Stolen Souls

72

EDWIN PAYNTER LAY quite still as they wheeled him from room to room, through scans and examinations, while nurses wiped blood away and doctors examined images of his skull. The policemen grumbled about having to stay here instead of going home to their families. They were reminded that a head injury required patient observation and they would have to wait for other officers to come and take their places.

Paynter listened to it all while he kept his gaze on the ceiling. He passed the time by mentally going through the steps that he’d practiced for such an occasion. The few minutes of confusion and disorientation, then the eyes rolling back, the tongue going to the back of the mouth, concentrating the movement on the stomach muscles, keeping the neck loose, the legs kicking out.

He had used this technique once when a young woman challenged him in a shopping center, accusing him of following her. It had worked wonderfully, turning her anger to fear and concern.

When the time came, he would again summon a seizure, send them into a panic, and let chaos be his savior.

But not yet.

The two officers who guarded him stiffened when the detective Lennon entered the room. They stepped back as he approached and sat on the edge of the bed next to him. Dark circles underscored his eyes.

“Edwin Paynter,” Lennon said.

He kept his mouth shut and returned his gaze to the ceiling.

“The girl’s fine,” Lennon said. “She’s being discharged right now. The lady you were keeping upstairs, she’ll be all right too. I’m sure you’re glad to hear that.”

If Paynter concentrated, he could make out shapes in the pattern of the ceiling tiles. Heads, arms, legs, human and animal figures capering in white and gray.

“You’re going to face quite a list of charges,” Lennon said. “Abduction, probably, or false imprisonment at best. Assault. Then there’s the man with a few holes in his gut, you’ll have to answer for him. You might argue self-defense, say he was an intruder, but that won’t hold up.”

Paynter held his breath when he picked out a face directly above. A kind and loving face, eyes staring back down at him. He smiled back.

“But there’s something I’m especially curious about,” Lennon said. “Those teeth that were found. Where did they come from?”

Paynter turned his attention back to the detective.

“And what’s underneath the concrete floor in that cellar?”

The face in the ceiling whispered something, a prompt. Paynter repeated it.

“The Lord will be my judge,” he said.

Lennon smiled, stretching the bandage on his chin. “Eventually,” he said. “Before that, you’ve got the courts to deal with.”

A nurse rolled a tea trolley past the room, its rattles and clanks forming vowels and consonants. Paynter spoke them word for word.

“I’ll never see a courtroom,” he said. “The Lord won’t allow it.”

“The Lord has no say in the matter.”

Paynter snorted. The pain in his temple pulsed with his laughter. All around him, the hospital whispered, God’s word delivered to him on every draft.

“The Angel of the Lord will set me free,” he said. “Just as Peter was freed from prison, so will I be freed.”

Lennon asked, “You don’t think the Angel of the Lord has better things to do at Christmas?”

Paynter felt the smile fade from his lips. “It’s a foolish man who mocks the Lord,” he said. “Or his messenger.”

“Is that what you are?” Lennon asked. “His messenger?”

Paynter looked back to the ceiling. “There’s no name for what I am,” he said.