Further speculation was forestalled by a call from Monroe Community Hospital. One of his postpartum patients needed a laxative. He okayed a couple of ounces of milk of mag. Then the nurse double-checked his pre-op orders on the hysterectomy tomorrow.
He managed to suffer through it all with dignity. It was Wednesday and he always took Wednesdays off. Jeff Sewell was supposed to be taking his calls today, but all the floors at the hospital had the Cantrell home phone number and they habitually tried here first before they went hunting for whoever was covering him.
He was used to it. He had learned ages ago that there was no such thing as a day off in Ob-Gyn.
The bell rang again, and for half a second Cantrell found himself hesitant to answer it. He shrugged off the reluctance and pulled open the door.
Two mothers and two children. He sucked in his gut when he recognized the mothers as longtime patients.
This is more like it!
"Hi, Dr. Cantrell!" the red-haired woman said with a big smile. She put a hand atop the red-haired child's head. "You remember Shana, don't you? You delivered her five years ago next month."
"I remember you, Gloria," he said, noting her flash of pleasure at having her first name remembered. He never forgot a face. "But Shana here looks a little bit different from when I last saw her."
As both women laughed, he scanned his mind for the other's name. Then it came to him:
"Yours looks a little bigger, too, Diane."
"She sure does. What do you say to Dr. Cantrell, Susan?"
The child mumbled something that sounded like "Ricky Meat" and held up an orange plastic jack-o'-lantern with a black plastic strap.
"That's what I like to see!" he said. "A real Halloween treat holder. Better than those stainless-steel buckets the other kids have been carrying!"
Gloria and Diane looked at each other. "Stainless-steel buckets?"
"Can you believe it?" he said as he got the two little girls each a Milky Way and a dime. "My first three Halloween customers this morning carried steel buckets for their treats. Never seen anything like it."
"Neither have we," Diane said.
"You haven't? You should have passed a couple of boys out on the street."
"No. We're the only ones around."
Strange. But maybe they had cut back to the street through the trees as this group entered the driveway.
He dropped identical candy and coins into the identical jack-o'-lanterns and heard them strike the other treats with a reassuring rustle.
He watched the retreating forms of the two young mothers and their two happy kids until they were out of sight. This is the way Halloween should be, he thought. Much better than strange hostile kids with metal buckets.
And just as he completed the thought, he saw three small white-sheeted forms of indeterminate age and sex round the hedge and head up the driveway. Each had a shiny metal bucket in hand.
He wished Erica were here.
He got the candy bars and coins and waited at the door for them. He had decided that before he parted with the goodies he was going to find out who these kids were and what they had in their little buckets. Fair was fair.
The trio climbed to the top step of the stoop and stood there waiting, silently watching him through the eye holes of their sheets.
Their silence got under his skin.
Doesn't anybody say "Trick or treat?" anymore?
"Well, what have we here?" he said with all the joviality he could muster. "Three little ghosts! The Ghostly Trio!"
One of them — he couldn't tell which — said, "Yes."
"Good! I like ghosts on Halloween! You want a treat?"
They nodded as one.
"Okay! But first you're gonna have to earn it! Show me what you've got in those buckets and I'll give you each a dime and a box of Milk Duds! How's that for a deal?"
The kids looked at each other. Some wordless communication seemed to pass between them, and then they turned and started back down the steps.
"Hey, kids! Hey, wait!" he said quickly, forcing a laugh. "I was only kidding! You don't have to show me anything. Here! Just take the candy."
They paused on the second step, obviously confused.
Ever so gently, he coaxed them back. "C'mon, kids. I'm just curious about those buckets, is all. I've been seeing them all day and I've been wondering where they came from. But if I frightened you, well, hey, I'll ask somebody else later on." He held up the candy and the coins and extended his hand through the door. "Here you go."
One little ghost stepped forward but raised an open hand — a little girl's hand — instead of a bucket.
He could not bear to be denied any longer. He pushed open the storm door and stepped out, looming over the child, craning his neck to see into that damn little bucket. The child squealed in fright and turned away, crouching over the bucket as if to protect it from him.
What are they trying to hide? What's the matter with them? And what's the matter with me?
Really. Who cared what was in those buckets?
He cared. It was becoming an obsession with him. He'd go crazy if he didn't find out.
Hoping nobody was watching — nobody who'd think he was a child molester — he grabbed the little ghost by the shoulders and twisted her toward him. She couldn't hide the bucket from him now. In the clear light of day he got a good look into it.
Blood.
Blood with some floating bits of tissue and membrane lay maybe an inch and a half deep in the bottom.
Startled and sickened, he could only stand there and stare at the red, swirling liquid. As the child tried to pull the bucket away from him, it tipped, spilling its contents over the front of her white sheet. She screamed — more in dismay than terror.
"Let her go!" said a little boy's voice from beside him. Cantrell turned to see one of the other ghosts hurling the contents of its bucket at him. As if in slow motion, he saw the sheet of red liquid and debris float toward him through the air, spreading as it neared. The warm spray splattered him up and down and he reeled back in revulsion.
By the time he had wiped his eyes clear, the kids were halfway down the driveway. He wanted to chase after them, but he had to get out of these bloody clothes first. He'd be taken for a homicidal maniac if someone saw him running after three little kids looking like this.
Arms akimbo, he hurried to the utility room and threw his shirt into the sink. Why? his mind cried as he tried to remember whether hot or cold water set a stain. He tried cold and began rubbing at the blood in the blue oxford cloth.
He scrubbed hard and fast to offset the shaking of his hands. What a horrible thing for anyone to do, but especially children! Questions tumbled over each other in confusion: What could be going through their sick little minds? And where had they gotten the blood?
But most of all, Why me?
Slowly the red color began to thin and run, but the bits of tissue clung. He looked at them more closely. Damn if that doesn't look like…
Recognition triggered an epiphany. He suddenly understood everything.
He now knew who those children were — or at least who had put them up to it — and he understood why. He sighed with relief as anger flooded through him like a cleansing flame. He much preferred being angry to being afraid.
He dried his arms with a paper towel and went to call the cops.
"Right-to-lifers, Joe! Has to be them!"
Sergeant Joe Morelli scratched his head. "You sure, Doc?"
Cantrell had known the Morelli family since Joe's days as a security guard at the Mall, waiting for a spot to open up on the Monroe police force. He had delivered all three of Joe's kids.
"Who else could it be? Those little stainless-steel buckets they carry — the ones I told you about — they're the same kind we use in D and C's, and get this: We used to use them in abortions. The scrapings from the uterus slide down through a weighted speculum into one of those buckets."