Prelude to a Scream (42 page)

Iris set the brake on the chair and folded her hands protectively over the bear.

Corrigan said, “Not only did Iris make it, Ahearn; but because of her, you made it, too.”

The obvious exhaustion and pain in Iris' face resolved into the open-mouthed, fixed smile of the house-sized devil who swallows the train tracks at the beginning of the Tunnel of Love.

“Really…?” Stanley breathed uncertainly.

“Someone's finally done you a turn like the one you did Hop Toy's kid,” Corrigan went on, affecting a neutral tone. “Kind of like, you might say, life has provided a new hero to rescue the old one. To kind of even things out.”

If Iris added nothing to this, her expression revealed less. But Stanley detected in her eye a gleam indicative of — what? Hate? Disgust? Triumph? Rage?

Desire?

“You have Iris to thank for your life, Ahearn.”

“Well,” mumbled Stanley. “Well I…”

If his hospital bed were flying through the dense atmosphere of an unfamiliar planet his bearings could have been no more awry. He managed to utter a thank-you. And he sent a phantom impulse to his gone right arm, telling it to extend its hand and to spread its fingers to cover one of Iris' hands, as well as the brainless head of the Get-Well Bear, in order to deliver a tactile cue as he thanked her, to make a familiar, reassuring gesture. Nothing happened, of course. He twisted his chin over his right shoulder to get his nose out of the way, so his remaining eye could look again at the shallow depression in the sheets where the arm should have been. There would have to be a new order of tactile cues. But was he expected to learn them today? Right now? The audience watched him struggle. What did they think? That an arm gone missing was a ploy for sympathy?

Affecting an uncertain dignity without taking his eye off the bedding he said, “For whatever you did back there, Iris, thanks. That was… a pretty hairy spot I got myself — us — into. I wasn't expecting you… or any… help.…”

It sounded more like a plea than a declaration.

A long silence ensued.

“I thought it was… all over for me,” he finally managed to croak. “I mean us. All over for us.”

Corrigan cleared his throat. “Indeed it might have been curtains, Ahearn. If Iris hadn't showed up those maniacs would have done you for certain. Thanks to Iris you're lucky to have come out of it with only what injuries you—” He stopped. Corrigan looked from Dr. Sims to Iris and back to Stanley.

An apologetic smile flickered over Corrigan's mouth.

Stanley didn't understand it, but the smile was unconvincing.

Stanley covered the void at his right shoulder with the palm of his left hand. For the first time, he felt the stump. It protruded about four inches from the joint.

Right under the call button.

Pocketing his computer Corrigan shook out the copy of the
Examiner
and showed the headline.

SEAL ROCK HERO THWARTS RENAL BANDITS

“Here,” he said. “Let me read it to you.”

San Francisco Police Department Chief Investigator Sean Corrigan announced today that, in cooperation with members of the Oakland Police Department, the gang of organ pirates that has been terrorizing the singles bars of San Francisco for over a year has been “literally destroyed.”

Five bodies were recovered late this morning from a makeshift operating theater located in the basement of the Chippendale O'Hare Columbarium and Mortuary building at 34 Avenida Del Fumador in Oakland. None of the identities of the victims has been released. All five died as the result of gunshot wounds. Three additional victims survived the shootout, all of them in critical condition.

“The revised score is now six to two,” Corrigan interjected.

Police believe an argument among the gang members as to division of spoils from their illicit pillaging of body parts degenerated into a shootout.

Still trying to sort out victims from perpetrators in the case, an anonymous source from the Oakland coroner's office described the scene as “something out of a splatter movie”. Investigators from both the Oakland and San Francisco District Attorney's Offices declined to release further details of their ongoing investigation.

Highly placed sources, however, who spoke on condition of anonymity, have informed the
Examiner
that the successful resolution of the case involves “a brave little lady” who is said to be employed as a nurse at S.F Children's Hospital, as well as a man named Stanley Ahearn.
Examiner
files show Stanley Ahearn to be the same man who saved nine-year-old Tseng Toy when she was swept into the surf at Seal Rock, nearly four years ago. Two months ago, Mr. Ahearn became the ninth victim of the gang, losing a kidney to their predations.

Investigators withheld further details pending the continuing collection of evidence at the scene, notification of next of kin, and a coroner's report.…

Corrigan folded the paper and threw it onto the bed.

“For your scrapbook, Ahearn,” he said, in a voice that would digest bones. “They got some of it wrong, of course. They always do. But, famous as you are, you're probably used to that.”

Stanley opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Close your mouth,” said Corrigan, obviously enjoying Stanley's discomfort. “And be satisfied you've still got one eye, one arm, one kidney, and both cheeks of your ass.”

Stanley's head involuntarily jerked his good eye toward Iris.

She watched him like she was watching an ant farm.

So, thought Stanley, her kidney didn't make it into my back.

Where is it, then?

How long do I have to live?

He sagged against the angled pillows as if the air had been let out of them, and looked straight ahead at the dead television, relegating Iris to the world occluded by the out-of-focus bulk of his nose.

Corrigan shot his cuff and looked at his watch. “The short version. Iris' mother has tickets to the ballet.” He sighed determinedly, running a finger around the inside of his flexible watchband. “Iris talked me into this. I resisted at first” — he shrugged — “then I said okay.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “Since
most
of the scum in this case are dead now, and since you have paid a heavy price in bringing the bulk of said scum to justice,
via,
I might add, their just desserts; and despite certain facts — that you withheld evidence and lied to investigators; that you caused two or three people to buy the farm a little sooner than they might have otherwise — and since I can't prove you ever knew anything in advance about the Ted Nichols guy because, you'll be glad to know, Fong told us nothing. He refused to drop a dime on you. So you got one friend, at least.” Corrigan squinted. “You owe him money or something?” He raised the palm of one hand. “Don't bother to lie to that. I know it's because you saved his cousin Tseng's life. Anyhow,” he clasped his hands, “on account of all these extenuating circumstances, and because Iris here was so persuasive and then got her mother in on it…”

Stanley was taking all this in, but hardly dared to hope that everything seemed about to be swept into the past.

“…On account of all this and I'm worn out and heartily sick of you, and because most of us think you already more or less got what was coming to you…” Corrigan's smile appeared, showed some brown teeth, then went away again. “…I'm not going to prefer any charges against you, if the D.A. lets me get away with it, which he probably will.”

Stanley blinked.

“The story in the paper stands as is.” Corrigan pointed at the
Examiner
. “It just doesn't look good, to be prosecuting a guy who's a hero twice over.”

Stanley blinked some more.

“Ain't that just ducky?” Corrigan added, watching him.

The room was as still as a photograph. Beyond the door and down the hall an elevator arrived with a ping.

“I hope I never see you again,” said Corrigan. But…” He rolled his eyes toward Iris and sighed heavily. “I probably will.”

Stanley steadily maintained his out-of-focus nose between his good eye and Iris.

“I guess that's it for criminal nephrectomies, Sims. For the time being, at least. Always a pleasure, and thanks for your help.”

Sims and Corrigan shook hands.

“Good night, Iris,” said Corrigan, leaning over her shoulder to plant a kiss on her cheek. “You have a ride home?”

She must have nodded yes.

“I'm outta here, then. I always get in a nice nap at the ballet.” Corrigan patted her shoulder and he straightened up.

“So long, hotshot,” he said to Stanley, and left the room.

Dr. Sims watched him go. “Well,” he said, as the door closed. He retrieved his pen and turned a few pages on the clipboard. “Let's see, here.…” He whistled three tuneless descending notes as he scanned a page from top to bottom. “Okay. You going to stay a while, Iris?”

She must have nodded yes.

“Hmmm.” Sims checked his watch and made a few notes on the clipboard. “Shananne will be by to administer the night drill in about half an hour. She can get all she needs off this. Well, Mr. Ahearn.” He drew a few lines under his breast pocket. “Miraculously, you're doing fine. Quite a constitution you've got there. We'll have to make a study of it before you run it into the ground. Maybe we can get a grant. Defer some of these pesky bills you keep piling up.” Sims made a toothy grin, then erased it. “Some excellent help you've got here, too. To have so fierce an advocate as Nurse Considine —” he indicated Iris with the clipboard, as he hung it at the foot of the bed “— you're a lucky man.”

Still Stanley kept his nose between his good eye and Iris.

Sims opened the door. “I'll be by in the morning. Want me to dim the light a little?”

Neither Iris nor Stanley responded.

Sims dimmed the light anyway. “There. Like a cozy banquet for two at Ernie's.”

The door quietly closed itself behind him.

“Oh, yes.” The door opened again. “That catheter can come out tonight, too.” The door closed again.

Startled, Stanley turned his head towards the disappearing Sims.

This brought Iris into view.

Chapter Thirty Two

T
HE DOOR SWUNG SILENTLY CLOSED, AND
S
IMS WAS GONE.

Stanley kept his head tilted. The focus of his eye oscillated nervously between the plane of his nose and Iris' face and the closed door and the dark television and back.

A thin grim smile crept over her mouth. The whites of her eyes were webbed with fine red veins, like suet.

She let him wait.

Something rolled heavily past the closed door, toward the elevator lobby at the end of the hall.

A phantom thumb counted phantom fingers in space. One, two, three, four. One, two, three. One, two. One.…

“When I came to,” Iris began, “they had nearly severed your arm. They used a Stryker saw — you've probably never seen one. Cuts bone without tearing flesh? I was surprised they had it.”

She reflected. “Djell and Lopez. What a pair. Once they had the arm severed they took a break. Did some cocaine. While they were chopping it up they argued about the best way to get the gun out of that woman's mouth without blowing her head off.”

Her laugh was a mirthless puff of air inching a dead leaf along a sidewalk.

“Finally they began by cutting the tape that held her head to the gurney. Then they tried to roll her over so the arm would be straight up over her mouth. They figured this would at least take the dead weight of your finger off the trigger. The two of them, trying to be real careful, both of them holding onto the arm, turning the woman — they were not at all sure what they were doing. They bickered. It being so hot under the light, the tape got even stickier. Blood had run down your arm and all over the tape, too. Everybody was sweating prodigiously. It was difficult for them to find loose ends of the tape, and when they did it was dicey to peel away. That was good duct tape.

“So they slit the tape down the back of her head, along the nape of her neck. But tape stuck to her hair and face, and it still held the gun in her mouth. The dead hand was taped to the gun. The dead finger still curled around the trigger. They were afraid to touch it. There was so much blood on the gun they were afraid to try to uncock it. While they were arguing, it became obvious that neither one of them knew the least thing about guns. The safety, for example, wasn't even mentioned. Guns had been the department of the two dead guys.

“All they knew was it had already killed twice and now it was cocked and loaded and stuck in that woman's mouth. After a lot of talking and some yelling they went ahead with the decision to rotate the arm straight up over her. I don't know why. They told her to turn her head with it. But the rest of her was still taped to the gurney. Her eyes got big and started to blink. She tried to say something but you couldn't understand her. And at some point enough torque developed.…”

Stanley winced.

“You liked her, didn't you?”

Stanley half opened his mouth to say nothing. Just perceptibly, he nodded.

“Yes. You liked her. She seduced your mind or something. Anyway, that cannon blew the back of her head right through the gurney. And all over the floor. It sounded like somebody hit the gurney with a sledge-hammer.”

Somebody slammed a metal door…

Stanley realized that his breath was whistling in and out of his half-open mouth.

“They went nuts, as you might expect, and they weren't paying any attention to me at all. The surgeon went hysterical — straight into hyperspace. He'd just killed his own wife, after all. The anesthesiologist immediately started crying. He cursed over and over again, in Spanish. I'm not sure what it meant.

“The doctor ran out of gas first. He gulped air like he'd surfaced from a deep dive, and when he'd caught enough air he started wailing and screaming all over again.

“Eventually they stopped and just stood there, in shock, silently weeping.

“And there was you, of course. You.…”

Stanley blinked the single eye.
Me
.

“Blood was everywhere. From your arm and your eye and from the woman. All over everything. Before the anesthetic took effect on your arm Djell had actually initiated your transplant incision, so you wouldn't get suspicious, and that was bleeding too. As soon as they realized your arm was dead they quit on the nephrectomy and went right into the amputation. He was pretty good, that guy Djell. I mean, think about it. Your gosh-darned hand is taped to a loaded .45 in Djell's wife's mouth. Your finger is on the trigger. The hammer is cocked. And this guy amputated the darned arm without setting the gun off. Darn, I said to myself, that's a darned good surgeon.”

“Yeah,” Stanley said softly, locking his lone eye on one of hers. “How's your nephrectomy scar?”

Her smile faded momentarily, then quivered back into life. She kept her gaze, however, directly on Stanley.

Loathing, he realized. Her loathing bathes me. Me, the despicable.

Yet there was an aura around the hatred, a backlight. Emanating from what?

Oh, Stanley realized suddenly. Look at that.

Desire pooled the hatred in her eyes like an oil slick around a wreck.

Now, he thought, we're getting the proper perspective. Until now he'd seen or heard nothing that made sense.

But now he could see that Iris hated and wanted him — both. Hated him and wanted him completely, passionately, and absolutely. Instead of fissioning her into a hopeless case, the twin emotions had fused her into a guided missile. No compromise would be possible.

To Stanley, this dual compulsion made sense.

Don't do it
,
babe
, he wanted to tell her,
it's not worth it
. But he was the wrong person to be explaining to Iris the futile cocktail of loathing and desire — he was, after all, a mutilated expert. But while he had plenty of expertise he had no credibility. Trust was not a tent under which he might seek shelter from the gale of her volition. Forever gone was the hour when she might have listened to him.

He wondered if Sibyl had ever detected in his eyes — when he still had two of them — the drive he now saw in Iris'.

Would Iris notice the condescension he now felt? No. She wasn't looking for it in Stanley any more than he had been looking for it in Sibyl.

Her mouth was perfectly caught between a smile and a snarl. The smile made the snarl look triumphant. The snarl made the smile look… carnivorous.

“My scar's fine,” Iris said simply. “How's yours?”

“I don't know. Do I have one?”

“Yes.”

“Is there… Is there a kidney… under it?” He laughed. It was the briefest, most false laugh he'd ever heard himself laugh. “Is there… an aster there? Too?”

She smiled. “No, Stanley. There is no aster sewn to your back.”

His single eye began to water. “Where is it, then? My… Your — I mean… That kidney…?”

She dropped one hand and patted the side of her wheelchair, just over her right hip.

Stanley raised the eyebrow over the good eye.

“Right where it belongs,” she said.

“You
got it back?
”

She nodded.

“How?”

“Sims, of course. Djell might have been okay, but Sims is the best in town.”

Stanley nodded sadly.

She abruptly leaned forward and Stanley involuntarily started. “Listen up, now,” she said, lowering her voice. “We're not finished.” She sat back in the wheelchair and resumed her conversational tone. “It's hard to explain, but they finally
got over it
.”

“Who?”

“Djell and Jaime.”

“Got over what?”

“His wife's death.”

“They
got over it
?”

She smiled.

“They got over it,” Stanley repeated, more or less to himself.

She waited.

After a minute he said, almost inaudibly, “I don't understand anything.”

“True. We'll fix that in a minute. But it wasn't long before they were doing a lot better than you would have been doing, under the circumstances. If it had been your wife, I mean.”

She smiled with relish.

He struggled to avoid imagining what it must have looked like.

Iris opened her hands. “Amazing resilience — the kind that gets people through medical school. Always the first step in dealing with grief, they talked for a long time. And what they decided was, this was the end. The game was over. They were finished. Without Sibyl they were washed up, true. But also, they were never going to be able to get rid of so many bodies. Somebody was going to notice something. There were too many loose ends. Vince and Sturgeon, for example, had families.”

“God almighty.”

Iris nodded. “Just regular guys. So they came up with a solution and called it their Big Casino.”

He saw dozens of playing cards, blowing along a street.

She nodded. “The Big Casino. Based on a quick calculation, and counting the organs of a guy I didn't even know was there.…”

“Ted?”

She looked at him, disingenuously interrogative. “Was that his name?”

He said “Ted Nichols” before he realized that of course she knew the name. She just wanted to hear Stanley say it.

“Counting Nichols, the dead wife, you, the two guys, they figured they had close to a million dollars worth of organs. The money was practically at their fingertips. All they had to do was harvest, deliver, get paid — and get the hell out of the country, straight into retirement.”

“That's incredible,” Stanley whispered. “Impossible. I can't believe they thought they—”

Iris flicked a hand. “Struck me as pretty bold, actually. After all, it was either go for it or roll over and die. So, anyway, they got your arm disentangled from that… well, that
mess
, really.”

Stanley was feeling a little faint. He inhaled deeply.

“Breathe from the diaphragm and you might not puke.”

Though it did him no good whatsoever, Stanley tried to yawn. He often yawned, right before he vomited.

“Try to take it easy,” Iris said. “Lie back. Convulsions won't do that catheter any good at all. But finally they got the gun separated from what was left of her head. The arm comes with it and they've this weird appendage all wrapped in a towel cause by now there's
a lot
of gore. They covered the woman with a sheet. Now. What do you think these two clowns did next?”

Stanley could only shake his head and yawn involuntarily.

“No, really,” she said, tenting her fingers beneath her chin and watching him. “You knew them better than anybody alive, probably. After they got the gun detached from this pulp on the gurney, what do you think is the first thing the one guy says to the other, the very first?”

“I don't know…,” moaned Stanley. “I don't know!”

“
We got a lot of work in front of us. Put that thing with the others
. He was referring to your arm and the gun taped to it.”

For a second Stanley didn't get it.

Iris nodded. “So Jaime lays the arm — your arm, Stanley, your
thing —
all wrapped up in a bloody towel and still taped to the gun, on top of the black guy you killed, who is stacked on top of the white guy I killed, who are both laying on the floor —
right next to me
.”

Now he got it.

“I'm playing possum, of course. Which wasn't too hard. I am hurting pretty bad by then, I can tell you. But there's no accounting for what shock and adrenaline can enable a body to put up with.” She burped.

“Excuse me,” she said, daintily patting her mouth. “Some of these darn drugs…

“Jaime goes back to the gurney, and the both of them stare at the woman's sheeted cadaver for a bit. The husband, Djell, says,
God knows I loved you Sibyl. And I know that you would have wanted us to get on with our business according to our best lights, and mourn you in our own good time
.

“
In Cabo San Lucas, for instance
, said Jaime.

“
Better it should be Rio. She would want all these organs
— and here he sweeps the room with his hand —
put to best use
.

“Now Stanley,” said Iris, “this is very serious. This sweep of his hand — along with the two cadavers and you and the wife and the guy I didn't even know was there yet, the guy in the van — this sweep of his hand included
me
. You understand? This sweep of his hand included
my
organs going to
best use
. Got that?”