The House of Thunder (20 page)

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Authors: Dean Koontz

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

BOOK: The House of Thunder
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“And we came straight down,” Phil said.
 
“And here we are. But we weren’t here before.”
 
She licked her dry lips. “I guess...”
 
“A dream,” Murf said.
 
“Had to’ve been a bad dream,” Phil said.
 
At last, grudgingly, Susan nodded. “Yeah. I suppose so. Listen ... I’m sorry.”
 
“Oh, don’t worry your pretty head,” Murf told her. “There’s no need for you to be sorry.”
 
“I shouldn’t have snapped at you the way I did,” she said.
 
“Did she hurt your feelings, Phil?”
 
“Not in the least. Did she hurt your feelings, Murf?”
 
“Not one bit.”
 
“There, you see,” Phil said to Susan. “Absolutely no reason for you to apologize.”
 
“No reason at all,” Murf concurred.
 
“Now, do you feel up to traveling?” Phil asked her.
 
“We’ll make it a nice, gentle ride,” Murf promised.
 
Phil said, “We’ll take the scenic route.”
 
“First-class accommodations all the way,” Murf said.
 
“Gourmet meals at the captain’s table.”
 
“Dancing in the ship’s ballroom every night.”
 
“Free deck chairs and shuffleboard, plus a complimentary happy-hour cocktail,” Murf said.
 
She wished they would stop their bantering; it no longer amused her. She was somewhat dizzy, queasy, still considerably confused, as if she had drunk too much or had been drugged. Their swift patter was like a ball bouncing frenetically back and forth inside her head; it made her dizzier by the minute. But she didn’t know how to tell them to be quiet without hurting their feelings; and if the terror in the elevator had been just a dream, she had already been unjustifiably rude.
 
She said, “Well... okay. Let’s pull up anchor and get this ship out of the harbor.”
 
“Bon voyage,” Phil said.
 
“Lifeboat drill at sixteen hundred hours,” Murf said.
 
They rolled the stretcher through the swing-hinged double doors, into the first-floor hallway.
 
“You’re
sure
Sleeping Beauty wasn’t mixed up with a bunch of dwarfs?” Murf asked Phil.
 
“I told you, it was Snow White. Murf, I’m beginning to think you’re a hopeless illiterate.”
 
“What a vile thing to say, Phil. I’m an educated man.”
 
They turned into the long main hall and wheeled Susan toward the elevators.
 
Murf said, “It’s just that I don’t read children’s fairy tales any more. I’m sure such stuff is adequate for you, but I prefer more complex literature.”
 
“You mean the Racing Form?” Phil asked.
 
“Charles Dickens is more like it, Phil.”
 
“And the National
Enquirer
?
”
 
They reached the elevators.
 
Susan felt watchspring tense.
 
“I’ll have you know that I’ve read all the published works of Louis L’Amour,” Murf said, pressing the white button that was marked Up.
 
“Dickens to L’Amour,” Phil said. “That’s quite a spread, Murf.”
 
“I’m a man of wide interests,” Murf said.
 
Susan held her breath, waiting for the doors to open. A scream crouched in her chest, ready to leap up into her throat and out.
 
Please, God, she thought, not again.
 
“And what about you, Phil? Have you read any good cereal boxes lately?”
 
The elevator doors opened with a soft hum. They were behind Susan’s head; she couldn’t see into the cab.
 
Murf and Phil rolled her inside and came with her this time. There were no dead men waiting.
 
She let out her breath in a rush and closed her eyes. Relief brought with it a headache.
 
The trip back to her room was uneventful, but when she was transferring herself from the stretcher to her bed, she felt a twinge of pain in her right arm, just above the inner crook of the elbow. She abruptly remembered that Harch—or maybe one of the others—had pinched that arm hard, very hard, just before she had passed out in the elevator.
 
After the two orderlies left, Susan sat for a while with her hands in her lap, afraid to look at her arm. At last, however, she pushed up the right sleeve of her green pajamas. There was a bruise on her frail biceps, a darker oval on the pale skin, two inches above the elbow joint. It was a light bruise, but it was getting darker. About the size of a nickel. The color of a strawberry birthmark. Quite sore to the touch. A
fresh
bruise: no doubt about that.
 
But what did it mean? Was it proof that the encounter with Harch and the other three men had actually taken place, proof that it had not been merely a bad dream during a short nap? Or had she acquired the bruise while exercising in the PT Department, and—not consciously but subconsciously aware of it—had she then cleverly incorporated the injury into the dream about the dead men in the elevator?
 
She tried to remember if she had bumped her arm at any time during the therapy session. She couldn’t be sure. She thought back to the shower that she had taken in the PT Department. Had her arm shown any discoloration then? Had there been a small spot of tenderness on the biceps? She didn’t recall that there had been either a mark or any soreness whatsoever. However, it might have been so slight that it had escaped her notice then; after all, most bruises developed slowly.
 
I must have gotten it when I was exercising, she told herself. That’s the only explanation that isn’t ... insane. Ernest Harch and the other fraternity brothers aren’t real. They can’t hurt me. They’re only phantoms generated by some peculiar form of brain dysfunction. If I regain my strength, if McGee finds out what’s wrong with me, if I get well again, that will be the last I’ll ever see of these walking, talking dead men. In the meantime, they simply cannot hurt me.
 
 
 
 
Jeff McGee showed up for his evening rounds at half past five, dressed as if he were going to a fancy dinner party. He was wearing a dark blue suit that was well-tailored to his tall, trim frame, a pearl-gray shirt, a blue- and gray-striped necktie, and a sky-blue display handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
 
He looked so elegant and moved with such exceptional grace that Susan found herself suddenly responding to him sexually. From the moment she had seen him Sunday morning, she thought he was an extremely attractive man, but this was the very first time since waking from her long coma that she had experienced the warm, welcome, delicious fluttering-tingling-melting of sexual desire.
 
My God, she thought with amusement, I
must
be getting well: I’m horny!
 
McGee came directly to her bedside, and without hesitation this time, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, near the corner of her mouth. He was wearing a subtle after-shave lotion that smelled vaguely of lemons and even more vaguely of several unidentifiable herbs, but beneath that crisp fragrance, Susan detected the even more appealing, freshly scrubbed scent of his own skin.
 
She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and hold on to him, cling to him; she wanted to draw him close and take strength from him, strength she needed, strength he seemed to possess in such abundance. But however far their personal relationship had come in these past few days, it most certainly had not come that far. McGee felt considerable affection for her; she was sure of that. But given the natural restraints of the doctor-patient relationship, to which any romantic feelings had to remain strictly secondary, she could not cast aside all reserve. And given the fact that she couldn’t entirely trust her perceptions—which told her that Jeff McGee felt a great deal more than mere affection for her—she dared risk nothing other than a swift, chaste kiss planted lightly on his cheek in return for the kiss that he had bestowed upon her.
 
“I’m in a bit of a hurry tonight,” he said, drawing away from her too soon. “Let me have a quick look at Jessie Seiffert, see how’s she’s coming along, and then I’ll be back for a few minutes.”
 
He went to the other bed and slipped behind the curtain.
 
A whip of jealousy lashed through Susan. She wondered for whom he had put on his best suit. With whom was he having dinner tonight? A woman? Well, of course it would be a woman, and a pretty woman, too. A man didn’t dress up like that, pocket handkerchief and all, just to grab a bite and have a few beers with the boys. Jeffrey McGee was a most desirable man, and there was never any shortage of women for desirable men. And he certainly didn’t have the air of a celibate; good heavens, no! He had enjoyed a private life, a romantic life—all right, face up to it, a sex life—long before one Susan Kathleen Thorton had arrived on the scene. She could claim absolutely no right to be jealous of his relations with other women. Absolutely no right whatsoever. There was nothing serious between her and him; he was under no obligation to remain faithful to her. The very idea of that was patently ridiculous. Still, she
was
jealous; terribly, surprisingly jealous.
 
He stepped out from behind the curtain and returned to Susan’s bedside. He took her hand and smiled at her; his hand was strong and warm, and his teeth were very white and even. “So tell me how it went down in PT. Did you have a good afternoon with Flo Atkinson?”
 
Susan had intended to recount the terror of that strikingly vivid dream in which she had been trapped in the elevator with Ernest Harch and the other fraternity men. But now she decided against telling McGee anything about it. She didn’t want him to see her as just a weak, frightened, dependent woman. She didn’t want him to pity her.
 
“It was a terrific afternoon in every detail,” she lied.
 
“That’s great. I’m glad to hear it.”
 
“Yeah. The physical therapy is exactly what I need,” she said, and at least that much was true.
 
“You’ve got some color in your face now.”
 
“Washed my hair, too.”
 
“Yes, it looks very nice.”
 
“You’re a terrible liar, Dr. McGee. It won’t look nice for another six weeks or two months, thanks to your emergency room hairdresser, who apparently trims the incoming patients with a chain saw. At least now it’s clean.”
 
“I think it looks clean and nice,” he insisted. “It’s cute. Shaggy like that, it reminds me of ... Peter Pan.”
 
“Thanks a lot. Peter Pan was a boy.”
 
“Well, you certainly can’t be mistaken for a boy. Forget I said Peter Pan. It makes you look like...”
 
“An English sheepdog?”
 
“Are you determined to fend off any compliment I give you?”
 
“Come on, admit it. English sheepdog, right?”
 
He pretended to scrutinize her for canine qualities. “Well, now that you mention it ... Do you know how to fetch a pair of slippers?”
 
“Arf, arf,” she said.
 
“Seriously,” he said, “you look good. I think your cheeks are already starting to fill out a bit.”
 
“You’re the one who’s looking good. Sharp outfit.”
 
“Thanks,” he said, but he didn’t tell her why he was wearing his best suit, which was the information she had been probing for when she’d complimented him. “See Harch or the others today?”
 
“Not a glimpse,” she lied.
 
“That’s a positive sign. I’ve scheduled tests for tomorrow morning. Blood samples, urinalysis, X rays ... a spinal tap if necessary.”
 
“Ouch.”
 
“It won’t be too bad.”
 
“Easy for you to say. It’s not your spine they’ll be tapping.”
 
“True. But if a tap is necessary, I’ll do it myself, and I’m known for my gentle touch.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to run, I’m afraid.”
 
“Heavy date?”
 
“I wish it were! Unfortunately, it’s only the monthly meeting of the Tri-County Medical Association. I’m the dinner speaker tonight, and I’ve got stage fright.”

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