After a long, painful time, Wingate said, “Go on home, Phil. I’ll call your wife if you like.”
Phil shook his head, looking up with red eyes. He suddenly seemed self-conscious. Dr. Latham took a box of Kleenex from atop the desk and handed it to him. Phil blew his nose. “No, Teddy. Gabbie and Jack are coming.…” He glanced at a wall clock and said, “Shit. They’re probably here by now, waiting outside.” He rose, slightly wobbly.
Dr. Latham motioned him back to the chair. “I’ll get them.”
“No, I’d better be the one.” As he moved toward the door, Phil said, “Thank you, both of you.”
Dr. Wingate said, “Phil, I really wish there was something we could do. Truly I do.”
Phil left and both doctors seemed to let go of something, to sag a little now that the grieving father was gone. Dr. Latham said, “Never gets any easier, does it?”
“No,” Wingate answered quietly. “When I was a resident, we had a brilliant intern rotate through our service. The kid was so damn smart he made me feel stupid—no easy task, as you know. When he had finished rotation, I tried to sell him on joining our service the following year. I remember his answer. He said, ‘Neurosurgery? I didn’t become a doctor so I could watch my patients die.’”
Nodding in understanding, John Latham said, “Truth, Teddy. That’s why I’m happy to be just a G.P. Well, I’ve rounds,” and he moved toward the door. “I’ll see you—”
Suddenly the door opened and Dr. Murphy stuck his head in. “You’d better come quick!”
Both doctors followed Murphy through the hall to the stairs. Even the stout Wingate ran up the stairs to the ICU. Pushing through the doors, they were greeted by a raucous, animal-like shriek. Patrick was sitting up in bed, an evil grin on his face, hooting and yowling. He had torn off his hospital gown and sat in bed, one hand clutching his groin. With the other he was rubbing a dark substance in his hair, while he laughed maniacally. The sensors from the various monitoring devices had been pulled off and cast aside; now they dangled from the machines.
One of the nurses stood by the door, while another furiously cleaned off the front of her white uniform. Wingate looked to the nurse with the towel and said, “Nancy, what happened?”
With a look close to murder, the young woman said, “I was checking the leads to the machine when he woke up. The screens were impossible to read, so I didn’t have any warning.”
As Wingate went in to examine Patrick, Murphy said, “What’s that all over your uniform?”
The nurse said, “Shit. Can’t you tell from the delightful odor?”
Dr. Latham said, “He did that?”
Fighting to retain some vestige of professional poise, she said, “I felt something grab my right breast and looked down. He was awake and had defecated in the bed. He was rubbing it on my breasts.”
Latham’s expression was open disbelief. The nurse’s voice had modulated to something almost calm, but her expression was openly wrathful. Latham couldn’t imagine what could have caused this strong a reaction. Nancy Roth was a trained, experienced nurse and had dealt repeatedly with the nastier side of nursing. She’d had to clean patients before, been vomited upon, had blood spattered on her. Nothing as mundane as excrement would cause a tenth part of the distress and anger she exhibited. “What else?” he asked.
The woman’s eyes remained controlled storms of rage. “I pulled away and the … patient” she said, “was masturbating.” Her voice softened, and her tone turned from anger to confusion, and her expression turned to distress. “And he gave me a … look.”
Murphy and Latham both glanced through the glass partition to where Wingate and another nurse were attempting to examine the shrieking child. The nurse continued her narration. “Doctors, I don’t know if I can tell you.… I’ve been looked at.… Doctor, he had an expression on his face that … it’s nothing you should ever see on a kid.”
Both doctors turned to watch the nurse. Dr. Murphy said, “Nancy, what do you mean, a look?”
“He looked like a sailor at a topless bar. No, it was worse.” Her manner became less angry, more confused. “It was an obscene look.” She glanced at Patrick, then averted her eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if she was embarrassed. “I know he’s just a kid, but … it’s like he was ready to fuck.” Both doctors exchanged questioning glances. Waving her hand in resignation, Nurse Roth said, “I know. It’s impossible. But … something’s not right. The patient.… Doctors, I don’t know what it was. But it was sick. And he tried to grab at me when I tried to restrain him.” She blew out her cheeks as she sought to control herself. “I … he reached up right between my legs … like some filthy degenerate. Uh!” The last was a sound of pure revulsion. She tossed aside the towel. “I’ve got to change.”
“Go on,” agreed Latham. The nurse left as Wingate returned. To Murphy he said, “Find Phil Hastings before he goes home.” As the young resident nearly ran from the room, Wingate shouted after, “And for Christ’s sake, tell him to get ready for another shock.” Wingate and Latham turned and watched Patrick through the glass of the ICU, as the shrieking, howling child struggled with the three nurses who were attempting to clean off the excrement he had rubbed all over his body.
16
Phil stood before the door in the psychiatric ward, waiting for Gloria and Aggie. With the news that Patrick was revived had come hope reborn, then dashed again. Through the small glass window, Phil could see Patrick sitting on his bed, again naked, since he tore off any clothing that was put upon him. He sat rocking back and forth, holding his penis, while he hooted and shrieked, all the time with eyes fixed on the television on the wall high up and across from his bed. The television was behind safety plastic, so all the food and excrement Patrick had thrown at it had only managed to coat the plastic with a multicolored mess that seemed to detract little from Patrick’s enjoyment of the program.
Phil felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to Gabbie behind him, with Jack at her side.
Teddy Wingate and another doctor entered the ward and came up to Phil. “I’ve given the charts over to Dr. Webster, our head of service in psychiatry.”
Phil shook hands. “What’s happened to my son?” he asked.
Dr. Webster replied, “It’s too early to tell, Mr. Hastings.” Seeing Phil’s dissatisfaction with that answer, he said, “I think Patrick’s brain damage has left him with a … baby’s mental function. A sixth-month-old or so.”
Phil sagged against the door, ignoring the sounds coming through. “What can we do?”
Webster looked over the chart. “We’ll do more testing and see what we can do about mitigating some of this violent behavior. Look, I’ll talk to you later today, all right?”
Webster turned away without waiting for Phil’s reply and moved through another door. Gabbie turned to her dad and said, “I don’t like him.”
Wingate said, “Peter can be abrupt, but he’s good.” Seeing the doubt on Gabbie’s face, he repeated, “Really, he is good.”
Gabbie said, “I want to call in a specialist.”
“Who?” asked Wingate without embarrassment.
“Who’s the best?”
Without hesitation, Wingate said, “Michael Bergman, down at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. He’s done more work in odd brain dysfunction than anyone. And he’s got this prototype magnetic response imager, which will give you a lovely color picture of what’s going on inside Patrick’s head. This puppy’s portable, or at least two strong men can carry it. It’s the first one smaller than a room.”
“He’s the best?” said Gabbie.
“For this weirdness,” said Wingate, “no doubt. I met him once at a conference. He’s one very sharp customer.”
“Then I’ll get him.”
Murphy smiled. “You can get him to come here?”
Gabbie nodded. “You just watch me. Can I use your phone?” Wingate nodded and led Phil, Jack, and Gabbie from psychiatry. Once inside Wingate’s office, Gabbie sat behind the d
esk, reached over, and picked up the receiver, dialing the outside operator. She instructed her as to billing and waited as the phone at the other end rang several times. “Helen? Gabbie. I need to speak to John.” After a moment Gabbie’s features clouded, and she said, “Then interrupt the meeting. This is vital.” The voice at the other end started to say something, and Gabbie said, “Don’t fuck with me, Helen. My little brother is very sick and I want John on this line in sixty seconds, or you can start looking for a new job in sixty-one. Clear?” In less than a minute she said, “John? Gabbie Hastings. Listen, do we have a company plane anywhere near Baltimore? In Washington? Good, have someone tell the pilot to fly to Baltimore as soon as possible. I want—” After a moment she said in icy tones, “Now listen: My little brother is very ill and I want a plane to fly a specialist here as soon as I track him down.” Again came a response. “Screw the stockholder. I own 51 percent of Larkercorp and if I want to use a company jet for personal reasons, then I damn well will. The corporation can bill me, if you think that will keep the board happy. Now, please have the pilot alerted, and as soon as the doctor is there, I want him flown to Buffalo. No, the airport here can’t handle a jet. I’ll have someone ready to pick him up. The man’s name is Dr. Michael Bergman, at Johns Hopkins. Use someone at Larker Foundation to get to him. He’s got some sort of a prototype machine.…” Wingate spoke and she repeated, “A magnetic response imager. We need that here, too. Pay him anything, John, or get him a million-dollar grant or something. Just get him here.” She gave him the particulars of where she was and Dr. Wingate’s name. A short silence passed, and she said, “Thank you. Oh and, John, sorry about the meeting. And tell Helen I’m sorry about being such a bitch.”
She hung up. “He said he’ll take care of it. Now we need to wait for Dr. Bergman’s call.”
Jack said, “I’m impressed.”
“It’s just money, Jack. Nothing to be impressed with.” She smiled faintly.
Dr. Wingate said, “Can you get him a grant just like that?”
“Grandfather and Grandmother established the Larker Foundation for all kinds of research. I’m sure I’ll have no problems getting a grant.” She sighed and returned to sit next to her father.
Wingate said, “I’ve some papers to push, so forgive me if I’m not social while we wait.” Less than a half hour later, the call came.
Wingate answered at once. “Dr. Bergman? You don’t remember me, but we spoke briefly once.…” He smiled. “Well, I’m flattered you do. Look, what we’ve got is one pretty sick little boy, and he’s got the damnedest EEG’s I’ve ever seen, and some very odd behaviors; it’s just weird enough to be of interest to you. If what I’ve read is accurate, it might be just the thing for that new magnetic imager you’re working on.” He listened. “I know it’s a prototype, Dr. Bergman. But don’t worry about its breaking. The kid’s got a rich sister.” He winked at Gabbie. He listened, then said, “No, she wants you to fly here. He’s too … violent to risk moving. She’ll have a plane waiting for you and your equipment.”
There was a long answer, then Wingate spoke again. “Now, how long? Good, see you then.” He hung up. “FU be go-to-hell. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
Phil looked at his daughter with an unreadable expression. Softly he said, “Thanks, honey. I don’t know what—”
She cut him off. “It’s okay, Dad.” She fought against tears and barely held her own. “Patrick’s my little brother.”
Phil said with a faint smile, “You know, for a minute there you sounded just like your Grandmother Larker.”
Considering Dr. Murphy’s observation the day before, Jack said, “I bet she was something, too.”
Phil said, “That she was. That she was.”
Dr. Wingate said, “Well, Gabbie, you realize that should our Dr. Bergman break his toy along the way, you’re buying him a new one?”
She said, “If you can help Patrick, I’ll buy you both a new one.”
Wingate grinned. “I’ll remember that, pretty girl, I’ll remember.” Standing up, he said, “I’ll run along. I’ve got patients to see to. Use the office as you like.”
Gabbie turned to her father, reaching across the space between the two chairs to hug him. “It’ll be all right, Dad.”
With a soft near cry of pain, he said, “God, I hope so.”
Gabbie nodded to Jack that she wanted a moment alone with her father. Jack nodded back and left the room. When they were alone, Gabbie said, “Dad, will you go home for a while? You’re exhausted. And Gloria’s been really stressed out. I don’t know what’s going on, but she’s said some pretty weird things. She’d feel better if you were with her, I think. When she comes to get Sean, go home with her.”
Phil said, “I’m afraid to, Gabbie. I … I don’t know why, but somehow I feel like I’m needed here.” He looked at his daughter through red-rimmed eyes and whispered, “He needs protecting.”
Gabbie’s eyes narrowed. She began to say something, but a faint echoing memory intruded, a hint of chimes and music and the almost recalled scent of flowers and spices. She felt herself grow flushed, and stood up. Saying nothing, she gripped her father’s shoulder and squeezed. Then she leaned over and kissed his cheek, ignoring the stubble. Putting her face beside his, she could feel the warmth of a tear between her cheek and his. Whose it was she didn’t know. “I love you, Dad,” she said softly.
“I love you, too, kitten,” he whispered. Without further words, she left her father alone, knowing that his feeling about Patrick’s needing protection wasn’t just an emotional reaction to the child’s illness. Somehow there was danger, danger around them all, and it hadn’t finished manifesting itself. Gabbie had felt it and Gloria knew it, and now her father sensed it as well. Jack stood waiting out in the corridor and she came to him, and without words he took her in his arms. For a moment she felt safe and she wished that feeling would endure.
Gloria and Aggie came into view and Gabbie hugged them both while Jack opened the door and informed Phil. He kissed his wife and said, “Sean seems fine. They can’t find anything wrong with him and he can go home now.”
Gloria, looking drawn but otherwise composed, seemed to pick up at that news. “Good. Patrick?”
Phil took his wife by the arm, leading her past the others, who followed a short distance behind. He took her up the stairs one flight, then down the long corridor to the psychiatric ward. Before he took her to the door of Patrick’s room he said, “You’ve got to be strong, honey. Patrick’s changed.”
Gloria’s eyes grew wide. “Changed?”
“He’s had some … brain damage.”
With an animal cry, Gloria turned to push past her husband, and thrust open the door. A nurse on duty a distance off began to protest the unauthorized entry as Gabbie shouted, “Get Dr. Latham!”
Phil, caught off guard, was slow in reacting and entered as his wife rushed to Patrick’s side. The nurses had attempted to clean him up, but he had urinated in his bed and the room reeked with the ammonia odor. He sat holding himself, rocking back and forth, watching the television. He turned to face his parents and the look on his face froze both in their tracks. There was something so alien on his features that they could not bring themselves to cross that last few feet. Phil reached out and put his hands on Gloria’s shoulders, and she cried out, “Patrick!”
Lying in the soft darkness, Patrick heard the distant voice again and for a moment felt a note of alarm. Then it fled as the dark servant returned. Patrick’s thought became diffused again as he settled back into the dark flowers that surrounded the master’s bed. A few of the others there stirred fitfully, slumbering through the day until night fell in the world of light and it would be time to go again and play. For the first time since coming here, Patrick felt a strange sense of pleasure at that prospect. Then a thought intruded. There was something about outside.… The thought vanished as the dark servant settled into the blooms next to Patrick. The boy considered the sick-sweet odor of the dark one and
noticed it was not as repellent as he had once thought. As sleep returned, Patrick wondered at that, and at how quickly he had accepted the creature he had once called the Bad Thing as his companion. The dark creature reached around Patrick, its clawed hand resting lightly upon the boy’s stomach, and for the first time Patrick felt an odd comfort in the touch of the leathery skin. And for the briefest instant he wondered at the familiar voice that had roused him.
17
Phil hovered outside the examining room. No one said anything as long as Phil stayed out of the way. Everyone knew the torment he felt as he watched through the small glass window. It was now noon. The doctors had been working over Patrick most of the morning and were finishing the last of the tests they had begun. Gloria was at home with Sean, who showed every indication he was recovered from his illness. The boy had insisted that his nightmare had been real, something about a shining man and a bad thing. The story seemed to unnerve Gloria, but Phil knew it was only the product of fever delirium. Now the nearly exhausted father waited to hear the latest on Patrick. Phil absently wondered what had happened to Gabbie and Jack, then recalled they had undertaken the shopping for Gloria, as well as mailing some bills Phil had left on his desk, and would return shortly to the hospital.
Patrick lay strapped down to an examining table, in the room set aside for Dr. Bergman’s magnetic response imager. The four doctors, Wingate, Bergman, Latham, and Murphy, with a pair of male nurses and two technicians, watched lines dance across graphs on three large color screens and several smaller monitors. Patrick looked tiny in the midst of all the machinery around him, his face a contorted mask of anger barely seen for the sensor ring that looped around the head of the table. He shrieked and hooted like a demented monkey while the orderlies kept him from pulling at his restraints and injuring himself. Phil felt his stomach knot each time he witnessed these displays. His baby looked like some alien thing in there, and there was nothing Phil could do to help him. For an instant Phil was revisited by the image of the first night, of Patrick caught in some distant, dark place. Phil took a deep breath, and for the first time in the nine years since he had quit—since Gloria’s pregnancy—he wished for a cigarette.