Pariah

ELEVEN

No.

This can’t be right.

He must be getting confused. Thinking about the time Amy was being born. Rachel lying on a hospital bed, pressing a mask to her face between the screams. The midwife issuing her instructions — when to push, when not to. The blood, so much blood. And then the sudden change in the atmosphere in that room. The wrongness. Everybody galvanized into a course of action that clearly signaled a problem. He remembers being ushered out of the room, still looking into Rachel’s eyes, calling her name. And her words back to him: ‘You wait for me. You wait for us. Me and this baby, we’re not going anywhere.’

And so he waited. Through all the talk of placental abruptions and blood loss and transfusions, he waited.

When she came back to him, her tiny gift of life cradled in her arms, he cried. And she said to him, ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily.’

It became kind of a joke after that. Whenever they argued, and they sulked about it for a while, and they got back together again, she would repeat her mantra.

You don’t get rid of me that easily.

So, yes. That must be what he’s thinking about. It’s the hospital environment and the stress. They’re taking his memories and twisting them into horribly warped hallucination.

He looks at Nurse Lynley.

‘I want to see her.’

She stares back at him as though in appraisal. As if she is assessing his strength for this.

‘Mr Doyle, I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Your wife. . She won’t look the same to you. Especially after the work the doctors have done on her. It can be a shock to some people.’

‘I want to see her. Where is she?’

The nurse tilts her head as she considers the request. ‘Come with me.’

He follows, passing Nadine who has tears in her eyes and a sheen of wetness on her cheeks. They head down a brightly lit corridor. A scrawny man on a gurney shows them a toothless smile. A black porter whistles ‘If I Were a Rich Man’. Nurse Lynley pauses at a pair of swing doors. Gives Doyle a look that asks, Are you sure you’re ready for this?

They enter. The room is empty. Except, of course, for the body on the steel table.

Doyle swallows, and wills himself forward. He has to see, has to be sure.

He sees her hair first of all, shoulder length and dark. Normally glossy, but now matted into thick tendrils. He wonders why he can’t see her face properly. What have the doctors put over her face?

And then he realizes that what he’s looking at is her face.

It is all the colors of sorrow. Purples and blues and browns. And it is so misshapen. Her nose is spread sideways across one cheek. Her lips and eyelids are like lightly inflated balloons. One side of her head is concave, and the ear seems to have dropped several inches.

Doyle has seen worse before, but never on someone he loves. And that’s what makes all the difference. That’s what closes the gap.

He takes a few more steps forward, feeling a growing tightness in his chest. Like he is going into cardiac arrest. Like he is going to be grateful to be in the vicinity of medical experts any second now.

And then it overwhelms him. He lets out one huge sob that fills the room, and he pitches forward as his legs finally give way. He reaches his arms out to stop his fall, and feels his hands slam into the cold metal table. He stays like that, bent over, head buried between his outstretched arms.

A hand alights on his back, rubs gently. He knows it’s Nadine, and he can sense that she is crying.

He hears Nurse Lynley’s steps as she comes forward.

‘Mr Doyle? Is there anything I can get you? Some water?’

Doyle sniffs and raises his head. His eyes move from the nurse to Nadine — one patiently concerned, the other on the verge of being inconsolable — and he doesn’t know which emotion to release first. His anger. .

. . or his sheer relief and gratitude.

He says the only thing that seems appropriate in the circumstances:

‘It’s not her.’

Nurse Lynley’s response comes in a flash, like it’s automatic.

‘Come outside,’ she says. ‘Let’s find you someplace we can talk.’

Doyle knows what she’s thinking. That he’s in denial. She’s seen it so many times before.

‘It’s not her. This is not my wife.’

Her lips tighten slightly. ‘Mr Doyle-’

Nadine cuts her off. ‘Cal. Come on. Let’s go.’

In response, Doyle grabs the sheet that has been draped across the body on the table, then yanks it back, exposing the naked upper torso. The action elicits a gasp from Nadine and a glare of annoyance from the nurse.

‘Look at her, Nadine! Look at her ribs! She’s like a damn glockenspiel! And here. .’ He takes hold of the cadaver’s arm and lifts it. ‘You see those? Track marks. She’s a junkie. You see a wedding ring at all? You see any marks where there used to be a wedding ring?’ He turns toward the nurse. ‘You got her clothes? Her possessions?’

Nurse Lynley glances at a red plastic tray on the counter by the sink. Doyle goes over to it. He lifts the scraps of material he finds there — a thin red blouse, a translucent black brassiere with red trimming — and shows them to Nadine.

‘You think Rachel would wear any of this stuff?’

The tray also holds a small open purse. Doyle tips out its contents. He sees Rachel’s driver’s license, and also what looks like her cellphone, but the other items are unfamiliar to him.

‘Take a look at this lipstick, Nadine. And this perfume. You think this is Rachel’s style?’

Nadine shakes her head. She looks like a child, upset and confused. Nurse Lynley appears even more dumbfounded, perhaps mortified at the thought that she has made a dreadful error.

‘I don’t understand,’ the nurse says.

Doyle keeps the phone and ID, and tosses the rest back into the tray. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not your fault. You’ve been had. We’ve all been had.’

He heads out of the room, Nadine once again following at his heels like an adopted puppy.

‘Cal, wait. If that’s not Rachel, then where the hell is she?’

He has no answer. The relief he feels is tempered by the fact that he still doesn’t know that Rachel and Amy are safe. His mind races to come up with ideas for locating them.

His cellphone rings. He removes it from his pocket and looks at it. It’s not a number that’s stored in the phone’s address book. He answers it.

‘Hello?’

‘Cal? Is that you?’

He stops, Nadine almost crashing into his back.

‘Rachel? RACHEL?’

‘Cal, where are you?’

‘I. . I’m at Bellevue Hospital.’

‘Yes, but where? And why have you got your cellphone? Are you okay? You sound-’

‘Yes, I’m okay. Where are you?’

‘I’m at Bellevue too, but I can’t find you. I’ve had everyone looking for you.’

Doyle brings his free hand to his forehead. This conversation is making absolutely no sense to him. Why shouldn’t he have his cellphone?

He looks up at the people milling around him. A short bald man carrying flowers and trying to figure out which way to go. A young man pushing an elderly lady in a wheelchair. A small child in a fur-trimmed duffel coat, a pink balloon tied to her wrist.

‘Cal?’

The little girl stares at him, smiles. .

‘Cal? Are you there?’

. . and then she runs. She comes straight at him. Her face radiates sunshine and daisies and moonbeams and castles and fairies as she dodges around the short bald man and the old lady in the wheelchair, and she is opening her mouth and shouting something, one word over and over, a word that means everything to Doyle, a word that puts the world back on its axis and the stars in their rightful places, and that word is. .

‘Daddy!’

He bends at the knees, ready to scoop up the incoming human missile, and as he does so he catches a glimpse of somebody else at the payphones. A woman, turning to check on her child, staring in disbelief at what she sees. Such a familiar figure to Doyle. Such a part of him.

Rachel!

And as he gathers Amy up into his arms and whirls her around, he checks his wife on each rotation, sees her come closer and closer, until she too becomes swallowed up in the maelstrom and they all spin around together, hugging and kissing and laughing and crying and oblivious to what is beyond their reach.

When they settle, when they calm, and some of the love has been doled out to Nadine too, there are answers to be sought.

Rachel says, ‘God, Cal, I thought you were dead. When they couldn’t find you-’

‘Who? Who couldn’t find me?’

‘The nurses. I was told you were in the ICU, but they didn’t know anything about you. They tried the operating rooms, and there was no sign of you there either. I didn’t know what to-’

Doyle takes hold of her upper arms. ‘Slow down, Rach. Rewind this a little. Who told you I was in the ICU?’

Rachel takes a breath. ‘I got a phone call tonight. It was a really crackly line, and the guy sounded foreign — Indian or Pakistani or something — so it was really hard to understand what he was saying. He said he was a doctor at Bellevue, and that you’d been brought in with gunshot wounds to the chest. He said you were in a pretty bad way, that it was touch and go whether. . whether. .’

She breaks down then. Doyle wraps her in his arms, whispers reassurances to her as she sobs into his chest. Over her shoulder, he looks at Nadine, then nods toward Amy and the hospital exit. Nadine gets the message, takes Amy by the hand and starts to lead her out of the building.

Amy says, ‘Why is Mommy crying?’

Nadine answers, ‘She’s just happy to see your Daddy, sweetie. Come on, let’s go see if we can find the car.’

When they have gone, Rachel surfaces again. ‘What’s this all about, Cal? Did someone make a mistake?’

Doyle shakes his head. ‘It was deliberate. Somebody’s idea of fun. I was told you were hurt too. Bastard beat up an innocent woman and left these on her.’ He takes the cellphone and driver’s license from his pocket.

Rachel gapes at the items. ‘I’ve been looking for those! I was convinced I put them in the car’s glove compartment this morning. When I went to get them later on, they were gone. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me.’

‘He must have broken into the car somehow, looking for things that belonged to you.’

‘Who, Cal? Who the hell would play such a cruel trick on us?’

‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’

‘What about the woman? The one who got beat up? Couldn’t she tell you anything?’

Doyle looks at her, biting his lip. His vision suddenly blurs, and he blinks it away.

Rachel says, ‘Oh, God, Cal! She’s dead? And you thought it was. . Oh, Jesus!’

She latches onto him again, pulling herself as close as she can get. He savors the intimacy while he can. There are other things he needs to say to her.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

They head toward the exit, his arm around her shoulders, keeping her safe against him, wishing he could be her protector forever.

She doesn’t suspect yet, he thinks. She doesn’t know what’s coming.

He hears footsteps hurrying along the corridor behind him.

‘Mr Doyle! Mr Doyle!’

He turns, and Rachel turns with him. He takes her hand in his, and waits for the caller to catch up with them.

Nurse Lynley stops in front of them. Her eyes slide to Rachel, then back to Doyle.

‘This is-’

‘My wife, yes.’

The nurse nods at this final and undeniable confirmation of the mistaken identity. ‘Mr Doyle, I’m so sorry. We try to be as careful as we can about identifying victims. It’s just that-’

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘You’re not to blame. I don’t plan to file a complaint or sue the hospital or anything.’

In gratitude, she flashes the briefest of smiles. ‘Mr Doyle, would I be right in thinking that you’re a detective?’

Doyle stares back into her green eyes, looking for a hint of mysticism that helped her divine that particular piece of information.

‘Yes, I am. How did you. .’

‘There was something else on the victim. It fell from her clothing when she was brought in. An orderly left it at the reception desk.’

Nurse Lynley dips into a capacious pocket on her uniform. Doyle knows what her hand will contain even before it’s withdrawn.

A white envelope. The words ‘Detective Doyle’ on its face.

Doyle takes the offering, thanks the nurse. He feels the familiar turmoil in his stomach.

She says, ‘I don’t understand what’s going on here, and maybe you’d prefer not to tell me. Maybe you’d prefer not to talk about this to anybody. But there’s a woman back there who is now a murder victim. The thing you need to know is-’

‘The hospital has to make a police report, I know. And you’ll have to mention my connection with all this. I understand.’

She shows another hint of a smile, grateful to him for not making this difficult for her.

‘I’m glad you’ve found your wife. Goodbye, Detective.’

She turns then, and goes briskly back to her business. Doyle gazes down at the envelope, knowing that he can’t delay in opening it.

‘What is it?’ Rachel asks.

‘The son of a bitch has been sending me anonymous messages. This is his latest. His chance to gloat.’

Doyle rips open the envelope and unfolds the note it contains.

Dear Detective Doyle,

Fooled you!

Did you like it? As practical jokes go, you have to admit it was pretty damn good. Go ahead, laugh about it.

Next time it really will be your family on the slab. I can get to them, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

You getting the message now, Detective? People just aren’t safe when you’re around them.

Why don’t you go away and think about it? Far away. From everyone. Think about it real hard, and maybe then you’ll get some idea of what you put me through.

Sweet dreams, Detective.

‘What’s it say?’

‘Crap you don’t need to hear.’ He folds the note over, then tucks it and the envelope into his pocket. ‘Let’s go.’

His mind is made up now. All that remains is to figure out how to break it to Rachel.

He worries about his plans.

It seems to him that he plans things meticulously, knows exactly what he wants to do, but when it comes to implementing them he just gets, well, carried away. Like he starts off as the driver and suddenly finds himself in the passenger seat.

He hadn’t set out with any intention of killing the girl.

His objective was just to rough her up a little. Well, a lot, actually. Enough to keep her in the hospital for a while. Get her into the ICU, drips in her arm, monitors on her brain activity — all that shit. Long enough to get Doyle in there. Give him a little scare.

He’d done his research. The hooker was roughly the right height and shape, her hair was long and dark, and she wasn’t too skanky-looking as whores go. Her face was nowhere near as attractive as the one on Doyle’s wife, but that wasn’t so important. When he was done with her, the face was the last place people would be looking for recognizable features.

So he called her up. Told her he’d traveled all the way from Chicago for a business meeting and wanted to relax a little before heading back to the Windy City. Put her at ease by telling her to meet him at his nice hotel on Seventh Avenue.

There were many things he didn’t tell her, of course.

He didn’t tell her she would never make it to his hotel. Didn’t tell her that she wouldn’t even make it out of her own apartment building. Didn’t tell her that his call was just a ruse to get her out of the apartment without her feeling that, at that very moment, she was about to be attacked.

He was waiting for her in the hallway. It was black out there because he’d removed the light bulb. He waited patiently until he heard her take the locks off. Waited until the door opened and a dirty yellow light leaked out and she stepped into the gloom and turned to lock up.

And then he pounced.

He rammed into her back, driving her through the door and into the apartment. She yelped, then whirled to face him. He saw first the shock and then the fear. He’d expected that reaction. He believed he cut an imposing, formidable figure. Although the ski mask and the baseball bat may have added to the effect.

He expected also that she’d run. Maybe even put up a fight. This was a woman of the streets, after all. She would have learned something about how to handle herself.

So he didn’t wait. Didn’t try to reason with her. He just let the baseball bat do the talking. Let it sing through the air on its way to connecting with her ribcage with such force that he heard bones crack. Let it whistle a little before bouncing off the back of her skull.

And then he closed the door behind him. Stood panting over the woman who was now balled up on the floor, her blood-streaked hands spread across her head in a pathetic attempt at protection.

So far, so good. He’d stuck to the plan. The next phase should have been straightforward: smack her around a little more, throw her into the van, dump her somewhere and then give the hospital a call.

Except that’s not how it went, was it?

What actually happened was that he got a little over-zealous. The old baseball bat became a little too verbose. Became a veritable chatterbox as it arced and swung and pummeled and smashed.

Not how it was meant to happen. Not at all.

Hell, why would he have bothered putting on a ski mask if he hadn’t intended the girl to survive? What would be the point in that?

So why the deviation? Why the fuck didn’t he just stick to the sequence of events that he outlined at the beginning?

Thinking about it now, he realizes that a part of him — a subversive element buried within his subconscious mind — has been having other ideas all along. It concocts its own, darker plans. It allows him to think that he’s just being businesslike, that he’s just taking one logical step at a time. And when the moment is right, it asserts itself and shows him as the monster he truly is.

And right now, looking back on what he did to that wretched human being, ‘monster’ does not seem too strong a word.

Especially since he enjoyed it so much at the time.