Don't Say a Word

  “Ow,” he said. He tottered back against the wall. “What the hell are you doing, Nathan?”

  The impact knocked the chair out of Conrad’s hands. It dropped, smacking the floor. It lay there, faceup.

  Conrad stood there breathless. He grimaced at the throb in his knee. His arms hung down at his sides. His head hung down, his chin on his chest.

  What am I doing? he thought. What the hell am I doing?

  “Jesus, Nathan.” Sachs straightened off the wall. He rubbed his shoulder. “I mean, Jesus! You could’ve killed me.”

  Conrad ran his hand up over his thin hair. He shook his head. He looked at the floor, dazed. “I’m … sorry. I don’t know what I’m … I’m upset, I …” Automatically, he reached down and picked up the chair. He set it straight in front of him. “Christ, I’m at the end of my rope here. I don’t …”

  “Yeah,” said Sachs, rubbing his arm. “But—ow! Jesus. I mean, that really hurt. I mean, is this the way a couple of doctors are supposed to behave?”

  “No, no, I … I must be crazy.” Conrad looked down at the chair. He couldn’t believe what he’d done.

  Stretching his arm, massaging it, Sachs looked at his watch again. “All right. Ow—damn it. All right, lookit, we gotta move. If we’re gonna do this the way they want, we gotta really go.”

  Conrad nodded wearily. He picked up the chair and hit Sachs again.

  He brought it straight up from the floor this time. Grabbed it by the back and the seat. Whipped it around in a swift, wicked arc. The heavy legs struck Sachs full on the side of his big pink head. His head snapped to the side sharply. Sweat flew off it into the pale-purple light. His glasses flew with it. They hit the wall and dropped to the floor.

  Conrad lost his grip on the chair again. It tumbled and spun, fell over onto its side. Conrad stumbled, caught himself, stayed on his feet.

  He looked up. Sachs was still standing too. The big man’s naked eyes were blank and motionless. His mouth was opening and closing like a fish’s mouth. There was a raw, open gash on one side of his head.

  As Conrad watched, the gash turned scarlet. It flooded with blood. The blood ran thickly over Sachs’s eye, his cheek.

  “Really, Nathan. Really …,” Sachs said.

  Then he crumbled to his knees. Then he pitched forward. He hit the floor with a thud and lay there motionless.

  He’s on His Way

  Elizabeth was on her feet. She was staring down at Sachs. She held her cheek with one hand. She pointed at Sachs with the other.

  “You hit him with the chair,” she said.

  Panting, Conrad stared too. His mouth was open. His eyes were wide. “I …”

  “You hit him over the head with the chair,” said Elizabeth.

  “I had to stop him. He was going to tell, they’d have … killed her.”

  “But you hit him with the chair. You hit him over …”

  “For God’s sake, Elizabeth, I know that.”

  Elizabeth recoiled from his bark. Her hand dropped. She hugged herself. She gazed at him silently.

  Still breathing hard, Conrad wiped the sweat off his face. “Come on,” he said, more gently. “Help me tie him up.”

  He went to the bed. Tossed his trench coat to the floor. Stripped back the blanket, pulled up the top and bottom sheets. He pulled the pillowcase off the pillow. He carried the sheets and the pillowcase to Sachs.

  Sachs lay twisted on the floor, his head to one side. The blood had coated the exposed side of his face. It was dripping down onto the floor in a sticky pool. It made a pat-pat sound.

  Conrad knelt down beside Sachs, flinching at the pain in his knee. He pulled Sachs’s right arm behind his back. The arm was heavy. The hand was slippery with sweat. He tied the sheet around the wrist. Then he pulled the left arm up. The slippery hand snaked out of his grasp. The arm flopped back to the floor. Conrad let out a breath and grabbed hold of it again. He tied the other wrist. He didn’t know how to make any special knots. He just kept tying the sheet again and again.

  He glanced at the door, at the thin window in the door. No one was looking in. He glanced at Elizabeth. She stood over him, hugging herself, watching him. Maybe this isn’t the best course of treatment for her, he thought. He smiled thinly. He moved around Sachs’s body to his feet. He took hold of his ankles and pulled his legs straight.

  He tied Sachs’s ankles with the bottom sheet. Then he took a deep breath, a shaky breath. He had to tie the pillowcase around Sachs’s mouth: a gag. He turned Sachs’s head to get the pillowcase under it. Blood smeared over his hands and the cuffs of his shirt. The blood was warm and sticky. When he turned Sachs’s head, blood that had pooled in the ear spilled out. It pattered rapidly on the floor. Conrad swallowed hard. Even in medical school, he hadn’t liked blood. He wrapped the pillowcase around Sachs’s face. It wouldn’t go into his mouth. Conrad pushed on the case, forcing it between Sachs’s teeth. He felt Sachs’s wet teeth on his knuckles. He pulled the pillowcase tight and tied it.

  “Will he choke?” Elizabeth whispered.

  “Huh?” said Conrad. “What?”

  Elizabeth didn’t repeat it.

  Conrad stood up.

  “Doctor!”

  He reached out for her, falling. His knee had given out. At the same time, a hot pain sliced up through his forehead. Explosions of red went off in his right eye. He saw the familiar shapes of the sunset clouds off Seminary Hill.

  He felt Elizabeth catch his arm in her two hands. He took hold of her shoulder, supported himself.

  “I’m all right,” he said quickly.

  “Are you all right?”

  “What? Yes. I’m all right. I’m fine.”

  The red bursts were subsiding. His knee throbbed dully. He straightened, letting go of Elizabeth. She let his arm slip through her hands.

  Moving slowly, he returned to Sachs’s feet. He bent at the waist and picked them up. He turned the heavy body in a circle until its feet were facing the bed. Then, grunting, he dragged the body to the side of the bed. Sachs’s head went through the thick pool of blood. It left a smeared trail as Conrad dragged it.

  Now Sachs was beside the bed. Conrad knelt down next to him, letting out a groan of pain. Sachs’s bloody features were turned toward him. His eyes were half open. His teeth bit on the pillowcase gag.

  Is this the way a couple of doctors are supposed to behave?

  Conrad shoved at Sachs’s shoulder. The gelatinous mass of flesh didn’t budge. Conrad shoved harder. He turned to look at Elizabeth. She stood behind him, wringing her hands.

  “Help me,” he said.

  For another second, she only stood, her hands moving. Then she knelt down beside Conrad and pushed too.

  They shoved together at Sachs’s shoulder and torso, then his legs, then his shoulder and torso again. Bit by bit, Sachs’s body slid under the metal bed; when it was under completely, Conrad had to bend the legs so the feet wouldn’t stick out.

  Then Elizabeth stood up. She helped Conrad stand up also. He clung to her shoulder and pulled himself erect, letting his leg straighten slowly.

  “Thanks,” he said. “See if you can clean up that blood.”

  Elizabeth nodded and went to the washbasin. She dampened her towel. She knelt down on the floor and began scrubbing at the smeared trail of blood. Her gold-red hair, tied with the black ribbon, fell forward. She brushed it back quickly over her shoulder.

  Conrad, meanwhile, put the blanket back on the bed. He tried to make it look as if the bed were made, but he hung the edge of the blanket over the side to hide Sachs.

  “I can’t do this,” said Elizabeth.

  He looked down and saw her kneeling there, looking at him. She had cleaned away the trail of blood easily. But she hadn’t touched the place where the blood had pooled.

  “It’ll just smear,” she said. “I need a mop.”

  “Uh … all right. Just put the towel over it and let’s get out of here,” said Conrad.

  He glanced at his
watch. It was eight-forty.

  “All right,” Elizabeth said.

  He heard a key slide into the door’s lock.

  “Oh, God,” he said.

  He looked up. Elizabeth froze. The door opened and the therapy aide peeked her head in. She was smiling.

  “Everything is all right in here now?” she asked.

  Conrad stared at her from the bed. Elizabeth stared at her from the floor.

  “Fine,” Conrad croaked. “Fine.”

  “Did Dr. Sachs, he leave?”

  “Yes.” Conrad quickly put his hands behind his back to hide the bloodstains.

  “Okay. I am just checking,” said the aide cheerfully.

  She started to pull the door closed. Then she stopped. She put her head back into the room. She peered sharply at the floor. Her eyebrows came together.

  “Are those your glasses?” she asked.

  “Oh,” said Conrad. His voice cracked. He looked down at the far wall where Sachs’s glasses lay. “Oh, there they are.”

  “Have to be careful with those,” said the aide. She backed out and shut the door.

  Conrad bent down and swept up his trench coat. He put it on. Elizabeth got to her feet. She kept watching him.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Elizabeth stared at him. “Me?”

  “I can’t leave you here. You’ve got to come with me. Hurry.”

  He took her by the shoulder. He led her to the door. He glanced back one last time.

  The glasses.

  He went to them, picked them up, slipped them into his pocket. He stood up. And he saw the cassette recorder sitting on the table.

  “Oh, great,” he said.

  He snatched it. Dumped it in his pocket.

  He took Elizabeth by the arm and led her out of the isolation room.

  He hurried her down the hall. He held her by the elbow and walked quickly. Elizabeth had to run every few steps to keep up with him. He had to limp a little on his right leg to rest his knee. Aides glanced at the two of them in the dim corridor. The ward nurse looked back over her shoulder at them as they passed.

  When they went out the door, the correction officer was at her desk. The wide woman glanced up from a newspaper. She looked at Conrad’s face and nodded once, unsmiling. Then she looked down at the newspaper again.

  Conrad led Elizabeth to the elevators. He pressed the button. He waited with her, listening to the guard turn the newspaper’s page.

  When, at last, they got in the elevator, they were alone. Conrad stood beside Elizabeth holding her by the arm. He faced the door. He felt her turn to him. He felt her studying his profile with her green eyes. He thought of how Sachs’s face had looked when he shoved him under the bed. The door opened and he hurried her out.

  The downstairs hall was quiet. Conrad took Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her along. He had to skip on his right leg. He ran to Sachs’s office.

  It was eight forty-two when he came to the doorway. The door was open. The room was quiet. Sachs’s phone sat at the front edge of his desk. It was right beside the long sign that said, JERALD SACHS, MD, DIRECTOR. There were papers lying all around it.

  Conrad watched the silent phone a moment.

  “All right,” he said. “We can’t wait.”

  The phone rang.

  Conrad limped forward quickly. He caught the phone before it rang again. He spoke very quietly, in a high murmur from the corner of his mouth.

  “Sachs,” he said.

  “Where the fuck were you?” Conrad straightened. He recognized the voice. It was Sport, all right. “I had to call twice, you dumb fuck.”

  Conrad’s heart beat hard. He spoke even more softly. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “He’s on his way.”

  “Dumb fuck,” said Sport. He slammed the phone down.

  Conrad hung up with a trembling hand. He stood for a second looking down at the phone. He could pick it up, he could call the police.

  There’s no time. Too much could go wrong. There’s no time even to explain.

  He turned. He saw Elizabeth, still in the doorway.

  She was staring at him. She had one hand raised to her forehead. She was massaging her brow.

  “Is it you?” she said.

  Conrad shook his head. “What?”

  “Are you, I mean, him? The Secret Friend, I mean. Are you the Secret Friend?”

  Conrad laughed. He stepped to her quickly. He was still laughing—giggling a little wildly—as he took her by the arm.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  He had eighteen minutes to get to the clocktower.

  Time to Kill

  Nine o’clock. That’s when you have to be back. Not a minute after nine. Not a second.

  It was Saturday night. Traffic was thick but moving fast downtown on the FDR. The Corsica cut and darted through it like a fish through weeds. Conrad gripped the wheel hard. His head ached. His knee throbbed. The glare of headlights hurt his eye. He steered quickly, kept his foot pressed to the gas. He kept his eyes moving—to the windshield, the rearview, the sideview, the dashboard clock.

  Underneath him, the pavement was rough and uneven. It dipped and heaved. The Corsica sank and rattled. Cars stopped ahead of him suddenly. Red brakelights suddenly burned and the traffic packed and slowed. Conrad didn’t brake. The Corsica dodged and wove. His eyes burned through the windshield, flicked to the rearview, the sideview, the dash—the clock: ten minutes to nine. He was only now coming down across Forty-second Street.

  What is the number? he thought. What is the number?

  From the seat beside him, there came a soft sound. Elizabeth was singing to herself in an undertone.

  “Forty-nine bottles of beer on the wall, forty-nine bottles of beer. One of those bottles should happen to fall, forty-eight bottles of beer on the wall …”

  She had a sweet, clear voice.

  Conrad glanced over at her. She was sitting as she always sat. Erect, composed, her eyes forward, her hands folded in her lap.

  What is the number?

  His lips parted. He was about to ask her again. If she reacted now, if she went wild and attacked him at this speed, in this traffic …

  “ … one of those bottles should happen to fall, forty-seven bottles of beer on the wall …”

  He faced front. The road was open for a stretch. At his window, the East River glittered with the lights of Brooklyn. On the far shore, the faint, chill mist gave the small lights halos. The clouds were white and purple with the city’s lights.

  “ … one of those bottles should happen to fall …”

  The sound of her voice made him shiver.

  Are you the Secret Friend?

  Conrad’s eyes went to the rearview, to the headlights reflected there. Were they following him still? Had they seen him leave the hospital with Elizabeth? Conrad didn’t think so. He thought maybe they had left him alone for a while. Why would Sport have called in to the hospital if he’d had anyone to tail him? No, he’d had to check with Sachs. There was a good chance, Conrad thought, that he was alone for now. But still …

  Still, even if they weren’t tailing him, they would be at the clocktower, they would be waiting. They could spot her there. They could grab her. They would torture what they wanted out of her. They would kill her. Then him. Then Jessica.

  “ … Forty-five bottles of beer. One of those bottles should happen to fall …”

  “Elizabeth,” he said.

  Her singing stopped. He couldn’t look at her. He worked the wheel as the black pavement raced at him, under him. “Elizabeth,” he said again, “can you help me? Can you help me now?”

  There was no answer. He just couldn’t look.

  “You have to tell me what they want from you. You have to help me get my daughter back. This number they want—is it a phone number? An address? A … a safe combination? Do these people know you? Do you know who they are or … ?”

  “Does your daughter have a nice room?” Elizabeth asked suddenly.
>
  “What?” Conrad stared ahead as the red taillights of a speeding Cadillac swung in front of him, pulled away.

  “Are there pictures on the wall? I’ll bet she has pictures on the wall. I bet she has pictures of Mickey Mouse. Or Big Bird. Now they like Big Bird, the children, don’t they?”

  Conrad nodded slowly. “Yes. Big Bird. She has … there are Big Birds on her quilt, her cover. I don’t …”

  “Mother is nice now,” Elizabeth said. “Now she comes in and says good-night. Now mother is nice.”

  Conrad waited. He didn’t say anything. In another moment, he heard her voice again:

  “Forty-four bottles of beer on the wall, forty-four bottles of beer …”

  Now, finally, he did look at her again. He saw her sitting erect and empty eyed. Staring out at the weaving traffic and the night while her own reflection stared back at her from the windshield. It was strange, he thought. Yesterday, last night, less than twenty-four hours ago, he had fantasized about her while he was making love to his wife. He had fallen asleep thinking about her. He had looked forward to more sessions with her; to the sound of her laughter, the sudden sanity in her eyes.

  I’m still in here.

  And now it was all gone, all cold. He could remember that he had felt that way, but he could not remember what it had been like. He couldn’t remember what it had been like to feel anything besides the crush of this terrible vise of fear. For a moment, he thought of Timothy, his patient with AIDS: he was alone, scared, and made of flesh—and there was nothing else to him. That was like this, Conrad thought: the nausea of time, of the presence of time, of time running out.

  I won’t wait one second, Doctor. Nine o’clock and you’re through, your daughter’s through. Remember that.

  Conrad rubbed his knee. He had to hold his foot steady on the gas. It made the knee hurt more. He worked the wheel, worked the car. Into the left lane as traffic gathered to the right for the Fourteenth Street exit. Into the middle as the left lane slowed. Dodging through the racing traffic. Checking the mirrors, the clock. Six and a half minutes to nine …