Face-down; odor
of dusty carpet. The
grip of anguished stillness.
-from Terror, by Denise Levertov
…
The roaring adrenaline left him a rush, and sense returned to fill in the gaps.
Too sick and exhausted to turn on the lights, he tossed the atomizer away from himself and sank to the dark, unseen floor.
Idiot. He'd been an idiot. He'd acted impulsively. Careful—that's what he'd always been. Painfully careful. Now he had a dead man and an unconscious woman in his office. And nowhere to put them.
As he put his shaking hands to his head to halt the rising flood of frenzied thoughts, Jonathan wondered if this half-madness, this chilling consciousness, was what being a murderer felt like.
The ticking of the clock on his desk seemed unnaturally amplified in the syrupy dark. Time was running out. He had to act.
Standing, he stepped gingerly over where he knew Darcy's drugged body lay, roughly pulling the mask over his head as he walked to where the light switch waited. There were two switches there, feeling like knobs of bone in the dark; he flicked on only one, bathing the room in a soft, pallid light. Better to face the supple pastels of a dream than the harsh, delineating ink of a reality.
Not looking at the two still forms on the ground, Jonathan went to the gleaming black phone sitting on the far corner of his desk. Setting his mask down on the table, he picked up his glasses and put them back on, once more sliding the world into cold focus. He raised the smooth receiver to his ear and dialed the extension with practiced ease. As the phone rang, he noticed the mask's empty eye-holes were staring up at him, the crudely stitched mouth grinning with a mirthful malice. He turned over the mask and held it down with an angry fist, as if pinning down an animal.
"Hello?" Ingram's familiar, thunderous rumble filled the buzzing void of the line.
Jonathan bit back a vile oath and forced a casual drawl and drag into his unwilling voice. "Good evening, Mr. Valencia."
"Dr. Crane? It's nearly eight forty-five. Shouldn't you be home by now?"
"Oh—working late."
"I see." The deputy didn't sound convinced in the least.
"I—I have some boxes that I shall need assistance in moving to my car, and—"
Ah, lovely. And just when he had thought no further parallels to Amy could be drawn.
"—and I was wondering if I could possibly trouble you to send two of your men to my office to help me."
"No trouble at all," the sonorous voice replied, "We have seven in the surveillance room tonight anyway. Byrne ended up recovering from the flu in time to make his shift. I'll come down there myself and help you out."
"No," Jonathan burst out emphatically before he could stop himself, "—No. Your place is here." He choked on a brassy-false chuckle. "I couldn't—couldn't possibly—have the deputy of security running—frivolous errands for me. Absolutely out of the question. Are Thistle and Glass there?"
"Yes."
"They're the two newest, they won't be missed—send them."
There was a pause in which Jonathan could nearly smell Ingram's redolent suspicion. "Yes, Dr. Crane."
"They'll be back to you within the hour."
Another pause. "Yes, Dr. Crane."
"Thank you, Mr. Valencia. Have a good night."
The line was already dead in his hand. Jonathan hung up the phone and almost started wringing his hands before he stopped himself. Ingram Valencia was a danger to him—to everything. He would have to fire him for some petty issue before it was too late.
He went to the bookshelves lining his office, searching desperately for some distraction. Seizing a random book, he paged anxiously through it, eyes locking on nothing. Why had he given her a dose of the toxin? Why hadn't he left her alone? Why had she come back?
The fact that he had been so merciful toward her, a living witness to his illegal activity, was not nearly as disturbing as the fact that he had let himself see Amy in her again. Even in the height of his delighted attack of her fears, he had veered into the memories he had promised himself only days ago not to revisit. Was his state of depravation so far advanced already? He slammed the nameless book shut, closing his eyes and hating himself.
"Dr. Crane? You in there?"
Muscles seized, pulse raced. He put the book away and hurried to conceal the mask and toxin. The bodies—
"Who is it?" He called out shakily, cringing at the thought of physically dragging the deadweight bodies anywhere.
"Ingram sent us. Alexander Thistle and Robert Glass, sir, remember?"
"Oh." He could explain. He'd picked those two out himself; they were privy to the work going on in the hydrotherapy room. "Come in."
The two guards entered, one after the other. Neither blinked an eye at the motionless human beings on the floor.
"What're you up to now, doc?"
Jonathan thanked the god he'd never believed in for morally corrupt individuals. "The man is dead. He knew too much…." The pathetic cliché tripped off his tongue before he could find other words; the slip was testament to the chaotic state he was in. "We need to get rid of him before the others notice. The girl is unconscious. I—" What was he going to do with her? Inter her? Maybe she was insane. But maybe she wasn't. "—am going to take her to her house." If she came to in bed, she would think it was a dream. At best, a feverish hallucination from being overworked. You collapsed in the office, Ms. Crandell. It was the least we could do to return you home… Yes, that would do. So long as she was out of his life for the time being.
"I can dump the guy," Thistle volunteered casually, wiping his blotchy nose. "I used to do heavy lifting in my old job."
Jonathan realized he'd never thought to inquire about the past occupations of Alexander H. Thistle and was glad of his ignorance. "Whatever it takes. And Mr. Glass? You'll assist me with—"
"With the dame?" Glass leered, "Of course, doc."
Disgusted, Jonathan resisted the urge to feel indignation on his intern's behalf. "Let's just finish this before it gets any later." He turned to Thistle. "You can get him out on one of the trolleys. No one will see you, correct?"
"Sure thing." Thistle hoisted the corpse up over his shoulder. Jonathan returned his gaze to Glass so that he wouldn't have to look into Laramie's expressionless face one last time.
"Hey doc?"
"Yes, Mr. Glass?"
"Where are we taking her to?"
"You will help me transport her to her car, so she'll have her car with her when she comes to. I will be driving her home."
"Could I come?"
"No."
"Aw, come on." The stout man's stupid eyes narrowed; Jonathan sensed a conflict of interests.
"Don't be absurd. You won't be missing anything perverse or immoral."
"Yeah, right."
"Just help me, will you? Or that considerable stipend you've been received along with your monthly income will be significantly decreased."
The other man grunted a dissatisfied mutter of agreement and went after his equally dissolute counterpart to find another trolley.
In the prickling silence that followed, Jonathan finally brought himself to look down at her. Her face was hidden, thankfully, in the limp drape of her arm. There were no empty eyes or gaping mouth to see. One of her shoes had fallen off in her terrified scramble, revealing a pale foot with a soft-jutting ankle extending out from a fanning pant leg. Her other arm was cradled close to her chest, curled inward toward her heart. The curve of her spine was gentle but firm, the best protection she'd had to offer to the sinister, unfamiliar world into which his toxin had plunged her. Dark hair had come loose from its bun, trailing in inky strands along her throat and the floor about her.
Despite the muted quality of the lighting and the impassiveness of his gaze, her hair shone with an odd, faintly nocturnal glow. He could almost imagine how it felt. Like a ribbon, running water-swift through fingers. Fascinated, he bent, hand outstretched to touch—
"Brought the stretcher, doc."
His heart lurched and he straightened with painful speed. "Well done, Mr. Glass."
The two of them heaved together to lift her onto the trolley, followed by her briefcase. Light as she looked, the unexpected heaviness of any human body in combine with the odd melancholy Jonathan now felt made her seem ten times as unwieldy. One of her slim, limp hands hung motionless over the stretcher's edge, and, in spite of his repeated efforts to return it to her side, it would always resume its original wilted position, with the stubborn inflexibility only a deep sleeper can possess. It distressed him somehow to see the bloodless hand constantly return to its place, suspended over the distant floor, so far from the rest of her body, but he knew any further exertions would be in vain.
They rolled the trolley out into the silent halls, one of the wheels squeaking irritably and refusing to remain quiet. As they did so, Jonathan made a hasty, one-handed search of her briefcase, trying to find something with an address on it. Finally, he found an unmailed letter, with her return address scrawled in the corner. She'd probably been intending to mail it on her way home from work. Tucking it furtively into his jacket pocket, he closed her case and continued rolling the trolley towards the parking lot.
He quickly deduced the identity of her car; hers was the only one that was left, besides his own and a few cars in the spaces reserved for the guards. The keys were in her pocket; Jonathan did his best to make their removal as apparently chaste as possible so Glass didn't get any more lascivious ideas. As he should have predicted, the attempt was futile.
"C'mon," the guard whined as they lifted her into the backseat, "Let me come with you two. I'll wait until you're done with her, doc."
"Mr. Glass," Jonathan replied coolly over the screech of the trolley as they folded it up and placed it in the trunk, "I am thankfully unfamiliar with whatever delusion you are under the influence of, but let me assure you that whatever it may be I have no intention of pursuing it myself."
"You're pathetic."
"And you only more so to be in my employ," Jonathan quipped, feeling more like himself now that his reputation was nearly immaculate again, "I promised Valencia I'd return you to him by nine o'clock. Go back to your post."
Still muttering mutinously, Glass left the parking lot, leaving Jonathan alone under the glaring lights with his unconscious intern and her car, which was in dire need of a wash. Making a mental note to fire Glass along with Valencia when he got the chance, he opened the driver's door and got in, practically folding himself up to fit into the cramped space. Checking the address on the letter one more time, he put the keys in the ignition and pulled out of the gated lot. The guard was too sleepy to realize he was driving a different car.
The lights in most of the buildings were out, but the streets of the Narrows were teeming with openly criminal activity. A husky boy was busy vandalizing a wall of the nearby apartment building, a cigarette glowing at his mouth. Only a block away, a drug dealer and his cronies waited under the hollow illumination of a streetlight. A crowd of starved-looking prostitutes eyed the car as it passed, then turned away with languid despair as he showed no intention of stopping. An empty bottle of spirits lay nearby the outstretched hand of a collapsed drunk, clearly too impoverished for the attentions of even the other prowling denizens.
Jonathan wondered quietly to himself how, after returning her to her residence, he would get home. He had no desire to return to the Asylum tonight, even to pick up the incriminating evidence in his office or oversee the toxin's distribution into the water supply. He'd brave the night and take the train. No dinner tonight. Too tired. He would just set his alarm and collapse in bed, return to work in the morning by train.
He knew the city well, even in darkness, but he somehow managed to miss the exact location of her apartment building twice before finally pulling into the subterranean parking structure and taking the keys out of the ignition. There; now he'd just put her on the trolley, claim to be her physician to any who inquired, ask the doorman for the location of her apartment, and—
There was a sudden, rough intake of breath from the backseat.
His hold on the wheel became a death-grip as his eyes flashed to the rearview mirror. She was sitting up.
Everything seemed to freeze for an instant as he struggled to remember exactly what he'd injected her with. She was supposed to be out for at least another hour… it's slow-acting, she's not really awake yet… He knew the details of the drug like the back of his hand, but he found them terribly hard to recall as she looked at him with bleary eyes.
"Dr. Crane?" She coughed out incredulously, voice raspy from the session of screaming she evidently had no memory of at the moment.
"Y-yes," he replied calmly, trying to seem as casual as possible. "Hello."
"I'm tired," she muttered.
"You need to come with me," he told her, fighting not to lose his nerve, "Get out of the car."
He got out and took the trolley out from the trunk and set it against a nearby wall. Its presence wouldn't be missed at the Asylum, and hopefully some transient would pick it up in the early morning for some obscure use or other. Then he helped her stumble out of the backseat, holding her case with his free hand, trying to ignore how she clung weakly to him as her sluggish feet strained to hold her weight. It seemed like hours passed before they reached the lobby of the apartment building, but they finally made it into the brightly-lit interior.
"Can I help you?" The clerk asked with some confused concern as they struggled past the front desk.
Jonathan forced what seemed like his hundredth false smile that night onto his mouth. "No, she's all right—just a little too much to drink. –I'm a friend of Darcy's," he added for corroboration.
There was really no need; he was sickened by the easy way with which the weary woman turned back to her magazine. She cared more for her crimson-painted nails than for her own tenants. He could have been a predator, a rapist, an escaped convict—and she merely stifled a yawn, cracked her gum, and turned a glossy page of her tabloid. Such was the city.
"What floor do you live on?" He asked slowly, patiently, as the elevator opened its doors.
"Four—no, fifth," she mumbled obediently, still showing no signs of having woken up any further, "Number fifty…three. Fifty-three."
Hoping her incoherent self-correction had truly been a correction, he pushed the button and watched the doors close as the elevator began its slow climb upwards.
Her jaw-cracking yawns were becoming contagious; he really didn't need this sort of adventure, what with the other affairs he had to manage in his life. Hopefully, he would see no repeat of such tomfoolery in the near future.
The number five over the doors lit up with a comforting chime and the doors slid open. Recognizing her home environment, she staggered forward, eyes brightening. He had to get her inside before her memories of the night's events returned. Before she became all too lucid and connected him with the monster that had murdered her former fiancé and poisoned her in his office.
Twin rows of luridly green doors lined the hall. Finding the one she had groggily named, he took her keys from his pockets and tried a few of them in the lock before finding the one that fit. The doorway opened up into darkness.
She shrank back against him from the dark with a soft, wordless whimper. He was surprised to see that, even in this half-asleep delirium, her profound fear still affected her.
Wordlessly, he switched on the lights, and her grip on him eased.
"Come on," he urged, nudging her forward. She needed no further prodding; she delicately made her way to an adjoining room, hands shakily gripping any surface they could find to speed her journey. He half-followed her, until he could see that she had stumbled onto a bed in the next room and was motionless once more. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned to go, dropping the keys on the nearby counter, slipping the envelope back into her case and setting it nearby.
"Good night, Dr. Crane," she murmured from her prone position on the bed, voice muffled by a pillow.
Surprised, it was all he could do to mutter back, "Good night."
By instinct he nearly turned out the lights as he left, but something made him think better of it.
Author's Note
'Tis 11:30 pm on a very dark and windy November night… I love autumn. Except for the creaking floorboards and dancing shadows. Those are creepy.
By the way, for those of you who are noticing how goddamned long it is taking for Falcone to 'attempt suicide' and be fear-gassed, sorry! I have to advance my own plot just a wee bit more. Let's pretend that several days elapse between his capture and that episode. For my sake..?
ACleverName – Dr. Who rules. :-)
AngelLust12387 – You'll see what happens when Darcy wakes up… Mwahaha.
Azina Zelle – No such thing as an overly long review, m'dear. Leave as many as you want. :-D
Dai Katana – Your name changes every time I turn around! Eeee! But that's cool. Hey, no one is better than the Beatles; you flatter me! And yes, I OWN Crane! Or so I'd like to think. It's probably the other way around. (glances sidelong at Jonathan, who raises an eyebrow)
Dr.E.Vance – I love you too. How was your Crane-a-licious Halloween? Sorry, that last chapter seemed a little weak to me too; the extensive editing process was why I took the sabbatical. No offense taken. :-)
Eccentric Banshee – Yes, Jonathan eating ice cream…adorable. Especially when he's trying to keep his appearance perfectly immaculate and dignified while doing so. Especially when a big scoop rolls off his spoon and falls into his lap. Hahaha. (snickers at Jonathan, who glares daggers) 'I challenge anyone to read this story and not love it'… Awww, thanks! I do need pens by the way. I handwrite all my rough drafts, and all my favorites are running out.
hornofgondor2 – Aww. Taking off a fic is always painful. (pat on back) There, there. Get back on the horse, we all love you.
Karina of Darkness – It's okay that you didn't read the last chapter immediately. I think everyone was little caught up in Halloween revelry and, by my book, that's just fine. :-D
Not Human – Yay! Keep reading! And posting Lucid Dreamer:-D
Skyler McAndrews – Student teaching? (screams) Eh, it's for a good cause, though, I suppose. Glad you and your dark subconscious are continue to read and review. :-)
SpadesJade – I solemnly swear to keep the sabbaticals to a bare minimum for my devoted and extraordinarily lovely readers… (simpers)
The Nth Degree – Ha! You're the first reader to actually ask me if I'm an achluophobe like my dear heroine… An astute observation, on your part: yes, I am. I've always been unreasonably afraid of the dark, and I slept with a night light until I was like 7. I would still sleep with one now if it weren't so darned unseemly.
REVIEW! I implore you! For Chapter 14 will be arriving soon, in which there is a prolonged stroll in the park…
Hugs and tubs of icing,
Blodeuedd