The 'Geisters (24 page)

“I’m not,” said Sunderland, and he flexed the fingers of both hands, as though re-introducing blood flow into them. “Would you please follow me?” he said, and headed around the balcony to the little bridge to the staircase.

They climbed down the narrow spiral, past two other floors. On each of them, Ann saw eight more sets of curtains. She asked what was behind them.

“Rooms,” said Sunderland, “some of them containing poltergeists. Several of them also containing men.”

“Is Philip in one of those rooms?” she asked sharply, and was surprised when Dr. Sunderland merely nodded.

Ann halted between floors, clutching the twisting metal bannister.

“Is he safe?”

“Oh no,” said Sunderland.

“Don’t joke,” she said.

Sunderland shrugged and said, “All right.”

He circled the spiral once, then stopped as he realized that Ann wasn’t following.

“You don’t remember much from our time together, do you?”

Ann peered down at him through the empty risers. “I remember more and more,” she said. “I remember the three of us—and the knife. But you drugged us, didn’t you? Up at that lodge of yours.”

“Only as needed. But you remember the knife. I’m not quite sure what that refers to.”

“There was a scalpel,” said Ann. “You set it in front of Philip, as he slept, after you’d injected him, and it floated—”

“Floated?”

“Yes. It was ‘just the three of us,’ you’d said. After you injected Philip with something to knock him out. You said you needed to isolate me. You explained, ‘now it is just the three of us.’”

“And you remember this?” he said. “Did Philip tell you about it?”

Ann thought about that. It had come to her as she imagined talking to Philip, as she shut her eyes in the Rosedale Arms. Philip had reminded her. But she was there.

“I remembered it.”

“Fascinating,” said Sunderland softly. He climbed back up around the spiral, so he stood nearly face to face with Ann.

“What’s so fascinating?”

“All that did happen,” he said. “I injected Philip with scopolamine that day. There was an . . . event involving a scalpel. But I don’t see how you could have known about it, Ann.”

“Why is that?”

“You weren’t there.”

Ann took a step backward. “What—”

“It was just Philip, and myself . . . and as it turned out, the Insect.”

“I was there,” said Ann, and before she could say more, Sunderland raised his hand.

“I don’t doubt that you were,” he said, “on some level. In some form. But physically . . . physically, you weren’t present.”

Ann considered that. He was drugging them. Of course he was drugging them.
Jesus wept.

“Tell me, Ann, does the Insect speak with you? Tell you things, from places you can’t possibly be?”

Ann clutched onto the railing, with both hands.

“Are you going to tell me where Philip is?” she asked.

“Not just at the moment,” said Sunderland. “I’d like you to answer my question, though.”

The railing on the staircase was iron, and although the air was warmer here it was cold as ice as Ann gripped it.
Don’t let him touch you
, Philip had said, that time they had first gone to Sunderland’s clinic in Etobicoke. She shut her eyes, tight enough that colour flashed across her retinas in a sheet of red.

“What were you doing with Philip,” she said, “when I wasn’t there?”

“Treating him,” said Sunderland sharply. “Now answer my question. Does the Insect speak with you?”

“All the time,” said Ann, returning his tone in kind. “Now what did you do to Philip? Did you touch him?”

“No. I did not. Had the Insect told you that I had?”

The red fractured and lightened to an orange, and a yellow. The metal was freezing cold.

“Where is Philip?”

It wasn’t just the metal, now—the air chilled around her, and that chill deepened into her bones. Ann’s teeth began to
chatter.

Sunderland put his hand on Ann’s arm. It was hot by contrast, and although she tried to throw him off, he held tight.

“I never touched Philip,” he said. “I was treating him.”

“You were treating me,” said Ann. “I remember that much.”

“Ann—Ann, open your eyes and look at me.”

This Ann did, as green images blossomed from within the yellow in her retinas.

“If I were only treating you,” he said, “I would have only brought you to the lodge.”

“I was the one with the Insect,” said Ann. She could barely speak through the cold.

“Ann,” said Sunderland, “please come down the rest of the way. I want to talk to you, and run some—”

Sunderland didn’t finish. There was a fierce gust of air that whirled about and robbed Ann of her breath. She shut her eyes, on a bloom of violet on her lids. She half-expected when she opened them again to find Sunderland gone, plucked from the stairs and smashed to the ground—or perhaps against the skylight.

Sunderland hadn’t moved.

“I want,” he said levelly, “to talk to you and run some tests. Tell that to your Insect. Tell it—tell yourself, that when we do this, it’ll be time to meet up with Philip.”

“I want to see him now.”

“Ann. No. Not quite yet. We have to take this process step by step. You’re in a fragile state right now.”

Ann thought to herself:
I could just push you right now, over the edge of this goddamn staircase. I bet I could do that, fragile as you say I am. I bet I could.

But she knew that she wouldn’t. In spite of all that had happened, Ann was a little dismayed and a little relieved to realize that she didn’t quite have a murder in her.

The staircase bottomed out on a concrete floor. Ann was surprised to find that she could see—from above, it had seemed pitch black. But this far down, her eyes adjusted to the gloom and the skylight did its work. The central park was illuminated with a dull light. Like the floor of a barn. Its walls were lost in shadows between sturdy steel girders and wooden crossbeams. Ann squinted up the column of light. This whole structure, basement to roof, couldn’t have been any less than a hundred feet.

That would be a long way to fall, Ann thought. Sunderland might have been thinking the same thing; as soon as he stepped off the staircase, he had discreetly moved himself underneath the lip of the lowest balcony, and leaned against the girder there, almost in the manner of an embrace.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s sit and talk.”

Past the pillar, Ann could see that a small living space had been arranged: another couch like the ones upstairs, and a little table, and two wing-backed armchairs. There was an antique-looking floor lamp between them, with three orchid-shaped shades, unlit.

Ann waited for Sunderland to settle on the couch, and selected the farthest armchair.

“Let’s get this done,” she said.

Sunderland steepled his fingers in front of his face. In the dark, he might have been smiling.

“Mr. Hirsch,” he said. “I wanted to ask you about him.”

“I’m . . . sorry about that.”

“Really? Why should you be sorry? You didn’t do anything. The poor man had a stroke!” Sunderland shifted so he leaned forward. “Thank God he was in a hospital when it happened.”

“What did you want to ask me?”

“What was he up to? What exactly?”

“There was trouble with the FAA, of course. He was there to represent me. Didn’t you read the papers?”

Sunderland reached up to the light and pulled a chain. Two of the three lamps glowed. They didn’t cast much light beyond the circle in which they sat—the rest of the space seemed darker in contrast. But Ann got a good look at Sunderland’s face. He’d moved his hands, and she could tell for certain: he wasn’t smiling at all.

“What was he up to, in the hospital room?” Sunderland’s eyes were lost in the shadow of his brow. He shifted to the very front of the sofa, his hands wringing in front of him.

“What do you think?” Ann snapped. “What was Ian up to? What are any of you up to? Do you want a detailed description?”

Sunderland sat back a hair, opened his hands in a gesture of appeasement. “All right, no. I’ll be more direct. Was he . . . praying?”

In spite of herself, Ann laughed. “Praying? No.” She thought about Hirsch, letting his trousers slide off him, letting himself be taken—like a noon-hour philanderer at a suburban rub-and-tug. “Not praying.” Sunderland sat quietly, eyebrows raised slightly, waiting for more. “He was making an offer.”

“Yes,” said Sunderland. “An offer to take you away. To St. Augustine, yes?”

“That’s where he said. Ian tells me they’re religious whack-jobs there. And that I’m better off here.”

“Well yes, he would,” said Sunderland. “Did you think it was a good idea to go with him? With Hirsch, I mean?”

Ann thought about that. She’d been pretty hostile to the idea at the time—but in retrospect, it might’ve made sense. It might have been for the best. She’d left Miami on her own, and left a trail of victims as she went. Penny and her husband at the motel probably wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep for a month after what they’d seen; and the border . . .

There were corpses at the border.

All that might never have happened, if Ann had gone along quietly—let herself be locked up, or put into a coma, or whatever it was they did there. Or, she supposed, if she had kept the Insect under control in the first place.

“I didn’t think it was a good idea,” said Ann. “No.”

“Were you afraid that he might abduct you?”

“I think those fears were founded, given everything.”

“Fair point. But did you have them?”

“Sure,” said Ann. “He laid out my situation for me pretty . . . pretty starkly, I think.”

“And he didn’t pray.”

“You keep coming back to that,” said Ann. “Closest he came was offering me communion, from his hip flask.” Sunderland seemed not to understand, so Ann elaborated. “Scotch. He offered me a slug of scotch.”

“Ah.”

“Not what you had in mind,” said Ann, and Sunderland shook his head.

“Should he have prayed?” she asked. “Because he’s part of that religious sect. Who would he be praying to?”

Sunderland opened his mouth to answer, but something changed in his expression and stopped and looked over Ann’s shoulder.

“He shoulda been prayin’ to your Insect,” said a child’s voice. “That was his grave mistake, an’ he paid for it dear. Ain’t that right, Doctor Sunderland?”

It was the girl—Peter’s niece. Ann recognized her from the vineyard.

She was wearing a fresh white bathrobe that was too big for her. She grinned a little sheepishly as she saw Ann looking at her.

“Hi,” she said, and Ann said “Hi.”

She turned to Sunderland. “It’s okay now. Mister Sleepy’s taken care of everything. Everyone’s back in their rooms.” She crossed the sitting area to Sunderland’s side, and whispered something in his ear, pointing at Ann with her thumb as she did so.

“Thank you, Lisa,” he said.

“Where’s your Uncle Pete?” asked Ann.

“He’s resting,” said Lisa. “Late night.”

“Ann LeSage, please meet Lisa Dumont.” Dr. Sunderland got up.

“How do you do?” said Lisa. She didn’t come over to shake Ann’s hand, but she waved again. She smiled, but looked at Ann sidelong—like she was trying to put her finger on something. Ann knew the feeling.

“I’m doing pretty crappy, thanks.”

Lisa took a step back, and Dr. Sunderland stepped up and put a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he said to her, and Ann heard, in her ear:
It’s all right
, like an echo. She only felt the hand on her shoulder by its sudden absence; when she looked, she saw nothing behind her but empty air.

“All right, Lisa,” said Dr. Sunderland. “We need to talk, Ann and I. Go and see to Mister Sleepy.”

Lisa stuck her tongue out at him.

“Mister Sleepy can take care of himself,” she said.

Dr. Sunderland looked at her, and seemed about to say something to object. But finally, he shook his head.

Lisa sat down in one of the chairs, curled her legs up under her and looked at Ann levelly.

“You look bad,” she said.

Ann rubbed her eyes. They stung. “I’m not sure how to take that,” she said.

“Yeah, don’t take it wrong. Like you said, you’re feelin’ crappy. I get it.”

Lisa gave a quick, nervous-sounding laugh, then went quiet, and started to twirl a lock of hair in her fingers. Ann couldn’t really see her face in this light. But she felt her eyes on her.

“The Insect is pretty scary,” Lisa finally said.

Ann agreed. “Mister Sleepy is pretty scary too,” she said.

Lisa shrugged.

“Mister Sleepy gets it done. He always did. But yours. It’s
hard
. It’ll do anything.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Ann.

Lisa leaned forward. “Mister Sleepy knows,” she said. “The Insect is big. That’s why old Mr. Hirsch ought’ve been prayin’.”

Ann didn’t disagree.

“Mister Sleepy says it’s going to eat you up.”

“Lisa!” said Dr. Sunderland. He had moved across the room, just at the edge of the light. “You know that’s not so. Don’t listen to that, Ann.”

“Quiet, Doctor,” said Lisa, in a voice so bossy it nearly made Ann smile. “You don’t know.”

“What do you mean, eat me up?”

Ann’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. She could see that Lisa looked very serious.

“Well it’s nothing new,” she said. “The Insect’s been eatin’ you for years. That’s what Mister Sleepy says.”

“Ann—” said Sunderland. But although Lisa didn’t so much as look at him, he cut off.

“Mister Sleepy says the Insect will eat everybody before too long.”

Ann squinted. Charlie Sunderland was gone now.

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” said Lisa.

“I’m sorry?” said Ann.

“Mister Sleepy says if I ask you nicely, maybe the Insect won’t eat me.” Lisa was talking more quickly now. “Mister Sleepy can be real helpful. That’s what he’s made for. He’s not like the girls; he’s not for
that
. Mister Sleepy’s for helpin’.” She held her hands together in front of her. “I hope the Insect ain’t too mad about Mister Sleepy helpin’ catch you. You know I let you go, back at that motel, right?”