Separate, p.10
Separate, page 10
“Okay . . .” She trailed off.
“Is there anything else?”
“Yeah. No. No.”
“Good. Keep your word. Go sleep. You have a checkup in the morning.” Zeb promptly closed the door. Thanks, internet, for teaching us that questions should be answered the split second they spring to mind. Zeb collapsed and resumed sleeping, untroubled by the midnight conversation with his keen assistant.
29
Nurse Gina maintained a neutral, clipped style of speech and a matching expression. “Have you been resting your arm?” Her steady, sandy eyes perused Na head to toe.
“As much as I can,” Na truthfully declared.
“Good. It will heal faster with rest.” Gina tapped her tablet computer. “Have you taken each dose of antibiotics on time?”
“Overall. I know that matters.”
“It does. Have you experienced side effects? A rash? Double vision? An upset tummy?”
“Nope.” A print of a sullen, solitary man treading through a wheat field hung on the wall. It stimulated feelings of longing and abandonment in Na. The nurse’s businesslike conduct discouraged her from asking about the decorator’s decision-making process.
“Do you need more pain medication?”
“I’m taking as little as I can. Just enough to keep it from thumping.”
Gina tapped the tablet again and put it on the counter, next to containers of sanitized paraphernalia. “I am going to verify your injury’s improvement and put something on it. Please remove the sling. You may leave your sleeveless shirt on.”
“Okay.” Na slipped the sling off and rolled it into a ball. Holding a pair of curved scissors, the nurse floated to Na’s side and peeled off the bandage cautiously, layer by layer. Na stared at the print on the wall. She had seen the lesion plenty. Tender prodding followed, accompanied by coldness. A medicinal scent, sharper than the one permeating all hospital hallways, wafted to Na’s nose.
“Almost done.” Gina dabbed Na’s shoulder again.
“How’s it look?” Na inquired.
“The edges of the scab have been stretched out of position. It has been moving more than it should.”
Na abstained from commenting.
“Remaining relaxed and resisting its habitual use is challenging. Tightening your sling may help. However,” the nurse continued, “it is healing and clean. There are no signs of infection.” She began rewrapping, pulling the gauze snugly around Na’s triceps. “Have you had any unusual sensations, such as tingling, muscle weakness, or numbness?”
“I’m not sure,” Na hedged. “Sometimes it feels almost cold, like biting on silverware.”
“Should you feel weaker or find yourself unable to do something you could do before, that could indicate a serious complication.”
“Oh. Nothing like that.”
Gina plucked the wadded sling from Na’s hand and strapped it on securely. “What about other symptoms, such as dizziness, fainting, or a loss of coordination?”
“Nope.” Honesty would lead to a hundred questions, and I know what caused it. No more hiking. Problem solved.
“In that case, you are free to leave. Call immediately if it changes color, starts to swell, or smells bad. And please come again on Friday for a follow-up. Puncture injuries do not always mend neatly.”
“I will.” Na sincerely vowed to do better. The nurse nodded, swooped up her tablet and tools, and vanished. Na stood and fiddled with the sling, then checked the clock on her phone. “Quick and easy.”
The spotless corridor running from the waiting room’s swinging double doors to a rear emergency exit was empty and silent. Dawdling, she gazed at the far end where she had regained consciousness nearly a week earlier. A sign hanging from the ceiling, ROOM 6, marked its entrance. Na figured it too was vacant, and imagined small-town clinics were peaceful between flu seasons. A familiar prickly aching arose, telling Na it was time to decompress and catch up on the sleep she had lost the previous night.
She ambled down the hall, nosily checking for hints of other patients as she passed the exam rooms; their doors were ajar. If I’m the only one here, maybe I should find a new doctor. “Chok!” a woman’s voice yelled out from Na’s right.
“Choke dee ka,” Na replied routinely. The nurse was nowhere to be seen. Na nudged the door open with her knee. A lone, sixty-ish woman with coarse silver hair and wearing a fresh hospital gown sat in a wheelchair. “Pood Thai dai mai ka?” Na asked, just to be certain.
“Bored!” the pallid, agitated patient barked. “Draw! Chalk!” She lunged forward, grabbed an overbed table, and tried to pull herself up. Instead, the mobile table rolled into her, knocking her backward and lifting the wheelchair’s small front wheels off the floor. Na instinctively clutched the table and drew it toward herself. Still clinging to it, the patient and her precariously tilted wheelchair stabilized and returned to a vertical position.
“Thank you,” Gina tersely approved. “Excuse me.” She brushed past Na and set an armful of mug-sized boxes on the overbed table. “You need to rest your arm. All the same, thank you.”
The woman, now tranquil, scowled at Gina. “Chalk?”
“Next. This first.” Gina spun the wheelchair around, pointing the patient away from Na. A jagged incision ran from below the woman’s shoulder blades and up her neck, then over the bump at the rear of her skull, which had been shaved. A great many surgical staples held the incision closed.
Na gasped and gaped. “What happened?”
The nurse began opening the tops of the small boxes. “I cannot say, other than it is a miracle she survived.” She spoke customarily: quick and emotionless. “You see now. A fall could have been fatal.”
“Yeah.”
“Hollow!” the patient abruptly screamed. “Hollow!”
Is she insulting me? I think she is. Jolted, Na couldn’t stop herself. “What is? Me?”
The placid nurse stayed on task.
“Hole! Hole!” the patient fired.
Aghast, Na turned to leave. “I’m going to rest now.”
“Please do,” Gina replied. “And if you can, close the door. We will see you in a few days.”
Her hand on the knob, Na compassionately told the pitiful patient, “Choke dee ka. Good luck,” and shut the door behind her. The pain had worsened. Na gripped her right shoulder and felt a knot. “Definitely time to unwind.” She thrust her way through the swinging doors and into the clinic’s waiting room, entirely unready to schedule a revisit on Friday.
30
Taryn doggedly tackled Dr. Elmir’s request to locate particular past officials, their immediate relatives, or their friends. Upbeat about an atypical task, Taryn blazed through the alphabetized list of names and dates he had emailed that morning. Her resources meant she could identify the pertinent Sarah Johnston and Ed White substantially more easily than he. Per his instructions, she marked dubious leads and promptly moved on to the next name. He hadn’t asked her to verify the leads, he’d explained, because he wanted to make first contact.
She sipped a hot mug of Postum and rolled on to RICHARDS, M., ~1970. Stressful days and restless nights had persuaded her to decaffeinate. Busy paperwork like this was more Taryn’s speed, as opposed to crisis management. Had she enjoyed intensity, she would have gone into emergency services, like her grandfather and uncle. They had both been volunteer firefighters. Rather, she took after her father and aided Milton’s day-to-day operations. Every Hale served the town in some capacity, though no streets bore their names.
City Hall was one of the town’s oldest structures. Two stories of dark-red brick with flawless stone scrollwork above and below each window, the small, proud building exuded dependability and fortitude. Milton had preserved few historic buildings as its economy changed; just two resided on public lands. Annual budgets perennially contained full funding for City Hall’s upkeep. The foyer, mayor’s office, and council chamber took up most of the ground floor. The second floor housed city council offices, archives, and valuable, rarely used items, such as the ceremonial mace. Most council members worked at home, however. City Hall’s mineral composition blocked Wi-Fi signals.
The phone intercom on Taryn’s tidy, L-shaped desk beeped.
“Taryn. Taryn, I . . .” Herbie Handsom hesitated and grunted with exertion. A mighty bang of wood on wood carried out of his office and echoed into the foyer.
Taryn beeped back at once. “Can I help?” Her eyes fell on the 1990s Batgirl figure that sat on her desk between two crystal butterflies. They were the desk’s only adornments, all gifts from her mom.
“No, I—I’ll get it. I’ve got it.”
“You sure?” Taryn double-checked.
“Never mind.” The intercom clicked off, and hollow metal boomed like a drum.
Two probable explanations leapt to Taryn’s mind. One, Herbie was rotating the plaques and frames on his walls again, alternating which of his accomplishments could be easily read from his leather executive seat. Two, an uncooperative hornet had flown indoors. Except during winter, Herbie left a window open so the lawn and garden scents could waft in. Claiming he could discern what month it was from his nose alone was Herbie’s way of sounding outdoorsy in a town brimming with true woodsmen.
Accepting his word, Taryn got back to Dr. Elmir’s list.
“Hnngh.” The thick, richly stained door muffled Herbie’s voice. “Rrrrgh. Hng-grrrgh.” His off-putting noises were impossible to ignore. That’s not a hornet. Don’t tell me he’s dragging one of his ostentatious bookcases.
Virtually certain he was doing exactly that, Taryn sighed and got up. You need help. Why not ask for it? She gave a warning knock and cracked the mayor’s door. The mayor was out of view, but he had opened a window. “I’m coming in.”
The mayor crossly rebuked Taryn’s invasion from the corner of his desk. “I’ve got it!” Trash littered the umber carpet. Herbie had dumped out the plastic wastebasket bag, pulled it over his head, and twisted it tightly around his neck. A tenacious chunk of moist grapefruit peel clung to the transparent sack and squashed into his graying sideburn.
“Are you hyperventilating?” Taryn reached to push him into his chair.
“No!” He shook his head and shooed her away. “Out!”
Imitating an angry teacher, she demanded, “Sit and explain yourself!”
Herbie snatched a decorative brass spindle off his desk. A post-campaign present from a friend, its engraving read, POINT US FORWARD! He waved it at Taryn forbiddingly. “Go away! I’ll get it!” He backed around his desk toward the open window.
“Get what? You can’t breathe. Give. Me. The. Bag!”
“Fine!” Resentfully, he ripped the sack off and threw it at Taryn. The weight of the grapefruit peel carried it past her shoulder. “I’ll dig it out. Dig out every bit.” Sneering, he rubbed his chest, turned the spindle around, positioned the point between two fingers on his chest, and jammed it in. The brass shaft pierced deeply, straight through his Egyptian cotton dress shirt and all the way to its base. He pulled it out, wheezed, “Hah! Like that?” and jammed it in again, making a new hole in himself. Straining and spitting, he sucked air in and burbled, “Getting out of here.” Stupefied, Taryn watched him sit on the window ledge, duck, and roll backward onto the ground outside.
Taryn sped to the window and leaned out. Herbie, on his back amid azalea bushes, feverishly pulled the spindle out and inserted it back in, again and again, soaking himself in blossoming blood. His victorious smirk riveted Taryn. She had no words as the robust, middle-aged man coagulated into a pasty wax replica of himself. Pedestrians shouted from the sidewalk. Fidgety and shaky, Taryn departed the window and slumped onto the desk.
31
Trusty, malleable research subjects were practically irreplaceable. Their reliability meant they were suitable for the most sensitive experiments. Medications and procedures must adhere to predetermined schedules to yield worthwhile results. Skipping treatments invalidated data and squandered costly resources. Missing a session was intolerable. My deadlines cannot be postponed. Once he is found, the investigator seethed, I will offset these losses by withholding palliatives.
The investigator’s car smoothly coasted to a halt in the subject’s short driveway. Shrubs and young trees created a natural fence between the main road and the white house’s front yard. Casual passersby would not catch the investigator snooping unless they were on foot. Neighbors were another story. They could rear their heads at any moment. The investigator got out and, in spite of the fury hammering through his limbs, gently eased the car door closed. Did you forget I know where you live? Snubbing my messages will not keep you hidden.
The morning sun was too bright to see inside the house from the driveway; its indoor lights could have been on or off. No smoke rose from the chimney, not that there should have been a fire today. Promisingly, it was definitely the subject’s coupe in the carport attached to the right side of the house. The investigator hopped onto the porch, gave an authoritarian knock, and listened. He heard only ambient chirping. The doorbell was equally fruitless. He knocked and rang one more time: not a scuffle. He rattled the knob: locked. He lifted the doormat: nothing. “Gah!”
The investigator could tell the small house had been well maintained once. Its front lawn had manicured edges, and empty flower beds ringed the property all the way to the rear of the residence. Currently untended, the yard had grown rough. Weeds had crept in, beauty bark had rotted, and patches of small rocks indicated where raindrops had eroded the garden’s topsoil. A rake and shovel leaned against the left side of the house, next to a vertically standing wheelbarrow and a rusted charcoal grill filthy with gummy ash. Fresh footprints, the investigator surmised, would not look out of place along there. He furtively moved to the backyard.
The rear of the house had been abandoned long before the front. Blotched with daisies and moss, the lawn was no longer a lawn. In the near corner of the yard, the investigator passed exposed cement blocks housing metal anchors which had probably secured a swing set long ago. The basic back door had a small shingled awning and two steps. It was locked too, but its knob was loose. Hoping for a push-button lock on the other side, the investigator gave the knob a hearty jiggle. Its button obligingly popped out and permitted the investigator to sidle inside.
He had not visited the subject’s home before, but this was not a social call. The investigator disregarded its bleak interior design and swiftly ducked into each room, carefully keeping his hands to himself. A short hall led from the kitchen and living room, where the external doors were, to a moderate bathroom, two unoccupied bedrooms, and a master bedroom. He discovered his missing subject in the master bedroom, half covered by blankets, dead and cold to the touch. Good. You didn’t run.
The investigator counted his options. Complete carcass disposal required finding every single medication, receipt, schedule, and appointment reminder so the investigator wouldn’t be suspected of disappearing the subject. An accidental house fire could be staged, but the subject was not a smoker. Fire fatalities not attributable to smoking were inherently suspicious. If not disposed of, the body had to maintain its current pose due to lividity. The subject could be moved to the bathtub and left to soak, but if found too soon, its lividity wouldn’t be a perfect match to its pose. A conscientious forensic pathologist would spot the inconsistency and report that the scene had been tampered with.
Finally, the investigator could do nothing and walk away, trusting the neighbors had not seen him. Every option that eliminated evidence would bring greater scrutiny and interference. The investigator wrinkled his nose. Messy. I will not fall prey to this trap. He elected to walk away and rely on his prior precautions to shield himself from law enforcement’s eyeballs and subsequent research interruptions.
Before exiting, he stood at the subject’s footboard and briefly reminisced. The man had been an exemplary participant. Impending death is why we reach for meaning and purpose. We want to be valued. Having value, we can cope with mortality. Nearly incapacitated by your fear of death, you strove for flawless obedience and provided an unanticipated opportunity. The subject had precisely followed instructions at the tiniest implication of an impossible recuperation from his amputation. But his death defeated his purpose.
You lost your value. You wasted my time. Someone else will be the bridge that substantiates my methods. You die what you were when we met: worthless. Let the cards fall where they will. I will succeed. Your death will not stop me.
32
Wednesday
“The city council appointed Dad interim mayor last night. He and I need your help.”
Boone gravely nodded in assent.
“It’s horrific.” Gathered around a small table in a deserted council member’s office with Taryn, Boone, and Na, Zeb leaned forward and rested his forearms on its edge. “Would you like to talk, Taryn?”
She lowered her puffy eyes. “I’m . . . not ready. For this”—she patted a vibrant-blue hanging folder on the table—“I am. Dad?”
“No, no, I’m just here to legitimize the meeting. This is your show.” Even in this subdued setting, Boone possessed an uplifting magnetism. Zeb reckoned that was why Na spoke highly of him.
“Alright.” Taryn skimmed her phone. “Dr. Elmir, your university bio says you specialize in the supernatural?”
“Past and present cultural and psychological studies that include paranormal aspects, yes.”
“Have you met Wade Havelock? Do you know his version of the plant accident?”
“Yes,” Zeb plainly affirmed. He had not disclosed to the mayor that Wade was his primary contact.
“Until this morning, I didn’t. Herbie collated the final report himself and excluded Mr. Havelock’s account entirely.”
“Most would have done the same.”
“Me too,” Taryn verified, “until yesterday. Herbie wo— It wasn’t natural.” Her voice cracked and rose. “Someone got him. He was tricked or poisoned or, I don’t know, hypnotized? I searched his desk for who might’ve done it and what else he’d hidden from me.”
