Vissile 11

The next morning, Benjamin Orry had a feeling of childish glee come over him. Like when he was small, and he used to become aware of the first day of his birthday month. That again there would be cake and presents and partying and other such delights. And also the solemn responsibility that went with being a year older. It meant a certain expectation, an importance for the future. Then it occured to the doctor to regret that Moxy didn't celebrate his birthday. He would like to throw a party for Moxy, complete with a cake. But it was understandable that the kid didn't celebrate such a disastrous anniversary in his life. Orry made a racket to stifle the feeling of an abrupt change to gloominess that had unexpectedly descended upon him. He loudly flung open the bedroom door, then clattered the window shades up, letting the brilliant sunshine that blasted through the thin mountain atmosphere tumble into the room. "It's morning. All awake that's getting awake," he announced. Moxy lay still where he had been deposited the evening before, in the identical pose. Orry squatted to feel the pulse, then watched the blanket rise on respiration. He grabbed the body and moved it back out to the living area, to the arm chair. "Moxy, you're alive. You have a pulse and respirations, and I know there's cerebral function under there somewhere," Orry grasped a handful of glossy black hair in his fist and raised the face where it had folded, chin down to the chest. Where did Moxy's mind go when it left his body for extended periods, the doctor wondered. He thought that extracorporeal transit might explain the kid's response to benzodiazopines. Or lack thereof. Hard to sedate a mind if it isn't in the body you are dosing. Orry went to the kitchen and fetched a tumbler, a clean towel, and a pitcher of ice cold mountain water from the tap. As he poured out a glassfull and thoughtfully sipped it, he studied the dormant form on the chair. Delicious, that water. Clearly the Stealthy Juggler had supervised its pristine existence. Orry took another delectable sip, then dashed the remainder into Moxy's face. The kid coughed and stirred. Orry leaned down with the towel in hand and dabbed the beading droplets off the shiny hair, then wiped the pale face. The doctor poured out another glass of water and sipped it. The pitcher was large enough to hold several tumbler sized volumes of water. He hoped he wouldn't need them all. Moxy's eyes remained shut. Orry splashed the second glassfull where the first had gone. Another cough and then the eyelashes fluttered. "Moxy. Wake up. You need to start eating something with calories and vitamins and iron and other necessities of life. And I want to tell you something." Orry dried Moxy's cheeks with the towel, and then flicked them briskly with his fingernails. "Moxy, wake up," he persisted. Finally there was a smallish sigh, the kid sat up in the chair, opened his eyes slowly and glanced tentatively around. "How did I get here?" he asked hoarsely, looking up at Orry in bewilderment. "What time is it? I gotta get out of here," he added, attempting a clumsy stand. Orry pushed him back down into the chair before he was half way up. "You're probably dizzy. I wouldn't try that yet," Orry recommended. Moxy groaned and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, "heck of a thing to have a hangover and not even remember the party," he grinned ruefully. "I really don't remember how I got here," he added. Orry summarized "I had you stuck in the ER. But I got called away before your labs came back. The housestaff wanted you to wait. You didn't like that. So they shot you full of sedatives. Which is why you don't remember. It's called anterograde amnesia. Its nothing to worry about. By the way, what a lovely color you are this morning. Kind of greenish-gray with shiny white highlights. "Oh," Moxy groaned this time holding his belly. "Are you queasy?" Orry asked. "Yeah," Moxy nodded, then grabbed his forehead. "Uh. I shouldn't nod," he remarked. "Better start with some fizz," Orry decided and went for a cola from the refrigerator. He watched Moxy drinking this for a few moments. Now that he had the kid's attention, Orry felt an unaccountable reluctance to continue the conversation he had been eager to start just minutes prior. He cleared his throat uneasily. Why was this announcement difficult, he wondered. Looking at the armchair rather than at Moxy, Orry began, "we, I mean I, just wanted to tell you. I mean, to let you know. That we are...I mean. I asked Katya to get hitched last night. I mean I asked her last night, and she said yes last night. We're going to get married." Now Orry looked the kid in the eye, to guage his reaction. Moxy grinned widely, "wow, great news. Congratulations, Doc. I knew you could do it." "Thanks," Orry smiled back with just a hint of triumph. Then his expression went suddenly from jubilation to scowl, "all right. Now, what the hell do you mean, sneaking around, applying to medical school, without asking me for advice? Am I really that awful an apparition, you couldn't come and talk to me?" he asked, towering over the kid. Moxy looked up at him, "oh yeah. Most definitely." "Damn. I'm going to have to work on that. I don't want to scare Katya's kids, you know," and Orry smiled again at that thought. Moxy laughed. Orry declared, "don't laugh. When it comes to medical school admissions committees, I'm the best friend you've got. How many letters of recommendation do you need?" "Three," Moxy replied. "Perfect. That's me, Katya, and Ted Dare. That admissions committee, you'll knock their damned socks off. They'll be howling to have you. You bring the application form by my office ASAP. We'll have you set up in no time for an interview," Orry stated authoritatively. "Could I use your computer. Just to check my mail?" Moxy asked. "Sure," Orry said, "I've got to get ready for work." When Orry returned to the room later, after a shower and a shave, the kid was eagerly clacking away at the computer keyboard. The screen was split in multiple directions, and Moxy was addressing several subjects simultaneously. Orry was about to ask the kid how he got the computer to perform a novel function that the doctor hadn't seen before, when he caught sight of some correspondence on the screen. The top was cut off, the truncated sentence read "absurd performance. Baz despises you, of course because you are a better musician than he ever will be. And you are his audience's favorite, instead of him, so that he is maniacally jealous of you. Perhaps I shouldn't mention this, but Saber has lusting thoughts about you. And he a married man, too. Of course his wife shares his taste in the younger male, so maybe you will make a delightful threesome one of these nights post performance. Now there's a mental image. Speaking of which, last night I dreamed about you and that waitress tartlette you had the bad judgment to mount. I dreamed that I was dreaming about her, and she was dreaming about you. And I wanted to see what you were doing in her dream, so I sliced off the top of her cranium with the circular saw from the autopsy suite. And then I watched her dream like a video recording, right across the top of her meninges. Of course, she was having intercourse with you in that dream. I mean her dream, not mine. It was a nuisance, because the blood oozing from the sagital sinus was obscuring the picture, and I was using my new silk pocket handkerchief to wipe the image, so that..." "Shayden!" Orry hissed, before he could stifle the exclamation. Moxy closed the screen, then silently turned to look up at Orry. "It was from him, wasn't it?" the doctor demanded. "Sounds like he was at your concert the other night." Moxy shrugged, "guess so, maybe." "He's dangerous, Moxy, can't you get that into your head? You need to stay away from him," Orry said. "I didn't see him," Moxy protested. "Rock concert hardly seems his sort of thing. But, anyway, I don't look at the audience. I mean at individuals. Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy might have been there. And a whole row of frogmen, complete with snorkling gear, for all I know. Really. Maybe he was there, or maybe not, for all I could tell you," he concluded, calmly turning back to the other images on the screen. And that was all that could be said on the subject. Or at least, all Orry could think to say. And he didn't want to spoil the morning with an argument. He wanted to savor the anticipation of a perfect future. The first time Bethany Berke saw the advertisement in the newspaper, she read it and re-read it. Then she folded it and set it aside. When she opened the next day's newspaper, there it was again. It certainly sounded promising. But she folded it and set it aside. On the third day's viewing, she cut it out. And phoned Khaz. Her friend said "definitely, send them a resume. Why not? What can it hurt?" Bethany complained "it's probably not even a real job. One of those things where you have to phone thousands of people and annoy them. Or mail a thousand envelopes and your tongue gets paper cuts licking them. One of those." Khaz laughed "maybe. You'll never know unless you ask." Bethany added "and besides, what resume? I don't have one." "I'll be right over," Khaz told her, "and we'll put one together for you." Bethany retorted "no you don't. You have a job, a brand new job. And today's a work day. I don't want to get you fired. I hear that boss of yours, that Dare guy, is a really fierce fellow." Her friend answered "well, this is even better. You come here. I'll keep drawing. You sit at my computer and start typing. I'll toss you suggestions over my shoulder. I've even got software that's formatted to draw up an executive resume. Asks you all kinds of questions. Puts in the right margins and spaces." Bethany said woefully "that's all my resume is. Margins and spaces. Lots and lots of spaces." But she did join her friend in her new office, admiring the furniture and decor Khaz had chosen. Later, when Ted Dare knocked on the door, it opened to reveal the two ladies, Khaz standing and Bethany sitting at the computer, talking very earnestly. "Sorry to intrude," he smiled at them, but remained standing at the threshold. Khaz told him "just the very person we need." Bethany stared fixedly down at the keyboard. She had never asked her fiance what he thought about her trying to find work. She had no idea how he would respond to the situation. But Khaz plunged right in. "We're working on a resume for Bethany. And she's very timid about filling in the details. Wants to leave everything blank. What do you like to see in a beginner's resume? Give us some pointers." "Certainly," TD responded, entering the room and crossing to stand next to them, "what have you got here? Resume software. That'll make for a good start. Then we can go back over it. To see if it's left anything out. The less a person's life fits into a standard pattern, the more gets omitted on one of these programs." Bethany smiled gratefully. Teddy didn't sound surprised or angry or pleased. But rather matter of fact. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, and of course she should be sitting there, trying to pull a resume out of a magic hat. The combination of Khaz and TD finding facts and figures from Bethany's past, reminding her of charity functions she had worked on, projects for the Berke Company, the details of managing her father's estate was very productive. Between the two of them, they had briskly fleshed in a pretty impressive CV for her. "It sounds like somebody else, somebody important. Not me," Bethany stated. TD replied "it's you. Worded exactly right. The language is everything. Now, can I persuade you ladies to join me for lunch?" They accepted. Bethany was in the highest spirits she could recall for the longest time. Since before her father died. She decided she would respond to the newspaper advertisement after all. And send her resume to the unidentified prospective employer. See what came of it. Two weeks later, Mrs. Grandham came into Dare's office carrying a huge mail sack full of resumes. "From the newspaper ad," she told her boss. "Let's hand the whole thing over to the search committee," he told his executive assistant. "Let them sort it out." To himself, he wondered if Bethany's resume was hidden somewhere in the crowd. And what the committee would think when they saw it. Benjamin Orry was having a lousy day. He had been up all night on call. And the one scheduled surgery he had in the morning turned into an excruciating all day ordeal. He had agreed to take it, although it was an oncology case. Not his specialty. But the oncology surgery attending, an older man and very conservative, had judged the case as probably non-resectable. But had offered it to Orry, because the patient was eager to have the surgery, and Orry had been persuaded to have a try. The CT imagery for this patient had not suggested the cancer was impinging so closely upon a major blood vessel. Having opened and got a real time look, they saw it was a very close thing inded. They approached and backed off. Called for ultrasound. Felt less than reassured. Approached again. The more they cut, the less the tumor looked resectable. Should they write off the case and hand the patient over to Oncology as uncuttable after all this? They had burned through an entire shift, and started on the next shift. They had a new scrub nurse and new circulator when they got the vascular surgery attending, just out of his last case, to have a look. Dr. Goldynsteen studied the situation, then asked for the ultrasound consult again. When Goldynsteen decided to scrub in on the case, Orry was glad to have him. The housestaff had been in the surgical suite since early a.m., on their feet in the same position without food or water or restroom breaks for hours and hours. After an all night haul. When the conversation wasn't about their patient, talk centered on the bad situation that had developed with the big city. More and more trauma patients were being air lifted to the Dare Clinic. The strain upon manpower and resources was showing all over the hospital. All night on ER surgeries was becoming the rule rather than the exception. Patients wanting private rooms were ending up in shared rooms for lack of beds. Telemetry was particularly scarce. Sometimes patients stayed in their ER beds overnight and even longer because no telemetry spaces were available on the floors. The surgical cases were taking up beds on medical wards and straining the facilities. The upshot of the whole thing was that the city hospitals were taking advantage of Dare Clinic's welcoming attitude, and dumping anyone they didn't want for patients. The indigent, uninsured, migrant workers, as well as simple numerical dumps. Nights, weekends, and holidays the influx of patients turned into tidal floods. As well as patients whose care cost the hospitals too much. Those on expensive coagulation factors or exotic pharmaceutical protocols. There was an emergency meeting of Dare Clinic's department heads and service chiefs to discuss the problem with the Clinic's Board, planned for two days later. Not soon enough, everyone agreed. Now the next shift of nurses had come and gone and Orry tapped his trauma staff to come and help close on this case. At least with Dr. Goldysteen's help, the resection looked to be a success. Orry had offered to let his housestaff change out before closing. He could tell they were all at the end of their ropes, hands trembling, eyes blurring, cerebral functions beginning to fail. They seemed barely more than kids by Orry's standards. But they all refused to leave, from the chief resident right down to the little medical student standing perched upon a bench near the end of the table. All of them testing themselves, measuring their indurance, side by side with their seniors, telling themselves, if the old man could do it, then so could they. As they all saw the patient off to recovery, Orry shook each one by the hand, and slapped them soundly on the shoulders, wordlessly congratulating them on staying to the bitter end. In the changing rooms, Goldynsteen teased Orry with a half-joking complaint. "I suppose Department of Pathology has a special entree with the Chief of Staff's office lately." Orry growled "how so?" He was in no mood to be teased about his love life. "Your secretary told my fellow that we can't get help with our computer interface bollux, not any time soon. Moxy Youngblood is only working mornings she says. By order of high command. Dare's office, no less. So fine. I'm a jolly well team player. Put my name on the waiting list. My vascular surgery fellow goes in to Path nights to use the electron microscopy set up. He says Moxy is there at midnight, last night. Not visiting, not studying, not eating pizza. But reparing their ultracentrifuge. So, what's the tale, eh?" Orry shrugged stiffly "Moxy must be moonlighting." And putting yours truly in a hell of an awkward position, he added to himself mentally. Damn the kid. Totally unmanageable. Orry stated "if Moxy is working nights, it's off the books, and strictly unofficial." The vascular surgeon laughed "point taken. So now I know where I stand. Bribery is the answer. Moxy's turned mercenary." Orry stripped off his sweaty scrubs. He badly wanted a shower. The shower stalls in the changing rooms seemed designed for dwarves. Orry had to stoop to get his head under the tiled ceiling. The spray hit him about umbilical level. As he turned around under the nozzle, he knocked hard against it and a chunk of grout came loose, spraying wet gravely bits onto the floor underfoot. He turned forwards, then realized there was a gleam of light around the shower head. A large enough fragment had shaken loose, he could now catch a glimpse of the rooms beyond. The ladies' shower room. Chuckling, he turned his back on them politely. Feminine voices echoed through the wall space. At first, isolated words only. Then as some of the conversationalists came closer, whole sentences were intelligible. A couple of moms, comparing day-care facilities in the city. Which ones offered nights and weekends. Praising the Dare Clinic for having its own excellent facility. Then another group, discussing a movie they had seen. Somebody else describing the shampoo she had switched to, what it did for her hair. And then a whole crowd of voices, discussing an office pool. The ladies were betting on the date of an expected event. A baby? No. They were guessing on a wedding date. One of the ladies had been away on extended leave. She demanded an update on the gossip. "Who's getting married?" she called out. The answer came back "the big J." Fascinated, Orry turned off the water. Glued to the spot, he stood dripping, listening. "No! Who snagged the big one?" the woman asked. Then the reply came "cry your eyes out deary. Not even one of our own." "It's the Jam Man and the Gypsy Princess." "Must be those eyes..." "You'd think a big hunk like that would go for a better squeeze... she's so tiny. Scrape his elbows on all those bones." "My old man says 'the closer the bone, the sweeter the meat'." Giggles. "Well, talk about the long and the short of things!" "You think he knows about her and you-know-who?" "Which you-know-who is that?" "You know, her and the kid!" "What? Never!" "Oh yes. I saw them out in the parking lot one night, smooching. It was not a maternal kiss." Shrieks of laughter. "Maybe she's starting a harem... nice work if you can get it." "Moxy will never marry." "He's young. Give him time." "I'll take December 15th on the wedding pool." "Winter wedding. White velvet and candlelight. Very romantic." Orry walked out of the shower stall. Toweled dry. Got dressed in his street clothes. Paused a moment. Go home, he told himself. Get some sleep. Gossip, girl's talk. Means nothing. Serve you damn-well right for eavesdropping. Eaves dripping. Whatever. The kid and Katya. No way. Bullshit. Plain unadulterated bunkem. But they were right about Katya and him. Right she was getting married. But wrong about Moxy. Saw them in the parking lot. Not a maternal kiss. Damn. Double damn. Orry put his lab coat on and buttoned it. Walked toward the exit of the O.R. "Good night, Dr. Orry," the coordinator called to him from the desk. Orry walked through the E.R. Instead of turning toward the exit, he walked through. To the hallway, to Pathology. Just to find out if the kid was working nights, he told himself. Moonlighting Moxy. Mercenary. Hot stuff with the ladies. Midnight Moxy in Pathology. Stellar stud. $100K per pop. Bullshit. Bunkem. Orry would have known about the kid and Katya Borgan. Moxy would have told him. Or Katya. Pathology corridor. An open door. Clanking sounds. The sign said 'instrumentation room'. Midnight Moxy moonlighting. Ultracentrifuge repair. The kid was lying on his back on the floor, with his head and shoulders inside the housing. The front door of the machinery was off its hinges, lying on the floor, with a warning sign in red letters, shining up to the ceiling. "Do not open when drive is engaged!" The centrifuge was running. The digital read out proclaimed 100,000 rounds per minute. Immortal Moxy, the disposable commodity. Use him up and throw him away. Why not? "I thought you weren't working nights," Orry's voice boomed down the silent empty corridor behind him. "Doc?" The kid's voice came from inside the machinery housing. "You put me on the spot. I'm telling folks you don't work nights. Moxy doesn't work nights. But here you are, just the same," Orry stated angrily. "Katya asked me to have another look at it," the kid's voice explained, remote. That sound that said his intellect was not at home. Concentrating on the question. The reptile, the lower primitive brain answers the door. "Katya asked you to look at it! You get your work assignments from her, do you?" Orry thundered. "Katya" it was. Not Dr. Borgan. Never the honorific. Just "Katya". Speaks her native tongue. Chats. Comfortable. Katya and the kid. "You and Katya. You like her, don't you?" "Uh huh." "Think she is all right." "Uh huh." "Think she's pretty." "Yeah." "I mean, not just pretty, but sexy." "Uh huh." The sound of clanking. Tools against the housing. Moxy, concentrating on the centrifuge. Reptile answering the questionnaire. Orry continued "pretty special. Sexy. You think she's a turn-on? Desirable? A good lay?" "Uh huh." "I mean, speaking from personal experience?" "Yeah." Orry clenched and unclenched his fists. "This isn't going to work. They can't keep using those cheap tubes. They leak after they're sealed. Spoil the vacuum. The software is fussy. It doesn't like the extra moisture. Nothing really wrong with the machinery," Moxy slid out from inside the housing. Spots of hot drive oil stained the front of his T-shirt. His black mane of hair stood tousled around his pale face, earnest expression. His gray eyes looked off into the distance, focusing on infinity, the thinker's horizon. He got up onto his knees, then stood with some effort. The right knee gave way and crumpled forward, sending him into an off balance lunge. Toward Orry. The big man's hand shot out. But it was still balled in a fist. It caught Moxy in the face, clipping his cheek, sending him off in a sideways sprawl, spread out on the floor. Orry turned and left. Down the hallway, seething. Storming his huge stride. Past the chemical labs. Techs at work, doing their part to keep the hospital running. Midnight mercy. Recognition. Dr. Borgan's office. Door open. Lights on. The doctor is in. The doctor will see you now. Katya Borgan looked up from her desk, as Orry slammed the door. "What is it? Something is wrong?" she asked. Orry opened his mouth and no sound came out. Vaso-vagal response. Adrenaline. Fight or flight. No good. The big man tried again, a huge effort, hoarsely, "you. And Moxy. The parking lot. Kissed. Sex. With Moxy. You. I didn't know," he shook his head. It was all his voice would give him. Frog noises. Absurd sounds. Not righteous indignation. Not eloquent anger. Not confused loyalties, conflicting power of possession, crushing passionate all-consuming jealousy. Katya Borgan stood and paced. What had she to be angry at? "You think I should tell you. Maybe so. Maybe I would soon. I am old woman. There are many years, some lovers. You want a list maybe? You are not virgin, I think. You give me your list, I give you mine? You want it so? Maybe I know them. Some of your lady friends, so? Is it good, this?" "Moxy. The kid," Orry shook his head again. He couldn't explain, couldn't even speak. "Yes. Moxy. Once. Months ago. Before I am to know you. When he is first-time here. We meet. He is brilliant. Speaks my language. He is graduate student, Ph.D. candidate. He does not wear sign on his chest with age proclaimed, so? I am Gypsy. I predict future. You think I see message in the tea leaves? Warning! Danger! Moxy is best friend, protege of future husband? So? Is it how you think?" she demanded. Orry groaned out loud. Realization came to him. And rational thinking and memory, "oh, gawd. I hit him." "What?" Katya exclaimed. "I hit Moxy," Orry stated. Katya looked aghast, "when?" "Just now." "What with?" "My hand, my fist," he corrected himself. "Where is he? Is he alright?" she demanded. "Down the hall. I don't know," he said. "We go now. See about Moxy," she flung open the door and hurried down the corridor. He strode after her. "Your hand. Is it all right?" she asked him practically. "Screw my hand!" he shouted. She did not slow down, "will you next say 'screw my patients' if they need your hand to work properly in the surgery?" "My hand is okay," Orry stated in harsh even sounds. They came to the open door, the instrumentation room. The centrifuge had been shut down, the housing door carefully replaced. There was nothing on the floor but a splotch. Still wet, not yet coagulating. "He's bleeding," Orry stated the obvious. They followed the trail of stains splattered on the tiles. "Damn. Damn. Damn," Orry kept cursing. "He must be okay, if he is walking," Katya Borgan said reasonably. The trail lead to the trauma center. Inside the door to the E.R., they lost track of the blood drops, amongst the footsteps of people moving in all directions. "Have you seen Moxy?" Orry asked randomly, nurses, techs, housestaff. People shrugged. Shook their heads. Orry pushed his way to the central desk. "Anyone seen Youngblood?" he asked. One of the Rad techs hurrying past with x-rays in hand said "I thought he left a while ago," and gestured toward the front door. Orry with Katya Borgan following strode to the main entrance. Phil Maldonne stood there with a couple of the hospital police. They all seemed to be talking at once. "Have you seen Moxy?" Orry asked the old cop. "Yeah. He came through here. About 15 minutes ago. Or maybe 20. Right when all hell was breaking loose. Bunch of the Dancers came in with semi road kill. Big pile up on the freeway. They sent all the main casualties to us. All of them. This is getting to be old fast," the cop gestured at the ongoing confusion, shaking his head. Orry persisted "Youngblood. When he came through here, did he seem okay?" "Why wouldn't he?" Maldonne asked. "He was wiping his face with a handkerchief," one of the young cops volunteered, "and when I asked if he was going home, he didn't answer me." The other cop pointed to the parking area, "his bike's still here." Maldonne looked surprised, "left 20 minutes ago and his bike's still here?" Orry pushed through the main door, out through the parked cars and hurried to Moxy's dirt bike. He looked all around him, and then he called out, "Moxy? Hey, kid? You all right?" Maldonne caught up with him, and grabbed his arm, "what's going on?" Orry said "I hit him." "Hit him?" Maldonne shook his head. "That's what I said," Orry declared, meanwhile searching the immediate area around the bike. Still shaking his head, Maldonne scanned the horizon, "he didn't walk home. The monitors would have picked him up at the base of the cliff path. Maybe he took the River Road to the lake. A walk to cool off," the old cop suggested, curtly. Katya Borgan and the two younger police officers joined them. "We called for him by the overhead page," one of the young cops said. "He's not in the E.R. anywhere." Maldonne told them "Dr. Orry thinks Youngblood might be hurt, so we need to find him and make sure he's okay. Search the parking area, and make sure he hasn't passed out somewhere between the vehicles. And check the row of ambulances in case he's with one of the medics. Dr. Borgan would you please check Pathology? Maybe Moxy saw the mess in the E.R. But didn't feel up to going home. So he went back to the labs. It he's not there, talk to the house officers. Maybe one of the young docs got ahold of him in the halls. Took him up to the floors or the call rooms." "Yes, I will go right away," Katya Borgan agreed. She was staring at Orry. But she turned without speaking to him, and hurried back into the building. "I'm going up the River Road to the lake," Orry told Maldonne. The old cop agreed, "I'm coming along. It's the only place he might have gone without taking his bike." He had to hurry to keep up with the doctor's huge stride. " Why'd you hit him?" Maldonne demanded. "Lost my temper," Orry stated blankly. "How many times did you hit him?" the cop persisted. "Once," Orry said. "You're sure? Just once?" Maldonne prodded. "Yeah. Once," Orry responded, dully. "Open. Or close-fisted?" the cop asked. "Closed," the doctor made a choking noise in his throat. "How hard you hit him?" Maldonne asked. "Don't know," Orry replied. "Your knuckles sore?" the cop demanded harshly. Orry flexed them speculatively, assessing the punch in his memory. "Some," he admitted, then added "there was blood on the floor." "How bad hurt was he? Do you think he could walk this far?" Maldonne asked. "Yeah. Maybe. Probably. I don't know," Orry muttered. Now the River Road opened out onto the lake. It was a beautiful dark night with just a sliver of a moon. Orry thought back to the previous walk he had taken here. That night he had dreamed of meeting all of those dead people congregating at the lake. He remembered with foreboding that Moxy seemed able to see them, associate with them at will. Orry shouted out loud, "Moxy! Can you hear me? Are you okay? Moxy?" The distant rocks and the forest echoed his voice. Scrambling noises, small animals frightened into the branches and the brush. Plopping noises, disturbed creatures dropping into the water. The wind complaining overhead. The river, endlessly rolling pebbles smooth against its bed. And then, nothing much more. "Come on. Let's head back," Maldonne's voice was less abrasive now, "the Clinic is a pretty big place. The kid's probably found a nice comfy corner to curl up in. Probably half forgotten you were even mad. We'll find him. And he'll stare at us with that dumb, big eyed look of his. Like, what's all the fuss about?" They walked back briskly, turning aside, shouting into the forest on left and right. Orry could not shake the memory of the dead he had seen before, or of Moxy Youngblood conversing with them. As he followed Maldonne through the parking lot, and back into the trauma center, the images of the dead seemed to be there in his peripheral vision. Disturbing images, some gruesome, others just sad and dull. Out of focus, just on the edge of his sight, out of the corner of his eye. They were watching him, it seemed. Maybe they could say where Moxy had gone. Orry shuddered at the thought of addressing the dead. It was just weariness, he told himself. They were not really there. Orry and Maldonne came back in through the trauma center entrance. The confusion and noise had settled down. A different young cop stood on guard. "Anything?" he asked. Maldonne shook his head. Orry sank into a waiting area chair, and stared ahead of him. There was a gray haired old woman wearing long skirts. She sat in another chair against the opposite wall. Her jaw grimly set, she stared back at the doctor. Orry realized that he could see the details of the wall behind her, see them through her. As he adjusted his focus to look directly at her, she faded and vanished. Maldonne picked up the phone and dialed Pathology. "Dr. Borgan?" he said. She told him, "we called to each one of the nursing stations. Paged all of the house officers, every service. He is not in the hospital." "I see. Thank you. We'll keep in touch," Maldonne rang off. Then he turned to the young cop at the door. Speaking in undertones, he said, "you might want to pass the word to the Dancers. Whoever happens to be at the airfield. S. and R. possible MP, strictly unofficial." The younger cop nodded agreement. The next number Maldonne dialed was Dare's, "sorry to wake you, but I knew you'd want to know. Moxy's missing." Orry was still sitting, staring, when TD arrived. They went into Maldonne's office. "Start at the top," Dare said. Orry remained silent. Maldonne began, "Orry and Youngblood had some words. Orry lost his temper. Hit Youngblood. Once. Then left to cool off. Went back for Youngblood. He followed a trail of blood drops on the hall floor which led into the trauma center. The place was a mess with stretcher cases. The front door saw the kid leave. Maybe 20 minutes before Orry came through. The kid's bike is still parked out front. But we can't find him." Dare was standing, pacing. Maldonne was incredulous. The old cop had never seen TD lose control before. "You hit Moxy? You hit him?" Dare demanded, shouting angrily. Orry glared back at Ted Dare, into his face, just inches away. Fists were clenched. Maldonne broke in between the two. He asked Dare sternly, "do you need to leave and go calm down? Or are you going to stay and work on this?" TD looked Maldonne's criticism squarely in the eye with an overt challenge of defiance. The old man blocked and countered, cold and unyielding. And after a moment, Dare backed down in the face of the authority of age and experience, and the undeniable demand of rules in the field, the familiar call to order that Maldonne represented. Dare about faced to the wall, recollecting control. In a moment, he turned again to the old cop, "where have you looked?" he asked simply. "The E.R. The parking area. The ambulance line. The River Road all the way to the lake. The hospital, floor by floor, all the stations, all the services," Maldonne replied briskly. "He didn't walk home?" Dare asked. "The monitors on the path are negative, and we can't raise him on his computer line. I've sent a team up there. I'm expecting to hear back from them any minute now. We weren't between shifts at the time. But he could have hitched a ride in the parking area to just about anywhere." "What about the ladies?" Dare asked. "Called Khaz first. Negative. Then I called Eloise Grandham on the off chance. Woke her up out of a sound sleep. She hadn't heard from him either," Maldonne said regretfully. "Bethany Berke?" Dare asked. "Not yet," the old cop replied. Khaz had accepted a small house to rent from the Clinic as part of her contract, and hadn't been staying with Bethany for a while now. That TD thought Youngblood might be at his fiancee's house surprised a startled look out of Maldonne. Dare sat at Maldonne's desk and dialed the phone. "Hi, it's me. About 1:30, I guess. Sorry to wake you up. This is going to sound crazy, but have you heard from Moxy Youngblood at all tonight? It's just that we can't find him. No. Probably nothing. Try not to worry. If you do happen to hear from him, would you call me? Thanks. Go back to sleep. He's probably fine. Just some sort of mix up. Good night. Me too. Bye." Next there was a knock at the door. The cop from the front entrance came in, "Chief, excuse me. I thought you'd want to hear this," he ushered in one of the Dare Clinic EMTs. The paramedic said "some of us were grabbing coffee. There was some talk about Youngblood being missing. It came out that one of the vehicles is no longer in the posting line that was there earlier. A south county ambulance, Mariette County we think. Nobody heard a radio raise. But they're gone now. Maybe they got a roust over their phone, I mean that's possible." "Mariette? That's way south. Out of radio range. Did they pick up a discharged patient, maybe?" Maldonne asked. The young cop replied, "nobody has been discharged from 22:30 to now. We checked." "Maybe they range the freeway to keep their hand in," the paramedic suggested. "Maybe," Maldonne reached over the desk and dialed the communications center, "I need to talk to the Mariette County EMT service dispatch," he told the operator. During the pause that followed, Maldonne's computer made its incoming jangle. Dare was still seated at the desk, in a position to see the computer screen. As he read the incoming message, the rest of the occupants of the room read his face. It looked grim. He told Maldonne "it's the team you sent Cliffside. The place has been wrecked. Moxy's not there. They're requesting back up. Let's go." Dare pushed through to the door with Orry immediately following. Maldonne passed the receiver to his junior, "you stay with this. Make sure you get a straight line on the missing ambulance. Don't quit until you know everything right down to their shoe sizes. Do you understand?" "Yes sir," the young cop looked openly disgusted at getting left behind. Maldonne tore out after Dare and Orry. When they arrived breathless after the climb up the Cliff path, Orry saw the two Clinic cops from his midnight run through the trauma center earlier. They looked exhilarated with the action. Aching for more. Full ready to fight and die. Moxy's two dogs barked impotently from behind a closed door to the barn, off in the distance.The cabin door stood wide open, white light cutting into the deep Cliff shadows. The main room looked to have the entire cabin's contents spread in chaos upon the floor. The laboratory door also stood open, the lab's scientific precision ruined to utter wreckage. In the middle of the main room, a man sat in a chair, hands cuffed behind him. He looked tall, athletic, old, dignified and calm. "Colonel?" Orry recognized his prior commanding officer with astonishment. "I let your boys take me into custody," the seated man explained to them. "I thought it was the easiest thing if not the best, under the circumstances." "Cut him loose!" Maldonne barked at his men. They scrambled to comply, getting in each other's way. Dare stared at one of Moxy's computers, "take a look at this," he said. The screen displayed some remarkable graphics. Of a shark shredding a headless but still struggling human torso. Intestinal carnage spilled from the torn belly, filling the waves with visceral gore. The screen played and replayed the gruesome image, ending always with a printed message, dripping red that gathered in realistic beeds at the screen edge, "so much for the kid..." The Colonel's dispassionate voice cut through the silence. "I gather that you've misplaced Moxy..."
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