Chapter Eight: Reflection (Part 2)

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All the blue chairs were taken. He sighed and resigned himself to a puce one. The smooth vinyl was still softened and warm from its previous occupant. He reclined the back slightly, settling his elbows on the thick armrests.

"Hi, Davey."

He brightened, turning toward the familiar voice.

"Hi, Anita. Nice to see you."

"You t—" she gasped when she saw his face. "Ay Dios mío, Davey, what happened?"

He ran a fingertip over the swollen knot on his brow bone, licked self-consciously at his split lip.

"I had, um, an interesting day at the office."

"Did somebody do this to you?" Anita's hands were curled into small, outraged fists on her broad hips.

"It's... a long story."

"You gonna call the cops? You want me to call the cops for you?"

"No, really, it's nothing—just a misunderstanding." He laughed. "You could even say I threw the first punch, in a manner of speaking."

Anita's tisked incredulously.

"Please, I... don't want to talk about it," he said, deflating into the padding of the chair.

Anita nodded and rubbed at her forehead, as if she could smooth down a perpetually frizzy hairline as easily as a cat's hackles. "Okay. Okay," she said.

Davey nodded, relieved. Nurses were good at knowing when and when not to push. Unlike doctors, one of whom had just arrived, swooping in and swiping his chart away from Anita.

"Hello, Mr... Price? David Price?"

"That's me." Davey glanced at Anita, who shrugged and wobbled her hand in a so-so gesture behind the doctor's back.

Great. A rookie.

Davey dug his nails into the armrests against the uncharitable thought: everyone had to start somewhere.

"You work here at the hospital, David?" the doctor asked as he readied the IV drip, gesturing at Davey's scrubs.

"Oh, nah. I like to wear them whenever..." he plucked at the fabric and gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Well, I guess I just like to blend in."

"Sure, gotcha," the doctor said vaguely, pulling down Davey's collar to access his IV port.

He closed his eyes, drifting as he sat, waiting for the bag of clear poison to empty itself into his blood. He would feel fine for the rest of the day and most of the next, then the aftereffects would hit, hard, and he'd be lucky if he could make it to the mailbox.

It was time to start wrapping things up with Detective Riley and his friend—Harold. He'd been working with them for just over four days now and there wasn't much left to do, really. When he left the hospital he could go and get the finishing touches put on before bedtime, probably. Certainly his client would rather it was done sooner than later, but Davey had insisted upon total autonomy, full creative license. He always did.

Discretion: indispensible. The detective's friend—Harold—had been distressed while rattling off his aliases, some of his friends' names, the details of some illicit project involving a machine—cameras and microphones, sounded like. Horrified at himself, but helpless to stop. Something about the subway and a bear, a Samaritan and saving grace. That was good; Davey liked Biblical references. It showed his subjects were getting into the right frame of mind, he felt. Solemn. Subdued.

He had tuned out the rambling confessions for the most part—this wasn't a fact-finding mission, after all—preferring to concentrate on his work, the flavor and tone of speech rather than its content. His client was interested in pain, specifically that of Detective Riley, as inflicted vicariously through his friend. From what Davey had gathered his client didn't even know or care about this friend's—Harold's—name. And he sure wasn't interested in some machine. It was some sort of revenge kick. A bit boring, to be honest.

What wasn't boring was the extraordinary circumstances Harold brought with him; the pure gift of him. He was tailor-made for Davey's methods, and that made Davey feel particularly proprietary about the confessions. However intriguing, they were really none of his client's business. It was a sort of special, privileged relationship he had with Harold—like with a doctor or priest, Davey felt.

He really should reassure Detective Riley on that point the next time they talked.

He shifted in the chair, careful not to jostle the IV running into his chest. He had considered attempting a similar hepatic artery drip on Harold, but had opted for one of the standard forearm sites. No reason to get fancy, not on this job. It was unfortunate that he'd had to resort to chemically-induced rapid detox at all; he would have much preferred to let Harold's withdrawal happen gradually, organically. The body had good reasons behind its own rhythms and patterns; always best to let Mother Nature set the pace. Rapid detox was faster, but also more excruciatingly painful and the chemical shock alone could cause long-term side effects. It would be a shame if any of those happened to Harold. But Davey's own body's rhythms had taken precedence; between chemo sessions he just didn't have enough good days in row to do everything exactly how he wanted.

The morning sunlight from the window threw his hands into stark relief, shadowing deeply the bony fissures of his joints. He let out a long, soft breath through his nose, which whistled slightly from the swelling. It was even more regrettable that he wasn't at full strength for this job; that he lacked the weight and coordination to do everything perfectly. He felt he had compensated adequately through other means — most especially by taking every advantage of Harold's unique qualities: metal and scars, old pain and chemical dependence.

Thinking about Harold had made Davey's neck tense up in unconscious imitation. He let his head fall back, turning the final steps of the job over in his mind.

There wasn't much left to do, and yet somehow it felt like there was everything left to do—the heart of the matter, some vital thing still to discover. He had searched himself long and hard, worried it was merely a personal wish to draw out the experience, this last and best achievement. Such self-indulgence would have been unprofessional, totally unacceptable.

No. It was something else, something deep. He was sure he'd know it when he saw it.

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