Time of Departure (24 page)

Warily, I asked the obvious question. “Because?”

“Dr. Weaver has expressed some concerns.”

“Concerns? He's never bothered to speak to me about them! I've never met the man!”

“He's been speaking with Nurse Barnes.”

“Gertie?”

“Yes. And with the police officer who visited you.”

“That idiot!”

Dr. Bland cocked his head. “Idiot?”

“He didn't even know about the wreck!”

“Do you mean … the train wreck?”

“Yes! The Amtrak wreck! On Tuesday!”

“Miss Talbot…”

“What?”

“There hasn't been a train wreck.”

“Are you crazy? I should know! I was in the lounge car when it happened! I was ejected out a window, which is probably what saved my life!”

Bland continued as if he hadn't heard me. “I've also been told that no one in the State Attorney's Office has heard of this Sam Grayson person.”

I lay there, staring at the man's expressionless face. “Tell me please … where,
exactly,
am I?”

“You are in room number 202 in the Putnam Community Medical Center, in Palatka, Florida.”

I let out an exasperated breath. “Let's start again. Forty miles west of here is the city of Gainesville.” I looked at him sharply. “Are you with me so far?”

“Yes, Miss Talbot. I am aware of the city of Gainesville.”

I spoke slowly, as if to a child. “In that city, at 120 West University Avenue, is the Office of the State Attorney. There, a truly resourceful investigator will have no trouble finding Mr. Sam—not Samuel, his birth certificate says ‘Sam'—Grayson, State Attorney for the Eighth Judicial Circuit.” I rattled off the telephone number. “Alternatively, if that task is too challenging, someone could easily contact the Gainesville Police Department and ask to speak with Detective Sergeant Jeff Geiger. That's spelled
G-e-i-g-e-r.
Sergeant Geiger and I did not part on the best of terms, but since I
was
one of Gainesville's leading prosecutors until about one month ago, he might be persuaded to admit that he knows me!”

Dr. Bland said, “I see.” He lowered himself onto the vinyl chair, took out a pen, and began writing in my chart. Finally, he raised his eyes from the page. With a level gaze, he said, “Tell me about this train wreck.”

When I was a teenager, I became addicted to a British television series called
The Prisoner.
The series had actually been produced in the late '60s, but it was shown on our local PBS affiliate during the '90s. After devotedly watching a dozen or so episodes, I discovered that only seventeen episodes had been filmed. I remember being infuriated because by then I was hooked. The main character in the series was a former British secret agent. When he resigned from his job, his employers arranged for him to be knocked out with some kind of drug and abducted to a mysterious, isolated village. Although he was given free run of the community, in fact he was a prisoner. Every time he tried to escape the village, the attempt was foiled.

The thing that had really stuck with me was that the village was populated with dozens—or maybe it was hundreds—of seemingly ordinary people whose primary aim was to fuck with his head.

My first thought, as I stared into the piscine eyes of the creepily bland Dr. Bland, was of that television show.

My second thought was less fanciful.

“What time is it?” I demanded.

Bland moved his arm. His unblinking gaze flicked away and returned. “Five forty-two
P.M
.”

“Thank you. This discussion is over. Tell your invisible friend, Dr. Weaver, that I will be discharging myself at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. And please tell Gertie I'd like to see her.”

“Anything else?”

The little bastard's condescending smirk set me off.

“Yes! Whether you believe it or not, I am an attorney! And a damned good one! If you try to put some bogus Baker Act hold on me—you're familiar with the Florida Mental Health Act of 1971, I trust?—I will sue your ass from here to the next century! Now, get out of this room!”

The smirk vanished. He closed the chart folder and stood up. “As you wish.” He left without another word.

Gertie appeared a few minutes later. She was wide-eyed. “Dr. Bland was all red and angry when he came to my station. What on earth did you say to him?”

“I threatened to sue him.”

She gawped. “Wow!”

“Gertie, did you tell him that no one's heard of Sam Grayson at the State Attorney's Office?”

“I'm sorry, Claire. I talked to two people! They said they didn't know him.”

I studied her face. There was no sign of guile. She must have called the wrong office. I decided to let it go and focus on the present. I took a deep breath. “Okay, first off—” I lifted my arm and rattled the IV line. “—I want this thing out. No one's shoving any more drugs into me!”

“Oh! I'll have to call Dr. Weav—!”

“No, Gertie! As of this moment, I'm treating this intravenous line as an assault on my person. Please take it out of me now, or I'll tear it out!”

“Okay, just wait! I'll be right back.” She hustled out of the room and reappeared in seconds with alcohol, a swab, and a bandage. She got to work.

“Thank you,” I said when the job was complete. I sat up. “I would walk out of here right now, but I don't relish finding my way home in the dark. And, I suppose the hospital has a business office that will want my insurance details.”

“Dr. Weaver asked them to leave you alone until you're better.”

“Well, I'm officially better! I'll spend the night here and discharge myself first thing in the morning. I'll need my clothes.”

“They're in here.” She opened a small closet. I could see my jeans, top, and underwear neatly folded on a shelf. “They were all muddy. I sent them down to the laundry.”

“Thank you. That's was very kind.” I peered. “I had a jacket.…”

“Not when you were admitted.”

“Damn! I must've lost it in the river.” I settled back, feeling suddenly weary. “If you see the doctor—”

“You mean Dr. Weaver?”

“Yes. Tell him if he tries to put me back on an IV, or sends some nurse in here”—I looked her in the eye—“to give me a shot in the middle of the night, I'll have him charged with assault and battery.” I paused. “What have you people been giving me, anyway?”

“Just a sedative. Diazepam.”

It took me a second. “Wait a minute! Are you saying the doctor ordered a sedative for a drowning victim?”

“That's just the thing.…”

“What?”

“You were found on the riverbank, but you weren't a drowning victim. You were barely a Grade One.”

“Which is … what?”

“The lowest classification for a near-drowning. Grade Ones almost never end up in the hospital. They usually recover at the scene. The fishermen who found you said you were breathing and there was no foam around your nose or mouth. When they brought you to the ER, your vitals were good and there was no fluid in your lungs. It's just that we couldn't wake you up! There was no sign of a head injury, but you kept thrashing and crying out like you were having a nightmare. After you pulled off your oxygen mask a few times, they intubated you. But then you pulled out the tube, so Dr. Weaver told us to just sedate you and keep you under observation.”

It took me a second to absorb all this. “Okay,” I replied. “It sounds like I was out of it. But as of this minute, I'm awake and alert and a bit pissed off. Please make sure Dr. Weaver gets the message: Any treatment without my written consent will result in a lawsuit.”

Gertie grinned. “Got it!”

“And, Gertie, thank you for taking care of me.”

“My job. Thanks for making it interesting. Want something else to eat?”

“You know what? I'd love a hamburger.”

“We've got a McDonald's.”

“In the hospital?”

“No. Across the street.”

“One problem … Unless my purse is in that closet, I have no money.”

“No purse. But I'll get you something.”

“A Quarter Pounder?”

“Sure.”

Gertie was as good as her word. I'd forgotten how terrific fast food can sometimes taste. Afterwards, I slept like a baby, undisturbed by skulking doctors and nurses, and awoke at first light.

As I washed up in the bathroom and got ready to meet the day, I was already ticking off the things I would need to do to get my life back on track: call my mother; start on the tedious process of replacing all my lost IDs; borrow a key from my landlord so I could get into my town house; find my spare car key; beg a lift back to DeLand to pick up my car … The list in my head kept getting longer.

 

35

It has been said that one of the marks of genius is the ability to explain complex ideas in simple language. Albert Einstein once summarized, in only ten words, the intersection between human perception and the true nature of matter, space, and time: “Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”

According to the clock on the wall in the hospital's admissions office, it was 8:46
A.M
. when Gertie showed me in. Earlier, while getting dressed, I'd found my watch tucked in a pocket of my jeans. It had stopped at exactly one minute to seven—either the battery was dead or river water had gotten into it.

A woman in her forties was sitting behind a low counter. She watched us approach. Her shoulder-length bleached-blond hair, parted in the middle to frame her face, gave the immediate impression of someone desperate to forestall the aging process. But what caught my attention was her makeup. It looked like it had been applied with a palette knife. There might have been an attractive face under all the Max Factor enamel, but it was hard to tell.

“Sally, this is Claire Talbot,” Gertie told her. “She's the patient I spoke to Mr. Aldridge about. The lady from 202.”

“Uh-huh.” The woman gave me a once-over. “Officer's on his way.”

“What officer?” I asked.

“From Gainesville,” she drawled. “They're sendin' a detective to pick y'all up.”

“Great! Somebody must have got to Geiger.”

“I guess.…” Gertie sounded a bit uncertain. “Well, I'd better get myself back to the ward. You take care of yourself, Claire.”

“Thanks. You, too!” I gave her a hug, a move that seemed to startle both her and the enameled receptionist. Gertie squeezed my hand and left. In the corridor, she gave me a little wave before the door swung shut.

I turned my attention to Sally. “You must have some paperwork for me to fill out.”

“Y'all the train-wreck lady, rahht?”

“Yes! I—”

“Officer's on his way.”

“You said that. But what about my hospital charges?”

“Y'all could have a seat.” She nodded to a chair sitting against the wall on my left. “Said he'd be here by nine.”

Flummoxed, I sat down.

That's when I started to notice some strange things.

It began with an unfamiliar sound—a sort of muffled clacking noise. It was coming from somewhere behind Sally. I craned to look. Today was Sunday, so I wasn't surprised that most of the desks were unoccupied. But one lone secretary was working near the back wall. She was typing on one of those old electric typewriters … the one with the moving typeball.

I thought that was totally weird. I mean, who uses a Selectric in this day and age?

Then I noticed that all the desks had typewriters.

My mind tumbled back over the last few days. Vinyl-covered furniture, steam radiators, starched nurses' uniforms … now typewriters! This hospital was taking the traditional approach a bit too far. I began to wonder if it was an accredited facility. How would it ever pass muster with the state regulators?

I was about to get up and start cross-examining Sally when my eyes were drawn to a calendar on the wall above the reception counter. The picture depicted a typical Florida beach scene. The month of March was showing on the calendar page below. But the days were in the wrong place. Today was the first Sunday of the month. It should have been the sixth.

The calendar said it was the
fifth
.

Then I noticed the year.

1978.

What the—?

“Sally?”

She looked up.

“Why is that there?” I pointed.

“It's a calendar.”

“I know it's a calendar! Why is it a 1978 calendar?”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

My mind flashed on
The Prisoner
. Was someone trying to screw with my mind?

If so …
why
?

I lurched to my feet. “Okay, what the
hell
is going on here?”

Sally and the secretary straightened in their chairs, startled by my raised voice. Behind me, the door from the corridor opened. Footsteps approached. I paid no attention. I stepped to the counter, my eyes fixed on Sally. “I asked a question!”

A male figure appeared to my right. Sally turned to him, eyes wide.

“I'm here to pick up a patient,” the man said. “A Miss Talbot.”

I froze at the sound of the voice.

Sally replied with a quick nod toward me.

Slowly, I turned my head.

The man was tall and fit. He was wearing a sports jacket, slacks, and an open-necked dress shirt.

I stared at him, openmouthed.

“You're Miss Talbot?” he asked.

My breathing became ragged. I felt my body sway. Obviously alarmed, the man reached out to steady me. I backed away and collapsed into the chair.

“Miss Talbot! What is it? Are you all right?”

Sally's voice drifted from the background. “Poor thing's bin like that, bless her heart. Doctor's sayin' she's confused. Laak, ya know …
confused
?”