Transorbital Page 8

  Silence.

  When she spoke again, it was very matter-of-fact, a side of her we had not yet seen. “Let me ask y’all somethin’,” she said, leaning in toward us. “You ever find yerself needin’ to sleep with one eye open and a sharp knife under yer pillow?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said without hesitation. “Quite often.”

  “No ma’am,” said Chris. “I cannot say that I have.”

  “Do you know what it’s like to never know who yer gonna wake up next to in the mornin’?”

  Well…yes, I thought, but kept quiet. So did Chris.

  “Do you know what it’s like to go to sleep at night in the arms of the sweetest fella you ever met, and wake up next to a ravin’, slobberin’ animal who’ll beat you with a curtain rod because a talkin’ smoke bush told him to? Do you know what it’s like to live in constant fear that yer high school sweetheart, the love of yer life, might just up and cut out yer heart one day? Just because? On account of tiny angels what live in his ear? Do you know what it’s like to wonder if you got it in you to kill someone you love fer to keep yer own self alive? Do you?”

  She paused for a moment as we all considered the situation.

  Finally she said, “Now, am I right in thinkin’ that y’all are NOT comin’ round here tryin’ to dig up dirt on Doctor Walter Freeman? ‘Cause I’m sure that ain’t what this is all about.”

  We’d run into this sort thing before, although usually just on the telephone. Folks were either suspicious of you because they hated Walter Freeman, and you by extension…or they were lightning quick to take up for him if they suspected that you’re even slightly on the wrong side of righteousness.

  “That’s absolutely not what’s going on, ma’am,” I answered. “You know as well as anyone that Doc Freeman is my very dear friend. Two peas, right?”

  “Doctor Freeman is my hero, ma’am,” Chris said. “He is the reason I became the doctor that I am today. I attended one of his lectures eighteen years ago, and from then on my path in life was set.”

  “That’s good,” she said with a smile and a nod. “That’s real good to hear.”

  She gently lifted Eugene’s left hand from his ear, and in a motherly tone said,

  “Thunder’s all gone, Gene-y. It’s safe now.”

  Eugene opened his eyes and uncovered his ears.

  “You see,” Gertrude continued, “Doc Freeman ain’t just saved my husband. He saved me. He saved my life, and he gave me a life. There is a special spot in heaven set aside just for Walter Freeman, and I reckon it still won’t be worthy of him. He’s an angel here on earth, and I’d cuss and spit on anyone who’d dare speak ill of—or wish ill will upon—that man.”

  “We understand,” Chris said. “And truth be told, ma’am, although I can’t say too much about it, that’s just precisely why we came calling today. I will say that we’re just hoping to keep our fellow doctors—Doctor Freeman most of all—and all of their patients, safe and sound. That’s our only goal.”

  “Well that’s the Lord’s work yer doin’ then, darlin’. God bless you for it.”

  She took my empty water glass off to the kitchen, leaving us alone with Eugene. He simply sat, vibrating blankly.

  After a long, excruciating pause I said,

  “Um…I’m glad you are doing well, Mr. O’Dell.”

  “Hmmmmm…” he replied. “Hnnnnnn…he things…the thingsss…”

  “Yes,” I said. “The things.”

  “The thingsssss…hhhnnnnnn…”

  “You said it, sir. You said it.”

  “The things…will kill…will kill…hnnnnn…”

  Chris choked on the last of his water. “How’s that, sir?”

  Eugene continued to smile blandly.

  “Kill…hmmm…will kill…the things kill…”

  “Kill?” Chris asked. “Who is going to kill, Eugene?”

  “Hmm-hunnnnn…the things…”

  “Please, Mr. O’Dell,” I said urgently, “what do you mean by ‘will kill’? Who is? What is?”

  Eugene’s vacant eyes suddenly shot open completely, two empty globes of cold marble, and stared directly at Chris—

  “Thingsss…kill…doc…hollow…kill…” He tried to snap his fingers, “like that…”

  “What? What does that mean?” I pressed further, feeling myself look at Chris askance out of the corner of my eye. “Which Doc? This Doc? Dr. Chris Williams here?”

  “Do you mean Doc Freeman?” Chris asked him. “Do you feel hollow, Mr. O’Dell? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Doc…holloowwwww…” Eugene said, still directly at Chris, his tone of voice warbled, like a vinyl record warped by the sun. “Hollowwww…ynnnnggzzzz doc…hollowwww…”

  “Mrs. O’Dell,” Chris shouted to the kitchen, “can you make sense of this ‘hollow’ business?”

  Gertrude entered casually.

  “Just one of Gene-y’s new noises,” she said with a shrug. “Started addin’ it to his repertoire of gibberish after the last time Dr. Freeman came to call. Nothin’ to git in a twist over, I don’t reckon.”

  Eugene shook his head harder, and leaned in close to Chris and me. Hissing, nearly growling,

  “Doc…hollooooooowwww…”

  Gertrude came back over and took her seat next to her husband. Eugene soon calmed again, and it was as if nothing had happened.

  “Well…thank…uh…thank you both so much for your time,” Chris said, standing. I followed suit. “We should really be heading on back to Poughkeepsie.”

  “Aw, so soon?” Gertrude said.

  “Sadly yes,” Chris replied. “Business to attend to and all of that. And it’s a bit of a haul back to New York.”

  “Well, you be sure to give ol’ Doc Freeman our love now,” Gertrude said as we moved to the door. “And feel free to stop on by any ol’ time. We’re always here!”

  “Surely will, ma’am,” I said. “Thanks again.” I turned to Eugene and said, “Take care now, Mr. O’Dell.”

  “Ynnnngggzzzz…hnnnn…thingssss…”

  Chapter 17

  Chris accompanied me to visit two more former patients before heading back to Riverside:

  Lucy Moore, nearly catatonic, like a statue in her parents’ front parlor. Said just about nothing to us. Just about. Ronald Berkley, conversely, was very talkative indeed, although I could hardly understand him for all the hooting and whooping. His brother and his brother’s wife, who had taken on the responsibility of looking after him, were polite enough to us. But they remembered me. And if their eyes had been shotguns, there’d be not much left of me, believe that.

  Both Lucy and Ronald, however, different though their states may have been, had something very similar to say upon seeing us (or Chris, specifically). A two words to whisper and hiss…

  Doc…hollow…

  No specifics. No context. Just the noise.

  Doc…hollllllowwww…

  Chris was exactly correct about what the police reaction would be. We contacted three separate departments to explain to them who we were and what we had discovered in our travels.

  “We’ll file a report, sirs,” is all we got in return.

  “We already filed a report!”

  “We’ll add to the existing report, then.”

  I can’t say that I blamed them, though. It was nearly impossible to explain the crimes that we felt had been committed. “Dead lobotomists! The cryptic, albeit identical, jabbering of nearly brain-dead mental patients! Don’t you see the connection!?!?”

  We sounded as screwy as the patients we were neglecting back in Poughkeepsie.

  As we drove through Ohio on our way to Union Station Chris seemed particularly agitated. I could not tell if he thought the trip yielded fruit, and he was not forthcoming with conversation in general. We bade farewell at the train station, and I headed on my way. It was a long drive, and I found myself oddly eager to get back to Washington DC. But I decid
ed, before heading on into DC proper, that I should try to make a stop in Ashburn.

  Chapter 18

  Minor difficulties notwithstanding, Salvador Reed managed to get by just swell carving and selling homemade duck decoys to local hunters. A far cry from the man who once tried, and very nearly succeeded, to murder two Catholic priests simultaneously with a single line of piano wire.

  Salvador’s cottage was nestled in a sleepy little pocket of farmland, a near-perfect physical manifestation of the man’s demeanor.

  “More tea?” Salvador asked me, the very picture of serenity.

  I have to say, I was a bit surprised that he remembered me. I had always seen my role in the procedure as being relatively minor. But patients did often seem to relate to me in a way that they likely could not have with Doctor Freeman. Doctors can be intimidating, after all. They have power over the rest of us. But me? I’m just a regular cat, don’t you know.

  “Thank you, Mr. Reed. It’s really great to see you. And to find you doing so well. It’s a definite relief after what I’ve seen recently.”

  “Well,” he replied in a voice so soft I nearly had to strain to hear him, “we’re all different. Yes? What’s good for one is not so good for all. For me? No regrets. I remember the ogre that I was once, and I don’t ever want to be that again.”

  Baxter, Salvador’s old bloodhound, rested his floppy jowls on my knee. I patted his head and thought, If only you knew what your master used to do to furry old fellas like you.

  “So no problems at all?” I asked.

  “Well…”

  “Yes, the reading and writing, of course.”

  “Thankfully my sister has been a dear about helping me with the technical side of my business. Her health has been failing her recently, the poor thing. But we look after each other well. Her children were frightened of me for a long time. And who could blame them. But they know I’m different now. Now I’m just old uncle Sal.”

  He chuckled lightly, blew on his tea, then did not take a sip.

  “Your ducks are really beautiful,” I said admiring the handiwork that lined the walls of his modest cabin. “It’s like they have separate personalities.”

  “Yes,” he said, endlessly stirring his well-sugared cup. “It’s almost a shame to put them in the water. But it is their purpose. Purpose is good. It’s a real good thing. Purpose. It’s good. To have a purpose. More tea?”

  “I have a full cup, thank you. Mr. Reed?”

  “Yes?”

  “You used to suffer hallucinations.”

  “Oh, I did indeed. Yes. Ugly things. Demons coming out of the walls.” He shuddered. “They would scream all night that I would burn forever in Hell if I didn’t obey them. Awful business.”

  “I’m sorry to bring it back up.”

  “No, it’s OK. It’s good to talk through it. It’s good. More tea?”

  “No, thank you. So you’ve had no flashbacks?”

  “None that I can think of. Can I get you some more tea?”

  “Um…”

  “There is one,” he said, still very soft and calm. “It’s more of a nightmare, really. Not so much a hallucination than a bad dream. Would you like some tea? I thought I’d make a pot.”

  “Well, uh, we have tea already, sir.”

  “Oh,” he chuckled lightly in surprise, “so we do.” He shrugged and sipped happily.

  “Can you tell me about this nightmare?”

  “Oh, it’s silly, really. I only mention it because you asked.” He paused, then said, “It has happened a couple of times. A repeating dream. But it shouldn’t concern you. It doesn’t concern me. Outside Baxter?”

  The old hound looked at him, tail wagging, but continued to rest his chin on my leg.

  “Please, sir, if you don’t mind. I’m curious.”

  “Well…OK, if I must.” He sat, looking contemplative for a moment. When he spoke again, it was still soft and calm, but distant. “A dark figure comes to me in the night. I can’t see its face, but it knows my name.”

  “Is it a man or a woman?”

  “I can’t tell, but it’s pretty big. I don’t think it’s either a man or a woman, really. Just a shape. A hood. A tangle of hair. Just a phantom. It growls in a monotone all of these ugly things about revenge and violence, all of the terrible things that used to possess me so many years ago. I tell it to go away, and it insists that I will join it someday.”

  “Was it like the demons you used to see? The ones that told you to harm people?”

  “No. Not like those.”

  “No?”

  “It’s different from them.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s different.”

  “Different in what way?”

  “It’s a person.”

  “I see. Does it tell you its name?”

  “No, it doesn’t seem to have one. It just says that I…will kill. Or rather we will kill.”

  Oh fuck…I thought.

  “Go on please,” I said.

  “It is quite dreadful, kid, I must say. That’s still your nickname? Dr. Freeman always called you ‘kid.’ But it’s just a bad dream. Like lingering residue from the old Sal. But thankfully, he’s mostly dead now. Mostly. More tea?”

  “Mr. Reed…are you sure it’s just a dream?”

  “What do you mean? More tea?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’d love some. I mean…does it feel real to you?”

  “Well…it does, yes. I mean to say, as real as anything seems to me now.”

  “Oh?”

  “One clear change from the operation…I now always feel as if I’m caught halfway between sleep and waking. Never fully one or the other. But as I said, it’s much preferred over the old Salvador. I think I’ll make a pot of tea, would you like some?”

  “No thank you. Mr. Reed…has this nightmare figure ever told you its name?” I’ve found that sometimes lobotomy patients need to have the same question asked in different ways for them to connect with it.

  “Oh, no. I don’t think I’ve given it a name.”

  “I see.”

  “It does claim to be a doctor, though.”

  Oh…Of course it does…

  “Just a nameless doctor?”

  “No name. But it tells me how it feels. And it insists that I feel the same as it does. More tea?”

  “And…how does it feel?”

  “Hollow. It’s hollow.”

  Goddamn it all…

  “And…do you feel that way, Mr. Reed? Do you share the dark figure’s feeling? Do you feel hollow?”

  “Well, yes,” he said with a slight nod. “A bit. But I would rather feel hollow than filled up with rage. More tea?”

  “I should be getting back to work. It’s been good to see you, Mr. Reed.”

  “I’m sure we’ll see each other again very soon,” he said.

  “I certainly hope we do.”

  “I am sure of it. Very soon. I am sure of it.”

  Lucy Moore, Salvador Reed, Ronald Berkley, Eugene O’Dell…all former patients, with varying degrees of damage, all from different sections of the country, all with an odd noise buried within their respective jumbles of murmuring, mumbling, clicking and ticking—

  Doc…Hollow…

  Had they met? How could they have?

  Doc…Hollow…

  I thought I knew what it meant, but I wasn’t really sure. It seemed like a name at first. But then I thought that it might be a statement. As in “The Doc is hollow.” Or “Doc, I am hollow.” Or… “Doc has left me hollow.”

  Truthfully, I didn’t know a goddamn thing. I was no sleuth; that was clear. I was drained. Empty. I had hit a wall. And with not much of anything to go on, I was heading on back to DC.

  Chapter 19

  “All right there, Walter?”

  “Ah,” Freeman said rising to stand at his desk, offering me the glad hand. “Here you are, lad. Good to see you. I trus
t you’ve been well.”

  Although he was pleasant enough, as always, Dr. Freeman appeared otherwise non-nonplussed to see me.

  “I’m eating,” I said. “Thirteen years, Doc. Can you believe it?”

  “Has it really been that long? I hadn’t noticed I suppose.”

  “How is everyone? Marjorie and the girls?”

  He smiled, but didn’t answer. He came around from the desk and indicated the tanned leather couch. What the hell, do all these brain doctors order their furniture from the same fucking catalogue?!

  “Please, have a seat,” he said. We both did. It was good to see him. And it was more awkward than I thought it would be.

  “So how is Riverside holding up?” he asked, with what seemed to be genuine interest.

  “Not too well,” I said truthfully. “A bit on the decline to be perfectly honest.”

  “Well, who is surprised by that?” he huffed. “Sometimes I wonder why these people even bother holding symposia.”

  Here we go, I thought.

  “Ideas,” he said, “solid ideas, are bandied about, serious discussions are hurrumphed over. And then, ultimately, everyone just sticks with the old routines. Roger Cook never listens to me.”

  “Everyone listens to you, Walter,” I said, “for some reason.”

  That was a bit more perfectly honest than I had really intended.

  “Oh?”

  “Not that they shouldn’t,” I said, trying to recover. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

  “Hm, yes,” he said, nodding stiffly. “Yes indeed. So to what do I owe this pleasure today? What’s on your mind?”

  “Dead lobotomists. Not to put too fine a point on it. Seventeen of them.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s cheery.”

  “It’s all the talk ‘round the soda shop these days.”

  “I hadn’t heard seventeen. Depends upon when you start counting, I suppose.” He gave a little cryptic chuckle, then said, “Grim business at Longview Asylum in Cincinnati, Ohio this past week. You heard about that, yes?”

  “I had not.”

  “I haven’t heard much in the way of details.”

  “Someone died at Longview?”