Kiss of the Sun (16 page)

“Maybe I didn't.”

“What's gotten into you tonight?”

“I don't know; I just feel lonely. Come stand over here.”

Reggie glanced back toward the door, then stepped closer to the bed. “Okay. Now what?”

“Come close. Like you always do.”

“When?”

“Like you do at night.”

“What? I don't come in here.”

“Yes, you do. You think I'm asleep, but I'm not.”

“You must have been hallucinating, honey drop.”

“I don't mind. Anyway, I have something I want to show you.”

Reggie took another step forward. Martha sat up, brought the Ka-Bar out from under the sheet, and pointed the tip of it to his chest.

“What the—”

“Quiet,” Martha hissed. “I don't want to hurt you, but I've got to get—”

Before she could finish her prepared statement, Martha felt a powerful hand clamp around her wrist. Reggie pushed her arm away from his chest. The blade gleamed in the blue light between them. His other hand clasped her forearm. Just like that, she felt her one thin thread of hope snapping.

“Let it go, Martha.”

“No!” She strained to wrench her arm free, but his grip was like a meaty vise.

“I don't know where you got that knife, honey drop, but you need to let it go.” He locked eyes with her and smiled. “Good effort. We're trained for these situations.” Martha could smell the sour onion odor of his breath as he muscled her arm holding the knife to one side, still in the air. He leaned toward her, pushing her against the side of the bed. He was enjoying their struggle, prolonging it. He moved his face closer to hers. Martha could feel her hand growing numb as his grip cut off her circulation.

“Come on now,” he said. “Drop the knife. Like the song says, just let it go.”

Reggie gave her wrist a twist, forcing her to release the fake knife. When it hit the tile floor, it made no more sound than a falling pack of gum. Reggie kicked it aside.

“Not even real, huh?” He moved closer, pinning her against the bed with his belly. “Crafty girl.”

Then something large and brown thrust itself between them. It locked around Reggie's neck and jerked him backward.

“Let
her
go, you fuckin' ape.”

Martha hadn't seen Beulah get out of the bed, but suddenly she had him in a hammerlock. Reggie let go of Martha's forearm and tried to grab Beulah. She caught his arm and twisted it behind him.

“Let the bitch go!” Beulah repeated.

Reggie's mouth opened and closed, his right arm swung impotently, and his wire-framed glasses slid askew as Beulah tightened her hold. Martha felt his grip on her wrist weaken. She gave her arm a sharp jerk and wrenched it free from his grasp.

“Now look under the seat cushion of my wheelchair over yonder. I got a pick.”

Martha took a step toward the chair, lifted the thin vinyl cushion, and saw a red-handled screwdriver lying there. The flat tip had been ground down to a sharp point.

“Now, really cut him!” Beulah said. “Take that pick and stab the son of a bitch.”

Martha picked up the screwdriver and Beulah kneed Reggie in the back so his stomach thrust forward. His blue scrub shirt rose slightly, exposing russet hairs above his navel. Reggie stamped his feet and flailed.

“Go on,” Beulah said. “Do it!”

Martha pointed the screwdriver at the center of his paunch. She put both hands around the plastic handle. She felt her arms shaking.

“Poke a hole in his fat, hairy belly,” Beulah said, balancing on her cast. Her other foot, bare, was planted on the linoleum floor.

“Where'd you get—” Reggie sputtered.

“I got it from you,” Beulah said. “Remember, two weeks ago, when you came in here with your tool box to switch out the battery in my chair? I slipped that out when you were too busy flirting with the other patient to pay attention. I been carrying it under my butt ever since. And every day when I sat down there by the pond, when no one was looking, I took that screwdriver out and slid it back and forth on the sidewalk. Back and forth, back and forth. What else have I got to do?”

Reggie sucked in his stomach as he tried to twist away from the shiv.

“Stop wiggling, you son of a bitch,” Beulah said, “or she's going to pop you like a balloon. 'Cause that bitch is
craaaaazy.
”

Reggie slowed his contortions, and his eyes fixed on the screwdriver. “What do you want me to do?”

“You're gonna do just what she tells you. Otherwise I'll crack your arm like a turkey bone, and that bitch right there will punch you a new navel.” She tightened her grip. “Am I right, Martha?”

“We don't have to kill him,” Martha said. “He just needs to drink that.” She nodded toward the bottle on the table.

Reggie's eyes darted back and forth.

“Go on, then, give it to him,” Beulah said.

Martha picked up the bottle with one hand.

“Take it,” Beulah said. “You want to keep your blood inside, you just better drink that sleep juice.”

“I'm—” Reggie started to say.

“Shut the fuck up and drink,” Beulah said, twisting his arm behind him. “You got about five seconds before you hear your shoulder bone crack.”

Reggie brought the bottle to his lips, tilted it upward for a moment, then brought it down sharply. He was panting, and his face was beaded with sweat.

“Drink it!” Beulah twisted his arm so hard he let out a yelp. “I want to feel your fucking Adam's apple bob.”

Reggie brought the bottle up again and tilted it. Martha heard him swallow. “All of it,” Beulah said.

He handed the bottle to Martha. She could feel that it was empty and gave Beulah a nod.

“All right, good job.” She glanced at Martha. “What's next? You got some more steps in this plan?”

“He needs to lie down now,” Martha said. “He needs to get into the bed.”

“All right, give me the pick,” Beulah said. She held the tip of the blade pressed against the skin of his throat. “You know I like to poke holes in men, so you better climb in that bed. Make it quick.”

Martha pulled down the sheet, and Beulah kept the tip of the blade against his throat as he climbed in. Reggie said, “You'll never—”

“Just shut up,” Beulah said.

Reggie flopped on his back. Martha glanced at the clock on the side table. It was time for the next round of checks, but since Reggie was the orderly on duty, the next check wouldn't come.

“Close your eyes now. It's your turn for fucking dreamland,” Beulah said.

They watched him as his mouth started to fall open, then opened and closed. Soundless words. Slowly the pattern of his breathing changed.

“Is he out?” Beulah asked.

Martha lifted one of his hairy arms, dropped it. It was limp. “I think so.”

“Okay, what's next? You better hurry.”

“I need to get his shirt and his badge.”

They pulled the lanyard from around his neck, then unbuttoned the blue scrub shirt and worked it up and over the top of his head. Lastly, Martha took the key ring from his belt loop. They rolled Reggie onto his side so he faced the wall.

“Hold it a minute,” Beulah said. “You're going to need some bank out there.” She reached into Reggie's back pocket and fished out his wallet, then opened it and pulled out the cash—a twenty, a ten, and two ones. She handed Martha the twenty and kept the rest. “We'll call that an even split.”

Martha put on the scrub top, which covered her like a blue tablecloth.

“You got something to pin that with?” Beulah asked.

Martha picked up a binder clip from the bedside table. “I can use this.”

“Turn around, I'll do it,” Beulah said. She pleated the scrub behind Martha and clipped it. Then Martha dropped the lanyard with Reggie's badge around her neck. Finally she clipped his key ring onto her own belt loop.

“How do I look?” Martha asked.

“Like shit. But it's good enough for government work. You better hit the trail.”

“What about you?” Martha asked.

“I reckon I'll just stay here. I can't go nowhere in this cast. I'll just stick around and finish that Mustang model. 'Cept you took all my decals.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Send me another kit when you get out. Send me two cartons of Camel menthols while you're at it.”

“I will,” Martha said.

“Now, you better go find that man of yours.” Beulah hobbled back to her bed and sat on it. “Give him a big ol' wet kiss for me.”

Martha opened the door and looked up and down the brightly lit corridor. There was no one in the hallway, just a wheeled cart with linens parked two doors down. She closed the door behind her, went to the cart, took hold of the handle, and pushed it along. She willed herself to walk steadily.

Don't rush. You are an orderly now. If you believe it, they will.

She reached the metal doors and nonchalantly lifted Reggie's badge to the scanner, as if it were a thing she did every day of her life. The lock mechanism buzzed. She pushed on the metal door and it opened.

She rolled the cart into the vestibule, paused, and turned to the guard window. The officer on duty was a young woman with dark hair in a ponytail. She had a paperback propped against the guard desk:
The First Cut,
by Dianne Emley.

Moment of truth. You've got to believe it. You are an orderly. If you believe it, she will.

The guard looked up, squinted at the badge. She made a twirling gesture with her hand.

“What?” Martha asked.

The guard repeated the twirling gesture, looking impatient. Martha looked at the badge in her hand, saw Reggie's miniature mugshot staring right at her. She was holding the badge backward.

She flipped it around. The guard gave a small nod, pushed a button on the console, and turned her attention back to the book. Martha heard the second door buzz.

She stepped through and stood at an intersection of two hallways. A plastic sign on the wall had arrows pointing toward
ADMINISTRATION, C WARD, FORENSICS,
and
ELEVATORS.
She parked the cart along a wall and headed for the elevators, passing an administrative area with numerous offices, a custodial closet, and a break room. A man in a suit carrying a clipboard emerged from the elevator lobby as she approached, but only gave her a fleeting glance as she passed.

There was a door marked
STAIRWAY
next to the elevators, and Martha took it. She went down one flight of stairs and emerged onto the ground floor. She found a row of signs on the wall, one pointing right, toward visitor reception, another toward the cafeteria, and a third toward the picnic tables. The hospital took up an area almost the size of a city block, and she had gotten a general sense of the layout based on her views from the windows. She needed to reach the employee parking area, which lay beyond the little picnic area.

The flat shoes they had given her to wear in the ward echoed on the floor as she made her way down the empty corridor, forcing herself to walk at a normal pace, resisting the urge to bolt for the door. The shoes would give away her true identity—patient, not support staff—if anyone bothered to look. The hospital was a surreal place at this late hour, and she was beginning to notice other sounds impinging on the institutional quiet—the faint hum of the hospital ventilation system, the sound of her own blood rushing inside her head, like waves crashing on a shoreline.

When she reached the glass doors that led to the courtyard, she caught sight of a female orderly approaching from the other side. She froze. The other orderly stopped at the exact same moment—a thin, wraith-like figure in blue scrubs, hair unkempt, a purple bruise surrounding one eye. A second later she realized the figure was her own reflection in the glass, a specter of the thing she had become, an apparition that looked like it wholly belonged here in this place of demons, haunting the halls, gibbering.

It was a miracle no one had stopped her on sight.

She pushed the metal bar, opened the door, and stepped into the courtyard. She followed the sidewalk under the pale glow of the sodium-vapor lights, past the empty picnic tables—tables for the staff and visitors, or the less afflicted—and inside her head she could hear the voices of those who sojourned here, the possessed and the dispossessed, their wails and questions echoing against the cement walls. She stood there, suddenly feeling lost in the amber pools of light, invisible tentacles circling her limbs….

You can't lose focus now. You have to get to Jarrell. You must stop the vision, the prophecy—

She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured Jarrell in all his beauty. Jarrell, the island. The island, Jarrell. To see them again, to hold him again, to breathe in that rich, salty air. To hear the music of the waves. The one purpose in the world that was truly worthy.

She opened her eyes, shook off the demons, and strode toward the lot at the end of the common area.

A tall chain-link fence cordoned off the parking lot, accessible through a tall steel turnstile gate that resembled a revolving door. She pushed against the turnstile bar. It moved a quarter turn and stopped. It was only then that she noticed the card reader mounted on the fence. She lifted Reggie's ID card and pressed it against the scanner. The LED on the scanner turned from red to green and she heard the snap of a mechanism inside the turnstile. She pushed on the bar again. This time it rotated all the way, and she went through it and stood facing the employee parking lot. She stopped and looked at the rows of cars illuminated by security lights. There was a light fog in the air that cast a pale halo around each light. There was no one else here; it was just the parking lot, a few lines of cars, and the quiet street beyond. She felt the cool, mist-damp air on her face and paused for a second to acknowledge the miracle.