Author's Note: Sorry for taking so bloody long on this one! My internet access, as some of you know, has been severely limited of late. Hopefully the length of the update will make up for it somewhat. ('Ant Boy' makes an appearance also.)
Day Five: The Guardian of the Gate
Dr. Massingale was on the phone with Becca's father. It was ten o'clock in the morning. "Yes, she mentioned a name," she was saying. "Rachel. Do you have any idea who that is?"
"Rachel. . ." said Mr. Jordan. "Yeah – that's Rachel Keller, she was a friend of ours. Well, more of an acquaintance really, but Becca saw more of her than we did. She's an investigative reporter – Katie's aunt, she was trying to research Katie's death as a favor to her mother."
"What did she find out?" asked Dr. Massingale.
"We're not sure. We know she came to talk to Becca once in the hospital back home, in Seattle, as part of her research, but you've seen how she is. . . I don't know if she got any answers after that or not. I think I still have her number, if you need it."
"That would be wonderful – thank you!"
"Hang on – while I have you here, can I ask you something?"
Dr. Massingale hesitated – there was an accusatory flavor in Mr. Jordan's tone. "Sure," she said. "What it is?"
"Back home Becca used to have a screen to walk behind so she could get from room to room without seeing a T.V. She insisted on it – it was the only thing that kept her mood swings in check."
"Oh, that," said Dr. Massingale. "I remember now. I'm sorry, but our Chief of Neurosciences ordered to have it removed."
"Why?"
"He doesn't want us 'fostering the delusions of the patients' he said."
Mr. Jordan sighed on the other end of the line.
"I know, Mr. Jordan," said Dr. Massingale. "But there's really nothing I can do about that. She is getting better, much better. Almost by the minute."
"Good. You'll let us know if anything happens, right? Good or bad?"
"Of course I will. Thanks for your help – I'll let you know if I can find out anything from Rachel."
(SCENE BREAK)
Dr. Gottreich was immersed in a study of the dodgy electronics in his lab. Everything that required energy had gone off in the past twelve hours or so; Paul knew why, but Gottreich refused to hear any news of their ghostly visitor unless it was something to do with luring her to the Pain Room, and so far that hadn't happened.
Paul had bigger problems. Becca's words had frightened him, and he wasn't used to being frightened. Sure, Gottreich could be a mean bastard when he got into one of his moods, and Paul wasn't entirely beyond feeling pain; and there was always Antibus to worry about; but those were fears he lived with daily. This girl had seen his death. Only one person knew exactly what had happened that day, with the fire, and even that one sometimes forgot. Even in death, Gottreich's gruesome experiments took precedence over everything else. The fact that Paul, his unwilling assistant, was bound to him by way of a not-quite-accidental murder, was lost in the details. Paul hadn't forgotten – How could he? – but he'd pushed it to the back of his mind. It was easy without another soul around who knew the truth, or at least acknowledged it. But then this had to happen.
So Paul was in the Kingdom Hospital morgue, leaning against the refrigerated steel wall, moping. The dead of the waking realm were quiet, peaceful, empty, and their resting places were also. Morgues, cemeteries, crypts – those places were safe. Paul would be untroubled here by the haunts that walked the Old Kingdom.
Or so he thought.
A shadow passed the threshold of the morgue, and something covered in thick fur, the size of a large dog or a small pony, came inside. It had a long snout, and it walked on clawed feet with sharp talons that curled underneath. A giant anteater. It padded softly into the cold and quiet of the morgue, watching Paul with small, impassive eyes, and settled itself onto one of the metal slabs.
Paul stared back at it coldly, willing it to either reveal its purpose or go away. "What do you want, fleabag?" he asked finally.
The anteater laughed coldly. "You have such a way with words," it said. Its voice was oddly similar to Paul's, but deeper, more resonant. It was the voice of a being far older than any ghost inside the walls of the Kingdom, older than the ground on which the hospital stood. "I'm curious," it went on. "You've been acting soft lately."
"What are you talking about?"
"All those poor, addled old fools on the ninth floor," said the anteater. "They're getting sucked into a death-trap. Easy pickings. Any particular reason you're not taking advantage of that?"
"I've got things to do. . ."
"We both know you don't have any things to do, Paul."
Paul shot the anteater a reproachful look, but didn't answer.
"What, nothing?" said the anteater. "Not even a witless retort? My, my, you are going soft."
"Why are you here? You don't care whether I torture those folks on the psyche ward or not."
The anteater crossed its front paws in a decidedly human-like gesture. "I have a job for you," it said. "I need you to do me a solid."
"No, no," said Paul, standing upright and turning to face the anteater. "I'm not playing your little game, Antibus."
"You still don't get it, do you?" The anteater made a disapproving noise in the back of its throat. "You don't have a choice. You made your choice more than sixty years ago, and now you'll do what you're told."
Paul glared hard at the anteater, but couldn't argue. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, tension making his voice low.
"Get rid of our uninvited guest," said Antibus. "It's on your agenda anyway."
"Who, Samara?" Paul said with a laugh. "Easier said than done, pal. I know how her gig is supposed to work, and she's not following the rules anymore. Not even her own rules. There's supposed to be a videotape that those nutcases upstairs watched, but I can't find it anywhere. It doesn't exist. They saw something on those T.V.s, but she put it up there some other way."
"How do you know all that, Sherlock?" asked Antibus, unfazed.
"I saw it all, through Becca," said Paul. "I saw it in her mind. I don't think she knows half of what she's carrying in her brain, but it's all there. Every piece, every little detail, like a blueprint of everything Samara's ever done."
Antibus laughed. Paul frowned.
"What?" asked Paul.
"You still don't see it?" said Antibus. "Becca. That's your key. Don't you think it's funny that she's still alive, after all that time carrying Samara's memories? Don't you think it's weird that she's stuck in all this without ever having watched that tape?"
"Well yeah, but—"
"Look, kid, I'm not allowed to spell it out for you. Just think. It'll come to you. But do it quick, because otherwise all those patients on the psyche ward are going to die, and some of the staff too." Antibus lumbered off the metal slab and padded to the doorway. "You have two days." He turned his oblong head back to Paul just once. "It's kind of sweet, the way you're protecting her. But it's not gonna do her any good."
Paul made a face. "What are you talking about?" he said. "I'm not . . . protecting her! I'm just saving her for myself."
"Fine – keep telling yourself that."
But there was a knowing look in the anteater's glassy eyes, fleeting but still there, before it left Paul alone in the morgue.
(SCENE BREAK)
Dr. Massingale slammed the door to her office and put her head down on the desk. So much work, so much progress, and now this? It just wasn't fair. Why Dr. James wouldn't fire that halfwit, Stegman, and put the rest of them out of their misery was utterly beyond her.
Just minutes ago, not long after Dr. Massingale had talked with Becca's father, Stegman had suggested that Dr. Massingale, as a neurologist, might not be an appropriate primary physician for "that Becky girl." He wanted to transfer Becca's file to one of the psychiatrists who worked exclusively on the ninth floor, and remove Dr. Massingale to her dream studies indefinitely. Hook had stood up for her, pointing out the obvious – that transferring Becca to another doctor at this point would be both foolhardy and possibly dangerous – but there wasn't much he could do. The final decision would be left to the Dr. James, the Kingdom Hospital Chief of Staff, but that man was so far removed from the everyday workings of the hospital that there was little hope he wouldn't just take Stegman at his word to make things simpler.
Elmer burst into the office. "Did you miss me, mon amore?" he asked.
Dr. Massingale groaned. "Hi, Elmer," she muttered.
Elmer bent down to look at her, and frowned. "Lona, what's wrong?" he asked sincerely. "Did something happen?"
"Oh, it's Stegman," said Dr. Massingale. "He wants Becca transferred to someone on ninth."
"Why?"
"Apparently my being a neurologist, rather than a psychiatrist, means I'm not an appropriate primary care physician for her."
Elmer made a face and sat down in the guest's chair on the other side of Dr. Massingale's desk. "That's insane!" he said. "You've been treating her since she got here – I thought she was getting better."
"She is getting better."
"Wow. . . Well, listen, if you're going to have more free time, I was thinking—"
"Elmer, no. I'm not saying it again."
"Wait – it's not what you think. I've been having these dreams lately, really weird ones."
Dr. Massingale frowned, but nodded. "Nightmares?" she asked.
"Yeah," said Elmer. "Not always the same one, but they all have some incarnation of that girl we saw in the sleep lab the other day."
"What girl?"
"Don't you remember? She showed up in the data readouts too. A little girl in a white dress."
Suddenly Elmer's pager went off. He looked down at the message and frowned. "Duty calls, my sweet," he said, standing. "Sorry."
Dr. Massingale grinned wryly and waved as he left the office. Next to her telephone was a phone number scribbled on a yellow Post-It. Dr. Massingale picked up the phone and dialed the number. If Becca was transferred again, then the least Dr. Massingale could do was to gather as much information about her as possible before that happened.
After three rings, the person on the other end picked up. "Hello?" said a woman's voice.
"Hello," said Dr. Massingale. "This is Dr. Lona Massingale from Kingdom Hospital in Lewiston, Maine. Am I speaking with Rachel Keller?"
"Yes, this is Rachel. What is this about?"
"I have a patient here, a young girl named Becca Jordan. I understand you spoke with her some time ago about the death of your niece, Katie. Is that right?"
There was silence on the other line.
"Mrs. Keller?"
"I'm here," said Rachel, but her voice came through hollow and distant. "But it's Miss, not Mrs. Rachel is fine, actually."
"Okay," said Dr. Massingale. "Rachel, I'm sorry to bring this up again. I know it must be difficult for you, but if I'm going to help this little girl, then I need to know what happened to her."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're asking me."
"Do you remember Becca at all? Did you speak to her?"
"Yes, but she didn't say much. She was very unresponsive. Just . . . gibberish, mostly." Rachel's words came out a bit rushed, and Dr. Massingale wondered if she was hiding something.
"What did she say?" asked Dr. Massingale. "Do you remember?"
Another pause, and then Rachel answered. "I asked her about Katie. I was trying to find out exactly how she died. Becca told me that I would find out in four days. That was all she said."
Dr. Massingale frowned. "Did you find out?" she asked.
"No."
The lie was defiant and obvious. Whatever the truth was that Rachel had uncovered, it was either too horrible or too unbelievable to speak aloud. Dr. Massingale put her hand up and rubbed her temples, cleared her throat, and tried a different tack. "Rachel," she said. "Here at the Kingdom we sometimes have earthquakes that are confined to the hospital grounds. We have a psychic lady named Sally Druse who works with the terminal patients on the top floor here. Some of our staff have claimed to see a little girl with a bell who appears only when someone is about to die. I myself have seen things in Becca's X-Rays, and in her data readouts, that don't belong, that I can't explain. Please, tell me the truth. I'm sure I can handle it."