For Everything a Reason (12 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Three

An unnerving silence filled the hospital corridors. Now
that visiting hours were over and the usual daytime chaos had drawn to an end,
the white passageways fell bleak and sombre. Only the occasional nurse or
doctor walked the corridors, alone, their rubber-soled shoes squeaking as they
passed.

Officer Gore stretched in his seat,
positioned outside the door to Joseph Ruebins’ room. Only Doctor Greenwood and
the nurse were allowed to enter. The nurse had administered a shot of medicine
– a cup of dark blue liquid – that Gore had prayed wasn’t hiding some sort of
poison. Now that Gore appreciated whom he was protecting, he felt concerned
about Ruebins’ well-being and was committed to overseeing the ex-champ’s
protection. The blue liquid turned out to be nothing more menacing that a
simple anti-inflammatory, to help with his facial swelling.          

Doctor Greenwood had arrived
shortly afterwards. Sitting beside Joseph, he delivered a long monologue. Gore
had caught little of the conversation and even less of its understanding.
Something about a transient ischaemic attack – or mini-stroke, as the doctor
had kept referring to it. Still, the Doctor’s tone had sounded somewhat
optimistic and once he’d left, Ruebins appeared a lot brighter.

Gore checked his watch. At eight o’clock another uniformed officer would take over for the night shift. Only fifteen
minutes remained.

The elevator arrived on their
floor and the doors opened with the sharp-sounding ping. Gore instinctively
turned towards the noise. The doors clacked open, but the elevator was empty.
Nobody exited, no one entered, and in time, the doors slid shut and the
elevator resumed its journey to a different floor. Gore turned his attention
back to the old magazine and began to read an article about a young white
middleweight sensation, now retired for over half a decade.

***

Inside the hospital room, Joseph fidgeted. His worries
had now been countered with some degree of hope. Doctor Greenwood had stated
that the first set of tests had returned with good news: Joseph was not
suffering from any sort of heart disease, albeit he did have a somewhat high
cholesterol count, nor was he a victim of diabetes. So far, apart from the
slight worry of his cholesterol level, Greenwood could only speculate on what
had caused the blackouts. He was still optimistic that the MRI scan would show any
abnormalities, even of the slightest kind, which would then give them a much
clearer picture of Joseph’s condition. Perhaps, Doctor Greenwood had suggested,
Joseph’s illness had been a result of a couple of tiny clots, which had now
been dealt with by the combination of antiplatelet and anticoagulant drugs. If
the results came back positive, Greenwood had told Joseph that he would
consider discharging him as early as next week, providing he continued to make
steady progress.

Now, all Joseph could think about
was going home. Although he didn’t think Marianna and Jake were in any real
danger, he still wanted to be with them, sure in the knowledge that no harm
could come to them if he was there.

The TV in the corner of the
room flickered silently. Joseph reached over to the nightstand and picked up
the remote. He turned the sound higher and then flipped between channels until
he found something interesting enough to distract him from his thoughts. HBO
was showing a documentary about the talented yet hot-headed football star,
Michael Tucker. Joseph turned the volume higher. Tucker was acting out his
signature move on the screen. With both fists tight and thumbs pointed upward,
Tucker chanted,
“Show Time!”
The mantra was normally a precursor to
Tucker dishing out his own favourite brand of pleasure: Pain.

***

Officer Gore heard the sound of voices coming from
Joseph’s room. He jumped to his feet, the magazine falling to the floor in a
flutter of pages. Gore stepped over it and rapped gently against the door. Without
waiting for a reply, he pushed open the door and stuck his head in.

“You okay?” he asked.

Joseph looked towards his
unexpected guest. “Yeah, why?”

“What you watching?” Gore
enquired.

“Something about football and
Michael Tucker.”

Gore grinned knowingly. “Show
Time!” he said. “Guy’s got a temper on him – that’s for sure.”  

“Yeah,” Joseph said. “Real glad
he doesn’t box.”

“I heard that.”

“You want to watch the rest?”
Joseph asked.

Gore looked at his watch again.
“Sorry buddy, replacement’s coming in ten minutes.”

“You have a good night.”

“You too. I’ll be back first
thing in the morning.”

Joseph nodded. “Going home to a
wife and kids?”

“Nah… I like peace and quiet,
got me a nice pack of Bud and a New York Rangers game.”     

“Sounds good.”

“Okay, you get some rest.”

“Will do,” Joseph replied.

The policeman disappeared as
abruptly as he’d arrived, leaving Joseph to enjoy the show.

Gore scooped up the magazine
and placed it face down on the seat. He paced around for a few minutes,
stretching cramped muscles. He checked his watch again. It was almost eight o’clock. Where the hell was his replacement? Then he heard the elevator doors roll
open again. Like the last time, the carriage was empty. Was the damn thing
malfunctioning in some way? He took a few steps closer, catching a small
reflection of himself in one of its mirrored walls. Understanding his duties,
he halted, about-turned, and then returned to the chair. The elevator’s doors
rolled shut. A faint whine of machinery sounded as it continued on its way.

Irritated, Gore grumbled and
swore beneath his breath. He checked the time again. 8:05PM. He reached up to
activate his two-way radio. Static ripped through the air with a jarring
metallic screech. The officer winced at the grating noise. He twisted the
volume to its lowest and then tried again. And again, he was rewarded with a
jumble of crossed airwaves. Gore began to pace impatiently. The return of the
elevator stopped him in his tracks. Surely this must be his replacement? The
doors opened; the wall of mirrors inside the elevator again reflected the
corridor at him.

“What the hell?”

He stepped closer. As the
officer drew nearer, he became abruptly and inexplicably fearful. There was
something decidedly wrong with the continued malfunction of the elevator. Why
did it keep returning to the second floor empty? Something scratched at the
back of his mind, desperately trying to claw its way to the front. The answer
was there, plain to see, just waiting to be discovered.

“Hello?” he hissed, unwilling
to shout and disturb any sleeping patients.

No reply came.

The carriage was now just a few
feet away from him. Two adjoining corridors broke away from his present
position, stretching away in a gleam of white walls and polished floors. Both
were empty. Gore stopped for a moment, trying to visualise what lay behind him.

He’d been on his butt for most
of the day, leaving his post twice to take a bathroom break. Both times, he’d
called for security to come and replace him before heading for the washrooms.
The first time, while Detective Carter and Tyler were present, a single guard
had arrived ready to take over. The second time, just after visiting hours
ended, Gore had excused himself, and then quickly tended to his needs. On the
opposite side of the corridor were two alcoves. One led to a washroom; the
other to a utility room with a supply cart.  Only a couple of orderlies had
entered on that side of Joseph Ruebins’ room. There was a single fire exit at
the end of one short passageway, but it had a breakable catch, which would then
activate an alarm system throughout the hospital.

Confident that the rear offered
no real threat to Ruebins, Gore stepped into the elevator. His attention turned
to the bank of buttons. None were illuminated. Frowning, he tried his radio
again, but received nothing on the airwaves, now confined and insulated within
the elevator shaft. He stepped outside, and it was then he noticed the outside
call button. A tiny sliver of plastic had been jammed between the button and
its housing, holding the button in a permanent
CALL
position. Gore reached around the doorway and fumbled until his finger hit one
of the inside buttons. He stood back and waited.

The doors closed a few seconds
later with a chime, and then the whir of machinery took the elevator to the
selected level. Gore waited and watched as the level indicator situated above
the doors changed from
2
to
6
. A few moments passed and then the call button
before him illuminated automatically, as if just pressed, and then the
indicator dropped back to this level. Another short chime sounded and the
carriage reappeared empty.

“What the fuck?” Gore
muttered. 

The light around the call
button died, and the doors started to close again. However, as they did another
doorway opened, immediately behind and to the left of the young officer. The
elevator’s ring hid the slight noise of cracking hinges. Then, as the whir of
moving parts filtered through to Gore, he missed the soft patter of shoes
coming from behind.

Gore’s head exploded with an
unholy pain. His entire body jolted in uncontrollable agony. His lips peeled
back in a hideous grimace and every muscle contracted as 10,000 Volts racked
his body. He heard the crackle of electricity and smelled a tinge of burning
ozone. The scream that threatened to form never left his lips, as the pain
proved too great to tolerate, and instead, he collapsed to his knees, before
tipping forwards onto his front. As the Tazergun pumped high voltage into
Gore’s flesh, he twitched and thrashed involuntary, unable to fight against
this agony, before he slipped mercifully into unconsciousness. And, as he did,
bright lights flared before his eyelids. It was then, with his last thought,
when Gore came to understand what had otherwise eluded him. All evening the
elevator had been returning to this level, preceded by the illuminated call
button. A button that he had been aware of, constantly ringed by light, as if
pressed down permanently.

Powerful arms scooped Gore’s
limp form up and carried him into the nearest empty room. Darkness filled every
corner of the room. Just a slight labouring of breath could be heard. Not from
overexertion, either, but from excitement.

Gore’s attacker waited for his
eyes to adjust to the darkness, then he moved towards the empty bed in the
centre of the room. The sheet had been pulled back already, and Gore fell
limply onto the bare mattress.

Thick fingers clad in latex
yanked out the prongs that had embedded themselves into the officer’s flesh. He
wrapped the leads running from the Tazergun around the main body, and tucked it
safely away. The meagre light cast a pale sliver against the polished surface
of stainless steel.

With the precision of a
surgeon, the razor-sharp blade was drawn along the sleeping officer’s throat.
Blood burst outwards in a dark bubbling froth. Gore’s severed windpipe gurgled
in a ghastly inhalation of breath, and then his lungs filled quickly with his
own blood. Within seconds, his chest shuddered one final time and the young
officer lay still.

The blade dropped away from Gore’s
ravaged throat, disappearing from sight, and the figure took a step back. The
killer stood poised for a second before drawing the sheet up over the corpse’s
chin. The white hem turned quickly to red.  

If someone had walked in at
that moment, at first glance, they would have thought that one of the City’s
finest was here to pay tribute to a fallen comrade. The figure was dressed in a
spotless dark blue uniform, buttoned smartly up to the chin. Pants that were
pressed to military precision ran in parallel creases to shoes that gleamed
with polish, even now, in this near-darkness.

The killer reached up to
straighten his cap. Eyes that were cold and merciless peered out from beneath
the peak. He spun on his heels and crossed over to the doorway. He paused only
slightly, his eyes turning to another body, this one crouched into an awkward
sitting position inside an empty shower stall. Gore’s replacement. Then,
without pause, the killer opened the door, stepped outside, confidently, before
striding purposefully towards room 2b. He reached the single chair just outside
of Joseph’s room, and his thigh caught the corner of the magazine that lay
there. With a flutter of heavy wings, the magazine fell to the floor. In the
silence of the early night, the sound echoed like a clap of thunder. The killer
paused.

But all was as it should be.

He stood outside the doorway
and listened for any sign of movement. Only silence reached his ears. A smile
broke across his face, an uncommon expression for him.

He reached out, spreading his
fingers like a hideous oversized spider, and pushed against the thin barrier.
The door opened without a sound. He took one last look behind him before
stepping into the hospital room. His trailing hand gripped the scalpel, which
reflected like a spark of lightning.

Chapter
Twenty-Four

The TV documentary that Joseph watched barely managed to
hold his attention. His thoughts – worrying thoughts – simply refused to go
away, hovering closely over Joseph’s mind, circling around his consciousness
like a wake of hungry buzzards. He turned the sound down to its lowest. Then he
let his mind wander, shifting his attention away from the colourful screen and
its animated people, who spoke to him now in silent tongues.

He placed the remote at his
side. The small digital clock built into the TV’s plastic housing flashed 08:14 p.m. Joseph sighed. What had happened to his otherwise simple life? He should have
been at home now, financially secure and ready to dedicate the rest of his life
to his family. Instead, here he lay, limp and useless, no good to either his
wife or his son. Now, he would have to remain in this hospital, reliant on
others, while Marianna and Jake were left to fend for themselves.

Joseph’s hand clenched itself
into a tight fist. In a fit of rage, he brought it down hard, pounding against
the mattress. His fist rose for a second time, ready to deliver another blow.
It stayed motionless for a long moment. Joseph looked upon it. He opened his
fist and then spread his fingers wide. They opened out, stiffly, before closing
again to form a tight fist.

Joseph gaped openly at this
unexpected control of his right hand. Only now did he realise that he’d
actually been using the same hand to operate the remote control.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

His heart pounded quicker. The
painful tingling sensation from earlier was still present, but less so now. He
reached up to prod at the right side of his face. It still felt numb, like he
was jabbing his fingers into a lump of clay. The smallest twinge of pain flared
across his cheek. Yes, now that he thought about it, the right side of his face
was starting to ache. He smiled, pleased with this unexpected development.

He pushed back the bed cover
until the blanket had gathered to just below the knees. The white of his boxer
shorts stood out in stark contrast to the dark ebony of his skin. Now confident
with the control of his right arm, he prodded at the large lump of muscle of
his thigh. It was still numb, barely registering the presence of curious
fingertips, but there was the slightest acknowledgment of feeling. Sitting up
straighter, he ran his fingers along the length of his leg, finishing at his
ankle. He pulled the blanket to one side, exposing both his feet.

The toes on his left foot
wiggled with ease. His attention turned to his right. They were less
responsive, remaining rigid, which put the picture of a cadaver’s foot into
mind, now requiring just the addition of a toe-tag. Joseph shuddered slightly.
He focused all of his attention onto his foot. He imagined his foot had become
a hand, and what he needed to do was form a fist out of his toes.

Nothing happened.

He huffed with frustration.

Lying back against the pillow,
he remained quiet for a moment, beaten.

The crackle of a radio came
from outside his doorway. Joseph turned towards the noise. He heard a mumble of
words, Gore’s voice, and assumed the officer’s replacement had arrived and was
now being given instructions.

Not wanting to be found
half-naked, Joseph bent forward to draw the sheet over his chest. As he did so,
his right leg slipped from the edge of the bed and fell towards the floor. A
burst of pain ripped along the length of his leg, starting from his thigh to
the very tips of his toes. He winced in agony, bolting upright, half-sitting on
the edge of the bed, and began to rub vigorously at the limb.

Cramp, Joseph realised, as he
continued to massage his thigh. He could feel that the muscles underneath his
fingers had contracted into short lengths of steel. He continued to rub at them
until he felt the pain subside and the muscles relax again.

He sat on the edge of bed, with
his back to the door. His feet dangled just a few inches off the floor. He slid
forward until the tips of his toes connected with the cold surface. He
continued to move forwards, placing both feet flat on the floor. Coldness
gnawed at his left foot. His right felt mostly impervious to the chilly
surface. Still, finding himself in an upright position, Joseph decided he’d try
to stand.

Using the bed for assistance,
he climbed unsteadily to his feet. His left leg took most of his weight, and he
tottered for a moment until he managed to balance himself straight. The right
leg was unwilling to assist, just a straight length of flesh, which gave no
real control over his movement. Nevertheless, Joseph grinned stupidly at this
small triumph of standing unassisted. He turned to the doorway, wanting to call
Gore in, ready to show someone – anyone – this unexpected achievement. But he
heard the distant chime of a bell and understood instantly that it was the
arrival of the elevator, here to take Gore on the first part of his journey
home. Joseph huffed slightly. He thought about calling to the officer’s
replacement, but the gesture would probably go unappreciated. 

Using the bed to remain
upright, he manoeuvred slowly around to the other side, so that he was now only
a few feet away from the doorway. It stood tantalisingly close. Just four or
five steps separated Joseph and freedom.

Could he make it outside and
find a nursing-station, or even better, a payphone? There, he could reverse
charges and surprise Marianna with a call. However, he remembered the
possibility of the danger he was in, and paused for a second, understanding
that the correct thing to do was stay within his room and keep safe.

What the hell, he thought. If
the guard didn’t like it, he could follow close behind with his weapon drawn.
Nothing was going to stop Joseph from sharing this news.

Now with a greater resolve,
Joseph focused all of his attention onto the door. He took his first step,
unsteadily, and was forced to throw his arms out in an attempt to maintain his
balance. He wavered for a second, placing most of his weight onto his left leg.
With arms still spread wide, he took his next step, using his hip to throw the
limp right leg forwards by a few feet. Then, quickly, he hopped forwards and
thrust his left leg in front of the other. To his surprise, he didn’t crash to
the floor in a heap. He grinned again, pleased with his ability so far.

It took a few uncertain steps
for Joseph to reach the closed doorway. Now – the hard part. He reached out to
take the handle. He pulled the handle towards him and the bright corridor
outside filled the gap with a flood of white light. Joseph squinted against the
glare. He pulled open the door, using it to keep his balance, and then slid
along the doorframe until he had successfully vacated his room.

He found the passageway empty.
The chair was empty and the magazine that Eugene had left had been placed
face-down against the seat. Gore was nowhere to be seen. Nor his replacement
for that matter. Joseph cursed under his breath. A fine amount of protection
they were offering. Still, at least there’d be no awkward or embarrassing
scenes, or arguments about Joseph’s stupidity.

The elevator at the end of the
corridor was open.

With his back against the wall,
Joseph scanned both left and right. The corridor to his left was short and
branched off in a T. What secrets were hidden on that side? He’d already
endured a couple of trips via the elevator and knew the other side to be
populated with staff and amenities.

Would the other passageway
offer the same?

Maybe?

“Okay, right it is then,”
Joseph, said, deciding that the elevator was just too far for him to handle. He
half slid and half walked along the wall, using his right shoulder and left leg
to keep him upright. Eventually, just before his strength abandoned him, he
reached the end of the main corridor. Two short passageways revealed
themselves.   

One led straight to a fire door,
which Joseph thought would then lead onto an emergency stairwell. A couple of
shut doors could be seen on that side, but as they bore no numbers, Joseph
guessed they were possibly used for storage or something similar.

His attention turned to the
other passageway. More doors, and only one with a number or sign stencilled
across its surface. From his position, though, he was unable to read it
clearly. He looked back the way he’d come, debating if he should go back.
Curiosity finally won. What the hell, if he fell on his ass, then at least
they’d have less distance to carry him back to his room. Whoever they turned
out to be. The elevator had stayed open, and as yet, neither Gore nor his
replacement had shown themselves.

Joseph reached out with both
arms, giving himself a Frankenstein-like stance then lurched over to the
opposite wall. He rolled onto his back and then scooted around the corner and
into the adjoining passageway. Now tiring considerably, he took a while to get
close enough to read the sign on the door.

The sign read:
Visitors
Washroom
  

Joseph laughed out loud.

It would be highly unlikely for
him to find any help in there. He huffed with both tiredness and
disappointment, and then began to make his way back towards the main corridor.
As he did so the slight tinge of ozone brushed past his nose.

Joseph summoned as much
strength as he could, breathing heavily from the continued exertion, and pushed
himself along the main wall. The smell of ozone got stronger. He reached the
doorway opposite his, 4b, and stopped for a moment to take a breath. The chair
was still empty, but the magazine had now fallen to the floor.

At last, Joseph thought, Gore’s
replacement had arrived. Maybe there was still a chance of calling his wife,
especially if the replacement officer was willing to help? Excitement got the
better of him. He pushed away from the wall without first finding his balance,
and managed just the one step before his right leg failed him. Throwing his
arms out, he tried to redistribute his weight onto his left side, but the
effort was too late. Joseph hopped foolishly on one leg for a moment before
falling backwards, against the doorway to 4b.

The door gave way under
Joseph’s weight, and he toppled backwards and into darkness.