The Taint (24 page)

EIGHTY-FOUR

The sun was just coming up as they walked toward the truck.

“You want me to take you home or back to the hospital for your car?”

“Can you wait for me at the house while I change?”

He smiled and helped her up into the truck. “Anything you want me to do.”

“Then I’d like to stop at the house. Nathan’s probably worried . . .”

He got in the truck and started the engine, reaching for the microphone to check in.

“Sheriff,” came the voice of Sally Rose. “There’s a body in the middle of the street, right outside. Nobody’s come along . . .”

“I’ll be right there.” He turned to Rachel. “I have to do this first.”

Ranger Malloy was dead in the street, his body ripped open and gutted.

Jon bent down, grimacing.

“My God,” Rachel said, and reached, putting her hand against Malloy’s neck. “He’s still warm.”

“He disappeared two days ago . . .”

“Well, he wasn’t killed until a short while ago.” She stood and rubbed her arms. “It’s cool this morning; if he’d been lying there very long, dead.”

“I don’t like this.” He straightened up, looking down the road, first in one direction and then the other. “It takes a lot of guts to leave a body in the middle of the street—someone could have seen whoever did this.”

“What do you think it means?”

“That he’s getting bolder. The phone lines are down, the road out of here is cut off . . .”

“You think he did that? The road and the phones?”

“Who else would?” He reached a hand toward her. “Come in while I ask Sally a few questions.”

Sally Rose had the office barricaded and they had to wait while she moved the furniture from behind the door.

“I want a gun,” she said when she opened the door.

“All right.” Jon went to the gun cabinet and unlocked it. “Tell me what you saw or heard.”

“Well, I can’t see much from here but I heard a . . . wet noise, like a watermelon splitting open. It was still dark, the sun just barely showing, and I opened the door and stuck my head out. At first I couldn’t make out what it was, there was . . .” she shivered, “steam rising from it and then I could see a hand. I slammed the door and started praying.”

“You didn’t see anyone else?”

“No, and I didn’t want to.”

He took a rifle from the rack, checked the chamber and handed it to Sally.

“Just don’t shoot me,” he instructed.

“It was a good thing you came on the radio,” Sally said and looked at Rachel. “I was about ready to send up one of those flares.” She indicated a box of phosphorus signal flares.

“Hm.” He opened the box and took several flares. “I wouldn’t try to use these without the flare gun.” He looked at Rachel. “I’m going to load Malloy in the back of the truck. Why don’t you wait here?”

She nodded and watched him leave.

After another curious glance, Sally turned and went back into the dispatch office.

Jon had left the gun cabinet unlocked, and there, on a side shelf, was the copper box.

She crossed quickly to the cabinet and took the box out. Keeping her back to the door to block her actions from view, she opened the ornate lid and looked inside. She hadn’t seen it at the shack nor did she have a clue from her dream as to what was in it but she was only moderately surprised at the thick wad of bills. The money didn’t interest her, though, and she pulled out the small black book.

She could hear Jon coming back to the office and she pocketed the book, closing the box and shoving it into the cabinet. She was several steps away when the door opened.

“All right,” he said, “let’s get out of here.” He saw the cabinet still open and went to close it, pulling the flare gun out as he did so.

“Now you come in,” she said when they arrived at Nathan’s house.

“Don’t you think this could be awkward?”

“Only if you let it.” She got out and started up the stairs and he followed slowly.

The house was quiet and dark and Rachel hurried up the stairs to her room. Once inside she took out the notebook and glanced through the pages. Nothing struck her immediately, so she quickly changed into fresh clothes.

“Just one minute while I look in on him,” she called down the stairway and then tapped on Nathan’s door.

Joyce was asleep in a chair but Nathan’s eyes opened as she came near.

“How do you feel?” she whispered, and kissed his cheek.

“I’d have to die to get better,” he grumbled.

“Let me see your arm.”

He complied and she touched gently, her fingers moving along the length of the wound.

“It looks a little better,” she said. “Nathan, I have a question for you. What do you know about Serotonin?”

He hesitated. “It’s funny you should ask.”

“Why?”

“Yesterday, while I was being kept here against my will, I came across a study on the effects of Serotonin deficiency on patients suffering from depression.”

“Which was?”

“It seemed to increase the severity of the depression, increase suicidal acts, and . . . acts of aggression.”

Rachel nodded slowly.

“What are you thinking?” Nathan watched her closely.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, patting his hand. “But you’ve been a great help.”

She kissed him again and turned to leave.

“Rachel,” he called as she reached the door. “Be careful . . .”

“I will be.”

Jon was standing in the living room, looking at the pictures on the wall.

“Everything all right?” he asked when she came into the room.

“I think . . . I just might have an answer for what’s been going on,” she said and looked at her own image behind glass.

She was silent as they drove toward the hospital, her mind evaluating the direction of her speculation. If she was right . . .

It would explain a lot of things.

He put his hand on her arm as she started to get out of the truck.

“I want you to make sure that the hospital is locked up. Doors, windows . . . use the radio if you need to reach me.”

“What about Malloy’s body?” She looked into the back at the shrouded form.

“Ah . . . right.” He switched off the engine. “I’m getting a little tired of all these bodies.” He smiled at her but she was lost in thought, looking toward the woods.

EIGHTY-FIVE

She went directly to the lab and began to search for the syringe full of serum, opening all of the drawers and running her hands along the insides, pushing papers up and out of the way.

She should have just asked him where it was but she didn’t want him to know what she was planning to do. She was not even sure that she could explain to him the rationale for her thinking.

A wild guess, perhaps.

A gut feeling that it had started with the man in the shack.

She finished with the drawers, having found nothing, and turned to the glass cabinets, looking around for something to stand on so she could see the back of the shelves. She found a cardboard box full of scratchpads and pushed it across the floor.

Just barely. Her eyes scanned the shelves. Still nothing. She turned and surveyed the room, trying to imagine where Nathan would put something he wouldn’t want found.

Of course, it would need refrigeration. She was more tired than she thought.

She opened the door to the small refrigerator and knelt in front of it, moving bottles to the sides. There it was: clear fluid in a capped syringe. It was labeled “Blood serum—Tyler.”

She held it in the palm of her hand.

There was only one way to find out.

There was only a small amount of blood left to test and she took the vial and squirted half a cc of serum into it.

And waited.

If she was right, the thick blood would react to the serum. Something out of science fiction.

She drew a small amount of the blood-serum mixture into a fresh syringe and squeezed a few drops onto a glass slide, which she placed under the microscope lens.

She watched as the red blood cells imploded, falling inward on themselves. She sat back, shocked.

It was not possible.

She was turning the vial of blood in her hands, mind working furiously, when she heard the commotion in the hall.

“Dr. Adams,” Emma burst through the door. “It’s Nora Mae.”

Nora was very still on the gurney, her eyes closed and breathing very shallowly.

“She just walked in,” Emma said.

“Nora,” Rachel said, and touched the woman’s thin arm.

Her eyes opened and she turned her head toward Rachel, and attempted a smile.

“How do you feel?”

The voice was raspy and weak. “I came back,” she said.

“We’re all glad you did. We’ve been worrying about you.

“No need.”

“Where did you go?” Emma asked. “There’ve been men out looking for you . . .”

“Right under their noses.” The smile was better this time. “But they didn’t see me.”

Rachel exchanged a look with Emma.

“We’re going to take you back to your room,” Rachel said, “and then you can tell us all about it.”

They settled her into the bed, removing her stained dress and underclothes. She smelled slightly sour and Emma washed her, dismayed by the obvious deterioration of her body. Soft skin, wrinkled and spotted, hung on her bones, her ribcage prominently delineated.

She was able to take some apple juice by mouth and then, satisfied, she lay back.

“Tell me,” Rachel said, sitting next to the bed and holding the woman’s small bony hand.

Nora looked at her sideways and her mouth twitched.

“Nora, why did you run away?” Rachel kept her voice soft and for a moment she thought that the old woman hadn’t heard.

“Someone is out there,” Nora rasped.

“And you knew before any of us.”

“I knew.” Her head turned so one eye could see Rachel.

“You told Tina Cruz that her husband was dead before anyone else knew it.”

“And . . . I warned Reverend Frey.”

Startled, Rachel stood up so she could see Nora’s face. “How do you know these things?”

“I see things sometimes. I tell people,” she gasped and a moment passed before she could continue. “They don’t believe me.”

“But you try to help them . . .”

“Some can’t be helped.” The eyes began to close.

“Nora, can you help me?”

“He’s still out there.”

“Do you know his name?”

She shook her head. “I don’t always know names.”

“What else can you tell me? How did all this start?”

“You’ve got him here,” Nora said, and coughed, her body wracked with spasms.

“The man in the shack?”

A barely perceptible nod.

Rachel leaned toward her. “You can tell me,” she said.

“You’ll know, soon.” Her voice was getting weaker.

“Please, tell me. What can I do?”

“You’ll know when the time comes,” Nora said.

Rachel watched her for a few minutes until she fell asleep.

Emma was waiting outside. “How is she?”

“Weak.”

“She told me . . . she came back to die.”

She stood just inside the door of Wendall Tyler’s room.

His condition had improved markedly. His temperature was ninety-nine point two, blood pressure 120 over 70, pulse and respiration normal.

It was frustrating.

Somewhere in his mind was an answer. He could not tell her—just as Nora would not.

She wanted to hypnotize him again, to delve into the secrets behind those closed eyes.

Before anyone else lost their life.

She had sent the deputy on an errand, to find something which wasn’t where she’d told him it would be.

She didn’t have very much time.

“Mr. Tyler, I want to know if you can hear me . . . open your eyes.”

His eyes opened but he stared straight ahead.

“Mr. Tyler, listen to me . . . A . . . B . . . C . . .”

She could see the relaxation in his body as his eyes closed again, his breathing deep and even.

“It’s very important that you listen to my voice. I’m going to take you back in time, back before the accident . . .” His face tensed suddenly. “Mr. Tyler, listen to my voice, you are completely relaxed, you are deeply asleep, and when you go back, it is only a dream. Only a dream and it can’t hurt you . . . nothing can hurt you.”

She looked at the small observation window; half-expecting to see a face looking in at her but there was no one.

“I want you to tell me, about your dream. All the pain that you remember in the dream is locked up, now, it’s in another room and there’s no way the pain can get to you. You can tell me the dream without being frightened, and without any pain. You are safe and I am with you. Do you feel safe? Nod your head if you understand me and you feel safe.”

She held her breath until he slowly nodded.

“Tell me about the dream, Mr. Tyler.”

There was a long pause.

“Louisa,” he said.

“Tell me the dream about Louisa.”

“She . . . wanted to look . . . for pine cones. We stopped.” His face changed, the corners of his mouth turning down.

“Go on,” she prompted, again looking at the door.

“Louisa . . . no . . . please?”

“Mr. Tyler, listen to me, you are safe and nothing can hurt you . . .”

“But Louisa! He’s got her . . .” Agony contorted his features.

“Don’t look at Louisa, look at him, tell me what he looks like . . .”

“No . . . no . . .” Tears rolled down his face.

“Listen to my voice. You are asleep and you are relaxed. The pain is gone . . .” She watched his face, looking for a sign that he was going deeper under but his features were grief-stricken. “Mr. Tyler, you must listen to me, it’s the only way I can help you. Look only at the man. Only at his face . . .”

“I can’t see his face.” His voice was marginally calmer.

“Then tell me what you can see,” she insisted.

“He’s . . . wearing a uniform . . .” He gasped and lunged forward. “His hands . . . on her throat . . . I can’t move . . . I can’t stop him, he . . . he . . . the sound, my God, the sound . . .”

“Mr. Tyler, one . . . two . . .” he was coming up, “You will feel very relaxed and very good . . . three.”

For a moment he stared straight ahead and then his eyes closed. Within seconds he was asleep.

When the deputy returned she apologized profusely for having sent him for something she just remembered she’d left at home. On the way out she looked back at him, at the uniform he wore.

She sat at the nurse’s station while Emma went down to unlock the Emergency door for the cook.

It wasn’t coming together.

She drew circles on the back of a vitals sheet, letting her mind work.

The man in the shack had some type of virus which acted on the chemical balance of the brain, possibly destroying the Serotonin. Without it, the brain became over-stimulated, producing depression, suicidal impulses and aggressive behavior.

For some reason, certain victims, like Amanda Frey and the man in the uniform, became dangerously aggressive and impulsive, while others, like Franklin Dunn and Laura Gentry only became destructive to themselves.

Of course, Amanda received the blood containing the virus directly . . .

She sat up, breaking the point of the pencil.

“That’s it . . .” She got to her feet and started down the hall to the lab. The man could have received the blood by transfusion also.

If the phones were working, she would just call Nathan and ask. Emma . . . even if Emma could tell her who else had received blood within the past two weeks, and there couldn’t be that many who had, it wouldn’t mean anything unless it was the same donor.

She ran the rest of the way.

She flipped through the pink slips, her eyes scanning the donor identification line.

“Eighty-two, eighty-two . . .” There were several slips for Amanda Frey and she put them aside.

And there it was, Donor number 82-563.

Recipient, Daniel Hudson. Administered on the day that Louisa Ann Tyler had been killed.

She had to get this information to Jon. Something about the name was familiar but only vaguely.

She damned the phones once again and as she started down the hall to use the radio, the lights dimmed and went out.