"Dr. Barnard?"
"Yes," she said.
The ambulance attendants started toward them as well.
"What happened?"
"We got lost, into an accident, and then lost again," she said. He stood back as the attendants approached, both of them recognizing her as well.
"Dr. Barnard?"
"Yes, please get her inside the ambulance. Let's get her blood pressure." Darlene gave in to her exhaustion just at that moment and sank in Terri's arms. The two attendants moved quickly to put her on a stretcher and get her into the ambulance, while the patrolman and she stood back watching.
"How did you come to be out here? Who is that?" he asked her.
"Someone I was helping," she said, keeping it as cryptic as she could.
"What about the car? Where about is it?" he asked turning toward the woods.
"I don't care about the car right now," she said. "Thanks," she added and got into the ambulance as soon as Darlene was rolled inside.
One of the attendants turned to her.
"You have a bad gash on your forehead, Doctor. Might need stitches," he said examining it.
The patrolman stepped closer to the open door.
"I'll follow you to the hospital," he said. "We can send a tow truck later."
"Good," she called back. "Let's get going," she told the attendant and he closed the door.
Moments later they were on their way to the emergency room, and she wondered if the patrolman would report back to Will Dennis or a superior who would report to Dennis.
Wasn't it horrible to have to be afraid of the very people who were employed and supposedly dedicated to helping and protecting you?
She sat back and let the attendant begin to clean her wound, while the other one began to monitor Darlene, and she realized she had been as close to death as she had ever been in her life. It was a rescue that had the potential for geometric impact. Whenever or if ever she saved anyone else's life with her medical skills, she would think it would have not happened if she had not effected this escape. Somehow, she thought, she would be an even better doctor because of all this. Like some child hoping and searching for a rainbow, she closed her eyes and listened to the ambulance siren clearing their way toward home.
TWENTY
He closed the door of Unit 10 behind him, and rushed back to the office to gather up the money he had discovered in the motel owner's apartment. Before he had left Unit 10, he had taken all he could find on Charles Samuels as well. In his way of thinking, money was a sort of fuel, and every person he robbed was a fueling station. He favored cash over anything. He was fearful of using credit cards and leaving some sort of trail. Occasionally, he had taken some jewelry, but he had yet to pawn any of it. That, too, might leave tracks and he knew in his heart that his pursuer was a very sharp, capable, and effective predator, at least as able as he was. It was a frightening thought to envision himself hunting himself. That was a nightmare he recalled vividly. It was what gave him his all-knowing sixth sense.
But he was in a particular hurry now, fleeing with an intensity he had not experienced. Never before did he feel this degree of desperation. He hated it and didn't want to look at himself. He was ashamed of his fear. It made him weak, made him more like... them, his prey. If there was one thing that terrified him above anything else, it was the thought that he was someone else's prey. He was the hunted and not the hunter.
He was practically running now, running toward the motel office, blind to everything but the tasks at hand. Focused, intense, a projectile of raw determination, he charged through the door and into the apartment. He went right for the can of money he had left in front of the closet, filled his fist with the bills, and stuffed them into his pockets. Then he rose and walked slowly back to the living room, feeling more confident, feeling more in control of events. But when he stepped into the room, he paused. In his haste, he had run right past the motel owner. For a moment he was confused. The dead motel owner wasn't against the wall where he had left him. The man was in his easy chair, his head back, his eyes open, facing the television set that was on, the volume low.
Did I leave him that way? he wondered. Did I turn on the set? Was I having some fun?
"It's better this way," he heard himself say. "This way it looks more like he had a heart attack while watching television. I'll make sure of that." Did he think aloud?
He turned very slowly and looked at himself and saw Garret Stanley.
"Boy, have you made a mess of things," he heard himself say. "You have no idea what I have gone through covering all this up. Some important people had to use big muscle."
He looked at the dead motel owner and then turned back to Garret.
"What else have you done here? What else do I have to clean up? Well?" Garret followed after a moment. "Are there any other bodies in the vicinity? Hello!
Those two cars parked in front of the motel units?"
He nodded.
"Great." Garret stepped closer, moving more into the illumination. There was a nasty looking bruise on his forehead. He raised his hand to his own forehead and felt for it. "No, this is particularly my own trauma. Thank you for caring. Seems a local physician, a Dr. Terri Barnard, was a bit more resourceful than I imagined she would be. Did you know she had the pleasure of confronting two of your pieces of work, and eventually, might have made a lot of trouble for us?
You don't read newspapers? You didn't see our face on the front page?
He nodded.
"Oh, you did. Great. Well, why are you still here then?"
"I'm leaving," he said.
"Yes, you're leaving. We're leaving. You can't continue like this. You understand that, don't you? Well? Don't you?
He nodded.
"Good. We'll get you back and help you."
There was something in Garret's face he recognized. People lie to themselves, but they know they're lying to themselves. They can't look into the mirror and not know the truth. They can put on a facade to hide the truth from others, but there is no mask thick enough or good enough to hide the truth from yourself. He saw the deception in Garret's eyes. He saw the looming betrayal.
"You can't lie to me," he told Garret.
Garret's eyes widened.
"I'm your mirror and you're mine."
He saw that Garret understood. He saw the look of fear now. He reached for the pistol in pocket and brought it out, but just as he was doing so, he lunged at himself and grasped his wrist. They struggled and turned, a strangely beautiful dance of death, mirror images, each anticipating the other's steps, looking into the duplicated eyes, the duplicated twisted lips of effort, their arms equal in strength. The spinning grew faster, a little more awkward.
Garret's head trauma sang and shortened his ability to keep his balance. Then, he did a surprising thing to Garret. Maybe he had to duplicate that head trauma. He brought his head back and snapped it forward so his forehead would strike Garret just at the bridge of his nose. The nose cracked and the pain was electric, shooting up in a dozen directions, tearing through Garret's eyes, into his brain where it exploded like a big lightbulb.