Driver's Dead (12 page)

SOUTH OAKS COMMUNITY HOSPITAL

E. R. OUTPATIENT ADMITTING

J. RANDALL, R.N., ATTENDING NURSE

NAME    AGE    TIME    COMPLAINT

Not too many people had signed in early in the day, but the number increased later on.

Olaf had been watching the Mets when his car was stolen—between 8:00 p.m. and 10:30 or so, assuming it was being played at home or at least on the East Coast.

Kirsten turned pages until she reached the one where 8:00 P.M. was listed.

Tons of people had signed in—for cuts, seizures, broken bones, drug overdoses, you name it. None of the names looked familiar.

That made sense. Kirsten hardly
knew
anyone in town. A classmate of hers could have been one of the patients and she wouldn't know it. This was ridiculous.

Her eyes stopped at 11:03. Three people had signed in—ages 43, 18, and 17. Their names were Smith, Jones, and Johnson. The nurse had written “Head and body injuries, torn clothing, fist fight.”

Kirsten called the hospital and asked for Nurse Randall.

“I'm sorry,” the receptionist said, “but she's out until tomorrow afternoon. Can someone else help you?”

“No, thanks.”

Kirsten set the receiver down and sighed. Smith, Jones, and Johnson. Who were they? Three rough bozos with extremely average names.

Or three rough bozos who couldn't think of better ones.

Kirsten was still awake when her digital clock ticked to 3:00 a.m. The moon was almost full, and even with her shades
and
curtains drawn, it was too light inside.

Well, not
light,
exactly, but the room had kind of a dull glow.

Her desk lamp looked like an overgrown mushroom, her computer screen like a screaming mouth. The shag carpet seemed to be a bed of worms, waiting silently to devour Kirsten's feet.

Stop it. GO TO SLEEP!

She turned toward her wall and slammed her face into her pillow.

Scrunching her eyes tight, she willed herself to think of nothing.
Blackness. Absence of thought.

“Ohhhhh …”

Kirsten was in no mood for mind games. She gave her jumpy brain a mental slap.
SLEEP!

“Ohhhhh …”

Whack!

A door had slammed open against a wall. In her room.

Behind her.

“Dad?” she whimpered. “Mom? Natty, p-p-please don't scare me.”

“OHHHHH …”

Kirsten jumped. The moan was practically in her ear. She spun around.

A human form loomed over her. Glowing with something other than light, something more like the incandescence of a dream.

At first Kirsten saw only the outline of clothing, tattered, blackened, and papery.

Then it staggered a step closer, struggling to open its mouth.

No. Not a mouth. A half-closed opening, caked with wet, gummy flesh and shards of white tooth. Above the opening were two nostrils, like raisins set at the bottom end of a twisted stalk. Where eyes should have been were swollen puffs, pushed away from each other by an expanse of ripped skin that exposed a white, wrinkled, gelatinous ooze.

Its right hand was pointing to its throat repeatedly.

“OHHHHHHHHHHH!”

It took a step closer, its thin body struggling to stay up, stumbling over the ragged stumps at the end of its ankles.

Kirsten opened her mouth to scream as the creature fell onto her bed.

T
HE CREATURE ROARED IN
agony, lifting its head like a trapped animal, dropping loose, fleshy shreds onto Kirsten's sheets.

Kirsten's scream stuck in her throat and became a dry, strangled click. Her back pressed against the corner.

The monster thrashed blindly, wrapping itself in her top sheet, which oozed black stains that grew large and jagged.

Air. Kirsten needed air. She was hardly breathing. Her feet were sliding toward the monster as it pulled desperately at the bottom sheet.

She swallowed. Her eyelids drooped closed. Her muscles let go.

Before she hit the floor, she heard a noise that cut through her like a machete.

Then, blackness.

***

When she awoke, her open mouth was full of drool-moistened carpet. She sat up with a start.

The surrounding light was like a rude smack to the eyes. She squinted against it.

“Did you hurt yourself, honey?”

She felt her dad's strong, gentle fingers pushing the sweat-sticky strands of hair away from her face.

Slowly he came into focus, kneeling next to her mom, both sleep-lined faces concentrating on her every reaction.

Her top sheet was in a heap a few inches away. She grabbed it and pulled it toward her.

Not a mark was on it.

“I—I—” Kirsten stammered.

He was pointing to his throat. He wanted to say something. He was here.

I am not crazy!

“Another bad dream, huh?” her mother asked softly.

Kirsten clutched her sheet and nodded weakly.

“When you were little, I used to read to you after you had nightmares,” her mom continued. “You wanted to hear
Goodnight Moon
over and over and over.”

Kirsten nodded. “‘Good-night, nobody.'” She recited her favorite line of the book in a parched whisper, remembering how it made her feel. Saying good-bye to the dragon or giant that had scared her so. Putting it away for good. Turning it into nothing. Nobody.

But that was then.

What she saw tonight was not going to be put away so easily. She knew it. It wanted to tell her something. It needed her.

And until she could find out why, she would never be free.

“Come on,” her mom urged, helping her onto her bed. “Let's regress a little.”

Moments later, Kirsten found herself dozing off, under her sheets, to her mom's hushed reading of
Goodnight Moon.

Soon the room was silent. And dark, except for a light in the open closet. Her parents had gone.

But Kirsten was not asleep. She turned, scanning the room, wondering whether she would sleep downstairs, when her foot brushed against something.

Her leg jerked up toward her chest. She waited until she could feel herself breathing steadily.

Then, slowly, she pulled back her sheet: A small, ragged object lay near the foot of her bed. Flat. Black. She reached down and took it in her hand. It was a scorched piece of denim.

“ … For the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. Death is swallowed up in victory. O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy victory?”

T
HE PREACHER'S WORDS PIERCED
through Kirsten, stronger than the bitterness of the cloudy morning.

She choked back a sob, and her father put his arm around her shoulder. About forty people stood around Rob's grave, most glum and silent, a few crying. The smell of the freshly dug soil gave a musty sweetness to the chill. Next to Kirsten, Virgil and Maria were sniffling softly. Across the way, Mr. Busk and another male teacher each had an arm around a redfaced woman who stood between them. The woman looked a lot like Mr. Busk (poor thing), only she wasn't sweating as much. Mrs. Maxson stood alone near the preacher, wearing an old woolen coat and shivering. She had wanted the burial to be quick, and it was.

The dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed… .
Kirsten knew the words were supposed to be hopeful. They promised that Rob would find a better life after dying.

But Kirsten had seen death last night. And it was far from incorruptible. Or victorious.

The specter was still fresh in her mind—although
fresh
didn't seem an appropriate description. The burned, festering flesh; the smashed, ruined features; the bitter yearning—this body was filled with a human soul, stung badly, restless, still needing something.

Still waiting for the trumpet.

And it had come to Kirsten for help.

Kirsten had to fight from thinking of the creature as
it.
She knew who he was.

Nguyen Trang was still wandering around the way he'd been at death. The way he was when they peeled him out of the car in the ravine.

Firmly stuck in her jeans pocket, Kirsten's right hand was closed tightly around the ripped, burned cloth she'd found in her bed. As if to convince herself the vision was real.

She had studied it closely in the light. It was a part of a jacket collar, with a melted top button.

A denim jacket. Not black leather.

Nguyen had not been dressed like a kamikaze pilot the night Olaf's car was stolen. Olaf had seen someone else.

“Blessed are the dead …” The preacher was closing his Bible, looking around at the crowd, reciting by memory. “ … that they may rest from their labors, for their works do follow after them.”

“Amen,” Kirsten said along with the congregation.

The gathered group began to mingle, sadly shaking hands and talking in hushed voices. Kirsten made her way around the gravesite, introducing her dad to anyone she recognized, wanting eventually to say
something
to Mrs. Maxson.

When she got to Mr. Busk, he was much nicer than she expected. “Hello, Kirsten,” he said, taking her hand. “Are you all right? I'm sorry about yesterday. I wasn't myself, thinking about Rob and all… .”

“I'm okay,” Kirsten replied. “Mr. Busk, this is my dad.”

“My pleasure.” Mr. Busk shook his hand and gestured to the other teacher, whose name Kirsten didn't remember. “This is Tim Randall, a phys ed teacher at the school, and my sister, Janice, who was crazy enough to marry him.”

Everyone chuckled politely. The woman smiled warmly at Kirsten's dad. “I already know Dr. Wilkes from the hospital.”

“Of
course!”
Kirsten's dad said. “I didn't recognize you without your nurse's uniform.”

Over Mr. Busk's shoulder, Kirsten could see Maria beckoning her. Quickly Kirsten moved on, leaving her dad to talk to Mr. Busk and his cohorts.

When Kirsten finally offered her condolences to Mrs. Maxson, she knew right away where Rob had gotten his extraordinary eyes.

Maria and Virgil were waiting by the road that wound through the cemetery. Kirsten gave her dad a kiss and said good-bye.

“I'm going to drop off Janice Randall at the hospital,” he said. “Can I give you guys a ride to school?”

“No, thanks, Dad,” Kirsten replied. “It's so close.”

“Okay, see you later. And … I'm sorry about your friend.”

“Thanks.”

As he left to go to his car, he was joined by Mr. Busk's sister.

And Kirsten's mind began working. Walking toward Maria and Virgil, she reached into her backpack.

Folded around Nguyen's floppy disk was the list of Emergency Room sign-ins. She pulled it out and flipped it open. She had circled three names:

J. SMITH 17 11:03 P.M. Cuts, bruises; fist fight

R. JONES 18 11:03 P.M.

P. JOHNSON 43 11:03 P.M.

Kirsten turned to the front page and read the name of the attending nurse: J. RANDALL.

Perfect! Maybe Mrs. Randall could remember those three. Maybe she had some suspicions, too.

“You coming or what?” Maria called to her from the road.

Kirsten stuffed the list into her backpack and joined her friends.

They got to school in time for lunch period. As they headed for the computer lab, Virgil warned them, “Ruggiero's not here till last period, in case we need his help. Grimble handles free period, and he's useless. He could make the alphabet complicated. So we'll look at the disk ourselves.”

Inside the lab, Virgil took Kirsten's disk and sat at a Mac. A few other students were busily at work, supervised by a confused-looking teacher.

“Okay … let me fiddle around with this and …”

He clicked the mouse a few times and stared bewilderedly at the screen. “This mouse isn't working right. Can you two get me another one from the supply cabinet?”

Maria and Kirsten rummaged around in an old metal file cabinet by the wall and took out another mouse. When they got back, Virgil's fingers were tap-dancing over the keyboard.

“I couldn't wait,” he explained.

He folded his fingers and stared at the screen, which showed absolutely nothing.

“You sure this is the right disk?” he asked Kirsten.

“Yes. It has his name on it. Why?”

“It's blank.”

Kirsten's heart sank.

“Blank?”
Kirsten repeated. “How can that be? Who would go through the trouble to hide a blank disk?”

Virgil shrugged. “The moisture behind the wall, the heat—anything could have affected the data.”

“You mean, there might have been data, and it was erased?” Kirsten asked.

“Right,” Virgil replied, removing the disk. It's gone.

“Can you recover stuff like that?” Kirsten asked.

“Mr. Ruggiero might know how. I'll ask him during last period.” Virgil removed the disk and stuck it in his jacket pocket.

“So what do we do now?” Kirsten asked.

“Eat,” Virgil replied with a grin.

Kirsten made it through lunch and English. She was patient. Calm. But when she saw Mr. Ruggiero heading in the direction of the computer lab on her way to study hall, she lost it.

Maria had study hall the same period, and today they'd planned to meet in the library. Kirsten found her in the magazine section.

“I saw him,” Kirsten announced in a whisper.

“Who?” Maria said.

“Mr. Ruggiero. He's going to the computer lab
now.”

“Virgil's got social studies this period—”

“Does he have the disk?” Kirsten pressed. “I can't
wait,
Maria.”

“I think he put it in his jacket pocket, which is in his locker—”

“Ohhhhh!”