Fire Will Fall

  I needed to be alone to collect myself. And yet, I was afraid to be alone to face what god-awful imaginary thing I might experience next. Rain and Owen finally left, and Marg watched me as I sent her from the room, her hand on the doorknob in a pensive way.

  "You might try crying," she said blandly. "It's perfectly all right."

  "Thanks, I've had my jag for the day."

  "You're switching medications. You're entitled," she insisted. Scott hadn't mentioned crying as a symptom of withdrawal. I couldn't simply cry on demand. I was struck with the image of trying to urinate in public. "Please. I really need to be alone now."

  I suppose she wasn't stupid. She reappeared five minutes later with a cup of tea, telling me I could hold the breakable cup and hot liquid only if I agreed to have some company. When I said Henry could come up, he appeared from over her shoulder. I supposed he had been standing by the door frame, listening to make sure I was all right, the entire time Marg was making tea.

  I put a hand over my eyes, feeling like a dimwit. The idea that he was even here ought to get him nominated for sainthood. He had a black and blue mark under his right eyebrow from Mr. Montu tackling him.

  "Henry. I'm so sorry," I managed, though it clanged through my aching head in its emptiness.

  "Please don't worry," he insisted. "It was not a big deal. As the saying goes, you ought to see the other guy."

  Mr. Montu was behind him, and I found the grin in his black and blue face. My laugh was too loud, a testament to my nerves.

  "Let me do the apologizing," he said. "It seems I can send in all the letters of resignation to USIC that I want, and somehow ... I'm still USIC."

  His smile dimmed, and my heart went out. Marg had confided his situation before he arrived, so I didn't ask the wrong questions about him going through a terrible divorce.

  "We're glad you're here, Mr. Montu," I said, wishing I could think of more creative words.

  "Hodji. Please. Everyone ... called me Hodji."

  He had said "called" and not "calls," which made me think of the Kid and Tyler.

  "I hope you can go back to sleep," I said. I noticed he had his cell phone in his hand and a look in his swollen eyes that was alert and not very sleepy. Maybe "alert" was the wrong word. He looked agitated. It was just a spark in his eyes contrasting his otherwise calm demeanor.

  "I might be able to ... if I can sleep on the couch downstairs. In Pakistan, I used to sleep on a straw mattress on the floor. I snore badly right now. Do you care?"

  I remembered some things about hospice care I had heard when we first came here, when we thought at least a dozen other Stage Three Q3s might be coming with us. We had been warned that people who are sick have all different needs, and it would be good therapy for all of us to cater to the needs of the others.

  "Scott and Owen both snore sometimes," I informed him. "Rain calls it a lullaby. Just be comfortable."

  With that, his cell phone rang, and to my amazement, he almost jumped. The phone flew an inch out of his hand, and he caught it haphazardly and flipped it to his ear.

  "What, Alicia?" he demanded, mechanically turning and clomping down the stairs. "Why do you need the medicine cabinet cleaned out by tomorrow? I'm in New Jersey! I've been in a car accident, for Pete's sake ... Then throw everything out! Where's Twain?...Why not?"

  I dropped my arm over my face, primarily out of frustration for his words, and secondarily to put some heat on my pounding head. Heat could sometimes cut the onslaught of a Headache from Hell.

  "I guess he was hoping that was his son," I muttered. I seemed to remember hearing that his name was Twain and he was a good student.

  Henry was pouring tea into a cup for himself from the tray Marg had left at the foot of the bed. I could hear it, could smell it. I raised my arm to look at him, and the rays of sunlight were bathing him. A ring of light glowed off his wavy hair, making him appear angelic. This set my teeth on edge again. In spite of all that logic would dictate, I found myself wondering if I were dreaming him. What if he disappears? Jumps into my closet, never to reappear? What if Marg comes in and tells me he left an hour ago?

  As he brought his cup closer, I reached out tenuously, touching his wrist with a sweaty hand. He wrapped his hand around mine, reassuringly.

  "Please don't laugh. But for a moment, I thought you might be imaginary." I swallowed a mouthful of metallic saliva, generally a precursor to our headaches.

  "It's me. The real thing. I'm right here..." He sat down on the bed. His voice was comforting, but not patronizing. "In fact, I can probably help you out with some information about hallucinations. When I was an undergrad, I was considering becoming a therapist. That was before I got so interested in physics. I actually worked in a rehab clinic and walked many a patient through the worst of withdrawal symptoms, including hallucinations."

  I sipped the tea, hoping it would help my head. But it throbbed. Not in a Headache from Hell sort of way, but in a tension way.

  "Did ... people see ghosts?" I asked.

  "Sure. It simply depends on the types of minds they have."

  I had never thought of myself as morbid, but obviously it was true. And I had more questions.

  "Did they hear things?"

  "Absolutely. Audible hallucinations are very common." He stood at the side of the bed and said, "Face the window."

  When I did, he took the cup from me, laid it on the nightstand, and started to massage my temples. It felt amazing. I dropped my hands, feeling embarrassed still, but also forgiven—and comforted by his confidence in the things he was saying. I could hear Marg snapping sheets out in the corridor, just a few feet away, in case I "saw" anything else. I felt utterly safe—safe enough to examine what happened in the basement without losing it. The hallucinations were so real. I didn't know how to get over that.

  "All the senses work in hallucinations," Henry said as he rubbed his thumbs at the base of my skull in a fantastic way. "What happens is, the part of the brain that you use in dreaming overreacts to stimuli that it's become unaccustomed to. Sometimes, very real things will change shape or move slightly, so the resulting hallucination involves a combination of the real and the imagined. Other times, it can be the product of five or six dreams, such that you can barely recognize the outbreak as things you've had in your head all along. You have to let go of it. It's just ... a symptom. That's all."

  It was everything I needed to hear. He used his thumbs to work the top of my scalp, and I felt my body going limp, though the slight throbbing persisted.

  Aleese ... hissing, edging toward me, and she's got some sidekick who reminds me of The Exorcist. They stink like muck, and Aleese hisses out, "You're not really seeing me! I'm just a dream," and then laughs in that awful way of hers.

  Scott had been concerned I would hallucinate because I'd already done so at St. Ann's. He'd said it showed that I was prone to them. He had not said anything about hallucinations containing a smell. Maybe he'd thought I wouldn't really have any.

  Henry's head massage was beyond relaxing, and when he eventually stopped, he brought something out from under the tea tray. It was a children's book that looked slightly familiar, and I stared, intrigued. I recognized the artwork of Maurice Sendak, because Oma had read his stories to me over and over until I was at least seven. I had never seen this one before. The Big Green Book featured simple drawings of a couple, a dog, and a small boy.

  I would recognize Sendak anywhere. I breathed, enchanted. "Where did you get this?"

  "It belonged to Mrs. Starn's daughter when she was a little girl. It's pretty old. Early sixties. My parents read a lot of Maurice Sendak to me when I was little."

  "My Oma read them to me, too." I took the book from him and leafed through the pages with it resting on my ribs. "I love Maurice Sendak. Loved..."

  "I just grabbed it on my way out of the house today. I was thinking..."

  I turned to stare into his kind eyes and warm grin, wondering what on earth had inspired him.

 
He laughed awkwardly. "Gee. I don't know what I was thinking. If I'm telling the whole truth here, my brushes with womenfolk have revolved around work and research for many years now. I guess you could say I'm all thumbs."

  The pun worked well. He worked his thumbs into the base of my skull again, though I noticed for the first time a slight nervousness in him. More tension escaped me as the confession lingered in the air. How charming. It had never struck me before, but I saw no reason that "older" had to mean "very, very experienced," and therefore, "very, very intimidating." Any pictures I'd had of Henry pulling some fast older-man routine on me dissolved and was replaced with a firm trust.

  "Your instincts are very good," I said dreamily. "I love children's stories. One thing I've considered, if I ever decide on a major, is to write them."

  "I just imagined you would love some escape into another world. It's a sweet and innocent read for a sweet and innocent person."

  Henry sat beside me on the bed, opened the book, and simply started reading. I could see Marg peering in from the corridor, but it didn't matter. We weren't doing anything or talking about anything I thought we should hide. I lay beside him and he read the title page. "...by Robert Graves. Artwork by Maurice Sendak." I smiled dreamily. Oma used to read all title pages.

  The pictures brought to life a little boy named Jack, who'd found a book containing magic spells. He turned himself into an old man, then made himself disappear. Then, he turned the spells on his starchy aunt and uncle, triumphing over their rules and regulations. It made me feel powerful, like I could triumph over this world, however harsh and inconceivable it often seemed. At one point, I nodded off, Henry's hand still stroking my hair, while lulling me with his words. I awakened, still hearing his voice and not wanting to miss the end. But I never heard it.

  FORTY-ONE

  SCOTT EBERMAN

  MONDAY, MAY 6, 2002

  1:22 P.M.

  PARLOR

  I RAN IN THE HOUSE and noted the basement door kicked in, and Alan's new security machine in three pieces on the floor. Like Mike said, Alan would not be thrilled to have to replace it so quickly. I made for the stairs, but a movement in the parlor caught my eye. Hodji Montu was sitting straight up on the couch, looking like hell. Without his famous cowboy hat and with his face rearranged, he was almost unrecognizable. He smiled and stood up.

  "I've seen worse." I chuckled as he approached. "In the ICU."

  He hugged me with three claps on the back—a lot, since I'd met him a total of four times, and the first time I was in a coma.

  "It doesn't hurt much," he lied.

  "Hodji, I'm sorry. I know how much you loved him."

  He looked ... angry. I could relate. But I couldn't imagine what would inspire him to want to quit USIC. The loss would have gunned my fight engine, but according to Rain, Owen, and Cora, I'm not normal. Plus, he had the other problems Mike told me about. He still had his cell phone in his hand. I gathered that meant his son, Twain, hadn't called yet.

  "Listen, I'm here now, Hodji. Why don't you go get some sleep?"

  He looked torn up. "If I drift off now, I'll never sleep tonight. That's my latest decision, though I'm back and forth like the wind. I was just enjoying sitting here with the breeze blowing in on my face."

  "What happened?"

  "I actually had been asleep. I heard a USIC security alarm far off, reacted like a USIC agent, and had Cora's photography teacher in a pop lock before I knew what happened."

  If only you knew how good that makes me feel. Fortunately, I managed to bury my laughter in a cough.

  "I was very embarrassed, apologetic. He's a great guy. Very understanding. Thinks he can beat me at chess. I've played while undercover as everything from a paper salesman to a chicken farmer. People tend to think I'm an easy mark. When I play money stakes, the truth comes out." He laughed, and I forced myself to do the same.

  "There's only one person who has ever legitimately beat me," he said.

  The Kid?

  He walked to the window and stared out. I approached him hesitantly, not wanting to interrupt an obvious memorial moment.

  I cleared my throat. "How is Cora? She seemed okay?"

  "Yeah, she's up there with him."

  "Did she fall? Hit her head? Get bruised in the ruckus? She's on a hefty dose of blood thinner."

  "When I got down there, she was just standing in the darkroom screaming. I actually tackled Henry out in the corridor before he could get that far. She witnessed the whole thing, but we never came near her down there, and she never moved."

  "Good, then."

  "She's just shook up. The nurse told me she's switching medications?"

  "Yeah. I told her she might be prone to hallucinations, but I didn't think she'd have a doozie like that. Sounds like a remake of Creature from the Black Lagoon."

  "That's what the nurse said. She said most people hallucinate out of the corners of their eyes or through their sense of smell. Though she also said anything is possible. Your medication and dosages are highly experimental."

  I was itching to question Cora, but I had my pride, too.

  "Where's Marg now?"

  "Sitting outside Cora's door, pretending to fold wash. She mentioned the huge age difference, and her motherly instincts are on full alert."

  "Good for her."

  He watched me, and I hoped my expression bore out nothing. But I was not going up there to play audience to their little drama. Still, that hallucination ate at me.

  "Are you sure she didn't see Henry? And that's what made her hallucinate?"

  "I don't ... follow," he said. His mind was blotto right now, I assumed, though he probably wouldn't know about this stuff anyway.

  "Generally, when people hallucinate something full-blown like that, it's not all hallucination. There's something there that they did see. For example, I have heard of people in withdrawal claiming to see spirits or even ghouls. But generally, there's someone standing there, and they make a transferal, add to it with their overloaded autosuggestion."

  He watched me uncomfortably, to the point where I wondered if I'd alarmed him.

  "She did not see Henry," he said. "Henry kicked the door open because she was already screaming."

  So, that was no good. And true, the door had been locked. I'd given it a pull for good measure just before I took off with Alan.

  "Maybe it's just one of those things," I said, but he moved toward the door and pulled it open, staring down in a way that made me edgy.

  He sighed, banging his heel absently into the space above the top step. "God, I so do not want to play USIC right now."

  I barely heard him, my heart revving up. "Hodji. ShadowStrike would have no interest in the four of us, right? Alan assured me of that before I even agreed to the place. It's remote. We're wide open. The property is too big to fence in..."

  He sighed more loudly. "What did I just say?"

  "Sorry."

  He pulled me out onto the porch, and the air seemed to revive him a little. I couldn't help it. Questions popped out of me as I followed him.

  "You don't think they got down there somehow, do you?" I asked.

  "Scott, all I can tell you is the common mindset of terrorists, which has worked throughout my entire career. They don't chase down individuals they missed the first time around."

  "So, they would have no business in this house."

  "None whatsoever. Shhh," he said, and a smile bloomed on his face. I looked over my shoulder to see Henry pulling on a light jacket.

  "She is very sound asleep right now, and Marg is folding wash right outside her door. Please bid her adieu for me when she wakes up."

  Oh, adieu? Adieu, and screw you.

  "I will" I pulled a grin out of my ass. "And thanks."

  "No problem at all."

  "So, when's our first big chess game?" Hodji asked. "I thought you were staying for dinner."

  "I wasn't invited."

  I prayed really hard and bit my lip.

 
"Too bad," Hodji said.

  "And I actually have papers to mark and a meeting at the college in about forty-five minutes."

  "After dinner?" Hodji asked.

  Henry laughed in disbelief. "You sure you want to take me on? I understand you're sleep deprived."

  Please, God, no.

  "Sometimes it's the more relaxed mind that takes the game. Why don't we make a scientific experiment of it? Your alert mind versus my concussion. Five bucks down. If you don't take it, Alicia's divorce lawyer will."

  Henry looked at him in sympathy. "If it'll keep your mind off that. Sure."

  I went through my sins of the day, trying to figure out where I'd gone so wrong. Maybe I could connive Marg into slipping Cora a sleeping pill so she wouldn't watch Henry beat Hodji's ass.

  Hodji waved, his smile stuck on his face like plastic, but it dropped as soon as Henry was out of sight.

  "Nice guy," he said. "But you don't tell him nuthin'. I'm sure Mike's been over that with you."

  "Can I tell him to go to hell?" I blurted, at the end of my patience. I tried to cover it with a laugh but my face was on fire.

  "Uh-oh," he said. He wasn't that asleep. "You're in love while she's got older-man syndrome."

  "I'm not in love," I countered, but he ignored me.

  "You'd better keep your mind occupied. I'll give you a job to do."

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know."

  "I thought you weren't USIC anymore."

  "I'm not. But if I didn't search that basement right now, I'd be half an idiot. I don't think there's anyone down there. But I'm going to pull my gun, so you stay out here right now. Don't let anyone onto the first floor. Where's your brother and the Steckerman girl?"

  I listened for the TV and heard it. "TV room, probably crashed out."

  "I'll be careful. Make sure no one else comes down here. God forbid, but if I should fire a weapon, it would probably go right through the floor. Listen for my holler."

  He went through the foyer, and as he turned the corner I saw a flash of metal—his gun. He took so long that I almost went inside, but I wanted to do like he told me. After probably ten minutes he hollered my name loudly. All clear.