Lost Girls (44 page)

''The boy's been asking for you,'' he states flatly as I step out of the Lincoln and attempt to pass him on the way inside.

''The nurse called me. That's why I'm here.''

''I didn't know you'd made such close friends among the teenaged subculture of our town, Mr. Crane.''

''Not sure I know what you mean.''

''People have seen you about, haven't they? Hanging out with the kids at the doughnut shop. Mooning round the high school halls. And now wee Laird's using his one phone call on you.''

''It's a real mystery, isn't it, Doctor? But obviously the best minds of Murdoch are on the case, so I'm sure you'll have everything figured out soon.''

He gives me the slow up-and-down that's meant to communicate suspicion rather than read any signs I might be showing.

''End of the hall,'' he says after he's taken all of me and the remainder of his cigarette in.

Laird's room no larger than a walk-in closet but at least he has it all to himself: the subterranean clangs within the heating vent that lolls out tongues of gaseous heat, the nylon roses set in a coffee mug on the bedside table, the window screen with a hole at the bottom as though a fist had been plunged neatly through. And the patient himself. A bony extraterrestrial under the single sheet.

''How you doing there, Laird?''

''How's it look?''

''Not too damn good.''

''Sounds about right.''

There's no sign of physical injury outside of the IV tubes and ECG beeping out the truth of his mortal condition. The room's size forces me to stand closer to him than I'd prefer, however. I could reach down and take the banana-peel skin of his hand in mine without moving forward another step.

''All this has a certain self-inflicted look to it,'' I say.

''And you'd be correct.''

''What's your poison?''

''Acid. Rolled up a sheet of blotter and kind of ate the whole thing,'' he laughs, shoots a tail of mucus out his nose. ''Then I headed out on this major quest but started to trip really fucking bad. And I guess I must have passed out or something, because some guy peeled me off the highway, brought me in here, and the next thing I know I'm having my stomach pumped and they've got me hooked up to all these bags and machines and shit.''

''Where did you think you were going?''

''Let's keep in mind that I
wasn't
thinking. But I guess I had an idea I was going to make my way out to the lake.''

''Why?''

''I wanted to go for a swim.''

A thousand needles pushed through the whole of my body. Instant stabs of cold in the overheated room.

''Wrong time of the year for that,'' I say.

''Tell me about it.''

He motions his chin toward the table and I pour some water into the empty plastic cup that sits there but his hands don't rise to take it, so I have to dribble it between his lips myself. Palm behind his head. Teenage boy vapors rising off his skin.

''And once you came around you decided to call me,'' I say after returning his skull to the wet indentation it's left in the pillow. ''Not your mom or any of your friends.''

''I've told you before. I don't
have
any friends. And my mother? Please. I'll be lucky if she pays for my cab home.''

''What about your father?''

''Missing in action.''

Laird closes his eyes for a second and the lids come down purple, thick, and shining.

''But still. Why me?''

''I guess I wanted to tell you because I had a feeling-- because I know that whatever I say to you is privileged or whatever, right?''

''No. You're not my client. But if there's something you want to tell me about the trial, I assure you that I--''

''I thought about doing things to them, too, man.''

He looks so small. Not that Laird was ever a big kid. But there was a rangy breadth to the space he filled before that's gone now, his head turned to face me and everything else narrow and still under the covers.

''What kind of things?''

''Sex and shit. And worse.''

''Try me.''

''Like hurting them.''

''And did you?''

''No. But sometimes it feels like whether I was the one or not--that it doesn't make much difference, if you thought about doing the same things yourself.''

Behind me the intercom is calling out for
Dr. Mac
Dougall, Dr. MacDougall. Please come to Emergency, Dr. MacDougall. The nurse's actual voice at her desk down the hall as loud as her amplified one.

''That's an interesting philosophical debate you've introduced, Laird,'' I say, voice lowered. ''But I'd still like to know what I'm doing here. You want a shrink, talk to Principal Warren. But I'm a lawyer. I defend people who've
done
things. And you haven't done anything. Unless there's something you're not telling me.''

''What I'm not telling you is that I'm scared shitless,'' the kid says, and is immediately silenced by a lengthy spasm of shivers as though to prove the point. ''It's like I see them sometimes in these places around town. All of a sudden, just turn my head and
bang,
there they are. Laughing their heads off with mouths that could swallow you whole but quiet, quiet.''

''You're talking about people who are most likely dead, Laird.''

''No shit. Hello!
I'm
the guy in the hospital on account of he thought he was losing his fucking mind.''

Laird throws his eyes over to the cup of water on the table once more but I pretend not to notice. His oversize spectacles set like welder's goggles to forehead and cheek.

''What were they wearing?'' I'm asking now, wobbling almost directly above him. ''The girls. When you saw them.''

''That's the other weird thing,'' he says, bringing his voice down now along with mine. ''It was like these old-fashioned dresses. But ripped up and stained all over, as if it was the only thing they'd been wearing for the past year and a half. Nothing else but-- What's
wrong
with you, man?''

''Don't they have any goddamn chairs in here?''

''Have a seat here if you want.''

He pats the surface of the bed as though bidding the family dog up for a nap but instead it's me planting myself next to him, legs dangling over the edge like water balloons.

''You okay?''

''Fine, fine. Hot,'' I manage, gesturing a paw toward the heating vent.

''I know, man. I'm buck naked except for one of those hospital thingies that no matter how you tie it your ass is always sticking out, and
I'm
warm in here.''

''Did you help Tripp, Laird?'' I ask in a rush, the words mingling with the kid's nervous laughter.

''With what, man?''

''Did you do something to them together?''

''You don't seem to understand that what I'm getting at here is that I
could
have. But then intention is half of the criminal act, isn't it, Mr. Crane? Who knows? Maybe I would've said yes if he'd bothered to ask me.''

I'd like to move away from him now. Slide forward and return my body to its own command but I'm sinking where I am, half tilted against Laird's skeletal pokes and jabs.

''I'm not saying my client did anything, by the way,'' I say in place of moving. ''I was only speaking hypothetically just now.''

''No, you weren't. But don't worry. I won't tell anybody.''

There's a moment when I consider denying this, or telling the kid to go fuck himself, or bouncing up off the mattress and out the door without another word. But the moment passes.

''I think you have to do something, man,'' the kid's saying now, the words clicking out through blocked sinuses.

''Like what?''

''I don't know. But everything's fucked right now and unless somebody steps up I have a bad feeling it's going to stay that way.''

''I'd like to help, I really would. But I still don't know what the hell you're talking about.''

''Yes, you do, Mr. Crane.''

''How can you tell me--''

''Have you given my files over to the police yet?''

''As a matter of fact, I haven't.''

''And why's that?''

''I'm still considering my options.''

''Bullshit.''

Solid footsteps coming down the hall that send creaks through the ceiling tiles, rattle the metal strips that hold the walls in place.

''You're keeping them for the same reason I did,'' he says.

''And why was that?''

''To make them mine, man. But the thing is that now they're dead, it feels like I'm fucking theirs.''

Shoes scraping to a stop at the door.

''Ach, well now. Isn't
this
comfy cozy?''

Dr. MacDougall a mile above us in the overhead lights, grinning like an ape.

''I was just leaving.''

''Oh, no,
no
. I wouldn't want to disrupt such a
comforting
scene as this.''

I'm up now and none too steady, but there must be something on my face that gives MacDougall cause to go easy because he slides back to let me out without another word. And with his retreat there returns a trace of the bitter energy I've come to depend upon over the course of my professional career. The sugared blood of pride bringing me back to life.

''Hey, Laird, you want some advice?'' I say as I step out the door.

''Sure, dude.''

''Next time you decide to OD, do it right.''

That night I go through the usual contortions, paper rufflings, and brow furrowings at my desk in a half-hour show of work before pushing back the chair and panning my eyes around the room. The wallpaper of words and faces now so familiar, I can note daily changes in the individual pages: an air pocket enlarging under Ashley's chin next to the door, a tear through ''Search Area Expanded: Exhausted Police Admit Desperation'' that flaps in the radiator's rising air. The Lady's face pushing out from the flat light of the bedside lamp.

At this point it's my habit to fix my sights on the only other interesting object within view. The thermos. But tonight it's impossible to look at, sitting beside the bundle of wet hair that even now drips the water it was pulled from into a widening puddle around it. What I need to do is fit my substance to my surroundings. Coke is fine for sharpening the passing imagery of downtown hustle, but up here it just makes the grotesque more apparent. What's required is a good, old-fashioned depressant. What I need is a drink.

Down I go to the old Lord Byron Cocktail Lounge where it's burlesque night again, the stage lit watery blue although currently empty, the room occupied by a sparse distribution of anesthetized onlookers.

''Double rye-and-ginger, please,'' I tell the bartender as I settle on a stool at the bar. While he pours I look over at where I sat on my first visit, a corner dark enough not to see a hand held by another's on the tabletop or a leg touched beneath it.

''Excuse me,'' I ask when the bartender returns. ''I'm just wondering if you have a certain dancer working tonight.''

''Yeah, we have a
certain
dancer,'' he says, and nods behind him at a round woman with hair dyed the color of turnips wearing a cotton housecoat and high heels strapped to swollen feet. ''Only got the one tonight.''

''Then maybe you can tell me the name of a young woman who was in here a few weeks back. Long hair, just came in that one night. Local girl.''

The bartender looks at me, then down at his own hands that lie on either side of my drink. Hands gray from rinse-water bleach, the skin riddled with bloodless cracks.

''We don't much deal in names around here,'' he says. ''Girls like that are better off without names, don't you think?''

I give a slight nod of thanks, pick up my glass, and take a long gulp. Four stools down from me the only dancer of the evening pushes herself off her seat and pounds over to the stage while a new tape is clicked on, and through the speakers' hiss comes the acoustic guitar opening of ''Stairway to Heaven.''

''Oh, yeah!'' someone shouts out from the darkness at the side of the stage as Turniphead heaves herself up the small set of stairs that elevate her onto the stage. ''Oh, yeah!'' to the pointless grin that appears on her face, the hands that stroke over shifting hips as she stalks the stage's perimeter. ''Oh, yeah!'' to the breasts that awaken beneath the housecoat's loose folds, to the flash of dimpled ass afforded by an awkward lift of terry cloth. When the heavy-rock second half of the song kicks in, the housecoat drops in a lumpy ring around her feet and the patrol continues, now in glaring, wobbly nakedness.

Clomps to the edge and pulls up a furry white rug, shaking it flat. With some difficulty she bends over at the waist to undo the straps on her high heels, letting each of them fall with a strained grunt. Looks my way for a moment and summons a smile of invitation before lowering herself to her knees on the fake polar-bear fluff.

I try to do the courtesy of returning her smile but cannot. Cannot take my eyes from the different parts of her rolling around on the rug and then coming together to be wrapped up inside it. That's when the sadness comes. A sorrow that exceeds the spectacle before me, shot directly into the blood, swift and paralyzing. ''Oh, yeah!'' the call goes out when the fingers go down, a parted flash of inside shown to the drunk and afflicted outside.