Out of Nowhere (The Immortal Vagabond Healer Book 1) (13 page)

Our patient was soon ready, smartly dressed in a long wool coat. She stopped at a mirror to give her hair a final brush, make sure she looked good for the ER. ‘Oh, my God!’ She suddenly froze, the color drained from her face, and she leaned forward, searching the glass with a frightening intensity.

‘What’s wrong, miss?’ I asked, trying to keep my tone light and breezy, despite my growing dread of the answer.

She turned to me and with absolute sincerity and conviction said, ‘These aren’t my eyes.’

I’m forced to admit, that stumped me. I looked to Nique, but she didn’t seem to have any insight either.

‘How do you know?’ Nique asked, after a pause of about a year.

‘These are brown,’ said the patient.

Well, they were. I checked. ‘Oooooooookaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay. And yours were...?’

‘Blue.’

‘Ah.’

The uncomfortable silence settled once again.

‘Well.’ Nique stepped in smoothly. ‘While they’re checking for your vertebrae, maybe they can call the eye bank at Mass Eye and Ear.’

‘Really?’ asked the patient. ‘They can do that?’

Nique’s elbow in my ribs shocked me into action. ‘Hm? Ah! Oh, absolutely. Do it all the time.’

‘Oh,’ she sighed in relief, ‘that’s great. OK, let’s go.’

I held the door open, slightly bemused, and she walked down to the ambulance.

Sometimes it really is that easy. Provided you have decent people skills, a solid partner and are willing to ignore the holy bejeesus out of official policy.

We got to the hospital, dropped our patient off, and smiled at the thought of her and Brenda discussing the intricacies of eyeball replacement.

I noticed Juan and Pete wheeling in a stretcher. A young Hispanic man lay back on it, pale beneath his olive complexion, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and a massive bandage swathing his right hand. He had a Pittsburgh Steelers hat on, and there was a Bruins jacket over his knees.

On top of that, in a plastic bag, was a finger.

As they passed, Juan gave me a fist bump and Pete shook his head.

It seemed like there was a good story behind this one, so we camped out at the EMS desk while they took the patient into a room and gave report.

When they returned, I asked ‘So what’s up with this guy? He think that the hole in the middle of the bagel was to put his finger in while he cut it?’

‘He didn’t say,’ smiled Juan, ‘but I believe he bein’ made an example.’

‘Example?’ asked Nique.

‘You notice he all in black and gold?’

‘Latin Kings,’ I responded.

‘Well done, Grasshopper.’

‘You sure he ain’t just a big hockey fan?’ asked Pete.

‘I tol’ you, man,’ said Juan. ‘Only white boys watch hockey. And that’s just because the only way you get to see white guys fighting on ESPN is they got skates on.’

‘So, what finger?’

‘Right index,’ Juan replied. ‘What does that suggest?’

‘Trigger finger?’

‘Yep. This boy a shooter for the gang. Somebody want to send a message to the Latin Kings that it may not be a very secure profession.’

‘Yeah, but how much difference is that gonna make?’ asked Pete. ‘It’s not like you Latinos hit anything you aim at anyway.’

‘That’s ’cause we all exhausted from those long nights at your mom’s.’

‘He say who did it?’ interrupted Nique.

‘Some dude he never saw before,’ Juan replied. ‘Same as always. Just minding his business, feeding the homeless or whatever and some dude comes up out of nowhere like a ghost and carves on him for no reason. Then he vanishes.’

‘That Sumdood guy is a real prick,’ added Pete. ‘But this time we got a description. Turns out Sumdood is a white guy.’

‘That’s a switch.’

‘Don’t know what this town is coming to.’ Juan shook his head sadly. ‘Used to be safe out there dealing smack and stealing cars without worrying about those white guys.’

Chapter 14

ONCE I GOT HOME, I FED THE CAT, then turned on my computer. I dug out the demographic sheet that Tiffany had given me and ran searches on the name and birth date, the phone number, the social security number; all quickly led to dead ends. I got further on the company. Doors Imports had a website, the usual corporate boilerplate: a Mission Statement, testimonials. Nothing about hunting down rogue healers hiding out in EMS. There was an address in town, on South Canal St, a little spur of a road that ran along a tiny island between the canal and the Merrimack. There were a few businesses in the old mill buildings there, but none of them were very busy or remarkable. The road was a dead end, accessed off a narrow right of way near the Central Bridge. In years of working the city, I’d only been down there a handful of times. A nice, inconspicuous place for a front.

In theory, with a name, date of birth, employer and so forth, I should be able to find out a lot about my adversary. In practice, I just wasn’t very good with technology. I’d done all my reconnaissance work back before computers. I knew people who could dig this stuff up, but I’d have to come up with a reason to explain why I wanted the info. Leave that until later.

What could he want from me? So far as I could remember, I hadn’t crossed anyone in a long time. I hadn’t knowingly slept with anyone’s wife in years, and I hadn’t killed anyone since Korea. The man I’d healed looked around thirty. For his entire life I’d been laying low, working as a medic. Had I healed someone he didn’t want healed? Had the firefighters’ union gotten sick of my wise-ass remarks and put out a hit on me?

I stopped, reviewed my thoughts.

Mr Doors looked about thirty.

But so did I.

There was no reason to believe I was unique. Well, beyond the usual. Just because I’d never met anyone like me didn’t mean others didn’t exist. And if they hid, if they didn’t advertize, how would I recognize them?

Could I have wronged this man
a long way back
? It was after I’d healed him that he noticed something. Who had seen me do that? Well, lots of people, but generally they just thought the injury hadn’t been all that bad, and I’d gotten to them quickly.

He maybe looked a bit like that Prussian Baron whose fiancée had run off with me. I’d really done them both a favor. They’d never have been happy together.

Or that Hussar lieutenant whose horse I’d stolen at Borodino. To be fair, I’d stopped him bleeding to death as well, but cavalrymen get touchy about their horses. If you think about it, I’d done the only reasonable thing. He was an officer and a man of means. The kind of man who gets taken prisoner and exchanged or ransomed. The Czarist cavalry would have treated another horse soldier like a brother. It’s not like I left him to the Cossacks. I, on the other hand, was in the uniform of a
voltigeur
corporal at the time, and the Russian lancers would have spitted me.

I shook my head. If Doors was more or less immortal, like me, he could have any number of reasons for disliking me. No way to know.

Bad form in an immortal, holding a grudge.

I took the knife out of my desk drawer and looked at it. What did those symbols mean? Writing on weapons always has some deep meaning. This wasn’t a presentation blade to hang on a wall. This was a well used utilitarian weapon. The balance, the shape, the spring of the steel. This was to cut people.

Warriors are a superstitious lot. Anything written on a weapon they planned to use in combat would be important. I’d carried a lot of weapons, and marched beside a lot of soldiers. Why didn’t I recognize this inscription? If I’d wronged Doors, I should at least be able to identify his alphabet.

I was sitting on the couch when the phone rang. I let it go to machine, since I was in no mood to work an overtime shift, but picked up as soon as I heard Sarah’s voice. ‘Hi, I’m here.’

‘Screening again?’

‘Ever since my secretary quit on me,’ I replied.

‘Well, if you can find your social calendar without her, see if you’re free tonight.’

‘I’m sure I can find some time. I’ll just cancel with the Prime Minister.’

‘You’re too good to me,’ she laughed. ‘Just get over as soon as you can.’

‘Anything the matter?’ I asked.

‘Nothing terrible. Tough day at work. I was hoping to relax with some takeout and a movie. A little company wouldn’t be unwelcome.’

‘Sounds great. Anything I can bring?’

‘Something alcoholic.’

‘Can do,’ I replied, avoiding the obvious joke about how I was bringing myself anyway. ‘See you in an hour.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

I hung up and jumped in the shower, shaved, dug through my wardrobe for a shirt without an ambulance company logo on it and ran a comb through my hair. There would be time enough to worry about angry foreigners with knives. Tonight a beautiful woman was requesting my company.

‘How do I look, buddy?’ I asked the cat. He raised his head, squinted at me for a moment then lay back down. ‘So, the green shirt is OK, then?’ He ignored me. I did throw a change of clothes and a toothbrush in a bag, just in case. Being male, the polite thing to do would be to leave it in the car. Showing up at the door with a gym bag in one hand was a bit presumptuous. A woman could always pack the essential in her purse, thus remaining subtle. And even if a woman walked into a man’s apartment at the beginning of a date and bluntly asked if there were someplace she could put her toothbrush, spare panties and diaphragm, chances are there’d be few complaints.

I drove over, stopping on the way for a six-pack of a winter warmer: a heavy, very alcoholic beer, almost a barley wine. A good choice for relaxing after a hard day in the middle of winter. It was a bold choice, maybe, but I knew she drank good beer, and it wasn’t bitter. I also picked up a bunch of flowers. I don’t understand the power flowers have on women, but I know not to underestimate it.

I arrived at her building, a nondescript apartment block in the middle-class town of North Andover. I walked to the elevator, noting that the lobby was clean, well maintained but decorated with a nod to 1974. I pressed the button for the third floor, found my way to the door and knocked.

She answered the door dressed in a t-shirt, oversized flannel shirt and blue jeans. She looked a little tired, but still treated me to a kiss and a warm smile that broadened into delight when I presented the bouquet.

‘Flowers,’ she said, ‘you shouldn’t have. Thank you. Come in, come in.’ She gave me a quick tour of the apartment, a simple two bedrooms, one of which had been converted into an office, a comfortable living room and a small but efficiently set up kitchen. Decoration was mostly books, including some old and rare examples, a few photos and some prints of landscapes hung on the walls. A cabinet of curios and knickknacks stood near the front door.

She took the flowers and went in search of a vase. ‘Have a seat on the couch. I’ll be right there.’

I sat and opened two bottles and she returned with a bowl of popcorn and a phone. She set the bowl on the coffee table. ‘
Bon appétit,
’ she said. ‘After we get comfortable I’ll call for delivery. You feel like Italian or Chinese?’

‘I’m easy,’ I replied. ‘You’re the one who had the tough day. Whatever you’d prefer, unless choosing is too much effort.’

‘No, but thanks for thinking that way. I’m leaning toward Italian.’ She rolled her head, stretching her neck. ‘Too long at the computer today.’

‘Here.’ I dragged an ottoman in front of me. ‘Have a seat and let me take a look at that neck.’

She sat in front of me, and I swept her hair aside and gently kneaded her neck and shoulders. I sensed the tense, knotted muscles deep under the skin, and sent a little energy to relax them. Again, cheating, but nobody’s ever complained.

‘Oh, God,’ she moaned, ‘where did you learn that? If you dated a masseuse, I swear I won’t get angry, so long as you keep doing that.’

‘Nothing so exciting,’ I replied. ‘I just have a knack. So, what’s on your mind?’

‘Eh. Students,’ she sighed. ‘Just when I think I might actually be reaching some of them, they relieve me of that illusion. Nobody’s in class to learn things. It’s about checking a box for a course requirement, or an easy boost to the GPA or that they’re stalking a fellow student. I’m almost no longer horrified when one of them asks if I could please not write in cursive on the board, because they can’t read it. I’ve come to terms with that kind of thing.’

I kept working on her neck, slow and gentle.

‘And, you know,’ she continued, ‘I’m just starting to get cynical enough that it doesn’t bother me anymore. I just tell myself that they’re young, they’re mostly from well off families, they don’t know much about life yet. It’s extended high school.’

‘So what happened today?’ I asked, kneading her shoulders.

‘Clueless entitled nineteen year olds, them I’m used to. I didn’t expect that level of delusion from parents.’ She shook her head. ‘I got a call from an irate father today. Says he’s not paying forty grand a year so his unique special snowflake of a son can get a C.’

I laughed. ‘You point out he may want to let Junior know he’s not paying forty grand a year for the kid to get a C?’