Chapter 5

"The Cabin"

COMING BACK THROUGH THE DARKENED HALLWAY SEEMED LIKE TWENTY-FIVE MILES RATHER THAN TWENTY-FIVE FEET. MY BODY WAS IN REVOLT AGAINST MOVEMENT THAT BEGAN ABOUT THE SAME TIME I WOBBLED OUT THE DOOR OF THE JOHN. MY RIBS WERE STILL SORE AND THE WEIGHT OF THE BACKPAK DIDN'T HELP. MY LEG WAS GROWING WEAKER AS THE MUSCLES CLENCHED AND SWELLED WITHOUT THE ELASTIC. MY KNEE THREATENED TO GIVE OUT AND SEND ME REELING TO THE FLOOR. I HAD TO STOP TWICE AND LEAN INTO THE WALL TO GET MY BEARINGS. RED SPOTS DANCED CRAZILY IN THE AIR BEFORE ME. I'M NOT SURE IF THE STARK REMINDER OF THE BLOOD ON MY PANTS PSYCHED ME OUT, OR IF SOMETHING MORE SERIOUS WAS BREWING AND MAKING THE PAIN RAMP UP.

THERE WERE ECHOES OF HER VOICE AND WILSON'S VOICE SWIRLING IN MY CONSCIOUSNESS, STILL INSISTING THAT MY PAIN WAS MOSTLY IN MY HEAD. I'D BEEN HALLUCINATING ON A DAILY BASIS THEN, AND THE LEG PAIN WAS MAKING ME CRAZY. THEY BOTH INSISTED IT WASN'T REAL. I WISHED THE SAME AFFLICTION COULD BE VISITED UPON THEM TO MAKE THEM EXPERIENCE IT FOR WHAT IT WAS IN THAT REALITY. JUST SO THEY'D KNOW I WASN'T AN OUTRIGHT LIAR. AT THE SAME TIME THIS WENT ON, I'D BEEN WORKING ON A DIFFICULT CASE AND THE PAIN WAS MAKING A SHAMBLES OF MY CONCENTRATION. I BEGGED FOR A MORPHINE INJECTION INTO MY SPINE TO HELP ME COPE. I EVEN DROPPED MY DRAWERS AND LET HER GAZE UPON THE UGLY SCAR SHE HAD HELPED PERPETRATE. IN A MOMENT OF REMORSE SHE FINALLY AGREED AND GAVE ME A PLACEBO … WHICH WORKED. IT BOOSTED MY ENDORPHINE LEVELS FOR ABOUT AN HOUR. THEN I CRASHED. I'D TRUSTED HER TO HELP ME AND SHE BETRAYED THAT TRUST BECAUSE SHE WAS SO CERTAIN SHE WAS RIGHT.

So here I am again: alone, vulnerable, angry; feeling my clumsy way through a long strange hallway. I exist on the outer fringe of a crowd of raucous, complacent people who don't know me and don't give a shit. Here, in this strange isolated corner of the world … which I already regret intruding upon … I have no idea what the hell I was expecting … not this! … and no idea what was going to happen, even within the next few minutes.

I made it to the corner of the bar, staggering around the end into the lights and the music and the laughter. I leaned against an empty bar stool, panting, trembling; both hands bearing down on the cane to keep myself upright. My ribs felt like somebody was playing marimba on them. The room swayed as I tried to glance around. The bartender was serving drinks at the other end of the counter and didn't see me. Other patrons did, but stared blankly for a moment and returned to their drinks. The sun had set and the place changed to evening mode. I saw colored lights that all melded together in my perception, sending my senses spinning like a child's top.

People at the outside tables had either left the area or gravitated to the inside, and the Calypso music was intrusive. So was the accompanying jangle of noisy conversation. My head pounded, joining into the throbbing trio with my ribcage and my leg.

I looked around at the sea of faces, trying to determine which person looked the most like a "Hooley".

My head spun again and the lights blurred. Music I might have enjoyed at some other time and place became a cacophonous clatter between my temples. I felt the room narrowing into a black hole as my consciousness began to flag … nothing I could do to stop it …

When the fog lifted, I found myself sitting in a chair near the back of the room, off to the side behind a table filled with stacks of paper plates, paper cups, napkins, and other restaurant supplies. It had obviously become a shield from probing stares by curious onlookers. My cane was hooked over the tabletop beside me and the backpak, I noticed, was in a heap on the floor. My hand was clamped onto my thigh like a vise, and the dark red stain had spread a little more.

*What the hell … ?*

"Hello Kyle Calloway. You frightened us for a moment, Mon …"

When I looked up, cringing from the brightness of the lights and the possibility of being overwhelmed by the crowd, my gaze settled on a pair of eyes that looked like two lumps of hard coal. Not the soft brown of Wilson's or the bright billiard balls like Moscha's, but pure Pennsylvania Anthracite.

As my field of vision widened, I found that the eyes were set deeply into a long, narrow face about the color of walnut. His ears were prominent, his lips wide, and the teeth that lurked behind a friendly, curious smile, were long and white and even. Everything below his broad nose was hidden behind a coal-black beard so meticulously sculpted that it might have been part of an ebony carving. He was wearing a sleeveless tee shirt, cutoffs and red sneakers. On his head sat a hand-knitted multi-colored ski cap, and when he moved his head, a little bell tinkled.

I stared at the cap, stared at the rest of him as my vision cleared. "Hooley, I presume. Jingle bells. How did you know my name?"

His smile widened, and I thought for a moment the big white teeth might jump right out and bite me. "I spoke to Amos," he said. "He is the owner here, and the bar tender. And I spoke to Packy, the man who brought you to the island. Packy told me you had gone to the rest room. When you came out, I saw right away that you have a … problem … with your leg. I am Hooley Puli, and my young nephew knitted me this beautiful hat with the bell. It is there because he says I prowl around like a big black cat, and the bell tells people where I am. What can I do to help you, Mon?"

I squinted, head pounding in rhythm with the music of the juke box up front. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about little bells or who was helping whom, or anything else. "I rented a shack on the beach … thatway. Up the beach." I indicated the direction I was talking about by lifting my right thumb. "I need to get there and I'm in no shape to walk. If you can do me the honors, you can name your price."

"Ah," he said. "I can do this for you, Mon. Packy has already put your luggage in my dune buggy. I charge clients by the month, you see. The exchange of paper currency on a daily basis is cause for concern by the authorities. I have many clients."

I stared at him in surprise, which I tried to cover quickly with a sarcastic snort. "Oh shit!"

He blinked at my words, and I rephrased. "You have me at a disadvantage, my friend. I'm a little off center at the moment, so if you're a drug dealer, I don't want to hear about it. Can we go? I … uh … need to do some reconstructive surgery on this mess …" I swept my hand over the widening stain on my pants.

His eyes widened. "Surely you do not intend to treat your leg yourself?"

"If I don't, who will? I can't let it go septic, or it'll be a worse mess than it already is."

"I will gladly treat you if you will allow me. I am neither a drug dealer nor a drug user. I am a Registered APRN. Shall we go?" I had insulted him, but he moved in on my right side anyway and picked up my backpak from where I … or somebody … had dropped it. From somewhere near, friend Packy moved out of the shadows and stood beside Hooley. Both of them were rolling their eyes at the fact that I was acting a little huffy. Each man stooped to grasp me by the arms and lift me from the chair.

The room became very quiet as we began to move slowly, the two of them supporting me from both sides as we began the journey from the back of the room, through the parting crowd toward the steps that led outside and, presumably, to the dune buggy Hooley had spoken of.

Behind us, someone called: "Come back again, Kyle!"

At first there were hoots of laughter, and a series of cat calls. But the laughter became applause and the cat calls turned to shouts of encouragement as we made our clumsy way down the steps and outside.

At the dune buggy's open door, I paused to look back. There were cheers and laughter and applause still coming from the crowd. I realized they were actually cheering the fact that I had made it to the nearest mode of transportation without going on my ass, and were encouraging me to come back. I stared into the crowd and quirked one side of my mouth; the best I could do at the moment.

Packy and Hooley settled me into the dune buggy, handed up my paraphernalia and closed the door. "Take care of yourself, Kyle," Packy said. "I gotta go. It's way past my bedtime. Be seein' ya …"

I nodded. "Thanks, Packy."

"Don't mention it." And he was gone.

Hooley took me on a two-minute ride up the beach in that big orange dune buggy, its color only visible when he turned on its running lights. I was aware that I was hanging onto the dashboard with both hands, and when we pulled up and stopped, Hooley told me to stay put until he came back for me. Wobbly and half nauseous, I had no trouble complying.

I looked around, but everything was black as the inside of a tomb. The only light came from the half- moon shining on the ocean and reflecting outward on sand and some ragged vegetation. The slow movement of the water threatened to make me toss my cookies. I quickly closed my eyes and sat very still.

I heard him start what had to be a generator of some kind, and the next thing I was aware of as the lights came up, was a tight-looking square building on a platform about three feet off the sand. The thing sat crouching woefully beside the spot where we were parked.

The "nice little cabin" rose out of the darkness like the Loch Ness monster. I blinked, focusing my eyes. Was this the place I was paying a grand a month for? A cigar box on stilts? Lights that worked on a generator? Better be a big-fucking-generator! I wondered what might be around there that had come straight out of the Stone Age or across on the Ark …

Hooley came running around the corner of the building and jingled up to my side. "Let there be lights," he said with a lilt in his voice. "The motor will quiet down after it runs awhile. Right now it's pumping water for you and charging the water heater. A hot shower would feel very good, no? Are you ready to go inside?"

I nodded, speechless, trying to figure out how one lousy generator could handle everything he'd just mentioned. Had to be a miracle-worker of an engineer lurking around here somewhere.

A thought popped into my head like a light bulb, giving me an instant case of the giggles:

*Jim, I'm a doctor, not an engineer!*

I know he got me out of the buggy and up the steps to the inside, but I don't remember how. I was close to incoherent. He said I'd had some drinks with he and Packy and Amos the bartender and two old guys at the bar, but I couldn't make myself remember.

Hooley helped me into an old rattan chair with my leg propped on its matching footstool. The only good thing about it was, the pain in my leg and ribs were easing a little and I was almost comfortable. And sloppy drunk.

He brought in my backpak and the two suitcases and deposited them at the front of the room where they'd be out of the way. In addition to my own things, he'd brought along a big satchel that looked a lot like a canvas bowling bag. This he brought over to where I sat and dropped it onto the floor beside my chair.

I looked at it. Then up to him. My eyes wouldn't focus, so I closed one, pirate-style.

"Medical kit," he said, grinning. "I am a member of the medical profession, no?"

I nodded, senses weaving in and out just enough to pay small attention to what he said. I struggled to sit up, but he restrained me with a touch to my shoulder. I scowled a question, but did not protest. I was still weak and light-headed. He could have knocked me down by exhaling a forceful breath at my chest.

"First, we get your jacket off. Then the jeans, eh, Mon? Then I shall have a look at your leg if you will permit me … and see how much damage you have done. Agree?"

I nodded. "Yeah." The trepidation was coming back strong.

*Anticipation of pain …*

I unbuckled my belt and unbuttoned the pants while Hooley removed the shoes in a swift, gentle manner that filled me with instant respect. I hardly felt it. He removed my socks in the same manner, and I felt myself beginning to relax. My ankle was puffy. I saw him touch it and take note of it.

"Lift your bottom half so I can slide off the jeans."

I did as he asked and he pulled them off smoothly. He unzipped his bag and removed rubber gloves, surgical scissors and a handful of cotton cloths in sterile bags. I watched, but said nothing. He snapped on the gloves and carefully snipped away the gel and gauze pads I had used to cover the wound.

I heard him hitch a deep breath when he took in the extent of the old scar and the new surgery. "Sweet Jesus! How much of this was their butchery, and how much was your own impatience?" Hooley swept my face with wide eyes.

"About fifty-fifty," I replied, about as close to immediate truth as I had ever come with someone I barely knew.

He turned back and dampened one of the cloths with alcohol, expertly daubing around the edges of the crater-like scar. "You should not put weight on this for a month, Mon. Perhaps longer." He pressed lightly around the edges of the new wound. "Tell me when it hurts," he said.

I was already holding my breath in an effort not to pull away from beneath his hands. "Kee-hrist! Everything you touch hurts. Big time." I struggled to see what he was doing, and found that the area around the wound was puffy where the stitches had torn through the skin.

"It is no wonder you are in pain," he said. "I will give you a shot of Penicillin to fend off infection, and then one other shot … a light dose of morphine perhaps … to numb the pain so you can sleep. I must rewrap this until the swelling goes down and I can replace the stitches. It will be difficult. The light is not adequate to do it tonight. We must wait until morning. I trust you are not allergic to Penicillin?"

"I'm not. Thank you." I did not mention how eager I was for the moment when he would inject me with a shot of happy juice.

"You're welcome. Now please lie still while I administer the injections and rebandage the wound."

I did as he requested, but still clenched and grunted when that mile-long, goddamned needle sank into my gluteus maximus. The morphine injection stung also, but I didn't make me buck and snort. I just leaned eagerly into the moment as my pain began to fade.

Hooley smiled at my reaction and pressed another square of sterile gauze to the inside of my elbow. Lazily I watched him return to the chair in slow motion with a small pail of warm water; clean sterile cloths. I'd heard him moving around the kitchen area and saw what looked like a small square of Ivory soap. The warmth of the water on my leg felt wonderful. He did not lather me near the edge of the wound which, thankfully, had stopped bleeding. A pipe wrench on metal had told me he'd released some kind of valve to produce water. What was its source? The ocean? Not likely. And why were my thoughts all jumbled up like this? Right now it didn't seem important. Nothing did.

The morphine kicked in and I was feeling mellow. Mellower. Mellowest. Whatever.

I kept dozing and waking; dozing and waking. Then dozing and not waking all the way ...

After a time I realized that the lights had dimmed to almost nothing, and somehow I had been transported to a bed, my rebandaged leg elevated on a pillow, and I was comfortable. I could smell the scent of Ivory soap on my skin and the ocean's tang on the breeze. I could hear waves lapping at the shore. All sounds were magnified and I was floating on a cloud somewhere, riding on the trade winds that blew gently across me …

"Don't put weight on your leg, Mon. Sleep now. I will return in the morning, and we will finish the job then."

The tinkle of his hat diminished, and it made me smile stupidly.

I heard the dune buggy's engine fade into the distance.

The world was peaceful, the big island at rest.

Then silence …

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