Something Bad, page 17
“Mental problems. It can happen to anyone. Why not priests?” Ralston put his notes flat on the desk. “Father Costello has been in this place for the past twenty-five years now.”
“How far is Chicago? Can I drive?”
“Slow down, Gabe. Don’t you travel much? It’s just under eight hundred miles. You thinking of going there?”
“I really need to talk with the Father.”
Ralston pushed away from the desk and stood. He squeezed an exhalation through his lips. “It’s not a good idea. There’s another problem with Father Costello.”
Gabe leaned farther forward. He was on the edge of the seat. “What’s the problem?”
Ralston took a long sip of coffee. “He hasn’t said a word since he’s been there. In twenty-five years. They’ve had in more than a dozen doctors and none of them could get him to make a peep. He just sits and stares out the windows. He’s in his late fifties now, in good shape physically, but he just stares.”
“You said you got directions?”
“Gabe. Didn’t you hear me? If you’re going there to talk with him, he won’t talk back. More than a dozen specialists couldn’t help him. You think you can do better?”
Gabe frowned. “All I know is I need to try.”
Ralston sat down and leaned back in his chair. “When you get something in your head, it stays there. You drive much?”
“No. Had no need of going around.” Gabe felt a shortness of breath coming on.
“You better talk to someone who’s been to Chicago before going, then. It’s a big place. I have directions here, but it’ll be easy to get lost.” Ralston opened his middle drawer and rifled around in some papers. He pulled out an address book. “Here. Here’s the number of an officer I know in Chicago. If you get into trouble, just give him a call.” He scribbled the number on a sticky note and stuck it to the page of directions.
Gabe stood and offered his hand to Ralston. “Thank you. I appreciate the trouble you’ve gone to. If anything comes of the trip, I’ll fill you in when I get back.”
Ralston returned the handshake. “If it’s important to my job, I would appreciate it. If it’s personal, there’s no need. Be careful driving. People drive really fast on the interstates. And be sure to watch signs. They can be confusing, particularly when you get into big cities.”
On the way home, Gabe poured over the directions while driving. He had them memorized by the time he got to the general store. He filled his basket with supplies, including a seven-day pill dispenser designed to help people remember their daily medications. He smiled. It would help Wanna remember to take her vitamins when he was gone.
Back home, he packed an overnight bag.
Wanna burst into his room. “What do you think you’re doing? You going somewhere?”
He didn’t look up. “Chicago.”
“You know you can’t leave the Tri-counties.”
“I have to try.”
“Chicago? What’s there?” Wanna paced in front of the door.
“Officer Ralston found Father Costello. He’s in Chicago. Be gone for a few days, no more than a week.” He looked in her eyes. “Can you handle everything here?”
“You know I can. You have to go?”
“Yup. I have to talk with him.”
She stopped pacing and pushed on his shoulder, turning him to face her. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it’s about?”
He looked down again. “Nope.”
“Well, if you have to—”
“I do. Will you be all right with Miz Murtry? Anything happens, give Doc a call right away.” He zipped the bag shut and picked it up.
“When are you leaving?” Wanna followed Gabe into the kitchen.
“First thing after lunch. Would you tell Miz Murtry when she wakes up?”
“Sure. What do you want to eat?”
Gabe felt his stomach growl. He wasn’t sure he would be able to hold down any lunch, but he didn’t want Wanna to see his nervousness. He ate quickly.
Gabe headed east on State Route 27. He’d get to the Herndon County line before turning north toward Chicago. If he could cross the line.
CHAPTER
37
THE SIGN CAME up fast, even at forty-five miles per hour. Welcome to Franklin County, it said. But the welcome wasn’t a warm one. Gabe had to force his foot down just to keep steady pressure on the gas pedal. He wanted to bust through, like it was a finish line with a victory tape stretched across the roadway. But the closer he came, the more the tape looked like a rigid barricade. A roadblock without a detour sign. The speed of the pickup tailed off, the sign fifty yards away.
The tightness hit and he buckled against the steering wheel, causing the pickup to swerve a little. He couldn’t catch his breath as the extra large heart contractions rang in his head. Dizziness came fast, and darkness ran a close second. He slammed on the brakes and turned the car to the shoulder. The shower of rocks in the wheel wells created a clamor that faded in parallel with the decreasing light. He was going out this time. He stayed on the brake and stomped the clutch long enough to slide the gearshift into neutral, hoping he could break his momentum before he went down. His last definite sensation was the fishtail of the truck—the rear slid to the left, across the gravel shoulder and into the freshly mowed grass. A horn honked in the distance.
The noise was deafening. The two notes of the horn were purposely out of register—enough to create an irritating cacophony. It was designed to grab attention and it was working. The noise brought the light back, gradually filtering through Gabe’s consciousness. He lifted his head and the noise stopped, replaced with a brightness that was visually deafening. It bleached everything. How long had he been out?
Other perceptions came fast. The pain in his forehead led a sensory parade that included bells ringing in his ears, a full marching band of joint aches, and the grand marshal, the irregular thumping in his chest. He gained a focal point, the dashboard, and let his vision clear to the windshield, then beyond.
The front tires of the pickup were on the shoulder of the road, the rear tires in the grass, facing perpendicular to the road. Out the right window, the sign was just fifteen yards away. It went red.
Gabe blinked at the apparition, but it didn’t clear.
He brought his fists to his eyes and rubbed hard. A little white light passed through, but his head swirled. He grabbed the steering wheel to help slow the spiral and he noticed his right hand was stained red. A probe of his forehead, and his fingers came away covered with blood. It took a second before it all registered. The horn, the pain, the blood. Must have hit my head on the steering wheel pretty hard, he thought. A drop of red splattered his thigh in agreement.
Gabe reached in his back pocket and yanked his handkerchief up to his forehead in a single movement. Pressure. The first aid course taught him to apply pressure to a cut. He leaned up and looked in the rear view mirror, but the brightness drove him back down. Another wave of extra beats were lining up in his heart and he forced a Valsalva’s maneuver to head them off. Instead of dizziness, nausea spread upward from his diaphragm. He barely had time to open the door and lean out before his lunch took a curtain call.
Everything was in focus now. The colors of the day were so sharp they seemed almost artificial. There were no shades, only basic colors. All blues were the same. Greens the same. All reds the same.
He left his truck sideways on the shoulder, walked across the shallow drainage ditch, and collapsed on the grass of the opposite bank. A low guttural growl registered—the truck was still running. At least it wanted to run through the tape. To get past the sign. Gabe looked right. There it was. His mind conjured the right adjective. “Fucking sign.” He fought off another bout of extra heartbeats.
To the left the Tri-counties beckoned, like a safe haven in stormy seas. But how safe were they? Ever since Thibideaux showed up Gabe had started having attacks there, too.
A memory struck as he sat up. Then a revelation. It must have started twenty-five years ago. Right there in the church. A flash brought a vision of the altar viewed through the wrought iron railing. Toes. He thought he saw toes. They weren’t all four-legged animals.
He retched but managed to hold it in. His breathing was so fast he slumped to push away another bout of extra beats. Thibideaux did it to me twenty-five years ago. He thought. He took away everything outside of the Tri-counties. And now he’s taking away the Tri-counties as well. He took Father Costello’s life without killing him, and he’s doing the same to me. Can’t go and can’t stay.
A new sensation fought for attention. It battled his fear, gaining ground. It was anger. Thibideaux’s after more than just me.
Another thought captured center stage. John Johnson’s highway theory. All this for a freeway shunt? Was that what Thibideaux was after? There wasn’t a highway plan twenty-five years ago, was there? Even if there was, what would a priest have to do with it? If not for a freeway, then what was Thibideaux back here for? Gabe’s mental path turned toward home. Father Costello is the key. He has to know something.
Gabe’s anger enlisted an ally and the partnership relaxed him—his heart pounded a steady pattern and slowed to recliner chair levels. Anger led the forward thrust and reason covered the flanks.
He looked up at the sign. It was just a hurdle, and there were no points for style. This kind of barrier had to be breeched, but it didn’t matter if it was cleared with room to spare, or if one inched up one side and fell over to the other.
Gabe stood and quick-walked to the truck. He was a little fast with the gearshift and it growled a little before the clutch let it in. The tires threw grass, then rocks, as the truck accelerated onto the road and into a right turn. Toward the sign.
Gabe’s heart gave an extra beat, but it seemed a feeble counterattack and he inhaled it into submission. The truck blew past the sign. There was no sonic boom, no band playing, no cheering crowd. It was calm and quiet, just like in the Tri-counties. The truck leveled off at forty-five and headed for the freeway entrance. He was on his way to Chicago.
Gabe navigated the early part of the trip with only an occasional heart acceleration and extra beat. Not enough to establish a beachhead, but a reminder that he was out of his comfort zone. His progress was slow—at fifty miles an hour, the scenery was hardly a blur.
At first, he was surprised at how cars would come up behind him like they were going one hundred miles an hour, and whiz past like he was standing still. But this was different. The eighteen-wheeler snuck up behind him and all Gabe could see were the lines of the grill in his rearview mirror. The behemoth was only inches from his bumper. He had to inhale away a couple of extra beats before the truck swerved into the fast lane and rumbled past. Why was everyone in such a hurry?
He pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of the filling station. He made sure he took frequent breaks—to stretch, get gas, or take care of personal business.
Gabe smiled. He really liked the filling stations with the mini-markets. Kind of like general stores with gasoline pumps. He could buy a sandwich and microwave it right there for a hot meal on the road.
He spotted a wrapped roll that was new to him. Something called a burrito.
He pulled the burrito from the microwave and juggled it up to the counter. He noticed two television sets behind the clerk. One had a picture that focused on him, and the other focused on the front doors of the store. He turned his head right, then left, to verify it was a live feed. Why was the other trained on the front doors? On his way out, he noticed graduations on the edge of each door that indicated feet and inches from the floor.
Gabe didn’t know what was in the burrito, but it tasted great. The only problem was it gave him the wind something awful—had to drive with the windows wide open. He made a mental note to buy one on the way back so he could take it in to the Herndon’s Edge. Maybe Teddy could whip up something that tasted as good but without the side effects.
Gabe had a knack for inventing time-passing games, honed while working the fields. He found one to pass the time once the sun went down. Some of the eighteen-wheelers going in the opposite direction brightened and then dimmed their lights. With more observation, he noticed they only did it when another truck was passing. Initially he figured it was a greeting since the passing truck would flicker its running lights in response. Eventually, he realized it was a trucker’s code indicating that the passing truck’s tail end was clear of the front of the other truck—it was safe to merge back into the slow lane. He confirmed it by giving it a try when the next big rig swung around to pass him. Once clear, he brightened and dimmed his lights and the truck immediately merged back in with the running lights “thank you.” The new game passed the time until just after midnight.
Fatigue showed its face so Gabe pulled into a rest area and parked between two big trucks—he considered the truckers his brethren now. He curled up in his front seat and drifted off to sleep.
The second day of driving was boring but it went without a hitch. When Gabe hit the outskirts of Chicago he was both surprised and pleased that the signs matched those listed in the directions. Not there yet, though. He needed gas.
The filling station didn’t have a market. Instead, a small, narrow building, little more than a booth, stood in the center of three rows of pumps. Thick glass extended from chest height upward on three sides. A pimple-faced man, not more than sixteen years old, sat inside like an astronaut crowded in a space capsule.
Gabe approached the glass as the young man pushed a lever, and a large, silver drawer jutted out at Gabe, nearly smacking him in the chest.
“Thirty-six forty-nine,” the young man said through a cheap-sounding microphone.
Gabe looked down at the drawer and then at the man. He put two twenty-dollar bills in the drawer and it retracted into the booth. The young man grabbed the bills, counted out change and threw it in the drawer, then slid it back out. Too bad he didn’t slide out a burrito with the change.
Returning to the freeway was a little tricky, but once back, Gabe clicked into search mode. The directions proved accurate and he pulled into the hospital parking lot as the sun’s last embers submerged into the horizon.
The lot was nearly deserted so he decided to bed down for the night on the seat of his truck. As he settled into the fabric, he had a strange feeling someone was staring at him through a window on one of the upper floors of the hospital. The thought kept him from sleeping for ten minutes before the fatigue of the drive took over.
CHAPTER
38
IN GABE’S ABSENCE, Deena Lee’s headaches had returned. Wanna called Doc Halvorson who came out right away, with Misty Rondelunas in tow. While Doc was tending to Deena Lee, Misty pulled Wanna aside.
“Gabe around?”
Wanna gave Misty a suspicious squint. “No. He’s out of town. Why do you ask?” Misty was always effervescent, and now was no exception. Wanna hated her for it.
“I just wanted to talk to him.”
“About what?”
Misty leaned close. “I heard he’s really big. Huge. Know what I mean? You’ve probably seen him naked. It true?”
Wanna shoved Misty away. “You hussy. Keep your hands away from Gabe. He’s sweet on someone else and I don’t want the likes of you stirring it up. I swear. You’d fuck a horse if it could smile at you. Probably have. Get out of my house before I knock your one-track mind out of your head for good.” Wanna cocked her right arm.
Misty ran from the house and jumped in the car, sobbing.
Wanna paced the living room for the next half hour, alternating between worry over Deena Lee and contempt for Misty. At each pass, she sneered out the front window, in the direction of Doc’s car.
Doc strode from the bedroom and sat on the sofa, patting the cushion next to him.
Wanna didn’t sit. “Is she going to be all right?”
“She’ll be fine. I gave her something for the headache. Her pressure’s still up, but it’s not critical. I don’t want to take the baby unless I have to. If you can keep her calm, she should be good for another few days or so. The longer we let the baby develop, the better for them both. Is anything upsetting her?”
Wanna tapped her lips with the front of her right index finger while she scanned the ceiling. “Gabe had to go out of town for a few days. Maybe that’s eating at her. She’s sweet on him.”
“In that case, I wish he was here. You said he’d be back in a day or so? Hopefully it will be sooner. I don’t want her to get upset.” Doc stood.
“Then you keep that whore, Misty, away from here, and away from Gabe.” Wanna’s eyes were two fireballs.
Doc rolled his. “If the headaches come back, let me know right away. Day or night. I’ll check back with you every couple of hours. I’ll also notify the hospital so they can be ready, just in case.”
Doc fishtailed the car a little as he turned from Gabe’s gravel drive onto the paved county road. A huge cloud of dust nearly overtook the car. He looked over at Misty in the passenger seat and saw her eyes were ringed in wet eyeliner.
“What happened in there? Did you say something out of line to Wanna?”
“I just asked about Gabe and she went off on me.” Misty sobbed.
Doc looked over again and noticed the wet streaks that led from Misty’s eyes to the edges of her jaw were accompanied by more viscous streaks running from her nose to her upper lip. He had been weighing his relationship with her for the last couple of weeks and he was seriously divided on the best path to take. He enjoyed her physical company—there seemed to be no end to her ability and willingness to experiment with the sensory pleasures. But he was in no mood to get into a permanent relationship yet. Even if he was ready, it wouldn’t be with Misty. On an existential plane, he longed for a relationship in which he would be the one to dab the tears of his mate, but he didn’t want to have to wipe her nose as well.
