He waits. Smiling a little. When Holly turns her thinking processes up to ten, he can almost hear the cogs spinning behind her forehead.
"Bill, are you still there?"
"Yeah. Just waiting for you to spit it out."
"Well, it seems like they must have been. To me, anyway. And like they might have had something to do with those two women being dead. There, are you happy?"
"Yes, Holly. I am. I've got a doctor's appointment tomorrow at nine thirty--"
"Your test results came back?"
"Yeah. I want to set up a meeting beforehand with Pete and Isabelle. Does eight thirty work for you?"
"Of course."
"We'll lay out everything, tell them about Alderson and the game console you found and the house at 1588. See what they think. Sound okay?"
"Yes, but she won't think anything."
"You could be wrong."
"Yes. And the sky could turn green with red polka dots tomorrow. Now go make yourself something to eat."
Hodges assures her he will, and heats up a can of chicken noodle soup while watching the early news. He eats most of it, spacing out each spoonful, cheering himself on: You can do it, you can do it.
While he's rinsing the bowl, the pain on the left side of his abdomen returns, along with those tentacles curling around to his lower back. It seems to plunge up and down with every heartbeat. His stomach clenches. He thinks of running to the bathroom, but it's too late. He leans over the sink instead, vomiting with his eyes closed. He keeps them that way as he fumbles for the faucet and turns it on full to rinse away the mess. He doesn't want to see what just came out of him, because he can taste a slime of blood in his mouth and throat.
Oy, he thinks, I am in trouble here.
I am in such trouble.
14
Eight PM.
When her doorbell rings, Ruth Scapelli is watching some stupid reality program which is just an excuse to show young men and women running around in their small clothes. Instead of going directly to the door, she slipper-scuffs into the kitchen and turns on the monitor for the security cam mounted on the porch. She lives in a safe neighborhood, but it doesn't pay to take chances; one of her late mother's favorite sayings was scum travels.
She is surprised and uneasy when she recognizes the man at her door. He's wearing a tweed overcoat, obviously expensive, and a trilby with a feather in the band. Beneath the hat, his perfectly barbered silver hair flows dramatically along his temples. In one hand is a slim briefcase. It's Dr. Felix Babineau, chief of the Neurology Department and head honcho at the Lakes Region Traumatic Brain Injury Clinic.
The doorbell chimes again and she hurries to let him in, thinking He can't know about what I did this afternoon because the door was shut and no one saw me go in. Relax. It's something else. Perhaps a union matter.
But he has never discussed union matters with her before, although she's been an officer of Nurses United for the last five years. Dr. Babineau might not even know her if he passed her on the street unless she was wearing her nurse's uniform. That makes her remember what she's wearing now, an old housecoat and even older slippers (with bunny faces on them!), but it's too late to do anything about that. At least her hair isn't up in rollers.
He should have called, she thinks, but the thought that follows is disquieting: Maybe he wanted to catch me by surprise.
"Good evening, Dr. Babineau. Come in out of the cold. I'm sorry to be greeting you in my housecoat, but I wasn't expecting company."
He comes in and just stands there in the hall. She has to step around him to close the door. Seen up close instead of on the monitor, she thinks that perhaps they're even in the department of sartorial disarray. She's in her housecoat and slippers, true, but his cheeks are speckled with gray stubble. Dr. Babineau (no one would dream of calling him Dr. Felix) may be quite the fashion plate--witness the cashmere scarf fluffed up around his throat--but tonight he needs a shave, and quite badly. Also, there are purple pouches under his eyes.
"Let me take your coat," she says.
He puts his briefcase between his shoes, unbuttons the overcoat, and hands it to her, along with the luxy scarf. He still hasn't said a single word. The lasagna she ate for supper, quite delicious at the time, seems to be sinking, and pulling the pit of her stomach down with it.
"Would you like--"
"Come into the living room," he says, and walks past her as if he owns the place. Ruth Scapelli scurries after.
Babineau takes the remote control from the arm of her easy chair, points it at the television, and hits mute. The young men and women continue to run around, but they do so unaccompanied by the mindless patter of the announcer. Scapelli is no longer just uneasy; now she's afraid. For her job, yes, the position she has worked so hard to attain, but also for herself. There's a look in his eyes that is really no look at all, only a kind of vacancy.
"Could I get you something? A soft drink or a cup of--"
"Listen to me, Nurse Scapelli. And very closely, if you want to keep your position."
"I . . . I . . ."
"Nor would it end with losing your job." Babineau puts his briefcase on the seat of her easy chair and undoes the cunning gold clasps. They make little thudding sounds as they fly up. "You committed an act of assault on a mentally deficient patient today, what might be construed a sexual assault, and followed it with what the law calls criminal threatening."
"I . . . I never . . ."
She can barely hear herself. She thinks she might faint if she doesn't sit down, but his briefcase is in her favorite chair. She makes her way across the living room to the sofa, barking her shin on the coffee table en route, almost hard enough to tip it over. She feels a thin trickle of blood sliding down to her ankle, but doesn't look at it. If she does that, she will faint.
"You twisted Mr. Hartsfield's nipple. Then you threatened to do the same to his testes."
"He made an obscene gesture to me!" Scapelli bursts out. "Showed me his middle finger!"
"I will see that you never work in the nursing profession again," he says, looking into the depths of his briefcase as she half-swoons onto the sofa. His initials are monogrammed on the side of the case. In gold, of course. He drives a new BMW, and that haircut probably cost fifty dollars. Maybe more. He's an overbearing, domineering boss, and now he's threatening to ruin her life over one small mistake. One small error in judgment.
She wouldn't mind if the floor opened up and swallowed her, but her vision is perversely clear. She seems to see every filament on the feather poking out of his hatband, every scarlet thread in his bloodshot eyes, every ugly gray speck of stubble on his cheeks and chin. His hair would be that same rat fur color, she thinks, if he didn't dye it.
"I . . ." Tears begin to come--hot tears running down her cold cheeks. "I . . . please, Dr. Babineau." She doesn't know how he knows, and it doesn't matter. The fact is, he does. "I'll never do it again. Please. Please."
Dr. Babineau doesn't bother to answer.
15
Selma Valdez, one of four nurses who work the three-to-eleven shift in the Bucket, gives a perfunctory rap on the door of 217--perfunctory because the resident never answers--and steps in. Brady is sitting in his chair by the window, looking out into the dark. His bedside lamp is on, showing the golden highlights in his hair. He is still wearing his button reading I WAS SHAVED BY NURSE BARBARA!
She starts to ask if he's ready for a little help in getting ready for bed (he can't unbutton his shirt or pants, but he is capable of shuffling out of them once that's accomplished), but then rethinks the idea. Dr. Babineau has added a note to Hartsfield's chart, one written in imperative red ink: "Patient is not to be disturbed when in a semiconscious state. During these periods, his brain may actually be 'rebooting' itself in small but appreciable increments. Come back and check at half-hour intervals. Do not ignore this directive."
Selma doesn't think Hartsfield is rebooting jack shit, he's just off in gorkland, but like all the nurses who work i
n the Bucket, she's a bit afraid of Babineau, and knows he has a habit of showing up at any time, even in the small hours of the morning, and right now it's just gone eight PM.
At some point since she last checked him, Hartsfield has managed to get up and take the three steps to his bedside table where his game gadget is kept. He doesn't have the manual dexterity needed to play any of the pre-loaded games, but he can turn it on. He enjoys holding it in his lap and looking at the demo screens. Sometimes he'll do it for an hour or more, bent over like a man studying for an important exam. His favorite is the Fishin' Hole demo, and he's looking at it now. A little tune that she remembers from her childhood is playing: By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea . . .
She approaches, thinks of saying You really like that one, don't you, but remembers Do not ignore this directive, underlined, and looks down at the small five inches-by-three screen instead. She gets why he likes it; there's something beautiful and fascinating in the way the exotic fish appear, pause, and then zip away with a single flip of their tails. Some are red . . . some are blue . . . some are yellow . . . oh, and there's a pretty pink one--
"Stop looking."
Brady's voice grates like the hinges on a seldom-opened door, and while there is an appreciable space between the words, they are perfectly clear. Nothing at all like his usual mushy mumble. Selma jumps as if he goosed her instead of just speaking to her. On the Zappit screen there's a momentary flash of blue light that obliterates the fish, but then they're back. Selma glances down at the watch pinned upside-down to her smock and sees it's now eight twenty. Jesus, has she really been standing here for almost twenty minutes?
"Go."
Brady is still looking down at the screen where the fish swim back and forth, back and forth. Selma drags her eyes away, but it's an effort.
"Come back later." Pause. "When I'm done." Pause. "Looking."
Selma does as she's told, and once she's back in the hall, she feels like herself again. He spoke to her, big whoop. And if he enjoys watching the Fishin' Hole demo the way some guys enjoy watching girls in bikinis play volleyball? Again, big whoop. The real question is why they let kids have those consoles. They can't be good for their immature brains, can they? On the other hand, kids play computer games all the time, so maybe they're immune. In the meantime, she has plenty to do. Let Hartsfield sit in his chair and look at his gizmo.
After all, he's not hurting anybody.
16
Felix Babineau bends stiffly forward from the waist, like an android in an old sci-fi movie. He reaches into his briefcase and brings out a flat pink gadget that looks like an e-reader. The screen is gray and blank.
"There's a number in here I want you to find," he says. "A nine-digit number. If you can find that number, Nurse Scapelli, today's incident will remain between us."
The first thing that comes to mind is You must be crazy, but she can't say that, not when he holds her whole life in his hands. "How can I? I don't know anything about those electronic gadgets! I can barely work my phone!"
"Nonsense. As a surgical nurse, you were in great demand. Because of your dexterity."
True enough, but it's been ten years since she worked in the Kiner surgical suites, handing out scissors and retractors and sponges. She was offered a six-week course in microsurgery--the hospital would have paid seventy percent--but she had no interest. Or so she claimed; in truth, she was afraid of failing the course. He's right, though, in her prime she had been fast.
Babineau pushes a button on top of the gadget. She cranes her neck to see. It lights up, and the words WELCOME TO ZAPPIT! appear. This is followed by a screen showing all sorts of icons. Games, she supposes. He swipes the screen once, twice, then tells her to stand next to him. When she hesitates, he smiles. Perhaps it's meant to be pleasant and inviting, but it terrifies her, instead. Because there's nothing in his eyes, no human expression at all.
"Come, Nurse. I won't bite you."
Of course not. Only what if he does?
Nevertheless, she steps closer so she can see the screen, where exotic fish are swimming back and forth. When they flick their tails, bubbles stream up. A vaguely familiar little tune plays.
"Do you see this one? It's called Fishin' Hole."
"Y-Yes." Thinking, He really is crazy. He's had some sort of mental breakdown from overwork.
"If you were to tap the bottom of the screen, the game would come up and the music would change, but I don't want you to do that. The demo is all you need. Look for the pink fish. They don't come often, and they're fast, so you have to watch carefully. You can't take your eyes off the screen."
"Dr. Babineau, are you all right?"
It's her voice, but it seems to be coming from far away. He makes no reply, just keeps looking at the screen. Scapelli is looking, too. Those fish are interesting. And the little tune, that's sort of hypnotic. There's a flash of blue light from the screen. She blinks, and then the fish are back. Swimming to and fro. Flicking their flippy tails and sending up burbles of bubbles.
"Each time you see a pink fish, tap it and a number will come up. Nine pink fish, nine numbers. Then you will be done and all this will be behind us. Do you understand?"
She thinks of asking him if she's supposed to write the numbers down or just remember them, but that seems too hard, so she just says yes.
"Good." He hands her the gadget. "Nine fish, nine numbers. But just the pink ones, mind."
Scapelli stares at the screen where the fish swim: red and green, green and blue, blue and yellow. They swim off the left side of the little rectangular screen, then back on at the right. They swim off the right side of the screen, then back on at the left.
Left, right.
Right, left.
Some high, some low.
But where are the pink ones? She needs to tap the pink ones and when she's tapped nine of them, all of this will be behind her.
From the corner of one eye she sees Babineau refastening the clasps on his briefcase. He picks it up and leaves the room. He's going. It doesn't matter. She has to tap the pink fish, and then all of this will be behind her. A flash of blue light from the screen, and then the fish are back. They swim left to right and right to left. The tune plays: By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea, you and me, you and me, oh how happy we'll be.
A pink one! She taps it! The number 11 appears! Eight more to go!
She taps a second pink fish as the front door quietly closes, and a third as Dr. Babineau's car starts outside. She stands in the middle of her living room, lips parted as if for a kiss, staring down at the screen. Colors shift and move on her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes are wide and unblinking. A fourth pink fish swims into view, this one moving slowly, as if inviting the tap of her finger, but she only stands there.
"Hello, Nurse Scapelli."
She looks up to see Brady Hartsfield sitting in her easy chair. He's shimmering a bit at the edges, ghostly, but it's him, all right. He's wearing what he was wearing when she visited him in his room that afternoon: jeans and a checked shirt. On the shirt is that button reading I WAS SHAVED BY NURSE BARBARA! But the vacant gaze everyone in the Bucket has grown used to is gone. He's looking at her with lively interest. She remembers her brother looking at his ant farm that way when they were children back in Hershey, Pennsylvania.
He must be a ghost, because fish are swimming in his eyes.
"He'll tell," Hartsfield says. "And it won't just be his word against yours, don't get that idea. He had a nanny-cam planted in my room so he can watch me. Study me. It's got a wide-angle lens so he can see the whole room. That kind of lens is called a fish-eye."
He smiles to show he's made a pun. A red fish swims across his right eye, disappears, and then appears in his left one. Scapelli thinks, His brain is full of fish. I'm seeing his thoughts.
"The camera is hooked up to a recorder. He'll show the board of directors the footage of you torturing me. It didn't actually hurt that much, I don't feel pain the way I used to, but t
orture is what he'll call it. It won't end there, either. He'll put it on YouTube. And Facebook. And Bad Medicine dot-com. It will go viral. You'll be famous. The Torturing Nurse. And who will come to your defense? Who will stand up for you? No one. Because nobody likes you. They think you're awful. And what do you think? Do you think you're awful?"
Now that the idea has been brought fully to her attention, she supposes she is. Anyone who would threaten to twist the testicles of a brain-damaged man must be awful. What was she thinking?
"Say it." He leans forward, smiling.
The fish swim. The blue light flashes. The tune plays.
"Say it, you worthless bitch."
"I'm awful," Ruth Scapelli says in her living room, which is empty except for her. She stares down at the screen of the Zappit Commander.
"Now say it like you mean it."
"I'm awful. I'm an awful worthless bitch."
"And what is Dr. Babineau going to do?"
"Put it on YouTube. Put it on Facebook. Put it on Bad Medicine dot-com. Tell everyone."
"You'll be arrested."
"I'll be arrested."
"They'll put your picture in the paper."
"Of course they will."
"You'll go to jail."
"I'll go to jail."
"Who will stand up for you?"
"No one."
17
Sitting in Room 217 of the Bucket, Brady stares down at the Fishin' Hole demo. His face is fully awake and aware. It's the face he hides from everyone except Felix Babineau, and Dr. Babineau no longer matters. Dr. Babineau hardly exists. These days he's mostly Dr. Z.
"Nurse Scapelli," Brady says. "Let's go into the kitchen."
She resists, but not for long.
18
Hodges tries to swim below the pain and stay asleep, but it pulls him up steadily until he breaks the surface and opens his eyes. He fumbles for the bedside clock and sees it's two AM. A bad time to be awake, maybe the worst time. When he suffered insomnia after his retirement, he thought of two AM as the suicide hour and now he thinks, That's probably when Mrs. Ellerton did it. Two in the morning. The hour when it seems daylight will never come.