They were preparing to take him to the Magnetic Resonance Center to record images of his brain for signs of strokes or other structural abnormalities. Also to check blood flow in the occipital and neotemporal lobes to be certain there were no occlusions. That was the nurse’s explanation to Beth.
And Jack could hear them.
They were on the other side of the door. Beth and the others … The door near the big window.
Don’t look out. Don’t look out.
Bad stuff …
“But he’s so agitated, he’s having a nightmare,” Beth pleaded. “Can’t you do something? Jack, wake up.”
That awful creature with the pointy head …
“They’ll give him some anesthesia so the images won’t blur. But his brain’s still active, and that’s what they want to capture.”
If this was a dream, he didn’t like it. Not dreaming. No way. This was too real. As real as those feet. Those horrible twitching feet. And the big brown mouse.
(That’s one smart mouse.)
Nice mouse. Big mouse.
They lifted Jack onto the gurney and wheeled him down the hall to the elevator and up to the MRC.
And the noise. Don’t tell me that’s a goddam dream … explosions rattling the dishes in the hutch … and that sound …
That sickening terrible sound …
And don’t telling me to stop screaming …
“Jack, I’m right here. It’s going to be all right. They’re just going to take some pictures.”
He could hear her through the door … Beth …
“You won’t feel a thing.”
His body was a cross-patch of slashes from scalp to foot and covered with antibiotic ointment. But as if by the snap of a magician’s finger all that was gone … and his body was clean, whole, pain-free.
He grabbed the mouse and climbed out of the cage. The floor was cold and wet. Beth, it’s me.
“Almost there.”
I’m coming.
He padded toward the door by the big black window …
Don’t look out.
He could feel the night watching him, pulling him to climb up and take a peek. To see the bad stuff out there.
Don’t do it … The door. Go to the door. It’s Beth.
He made his way to the door feeling all the eyes scrape him as he passed, feeling the jelly stuff making his feet sticky.
He was scared. So scared that he was panting … making queer noises. So scared that he pissed himself.
Bad sounds. Bad sounds.
“Stop that screaming. Stop that screaming.”
The door. The brown paneled door with the little windows. He put his hand on the knob. It was cool and slick and he tried to turn it to let Beth inside, but it was frozen. God, please help me.
“Jack, we’re just going to give you a little something to keep you still, okay?”
Beth! Open the door. Please let me out of here before it come back in. Please. “You won’t feel a thing … just some noises …”
Beth, somebody, let me out, let me out. Please.
Pounding. He pounded for it to open, pounded so hard he thought he heard his hand bones crack.
Please, somebody.
God, make the door open.
His feet. He looked down at his feet and they were covered with sticky stuff that left prints when he walked, and it was seeping under the door …
And the room instantly flooded as thick glutinous fluid rose up around him, engulfing his body, blotting the light and pushing him backward, black dark thick water rushing him along … and the jellies—hundreds of pulsing blobs streaming by his face out of the gloom. He braced for the sting of the tendrils, yet he felt nothing. Maybe they were friendly. Or maybe he really was dreaming.
“You are my sunshine …”
He tried to swim, but nothing worked. His feet and arms were dead—as if his blood had turned to concrete. His brain screamed commands to his body, but nothing moved. Nothing. Couldn’t even lift his head.
And the voices beyond the door.
He was paralyzed.
“We’re all done, Jack. We’re taking you back now.”
The goddam fucking jellies had paralyzed him.
“Jack, you did good, real good.” Nurse Maffeo.
Movement. He felt himself being lifted and rolled away. He wiggled his fingers. Then his toes and feet. God, thank you. He could feel his body come back. He didn’t know how, but he was going to keep them purring before more vapor lock.
“He’s agitated.”
“The anesthetic’s wearing off.”
“Jack, it’s me. Wake up. Please.”
He grabbed the knob again and felt it turn a little.
“Push, Jack. Push.”
I’m trying, but it won’t budge. Whatever they did it locked the goddamn door … and everything’s turning black. Oh, shit!
“See the lines? Let me turn up the gain. He’s stable again. Just a bad dream. Happens with trauma cases.”
And the voices faded like muffled music.
12
AT SEVEN-THIRTY SHARP ON TUESDAY EVENING, Dr. Jordan Carr pulled up in a long, shiny red sports car. René met him at the door. She had on a black sundress and heels—her only dressy outfit, the rest being pants suits, long skirts, and button-down blouses, which were fine for nursing homes and the declared moratorium on her social life. And he stood there in a suede camel-colored sportcoat with the same logo as yesterday’s blazer.
He walked her to the car that in the house lights glowed like a piece of jewelry. “Yikes, what is it?”
“Ferrari Testarossa.” He said that with the aplomb of announcing that the stars were visible.
The vehicle had been polished to a wet ruby sheen. “Very pretty,” she said, taking in the long sinuous lines and sculpted vanes.
“Thank you.”
As he let her in, Silky meowed down to them from an upstairs window. “Good night, Silky.”
Carr got in, looking up at the cat. “Funny, but you seem more the dog types.”
“How’s that?”
“I guess I’m thinking of how pets reflect their owners. Maybe it’s silly, but how dogs are more aggressive than cats.”
“And?” She drew out the syllable to see where he was taking this.
“And, well, you impressed me as being aggressive and tenacious.”
“Tenacious, as in a pit bull who gets her jaws on something and won’t let go?”
“Something like that.”
“Would it make you feel better to know that Silky is actually a panther cub?” He looked at her to see if she was making mock of him. She smiled and changed the subject. “I’ve never been in a Ferrari.”
“Welcome aboard.” He turned the key, and the car growled to life.
The interior light lit up a medallion on the gearshift—a rearing black stallion on a field of gold. “That’s the logo on the blazer you wore yesterday.”
“Yes,” he said as he pulled away. “I used to have a few other models until a divorce lawyer entered the picture.”
For a moment she imagined that he had a whole wardrobe of Ferrari outfits—blazers, polo shirts, Windbreakers, hats—probably even had rearing stallion undies. “Sorry to hear that,” she said, but found it hard to feel sympathy for a guy who was down to his last Ferrari. “I collect Honda Civics.”