Kiss of the Sun (15 page)

Reggie stood closer this time, his belly almost touching the mattress. She could smell the sour odor of his breath, a stench of onions and beef. Martha counted to herself to see how long before he turned and withdrew. Four minutes.

“Checks,” she heard him say, and the door shut with a click.

At ten the next morning, a chime sounded in the hallway, followed by an announcement of outdoor recreation time. Martha followed the line of patients down the corridor and to the elevator that led to the central courtyard.

The area contained a few maple trees and a small pond with ducks and koi, a miniature stone pagoda, and a small, trickling waterfall, fenced off from the patients. She walked the trail that circled the pond area and considered her options. If she gave the drive to one of the nurses or orderlies, would it get into the right hands? The sensible thing would be to give it the authorities. But would it be used to help Jarrell or to hurt him? And what if Jarrell himself needed some of the data on the drive? She resolved to make no decision until she had time to think through the various outcomes.

And there was something Slinky had told her that kept pinging somewhere in her brain, nipping at the heels of her conscience like an agitated border collie. A connection that her subconscious mind had already made but which had yet to bubble to the surface, muddled as she was by the heavy psychotropic drug regimen the hospital kept her under.

It's there. The answer's right in front of you. You just have to see it.

It was something Slinky had told her about the Erringer estate. It was near a historic site. A mansion…perhaps an antebellum mansion. Perhaps a mansion with Greek Revival columns, like the ones she'd seen in her vision.

Martha walked down toward the koi pond and stood in front of the low perimeter of chain-link fence. There was a light breeze, causing the sun to glitter on the surface like scattered diamonds. Martha put her fingers through the diamond mesh. She was seeing the shape everywhere. What was it trying to tell her?

She thought back to the dream about Peavy. The baseball field. The baseball diamond.
Erringer diamonds.

The young man in the shallow depression. What had happened to him? What was the vision trying to tell her? Was it a vision of what
had
happened—or what
would
happen? A premonition?

She thought of Lady Albertha and the statue of Jamba. Two faces.
He looks forward, he looks back.

Martha's skin prickled as the images from her vision rearranged themselves in her mind, took on a new perspective.

A year ago, she had seen visions of the past that had helped her discover the lost history of Shell Heap Island. But what if this time her vision was not about the past but about the future? A prophecy? What if the mansion in her vision was Erringer's mansion? And the young man in the ditch—

What if it wasn't Peavy?

Martha's fingers tightened on the fence mesh and her vision began to go brown, then darker.

What if it isn't Peavy?

The lake began to blur, and then the trees, the beige hospital buildings, and the sky—everything began to rotate.

The next thing she saw was the face of Flavio, hovering above her. “Miss Covington?” He had her by the forearms, preventing her from collapsing. “Are you all right? I saw you over here by the fence and it looked like you were about to faint, so I came over.”

An hour later, Martha sat in the cafeteria, writing notes in her journal. She had only a few hours to think things through, to double-check the steps in a process that was rapidly coalescing in her mind. She could only consider the next twenty-four hours. She had to find a way to stop the vision from happening, to prevent Jarrell from keeping his appointed rendezvous. Contemplating the consequences of her actions beyond that was a luxury she could not afford.

You have to hold it together. You can't lose it again, like you did earlier. You can figure this out. You were an honors student. You scored in the top percentile of the SATs. You can do this. You have to.

“Wassup, girl?”

Martha hadn't even registered the sound of Beulah's electric wheelchair approaching. Beulah parked and placed her tray on the table.

“You ain't touched your chicken fingers. What's got you so hot and bothered?”

Martha looked up. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Hmm.” Beulah put a paper napkin in her lap, reached for the ketchup. “Maybe you need to ask for some extra drugs or something. Once you're in here, I say, you may as well enjoy it. Three squares a day, free cable, and the food ain't that bad.”

Martha shook her head, rubbed her face. Two nights without sleep, and tonight would be a third.

“What's going on with you? Is it that boy?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don't you call his ass?”

Martha rubbed the tendons of her hand, which had become sore from holding her pen so tightly. “I can't. No one can reach him now. He's off the grid.”

Beulah squirted ketchup onto her plate from a squeeze bottle. “Well, he'll come back, won't he?”

Martha glanced around. The nearest person to them was the man with the slicked-back hair, sitting at the next table. He appeared to be in his own world.

“No. I think he's headed for danger. If I can't reach him somehow, or get in touch with him, I'm afraid…”

Beulah paused, looked at her. “What?”

“I'm afraid he's going to die.”

“How do you know?”

“I get visions. I see things.”

Beulah shook her head. “Man, that's some serious shit.”

An hour later, Martha sat at the crafts table, notebook next to her, and looked at the clear plastic carousel in front of her. Markers, tape, and glue sticks. Her mind raced like a rabbit. She closed her eyes.

She glanced up to make sure no hospital staff were watching, then took a pair of small plastic scissors from the carousel. The scissors had rounded blade tips, like the kind used in kindergarten classes. She used them to cut the stiff cardboard backing from her notebook, just below the plastic spiral binding. Next she took three corks from the bin and used the scissors to cut a groove into the end of one of the corks. She taped the corks end to end, then colored them with a brown marker.

Under the fluorescent lights of the rec room, the result looked more like a turd than a knife handle, but maybe it would pass under dimmer lighting. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Flavio coming through in his blue scrubs. Martha closed her notebook.

“Feeling better now, Miss Covington?”

“Yes. I'm just working on some crafts.”

“What are we making?” Flavio looked at the assemblage of corks in her hand.

“I'm not sure yet. Maybe it's going to be a tree. I want to make a diorama of the island where I used to live.” Martha held the cork handle vertically and held up several green pipe cleaners. “These could be the limbs.”

“Cool,” Flavio said. “You're going to need some kind of base so it can stand up.”

“That's what this is for,” Martha said, tapping the square of cardboard on the table.

“Ah. Sounds like you have a plan. Carry on, Miss Covington.” He headed over to another table, where the tomato-haired woman was working on a yarn monkey.

After Flavio had left, Martha took the square of cardboard and sketched the shape of a knife blade, along with a tab at the base. Her model was called a Ka-Bar, designed for use in military combat. Earlier she'd found a picture of one on the Internet and committed it to memory. She cut the shape of the blade out with the safety scissors.

Next she worked the tab into the slot of the cork handle. She looked at her handiwork and saw that something was still missing. In the picture, the knife had a short guard at the base of the handle. She cut the shape of the guard from the remaining piece of cardboard, made a slit, then slipped it over the tab.

She opened the box containing Beulah's partially finished Mustang model and pulled out the sheet of decals. She peeled off a large silver sticker, which was in the shape of the car hood, and folded it around the cardboard blade. It covered everything but the tip. A second decal, one meant for the car door, covered the rest. She trimmed off the excess decal with the scissors and then inspected her work, hiding it under the lid of the Mustang box. Even under the bright fluorescent lights of the activity room, the blade looked reasonably convincing. The handle, not so much. But it would have to do.

She disassembled her creation, tucked the flat blade and guard shapes into her notebook, and returned to her room.

Tonight it was the woman with the tight hair bun behind the dispensary window. Martha took her pill, then the optional cup of Unisom.

“Ms. Covington?”

Martha turned slowly, maintaining a blank affect.

“Yes?”

“You need to drink that, please.”

“I usually drink it in my room.”

“That's against the rules. You have to drink it here, before you leave.”

Martha nodded, trying to think of something to say. For her plan to work, she needed to save this third dose.

“Drink it or return it,” the nurse said. “You're holding up the line.”

Martha started to stammer something when she heard a yell from behind.

“Hey!” said a voice behind her. “What the fuck!”

Martha turned and saw there was a scuffle in the line. Beulah was in her wheelchair next to the woman with the red hair and tattoos, who was flailing at her with her fists. “Get offa me!” the red-haired woman shrieked. Her foot was pinned under one of the big gray wheels on Beulah's chair.

“Just a minute, just a minute,” Beulah kept saying, too busy blocking the woman's blows with her arms to grab the joystick on the wheelchair. “Just give me a second—give me some space so I can drive this thing.”

The dispensary line fragmented and re-formed into a circle around the altercation. Martha saw a pair of orderlies jogging down the corridor toward them. The nurse behind the window was standing now, shouting through the grate at the pandemonium. Martha took a step backward, cup of Unisom in hand. She turned and padded quickly down the corridor.

Once she was back in her room and out of view, Martha poured the purple liquid into her decorated water bottle. She replaced the cap. Seconds later she heard Beulah's voice in the hallway.

“It wasn't my fucking fault. Bitch wouldn't get out of my way.”

“Your driving privileges have been suspended until further notice,” Reggie said, rolling her chair into the room. The motor was turned off. He parked the wheelchair at the end of the bed, then took a key from his ring and used it to turn a switch on the console.

Beulah muttered as she hefted herself out of the chair and sat on the bed. “Not my fault. That bitch should have been paying attention. She should have moved on down the line instead of just standing there like a lug nut.”

“Martha, where were you during all that?” Reggie turned toward her. “Are you all right?”

“I was just up at the dispensary window.”

“Are you experiencing any stress?”

“No, I'm fine. Here's my cup.” Martha handed him the empty paper thimble.

“All right, then. Good night, ladies. Lights out in fifteen.”

“I hope your fucking lights go out,” Beulah said.

Reggie shook his head, then turned and left, closing the door. It clicked and locked.

“Asshole.” Beulah turned to face Martha. “Did you get what you needed?”

Martha feigned a quizzical look. “What?”

“Don't bullshit me, woman.” Beulah pointed her finger at the decorated water bottle at Martha's bedside. “You don't think I know what you've got in there?”

Martha looked at the bottle, then back at Beulah. “You don't miss much, do you?”

“How much you got so far?”

“Three doses.”

Beulah shook her head. “Is that your escape plan?”

“Part of it.”

“You're going to need a lot more than that to do the job.”

“I'm not planning to drink it myself.”

“Good. I thought you was too smart to do that.” Martha could see that Beulah's eyes were already getting heavy. She had not skipped her nightly dose of Unisom. “Too smart to take the easy way out.”

“Thanks for the help out there,” Martha said.

“What help?” Beulah smacked her lips.

“You know, back there in the line, you—” Before Martha could finish the sentence, Beulah was already snoring.

Fifteen minutes later, the lights went out. Martha waited, alert as a wire, for the first round of checks.

She knew it would be around midnight that Reggie would carry out his creepy ritual, but she couldn't wait that long. She pulled the cork handle out from under her pillow, then the cardboard blade and guard. She slid the guard over the tab, then inserted the tab into the end of the handle. She hid the assembly under the sheet, near her hand. Then she uncapped the water bottle that contained the Unisom.

Moments later the door opened. “Checks,” Reggie said. As soon as the door had closed, Martha pressed the red button on her control pendant. The door reopened, and Reggie came in. He used a key from his ring to turn on the lights. “Still awake, honey drop? You should be off in dreamland by now.”

“That light's too bright,” Martha said, shielding her eyes. “Could you turn it off?”

Reggie turned the switch again, leaving the room suffused in the blue Nite-Glo. “What's wrong with you tonight?”

Martha sat up in bed, pulling the fake Ka-Bar closer to her side. She felt herself shudder, a mixture of fear and revulsion. She fought to hide it. “For some reason I'm just having trouble getting to sleep.”

“What do you want me to do, tell you a bedtime story?”

“Maybe it would help if you could just stay here for a minute. Stay and talk to me.”

Reggie clicked the door closed. “All right.” He came over to her bedside. Even in the dim blue light, she could tell he was grinning. “You didn't take your sleep meds tonight, did you?” He waggled his index finger at her. “You're naughty.”