Terrorbyte (7 page)

More cussing brought me back to the present.

The car stopped. I expected Mac to leap out and accost whoever it was he last swore at, instead he opened my door for me.

He announced, “We're here.”

I half expected
here
to be his mom's house but it was a parking lot. This was a confusing development. I looked around until I saw a sign that read Inova Fairfax Hospital. Which didn't help my confusion any.

“Why?” I asked.

Mac gave me one of those disbelieving looks. “Your appointment with the neurologist.”

“On a Sunday?”

He may as well have spoken Manchurian for all the sense he made. I searched my memory and still had no idea what he was talking about, which I think he realized.

“Ellie … it's a follow-up from your smack on the head last year.”

Damn, we still on that? I thought we were over the whole fractured skull/coma thing. I didn't remember having an appointment.

“On a Sunday?”

“We thought Sunday would be better than midweek, and the doc works weekends; who knew?”

“Oh, right, now I remember,” I said, trying to sound convincing.

He grinned at me. “You still have no fuc'n idea, do you?”

“Not a one,” I replied. “Works Sundays? Sees patients? Man, he's dedicated.”

“He's seeing
you
. He's usually only here Sundays to do rounds.”

We made our way to the doctor's reception desk and then through to the waiting room.

I sat. Stood. Paced. Repeated the cycle several times.

My watch said we'd been waiting for half an hour. Thirty-minutes! Surely, it wasn't that difficult to run on time; why didn't they just allow the correct amount of time per patient? I remembered what Mac told me about Leon working weekends. If he was only here doing rounds and to see me, then I really expected punctuality.

I checked my watch again. “Five more minutes and we're out of here. I don't have time for this waiting shit.”

I leaned on the windowsill and glowered through the hazy film that had built up on the outside of the window. I knew Mac was grinning. I also knew he hated waiting as much as I did. My phone hummed once then silently vibrated on my hip. I checked it, hoping it would provide me with an excuse to leave.

“You're not supposed to have your phone on inside the hospital,” Mac reprimanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Tough. I'm sure they'll get over it. If we hadn't waited so long we'd have been out of the hospital by the time he texted me anyway.”

He nodded, as if he agreed with me but I knew better; he was being agreeable.

“Who is it?”

“Caine, he wants us in the office A-sap.” I started for the door only to find Mac's hand firmly on my elbow.

“No you don't. You're having this check-up.”

“A-sap,” I said, attempting to extradite my arm from his grip. “He said A-sap.”

“He'll wait. He wouldn't want you to miss this either.”

Damn! No escape.

A young nurse poked her head around the door. “Gabrielle Conway?”

Mac's hand squeezed my arm, prompting me to reply to the nurse. “Yes,” I said.

She smiled, revealing teeth covered in colorful braces. “Dr. Kapowski will see you now.”

“Great.” I sucked in my impatience and tried to ignore the thoughts generated on seeing braces. Since when did they hire twelve-year-olds as nurses? “Excellent,” I said, and gave her a quick smile.

The theme song to
Doogie Howser, M.D.
rampaged through my mind as we followed the teeny-bopper nurse to the doctor's office. I finally succeeded in quelling the dreadful music with a deep breath and an internal ‘Shut up!'

A door opened and the nurse stepped aside, allowing us room to enter. Leon Kapowski stood up to greet us.

“Mac, good to see you again.” He leaned forward and clasped Mac's hand, giving it a good hearty shake, then turned to me. “Ellie, how are you?”

“Okay.”

Mac's smile didn't escape me. I gave his upper arm a flick.

Leon gestured to the chairs by his desk. “Sit.”

Surprisingly, his command wasn't accompanied by a hand signal. I had a quick look at my own hands; yes, I had hands, not paws. Opposable thumbs. No fur. I hadn't suddenly become a puppy in obedience school.

“Have a seat? Is that what you meant to say?” I spoke without barking.

“Ellie, please have a seat,” Leon corrected.

We sat. The chairs were close enough for Mac to take my hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. I don't like doctors but Leon was almost okay. Maybe the green scrubs made him seem less scary. He looked very like Hawkeye.

Damn, I'd done it again. Now I'd be stuck in Korea. Rain, mud and misery, here we come. Why couldn't I have flashes from
Grey's Anatomy
or
ER
? Even
Scrubs
would be a step in the right direction. And why does it always have to be old television programs?

Leon sat behind his desk and read quickly over my notes. Then looked at me. “Is there anything unusual you've noticed, Ellie?”

“No.”

“Headaches gone?” He came around his desk, pulled a black pen-like object from his upper pocket and without warning, shone a super-strength light into my eyes.

“Until you did that.”

He stopped shining the annoying light. “Headaches gone?”

“Mostly.”

“You don't make this easy, do you?”

“I'm answering your questions.”

“Tell me about these mostly-gone headaches.” He rested back on the edge of his desk.

“It's no big deal … migraine-type headaches, occasionally.”

“Describe what happens.”

“Oh … I get a numb or tingling arm, some gaps in my vision, sometimes I feel sick, the pain is intense and usually only on the right side of my head.”

He nodded. “It's not uncommon for migraines to follow a head injury.”

“So it's no big deal, right?”

He frowned. “Normally it's no big deal.”

I didn't like the sound of that. ‘Normally' had a nasty ring to it.

“Anything else I need to know about?”

Hawkeye never frowned like that. Doctors shouldn't frown, it's unprofessional. Why was he still frowning?

Leon reached for my file, flipped it around, and skimmed a few pages. He asked a series of questions. I answered as well as I could. If he'd asked them about Mac, I could answer in detail but I don't take much notice of myself. I know I should, but who has time? And Mac's so good at watching over me.

I nodded. “I'm fine.” Mac nudged me and mouthed the word ‘nightmares.' I attempted to silence him with a single crushing look but failed. My heart plummeted. Now the doc would ask me more questions. We'd never get out of here.

“Ellie?”

My mouth opened then shut before the words could escape.

“Ellie?”

I tried again and this time succeeded. “I have been having nightmares.”

“I think that is understandable considering what you both went through.” He paused and seemed to scrutinize me. I'm sure he did: doctors do that penetrating look thing that makes it appear as though they can see inside you. “How are you walking up or down stairs?”

Wow, didn't expect that.

“Stairs? Usually with my feet – one after the other in a vertical motion.”

“Usually?”

“What? You've never felt the need to crawl up the stairs?”

Leon smiled. “No, have you?”

“Only when I'm really toasted.” After a tequila session.

“Are you going to answer my question regarding the stairs?”

Mac squeezed my hand. Jeez! “Okay, look, a couple of weeks ago I had trouble walking down some stairs but that was because of a migraine the day before.”

“Trouble how?”

Leaving the doctor's office anytime soon felt like a fading notion. “I couldn't see the edge of the steps and my balance seemed off.”

He frowned again. He was less Hawkeye-cute when he frowned.

“Have you been walking into things more than usual? More klutzy than you used to be?”

Mac raised one eyebrow at me. He'd been telling me for months that there was something off about my sense of where I am in relation to objects around me. I had been telling him he was talking shite. I'd been subjected to him going on and on about how I am spatially challenged. I am not spatially challenged. I refuse to be anything that makes me sound retarded.

“Maybe.”

Mac looked at me in amazement. “Maybe's ass.”

“Okay … I have more bruises from walking into desks than I usually do.” I sensed the truth welling up inside me and spilling forth, unchecked. “I get dizzy for no reason and sometimes there's a ringing noise in one ear. Lying down makes the dizziness worse … tipping my head also makes it worse. It seems to cause nausea. But it does go away. Then it comes back.”

I'm a freak. I dumped a lid on the freaky stuff: no need to mention the odd sensation of eyes watching me at crime scenes. Who needed to mention dead people watching me?

“I want you to have an MRI and a head CT.”

“Both? Isn't that overkill?” Something behind Hawkeye caught my eye: a teddy bear, a brown teddy bear lying on a shelf under the windowsill.

Oh, my. He wasn't Hawkeye at all; he was Radar O'Riley impersonating Hawkeye. No wonder he ordered an MRI and CT; he can't know what he's doing! There was no way he was a real doctor.

An uncanny fear gripped me. Maybe there really was something wrong.

The fear gave way to panic. I found myself standing. “I'm on a new case. I need to be at work now.” I didn't have time to listen to someone who was obviously an imposter.

“I'm going to schedule the tests. I will get back to you this afternoon.” He looked at my file again. “I have your work numbers and cell phone.”

“Great, good, wonderful,” I replied. Within seconds I was out the door, trying to find the colored line on the hallway floor that would lead me to the parking lot. Mac should've noticed he wasn't the real Hawkeye.

A hand grabbed my arm. “What?” I shook my arm to dislodge the hand.

“Honey, it's me.” Mac slipped his arm around my waist. “It's going to be all right, it's just tests, no one thinks there's anything major wrong with you.”

“What if there is?”

He grabbed my shoulders and spun me to face him. I staggered as my body came to a stop. “You're still Ellie, you're not a different person, no matter what the tests show.”

“I don't want to have the tests.” Then I remembered: this guy couldn't order tests if he was not a real doctor. Whew!

“I know, and I fully understand how scary this is. But it is better we find out if something whacky is going on.”

How could anything be whackier than Radar impersonating Hawkeye? Why didn't Mac notice?

I decided it wasn't the best time to bring up the whole Hawkeye thing. I had a sneaking suspicion that I might be wrong about that. He may have been the real Hawkeye.

Mac whispered, “It'll be okay.”

“What does he think it is?”

“Something called benign paroxysmal positional vertigo.”

It sounded bad.

Mac kept talking. “They think it is caused by debris collected in part of the inner ear. It often follows a head injury. It is treatable. Leon said he'll do something called the Epley Maneuver and that should fix it. He wants to be sure nothing else is going on, hence the tests.”

Somewhere inside me, I decided he was only saying that to make me feel better. If he knew dead people were watching me, what would he say then?

I breathed in his cologne, let the soft pressure of his hands melt away the panic I felt and fully believed him. Sometimes you've just got to have a little faith. It would be okay. Then I had the strangest feeling, as if I had missed something. I pulled back a little and looked at Mac.

He spoke quietly, “You okay?”

“Uh-huh. Let's get moving, we have to meet with Caine.”

There was something else we had to do. Something important, that I couldn't put my finger on, nagged at me. I was sure a switch needed flipping somewhere.

Caine's office door was open. I could see his cantankerous self sitting at his desk writing long hand, while his computer sat idly by. I knocked on the doorframe. Light reflected off the top of his balding head as he raised his eyes to mine.

“You made it,” Caine said, sounding as cranky as ever. “What are you standing out there for? Close my door behind you.”

It was very tempting to reach out, slam the door and walk away; but I resisted. We entered the spacious office. Mac shut the door behind us and took a seat next to me.

“You in on this, Mac?”

“Looks like it,” Mac replied, with his usual calm assurance.

Caine gave him a stony look that an outsider would interpret as hostility – to us it was equivalent to a warm embrace – then turned his attention to me.

“How are you, Ellie?”

“I'm okay.”

Caine's eyes narrowed to mere slits. “And again. This time the truth.”

“I'm okay,” I reiterated with more conviction.

I saw his eyes cut to Mac's then he let it go. “Who do we like for these new homicides?”

“No one, yet.” I let my mind bring up the scenes, then continued. “This feels like an escalation: whoever this is, he's been out there raping and assaulting women for some time and now that's not enough.”

He rocked back in his chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head.

“And the words? The poem?”

“It's my opinion that he staged the scene before placing the woman in the center.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The writing is fairly even; he took care and attention. Possibly he even copied the lines from something. He was in control.” I smothered that thought with a fire blanket, not wanting images of our poetry book at a crime scene. “If he'd just murdered, I would've expected to see evidence of high adrenaline, maybe shaky writing and malformed letters. All we have to indicate his state of mind, is his self-control. He was calm and unhurried.”