had become thick and heavy, like water. The harder I plowed through it, the more resistance I met. Had to ignore it. Had to find a wall. I blundered into one, knocking down some framed pictures and a plaster ornament. Wrong spot. Needed one to take me outside the house. Which? I’d known a minute ago. Maybe the guy in the steam room could tell me.
I called to him a few times before giving it up as a bad job. He was out for the count, dead drunk, or drugged. Doc had probably shot him full of something to keep him quiet.
Oh, God.
A small portion of my brain that hadn’t yet succumbed screamed out a belated warning against the poison I’d so gratefully taken in. Too late now to cough it up. It was in me.
I tried to vanish, with some idea that it might help. Nothing happened. The heaviness in my head traveled down my neck, into my arms, tugged at my legs. My eyes rolled up and closed with artificial sleep. Fresh fear clogged my mind when they refused to open. I tried to force the lids back with my hands, but my fingers were clumsy and wouldn’t work right. Once I used to have a nightmare about being unable to wake up, but now I seemed to be in the middle of the worst of it: asleep, knowing I was asleep, and fighting to get out of it.
Hardly able to stand, I felt my way along the wall, with no real thought left to guide me beyond the desire to escape. And then even that was lost as I fell over some obstacle and fought to untangle from it. It won.
My bones were like lead. I had no strength left to move anymore. There seemed no reason to do so. I was content to lie still and wait for … I forget what. I forgot everything, how to move, breathe, think.
Voices.
Men came into the gym.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
Newton. He could find his own answers. I was fresh out.
“Shit. Come look at this.”
He’d found Sheldon in the steam room.
“Is he okay?”
Lester.
“Out cold. Go get Doc.”
Footsteps. I forgot them as quickly as they faded.
Newton returned to me, finished the untangling. I sprawled on the floor, unable to move, not wanting to, not caring about it.
Footsteps. Exclamations of surprise. Questions. In his role as a healer, Doc took over, checking Sheldon first.
“Out cold,” he pronounced.
Newton snorted. “No kiddin’. Can you do something for him?”
“Hmm.” Doc made a longer examination. “What do you want me to do? Bring him around?”
“Well …”
“First he gets his hand torn up and because he thinks he knows more than I do about what’s good for him starts topping off his morphine shots with his favorite rotgut. Now he seems to have run headfirst into a truck. Next thing you know someone’s gonna drop him from an upstairs window. If you ask me—and I’m taking it that you have—he’s better off missing out on the rest of the evening. Got some pennies for his eyes? The way he’s going, he’ll need ’em.”
“You just gonna leave him there?”
“Of course not, but you can’t expect me to wade into a mess like that without my bag. Jeez, much more of this and I’ll have to hang out a shingle and start charging for house calls.”
“How did this happen?”
Angela.
“Looks to me like Sheldon came in to work off a grudge. He opens the door, but the kid’s waiting for him, gets the jump on him.”
“Uh-huh. So what’s Fleming still doing here?”
“Probably ran out of gas, girl. He was looking pretty bad when we left him.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “Too tough for him, then. Newton, get Sheldon up to his room.”
Doc’s hands poked and prodded me. He noisily sucked a tooth, making a loud “tch” sound.
“What is it?” she demanded irritably. “Lester, lock this one up again and stick around to make sure he stays put.”
“Too late for that sort of thing,” Doc drawled.
“What d’you mean?”
“Girl, this kid’s deader’n Dixie.”
11
I could have laughed, but that, of course, was impossible.
Angela came over to see for herself. “What killed him?”
“Hard to say. It’s funny, but he looks better than when he was alive. He was sweating buckets and his color was all gone and now look at him.”
“Okay, so he makes a handsome corpse; we’ve still got to get rid of him.”
“Give him back to his English friend, then.”
“Sure, and he’d have the cops out here tearing the place apart. There’s tire tracks all over the place, holes in the ground from the grenades, and the mess Vic left of himself. …”
“Okay, okay, I take it back. Do what you like.”
Angela paced rapidly a few times, coming to an abrupt halt. “I’ve got it, but the boys will have to hu
rry if we’re going to make it out to the dock in time. Lester, go find Mac and get some really sharp knives. I want you to cut up a couple of big sections of the hall carpet. The stuff’s going to be ripped out anyway, we’ll get a start on things. Make ’em long enough to hold—”
Lester interrupted, a grin in his voice. “Yeah, I know, that old rug bit.”
“I want them long enough so that the ends can be tied off and roomy so we can load them with weights. You’ll need plenty of rope or some heavy twine.”
“Okay, I got it now. You wanta sink ’em both in the lake, huh?”
“No, I thought we could stick wings on ’em and drop ’em off the Wrigley building. Get moving.”
Chuckling, Lester got out.
“Two down, one to go,” said Angela.
“What one?” asked Doc.
“The English guy. I still expect him to raise a stink when we don’t turn over his friend, so he’ll have to be shut down, too.”
“Angela …”
“No lectures, Doc, I know what I’m doing. Anyway, go help Newton and I’ll check on Lester. We’re running out of time.”
She whisked off one way, Doc ambled another, and I was left like so much luggage where I lay. None of it mattered to me. The idea of being rolled up in a hunk of rug like an overgrown hot dog caused no alarm. I was already comfortably wrapped in a sweet cottony cushion of well-being and couldn’t care less about the things that happened beyond its limits. The people walking and talking around me were no more important than some radio left on to make noise in an otherwise empty house.
So I drifted and dreamed without sleep on Sheldon’s poisoned blood while he was carried out and tended. Newton was then drafted to help with the carpet cutting. Their voices blended together in a pleasant, meaningless drone, occasionally punctuated by a laugh or Angela’s urgings to hurry. They were all easily ignored as I floated in and out of the black and purple mists spinning lazily in my mind. No thoughts, no needs, no problems, no pleasures, no pains.
Angela and Newton returned and dropped something large on the floor near me. It made a mushy thump and I was treated to a puff of stale, dusty air. They took a moment to arrange it properly, then knelt next to me and rolled me over onto it. I didn’t resist, couldn’t resist, didn’t care.
