Chapter 2
Doctor Wentworth eyed the puzzle box with the appraising eye of a jeweler as he turned it over in his hands. Tom stood a respectful distance on the other side of the ornate oaken desk.
"Have you ever heard of Philippe LeMarchand?" the Doctor asked abruptly.
"No Doctor," said Tom blankly.
"I doubt you know much about seventeenth century toy makers Tom," explained Wentworth with an indulgent grin, "This was his masterpiece." He set the box on the blotter, where Tom stared at it, half expecting it start moving on its own.
"What is it?" he asked after a long pause.
"Nobody knows for sure," said Wentworth, "But the Lament Configuration has passed through many hands over the centuries."
"So this box has blood on it?" whispered Tom, somehow knowing instinctively that it had. Countless people must have killed and died for its secrets. He could almost hear the cries of the damned through the wooden sides. "Maybe we should destroy it, as she wished," he ventured, trying to ignore the gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach.
"If the stories are true, then it's impossible to destroy," said Wentworth sympathetically, "Do you really believe it can really summon demons though?" Tom nodded slowly.
"I've already been to Hell," he explained quietly, "One that I made myself."
"I doubt opening the box is such a good idea then," said the Doctor dryly, handing it back to Thomas, "But I'll leave that choice with you." Tom fidgeted with the Lament Configuration nervously as he tried to work up the courage to ask a question.
"Doctor, why did you save me?" he asked finally, "Was my life really worth it?"
"I was just doing my job," said Wentworth with mild annoyance, "And yours is to save the souls of others." Tom bowed his head, feeling guilty for entertaining such doubts.
"Forgive me," he said folding his hands on the desktop.
"Don't be silly Tom," said Wentworth patting his hand consolingly, "Now, I'm counting on you."
Later Tom went down to his basement room and lay on the mattress, idling fiddling with the puzzle box. He turned it this way and that, looking for a seam or hinge. Frowning, he couldn't find one; that LeMarchand guy must have been a devilishly clever man. Finally he noticed that the sunburst had a raised rim. He ran a fingernail into the box and traced a circle around the edge. He almost had it….
"Room sixteen," intoned Mike's voice on the intercom, "code fifty-five."
Tom threw the box on to the table next to the photograph of Martha and started to run. Too impatient for the elevator, he ran up the emergency stairwell, taking two steps at a time. The fluorescent lights on the stairwell dimmed briefly then snapped back on. He wondered if the generator was on the blink again as he pulled open the door and ran down the hallway, nearly knocking one of the nurses over.
"Hey!" she barked angrily. He ignored her and raced down to the end of the corridor and into room sixteen. Mike and the middle-aged nurse were struggling to hold Amanda still as she writhed in bed, screaming.
"They're going to get me!" she yelled before coughing violently. Tom brushed past Mike and put a hand on Amy's shoulder.
"Miss Black, listen to me!" he exclaimed, "You were just having a bad dream!" It took her a moment to focus on him and recognize his voice.
"Tom?" she rasped, "Am I…?"
"You're safe," he said quickly, "I burnt the box." Her relief was overwhelming as tears streamed out of her eye.
"Oh, thank God," she said as she slumped back down into the bed.
"She'll be fine now Mrs. Mills," said Thomas to the nurse.
"Wait, what did you burn?" wondered Mike.
"Just a memento," replied Tom. He noticed as the adrenaline was wearing off how truly frightened he was. He started to release Amy, when she seized his arm with a manacled hand.
"Don't leave me!" she begged.
"I won't," he said reassuringly, "Michael, why don't I take over?"
"Sure," said Mike after taking a deep breath, "I could use a break." He inclined his head to the door and Nurse Mills followed him out of the room. Tom pulled a chair over with his free hand and sat next to her bed. In the silence the only sounds he could hear was the drip of the IV and the faint hissing of oxygen.
"I can't stand it," muttered Amy eventually, "I hate being so weak."
"You're stronger than you think Miss Black," stated Tom hopefully. She glanced up at him and squeezed his hand gently. She almost feared his hand would break, as if he was made of porcelain.
"That's sweet of you to say Tom," she countered, "But you're still wrong." He began to chuckle hollowly.
"Maybe I am," he replied, "But I still have faith in you." Amanda frowned at that.
"How can you?" she asked, looking a little peeved, "You don't even know me."
"I knew her," he said with a distant, nostalgic look, "She would be your age now."
"Who is she?" she inquired.
"Martha Winterburg," he explained nodding over to the bed by the window, "You could have been twins." Amy half sat up and followed his gaze.
"She was in this room?" she wondered.
"Ten years ago," he added, "Right after I started working at Saint Matthias."
"And she died, right," said Amy, finishing his thought for him. He merely shrugged.
"I'm not so sure now," he said with a faint smile, "I'll introduce you to her tonight, if you feel up to it." Amanda nodded, with a growing sense of dread. She wasn't so much scared of Tom as scared for him. His spirit seemed to have crumbled until almost nothing was left.
"Let me help you Tom," she said thinking fast, "My way of saying thanks."
"That's not necessary Miss Black," he said hastily, "Your getting better is all the thanks I need."
"Get my billfold out of my purse," she said releasing his hand. He reached in and pulled out a leather wallet, which she unsnapped and pulled out a small card, which she held out to him.
"What's this?" he asked looking down at the card. It had a street address written on it in an elegant cursive.
"Write this down: two, four, one, five, five" she said, "Look in the front hall closet."
"For what?" he asked, still looking lost. But he took a pen from his shirt pocket and scribbled down the numbers.
"The safe," she said simply, "Help yourself."
"You want me to rob your house?" he sputtered, looking aghast. She laughed quietly as she gestured him to come closer. He leaned over her to hear better and she planted a kiss on his cheek. He backed away into the wall, blushing.
"You know, you'd be cuter if you lost the moustache," she said with an impish smirk.
Later on Tom was sitting alone at the back of a bus, making its way along a late afternoon thoroughfare. He was now dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans, a ratty green canvas backpack by his side. The only other passenger was an elderly woman who glared at him warily. When he crossed to the front of the bus to get off, he noticed she clutched her purse closer to her side. He stepped down to the sidewalk and idly touched his cheek with a hand. The bus took off and he walked down a side street.
The street number wasn't necessary since there was only one house that had burned. It was halfway up a tree-lined street, surrounded by yellow and black tape cordoning the area off. The house was a two story brick, with the roof completely gone, the timbers sticking out like ribs in a corpse. Half the windows were broken, the paint peeled away by the heat. He walked up the driveway to the backyard and put on a pair of gloves. He didn't need to pick the back door lock, since it was already unlocked. He walked into a kitchen, covered with soot, the wallpaper half gone, the furniture smashed. He crossed into the front staircase and pulled open the closet. The safe was tucked in the corner, under a pile of singed clothing. He was surprised to find several men's suits and jackets among the women's shoes and overcoats. A set of five pins were mounted in a circle on the front. Within seconds he had the safe open.
Inside were several bundles of hundred dollar bills, a handgun with an ammunition clip and several plastic bags. Each one contained hundreds of pills in different colors, like so much candy. Scanning the brand names, Tom quickly realized that they were all prescription medicines that were commonly used at the hospital. He unzipped his backpack and stuffed the contents of the safe into the bag.
As he turned to leave he noticed a framed picture on the wall. Amanda was in a black dress sitting on a man's lap, both of them smiling to the camera, with his arm around her waist. He was middle aged and good looking, with brown hair and green eyes. Tom guessed from his grey suit that he was a businessman of some sort. With a sinking feeling he knew this was the man Amanda had loved. Of course, a woman like her could have any man she wanted. Well, he decided that was all right, she still needed his help. It was unfair for him to get his hopes up like this.
The next picture over sat in a cracked glass frame and looked like an artist's rendering of the puzzle box. Frozen in his tracks, Tom peered intently at the details. They matched perfectly, the wooden sides, the brass etchings. Sweat broke out across Tom's brow as he pondered the significance of that. Had Amanda collected the Lament Configuration deliberately? Or had this man tricked her?
Amanda was counting the minutes down to midnight. As soon as Tom came in, she knew that she had been right. With his moustache now gone, his face looked softer, less feral. He had also combed his hair back away from his eyes, accentuating his high cheekbones.
"Wow, I didn't recognize you for a minute," she said with a smile. He scratched his head awkwardly.
"Thank you Miss Black," he stammered, "I did what you asked." He placed the bills into her locker by the wall.
"Wait, I said you could have the money," she said. He shook his head as he helped her up into a sitting position.
"I would only misuse it," he said sadly.
"How many years have you been clean?" she asked knowingly.
"Ten and half-," he began before abruptly stopping, "I mean Doctor Wentworth helped me to get better."
"I'm sorry to pry Tom," she said sadly, "But I can read people pretty well."
"What do you think of the Doctor?" asked Tom, suddenly curious.
"Sorry, but I don't trust him," she replied coolly.
"Well, he can help you," said Thomas, "But it takes time to build up trust." She nodded slowly.
"You said I could meet Martha tonight," she ventured.
"See the tree?" he asked, gesturing out the window. Amy glanced over and saw the thin and scraggly grey braches.
"Martha loved that tree," he explained, "I often found her talking to it."
"Can you take me to it?" she asked. He nodded and pulled a wheelchair in from the hallway. He then undid her wrist restraints and helped her sit up. Tenderly, he picked her up and sat her in the chair. Despite that she gasped in pain and coughed heavily. He then switched her canula to a portable oxygen tank attached to the back of the wheelchair.
"Are you ready?" he asked eventually.
"Are you kidding?" she asked, "I thought I'd never leave this room!" He wheeled her out in the hall past the nurses' station. Nurse Mills glanced at him questioningly.
"Doctor Wentworth approved," he stated, "She needs to be more active."
"Well don't overdo it," she cautioned.
Tom wheeled Amy out of Ward B past the elevators and cafeteria. He then turned around a corner down a side aisle. Several gurneys were lined up against one wall and several windowless doors on the other side. He unlocked one unlabeled door and propped it open. Amy felt a cool night breeze on her face as she looked into the muddy courtyard. But the tree in the middle looked sad and twisted. Only a weathered picnic table kept it company.
"What a poor tree," she murmured.
"Martha felt the same," he said, "That the tree was just like her." Tom pushed the wheelchair into the courtyard so she was in the middle. She reached out and put a hand on the rough bark. Glancing up, she saw something glinting in the darkness. Tom pulled a heart shaped locket from one of the lower branches and pressed it into her palm.
"This was hers?" she asked snapping it open. A lock of black hair rested inside, along with a picture of a little girl. It looked just like her seventh grade yearbook photograph.
"I'll give it back to you," he said quietly. She gasped and looked up at him fearfully.
"I-I can't keep this Tom," she said. He smiled in a strange and distant way and returned the locket to the branch.
"I couldn't save her Miss Black," he said wistfully, "But maybe I can save you." She shook her head violently.
"I don't want some Galahad to come riding to my rescue," she said miserably, "I made this mess myself."
"You wanted the box?" asked Tom, thinking of the picture.
"Tony gave it me for my birthday," she began her eyes widening in horror, "He was torn to pieces!"
"I'm sorry," said Tom.
"He was a louse," she added almost casually, "But nobody deserves to die like that!"
"I didn't mean to upset you," he added.
"I'm such a coward," she said hanging her head and looking down at her bandaged writs.
"They wouldn't be able to reach you?" he asked. She nodded meekly as tears streamed down her face.
"I'll take you back now Miss Black," he said. Within minutes they were back in room sixteen, where he helped her back into bed. As he was reattaching her oxygen supply she asked a question.
"What did you do with the gun and the pills?" she inquired.
"I incinerated the drugs and disposed of the gun," he averred, "Nothing can implicate you now."
"If you were smart, you'd blackmail me," she said coyly.
"If I wanted money, I would've taken it already," he retorted firmly.
"You're a strange guy Tom," she wondered aloud, "You're decent in all the wrong ways." He walked over and carefully reattached her wrist restraints.
"Miss Black, you are more right than you'll ever know," he said taking her hand, "Thank you for everything."
"Call me Amy please," she said longingly. He pulled his hand free and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" she demanded.
"I will free you," he said with a creepy smile. She was too stunned for words as he left the room. He stopped at the nurse's station for a moment.
"Mrs. Mills, I need to get something," he explained, "I'll be back soon."
"Okay Tom," she answered, "Don't be long."
Tom took the elevator down to the basement and retrieved the backpack from his pallet, along with the candle and picture. He then went to the break room and out into the courtyard. Lighting the votive candle, he placed it carefully at the base of the tree along with the picture of Martha. He then pulled out the Lament Configuration and began turning it in his hands, pushing in one of the smaller circles with his thumb. A wedge-shaped section lifted up and out before retracting again. Then the every other sunray lifted out with wooden slats connected to each, twisted an eighth of a turn and settled in so that it now looked more diamond shape than cubical. Swirling winds blew into his face and he saw dark clouds gathering in the nighttime sky. A crack split up one of the courtyard walls and rumbled open, revealing bright cold blue light. A second crack opened up behind him. Both led to long twisting arched dark corridors. Grimly determined, Thomas pulled the gun out of the backpack and stuck it into his waistband. Then he pulled the locket from the branch and pocketed it.
"Take me you bastards," he muttered, "You'll find my soul a lot more appetizing."
Far above through a second story window, Karl Wentworth watched Tom enter one of the tunnels and disappear from view. This had worked out even better than he had originally planned, he thought.
"Give 'em hell Tom," he said with a self-satisfied chuckle.