Strangers (13 page)

“Mrs. Wynkoop, are you all right?”

She heard Nelda, Nelda in the here and now.

She couldn’t answer, not yet, but a portion of her mind, coolly disinterested, spoke up:
Now? Is this it? Stroke? Heart attack? Is this death?

And, with ironic detachment, she thought:

Is it going to be the Big Library in the Sky?

No. She could feel her body decide the issue, and she knew …

Not this time.

“Mrs. Wynkoop!”

She forced herself to focus, to see Nelda’s plain, concerned childish face. The girl was frightened, tugging at a strand of mouse brown hair.

“Yes, Nelda,” Claire said, “I just had a spell.” Spell, she thought, now that was a word that showed her age; she doubted if people nowadays had “spells.” Then she mentally added,
And
I also had, no, not a premonition this time, but the clarification of one!
Before she had not known exactly what would happen, but now she knew what had happened, and to which child.

In the office, she telephoned Beth, but there was no answer.

Beth was already at the hospital.

With his silver hair, Vern Engelking looked strikingly like a Santa Claus who’d gone modem and shorn his beard. He projected good humor and fine high spirits as he talked about “Superior Chemical’s, ah, difficulty with Mr. Herbert Cantlon.”

Michael and Eddie Markell were seated with Vern at the round conference table in Engelking’s tenth floor office. “Now,” Vern asked Eddie, “just how long has our less than conscientious representative been defrauding us and our esteemed clients?”

“Three years at least,” Eddie Markell said. “Maybe longer, but I know for sure three.

Way I see it, he’s one of those guys that figures if he’s an asshole, everyone else is an asshole, too.”

Vern Engelking laughed. “Eddie, you have a unique way of expressing yourself.”

Eddie Markell didn’t answer. Eddie Markell was forty years old, and when he was younger, he had a passing resemblance to Sam Spade in the definitive incarnation by Humphrey Bogart in
The Maltese Falcon.
Perhaps that was what had led Eddie to become a private detective. What had led him to become a heavy drinker, though, was the pressure of having to hide what he really was—a Stranger. Eddie Markell did industrial investigations for suburban firms, Vern Engelking’s among them, and he drank. When he had the opportunity, he killed people. His aura was the telltale red of a Stranger, but he had another aura as well, the’ internal smell of decay that came from years of mummifying himself with liquor.

“Tell us more unsavory facts about our hitherto trusted salesman, Herb,” Vern Engelking said.

“What’s there to say?” Eddie shrugged. He had lost weight in the past two or three years and his lightweight sportcoat did not fit well. When his shoulders moved, the cloth bunched up at the collarbone and stayed wrinkled. “Fucker uses his own set of price books for all his territory; he’s skimming good coin from southern Illinois, northern Kentucky and Missouri. So I kill his fucking ass and that’s that.”

Michael had his misgivings about Eddie.

Yes, Eddie was a Stranger, but he might soon prove a liability. Eddie seemed less and less capable of maintaining his disguise, of thinking of every possibility and planning for it. When The Time of The Strangers at last arrived it would only be those who had never,
never once
given themselves away, those who had been as shrewd as Michael Louden, who would partake of the countryside feast of blood and screaming and death.

Vern Engelking raised an index finger. “If you please,
we
kill his fornicating ass. These group endeavors are so rewarding for us all.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “See, Herb’s got this nineteen year old sweetie-pie he shacks up with in Mt. Claron. Wednesday night’s his usual for getting his cookies. I’ll fix it so we can have a surprise party. We can do them both, put some heavy shit on ’em.

“Michael?” Vern asked, raising his eyebrows, “We’ll have to go away on business next week. Does that suit you?”

Business,
Michael thought,
the business that was the sole reason for a Stranger’s existence! Herb Cantlon, pot-bellied yokel with white socks and jokes about traveling salesman and farmboys who loved sheep, a good ole boy hick in hicksville territory—lumpy-dumpy Herby—and a woman!

A tingling shudder ran through Michael at the thought of what Vern and Eddie and he would do. How could the thrill be described? He wondered. Sex? It was so far beyond any pleasure that the brain or body could know from any of the varieties of
that
act that the comparison was ludicrous. Had he been capable of pity, Michael would have felt sorry for the poor sadist who found only—sexual pleasure in inflicting pain; A Stranger knew transendent, illuminating, overwhelming
pure
pleasure—became himself
all
pleasure when the blood poured hot and red and copper-stinking …

“Sure, Vern,” Michael smiled. “I knew when you appointed me national sales manager that there’d be some travel involved.”

“Indeed,” Vern Engelking said.

“Yeah, whatever,” Eddie Markell said. “See you guys,” he said, and left.

With Eddie gone, Michael voiced his concern. If there was anyone he trusted in the world, it was Vern Engelking. “Vern, do you think Eddie could be a problem for us? The way he’s drinking, well, his lungs ought to be marked ‘flammable.’ I’m not so sure he’s in control.”

Vern nodded, leaning back in his ergonomically designed executive chair. He folded his hands, twiddling his thumbs; he was one of the very few who could do that without looking like an untalented actor in an amateur melodrama. Vern sighed. “The fact is, I don’t know. Eddie has his virtues, but your fears are not ungrounded. The man imbibes immoderately and that might create unfortunate situations in the future.”

Then Vern smiled at Michael. “But for every problem, there is indeed a solution. If Eddie becomes a problem, we’ll—solve him. Let’s hope it won’t come to that.”

“All right,” Michael said.

The beige telephone beeped and blinked. Vern rose and went to his desk.

The call was for Michael.

When he hung up, he answered Vern’s unspoken question. “Beth,” he said. “She’s at the hospital. Kid had an accident, got hit by a car. She’s in X-ray right now.”

“Ah, “ Vern said, “children can cause their parents ever so much worry. Is she seriously injured?”

“Don’t think so. Of course, with my kids, there’s no need to worry about brain damage. You can’t hurt what you don’t have.”

“Michael, it’s remarkable how you can joke despite your shock and upset.”

“Believe me, Boss, I’m only putting up a brave front. You know how I love those kids; no one’s ever seen a more devoted dear old dad than me.”

“Don’t let me keep you. Please hurry to the bedside of your unfortunate infant. But try to look more the grievously concerned parent!”

“Yes,” Michael said. He willed his face to change. He could feel it happen, a perfect imitation of fearful anxiety creating worrydark hollows beneath jumpy eyes, even a tic-twitch along the jawline. Michael Louden had a thousand faces and all—
all but one of them
—the face of a normal man.

Now, he was the father suffering the terrible fears and concerns about his beloved child.

“By the way,” Vern Engelking asked as Michael was on his way out, “which precious lamb was injured?”

“Kim,” Michael said. “It figures.”

««—»»

It took Michael forty-five minutes to reach South Suburban Medical Center. The moment he stepped into the waiting room, directly across the hall from Emergency, Beth ran to him. “Oh, Michael…” He held her tightly, realizing that “Oh, Michael” was a statement of relief and not anguish.

“Kim’s—Kim’s okay?” he tentatively asked.

“They think she’ll be…she is fine!”

Michael let out a deep breath. “Thank God,” he whispered. He looked over Beth’s shoulder and saw Marcy, seated in one of the plastic chairs that lined the walls of the waiting room. For a second, her eyes met his, and then she quickly glanced down, moving the toe of her sneaker from side to side on the tile floor.

“Mr. Louden?”

Michael turned, and Beth, standing at his side, said, “This is Dr. Hasselbrink. He took care of…” Beth had to struggle to say her child’s name as she realized for the thousandth time how near her child
their little girl,
had come to death.

Dr. Hasselbrink shook Michael’s hand. “That is a kid and a half you’ve got there, Mr. Louden.”

“She’s…”

“She’s what I’d have to call a miracle,” Dr Hasselbrink said. “We’ve got negative skull and chest X-rays, no signs of internal bleeding, and, except for some bruises, Kim seems to be a hundred percent.” The young intern had a reddish-blond mustache that was heavier on the left than the right, giving his otherwise pleasant face a disconcertingly unbalanced appearance. In his white tunic, Dr. Hasselbrink reminded Michael of the college kids who used to earn summer money by selling ice cream from three-wheel bikes in the parks.

“We’ll want to keep her for twenty-four hour observation,” Dr. Hasselbrink continued, “just to play it safe, but I think we’re A-OK.”

A-OK,
Michael thought,
Dr. Kildare goes hip.

“I…I can’t tell you how Michael paused, made himself choke slightly with the emotion he was supposed to be feeling, and then—he congratulated himself for the extra touch—willed his eyes to mist as he put his hand on Dr. Hasselbrink’s shoulder and squeezed. “How grateful we are!”

“It’s okay.” Dr. Hasselbrink blushed, apparently not at all comfortable receiving gratitude.
Just like the Lone Ranger,
Michael thought.
The insecure sonofabitch can’t handle anyone saying ‘Thank you.’

“Thank you,” Michael said, “I mean that from the bottom of my heart.” Dr. Hasselbrink tried to slip free—politely—of Michael’s hand; Michael squeezed the intern’s shoulder emphatically. “I wish I knew how to tell you how much we appreciate everything you’ve done.”

Hasselbrink turned as red as a high school sophomore who’d just learned he’d given his oral report in American History with his zipper at half mast. “Really,” Dr. Hasselbrink said, “I’m only glad I was able to give you good news.”

“I want you to know…”
Enough!
ordered
Michael’s mental warning system. “Well, thank you.” He released the doctor.

“They’re getting Kim settled into Pediatrics now,” Dr. Hasselbrink said, backing away. “You should be able to see her in ten minutes or so, okay?”

“Thanks again, Doctor,” Michael said, and Dr. Hasselbrink was out of the room, moving like he’d been summoned to perform emergency surgery on the Pope.

Michael glanced over at Marcy. She was
slumped forward, elbows
on her knees, hands folded, head bowed. “Daddy’s girl” was staying away from Daddy, and Michael softly asked Beth to step out into the hall. Keeping his voice down, he asked, “Why is Marcy so down? She knows Kim’s going to be all right, doesn’t she?”

“She feels terribly guilty, Michael,” Beth said. “You know what she told me? When she saw Kim get hit by the car, she wished it was her.”

But what had happened? Michael wondered. He asked and Beth proceeded to tell him, leaving out no boring detail: the police came for her, told her about the accident, they were so nice, such polite young men, they even brought Marcy’s bike home in the trunk, and, well Kim’s bike was ruined of course, and then they took them all back to the hospital…
Damn,
Michael thought,
put one quarter in the slot and the goddamned jukebox plays all night!
He tuned out babbling Beth.