Cure (12 page)

The woman steadied him and coaxed him back into the chair. “I don’t think you should get up just yet.” The kid handed Scott a plastic cup of water.

“What’s your name?” the woman asked.

“Scott. Scott Penton.” He took a sip.

“Name’s Maggie Porter and this’s my nephew, Billy.”

Billy wore a pair of ratty jeans, an oversized tee-shirt, and a jacket with an ax and fireman’s hat over the words Strandville Fire Department. “Glad to meet you.” He shook their hands and then squeezed his aching head, the veins pulsing at his temples.

“That was quite a header you took,” Maggie said. “What were you thinkin’ drivin’ with your head split open?”

The curtain serving as the door to the back room opened and a broad man with a ruddy complexion and thick, calloused hands walked through it. He handed frozen peas and a box of steri-strips to Maggie. “This is the closest thing I could find to an ice pack.”

Maggie held the bag to Scott’s head. He leaned in to the soothing cold and only pulled away when the pressure intensified the pain. “Scott, this is my husband, Jack. Jack, Scott Penton.”

Jack furrowed his brow in contemplation. “Penton, huh? Don’t recognize the name. What brings you to Strandville?”

Scott handed him a picture of Miranda from out of his wallet. “I came looking for my wife.”

 “Oh, boy,” Jack said somberly. He turned the photograph over to Billy. “Remember her?”

Billy nodded, his thin, greasy bangs falling in front of his face.

 “You’ve seen her?” Scott leaned forward and the scab forming on the back of his head pulled his hair, making him wince.

Maggie took the cold peas away. “We’re going to have to clean this and close it up.”

Still, no one had asked how it happened. Part of him believed it was because they already knew.

Billy brushed his hair back and met Scott’s gaze. “You ‘member how you got to the other side of the town line?”

He did know.

“Of course I do.” Scott lied. He flinched when Maggie poured peroxide into his wound. She held a paper towel to his neck to catch the runoff and reapplied it several more times, each time stinging worse than the one before it. The bubbling and popping sound echoed in Scott’s head, fast at first, then steadily slower. “What do you know about my wife?” he asked, focusing on Jack.

“She came in for gas maybe a week ago. Said she got a job here and moved up from the city, but she didn’t mention a husband.”

Scott lowered his head and Maggie raised his chin, drying the freshly cleaned wound. “You’re going to have to keep still if you want these steri-strips to hold. They’re not as good as stitches, but they’ll hold you until you can get to the Nixon Center for proper care.”

Scott bristled at the mention. “The Nixon Center? Are you kidding me? That’s how this happened in the first place. The job Miranda came for was at the center. There’s something wrong there.”

Billy perked up, his eyes wide with interest.

“That’s ridiculous,” Maggie said. “That center’s the reason half the people in this town have any medical care at all.”

“It’s also the reason the women are missing.”

Jack shook his head. “Listen, City. I’ll cut you some slack because you’re new in town and I think that knock to your noggin mighta jarred something loose. Sometimes people want away from a situation. I’m not speculating on your relationship, but I did notice that your
wife
wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Women have gone missing around here, but they’re young, reckless, and have every reason to want to put this small town in their rearview. There just isn’t more to it.”

Scott turned to Billy who had yet to say a word. “Is that your take, too? Do you think my wife moved up here to leave in under a week?”

“Strandville has that affect on people,” Maggie said.

“I was asking Billy.”

Jack spoke for him. “Billy doesn’t have a feeling one way or another.”

Billy tightened his mouth and plucked a napkin from the table. He jotted something on it and covered it with his hand.

“My truck’s out of gas,” Scott said to distract Maggie and Jack. He pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. “I’ll have to get it here and fuel up.”

Jack nodded. “Already taken care of. Towed it down here myself.”

Billy palmed the note.

“What do I owe you for the tow?” Scott asked.

Jack held up his thick hand. “Nothin’ at all. Barely moved it a few feet. When Billy brought you in, we figured you hadn’t come from far. I took a ride to look for anyone else that might be hurt. Found your vehicle in the process.”

“Are you sure I can’t pay you?” Scott asked.

Jack shook his head. “Consider it a favor.”

“Thank you, for everything. I’ll take fifty in gas.” Scott held up the bill folded in half.

“I’ll pump,” Billy said. “It’s my job anyway.”

Maggie taped a piece of gauze over Scott’s steri-stripped wound. “Are you sure you’re all right to drive?” She handed him two aspirin. “You’re still bleeding some.”

“I’m sure.” He chased the white pills with the dregs of the water. He took his time standing up, feeling sturdier and less lightheaded than before. He said another round of thanks and headed for the parking lot. The cowbell jangled as the front door slammed shut. The sunlight magnified his headache tenfold.

Billy stood with his back to the store. His hand was slack on the handle of the gas nozzle and $50.00 had already registered on the pump.

Scott opened the driver’s side door and tried not to be seen speaking. “Who brought me out here, Billy?”

“Max Reid,” he answered. “Same guy did
this
to my face. I can’t talk now.”

“You think your aunt and uncle are watching you?”

Billy nodded a slight yes.

“My wife, Miranda, rented an apartment from an old woman named Iris. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

Another slight nod. “Widow Hinkle’s place. An ol’ two-family on Pike Road. White house, black shutters.” Billy hung the nozzle on the pump and closed the Hummer’s gas cap. Maggie appeared in Porter’s doorway. “Take care Scott, an’ good luck findin’ your wife.” He shook Scott’s hand and palmed him the folded piece of paper.

“Thanks, again.” Scott nodded to Maggie and climbed into his truck. One turn of the key and the engine roared to life. He waited until he was on the road to open the note Billy handed him. He typed Pike Road into his GPS and unfolded the square of paper. It was a phone number and address and said ‘meet me at 9:00.’

22
.

Miranda nibbled the dry, salted cracker. Nausea came in unpredictable waves and confirmed her worst fear.
The pregnancy took.
With her, morning sickness started almost immediately and would only get worse.

Her heart sank and her mind raced with conflicting emotions. Logically, she wanted the whole thing over. Emotionally, she clung to the hope of delivering a healthy baby and proving the doctors wrong. Losing her daughter had pushed her further into darkness than she ever imagined she’d go. She had contemplated suicide, and had it not been for the antidepressants and Scott’s support, she most certainly would have done it.

The sound of an electronic lock broke the silence and startled her. She pushed the crackers under her blanket and positioned herself so if it wasn’t Foster, whoever came in wouldn’t notice the restraints were loose enough for her to get free.

The door opened and a young, Hispanic orderly wheeled in a tray of mush. He kicked a doorstop in place with the toe of his sneaker and pulled in a second cart of linens. She was thrilled not to see Reid, but wondered why they sent an orderly instead of security. They were setting her up to see if she would try to escape. She feared the whole thing was a ruse.
If you run, Reid will catch you.

She weighed her limited options.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” she said. “Can you please help me?” In her experience, men were squeamish about whatever they thought went on in women’s bathrooms. The orderly didn’t say a word. He shook open a clean sheet and pillowcase and laid them over the cart. “Excuse me,” she said. “I
really
have to go.”

He shrugged, the blank stare remaining.

What doesn’t he get?

Miranda kept her eye on the door.

The orderly prepared a change of linens and pushed the tray of gruel closer to her. He wanted her to eat before changing the sheets.

“I’m not hungry,” she said. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

He shrugged again. “No English.”

No English?

He went to untuck the sheets from the foot of her bed.

“No. No.” Her muscles tensed, afraid of him finding the clothing Foster had left her. “
Bathroom
.” She fidgeted to try and make him understand what she wanted. Again, he pushed the tray closer. This time, the edge of it pressed against her chest. He pulled the tucked sheets loose from the foot of the bed as nervous sweat dripped down her sides.

The propped door might be the only chance she’d ever get at freedom.

Careful not to pull her wrist free, Miranda reached to the end of her restraints and launched the bowl of mush at the wall. The brown muck splattered and sprayed the orderly.

He threw his hands up and shouted at her in rapid-fire Spanish.
Perfect.
He wiped his face on the sheets he’d been preparing for her bed.
He’d have to get more
. He pushed the cart of soiled linens into the hallway and, in his frustration, left the doorstop in place. The hard wheels of the linen cart thudded on the tile. His unintelligible mumbling grew faint.

Come on. Come on.

Miranda’s pulse pounded as she listened for anyone else that might be around. Another door clicked,
the supply closet,
and the ranting disappeared.
Now!
It was a split-second opportunity. She slipped her wrists out of the restraints, unfastened her ankles, and grabbed the scrubs from under the blankets.

Her legs ached as she ran out of the room, the increasing pace sharpening the pain in her groin.

You can do this.

She would crawl out of the center if she had to, for herself and the baby. Not afforded the luxury of a bra, she crossed her arms over her chest and picked up speed. The supply closet door was ajar and the orderly’s back was to her. He bent over the sink and washed the mush from his face. His eyes were closed and he grumbled to himself in Spanish. She held her breath as she passed him, careful not to make a sound. Nervousness magnified her nausea, but she couldn’t stop
.

She moved quickly and cautiously to avoid a run-in with security, Reid in particular. Her feet, clad in terry-cloth slipper socks, ached and she struggled not to slip as she made her way down the tiled hall.

Which way was out?

The weight of interrupted sleep, of the changes in her body, and of living on crackers and scant amounts of mush made the short run seem like a cross-country marathon. She turned a corner and heard a loud crash.
A door slammed into a wall.
 She had to get out of sight and grabbed the first doorknob she came to. It yielded and she prayed there was no one else on the other side.

She ducked into the dim and windowless mechanical room and was overcome by an indescribable, putrid stench. Her newly hypersensitive gag reflex kicked in and, if she had anything more than crackers in her stomach, she’d have vomited. Her back muscles spasmed in a brief dry heave and she swallowed the mouthful of saliva.

What stinks?

She found a flashlight on a utility shelf and turned it on.

The room was hot and the smell burned her nose and throat. She cupped her hand over her face, taking shallow breaths, and held in the urge to cough.

A medical waste incinerator roared and the flames gave off a radiant heat that sent Miranda into a full-on sweat. She pressed her ear to the door and listened. The hall was silent. She slipped out of the open-backed gown and put on the scrubs. The increasing heat combined with borderline dehydration made her head spin. She fanned her shirt up and down in an attempt at cooling herself, but the movement only made things worse. The room spun and she grabbed the lip of one of the three covered carts parked in front of the incinerator for stability.

What the hell?

Her hand landed in congealed gelatin. She shined the flashlight to see what it was. Sticky strands like molten red glass or melted cinnamon candy stretched into threads. She wiped her palm clean on the discarded hospital gown and recognized the gore as clotted blood and something like mucus.

No, please
. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from crying.
What if it was Annie’s blood?
She hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something awful had happened to her.

Terrified, she didn’t want to look at what was in the cart, but knew she had to.

Her heart hammered as she peeled back the corner of the fitted, plastic sheet. The rancid stench magnified. A bilious liquid rocketed up her throat and she doubled-over letting the bitter fluid spill down her chin onto the floor.

She wanted to scream, to run, to pretend she hadn’t seen what was inside, but it was burned so deep into her already damaged psyche that she knew she’d never forget it.

A half dozen or more tiny beings covered the rotting bodies of the mutilated women piled into the cart. Not quite babies, the necrotic beings could have been if they were fully formed. Their distorted faces were almost human except for the tiny milk teeth that jutted from their peeled back lips.

She let go of the cart and closed her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks. She held her hand to her stomach and suddenly feared what Nixon implanted inside of her.

Her hopes for a healthy infant turned to dread of delivering a monster.

It’ll never make it
, she told herself.

Suddenly, she needed the doctors to be right.

* * * * *