Something Bad, page 26
He needed a point of focus, so he let his mind run to his plan. It included an assumption that Thibideaux’s ability to project himself out in the fog had a limited range. Since Thibideaux didn’t know Gabe’s destination, Gabe expected him to scan the entire perimeter of his snooping area rather than act on a hunch and concentrate on a specific vector. Now, it was obvious Gabe had misjudged Thibideaux’s abilities.
He glanced at the speedometer again—over one hundred-ten. Up to the rearview mirror again. The fog was within about fifty yards. Over to the driver’s side mirror. Tendrils of mist swirled in the truck’s trailing vortex. He pushed harder on the accelerator as if pushing the pedal against the floor with more pressure would send a meaningful signal to the carburetor. His heart gave a series of large beats and the cab nearly went dark.
Gabe shook his head and pounded his chest with his right fist. “Come on, damn it.” He looked in the rearview mirror again and leaned forward, closer to the mirror. The leading edge of the fog cut a diagonal across the freeway and sped off toward the west. Gabe squinted at the sudden increase in light intensity. The gas pedal remained on the floor until he could see he was putting distance between himself and the cloud, which was thinning into wisps in the distance. With a release of the accelerator, the speed dropped to just below one hundred. Best to get out of Thibideaux’s range for good.
He took a deep breath and leaned up farther. Once again, his pulse was evident in his neck and ears—fast, but regular. Either the effects of the adrenaline were receding or his mind was branching out from its single-minded focus, because the pain in his chest returned with each breath.
He reflected on his good fortune in having Wes’ powerful truck, more for its speed than for its comfort. As his heart rate eased downward, he slumped back into the seat and refocused on the drive. He’d be in Chicago sometime after midnight.
Although Gabe didn’t have to use his left leg to operate a clutch, the pain in his knee grew with each mile of the trip. His unchanging posture contributed, but mostly it was because he couldn’t take his pain pills. They made him too drowsy to drive. There was a positive benefit, however. He would be able to drive straight through to Chicago without worrying about falling asleep. The pain made sure of that.
Nearing Chicago, Gabe contracted a case of the yawns. He let his mind free wheel again. In accordance with his new driving strategy, he hadn’t received a single middle finger salute, even though more than a few drivers exceeded his speed enough to allow them to pass and disappear into the distance relatively quickly. What he found interesting was his reaction when he came upon a slower driver in thick traffic. If he happened to get boxed in, so he couldn’t pass right away, he felt the distinct sensation of impatience gnaw at him until he could get around the dawdler. He wasn’t moved to raise his middle finger, but he understood how some individuals of a different temperament would do so if they were in a hurry, like him, and the traffic wasn’t cooperative.
The closer he got to Chicago, the more the countryside reminded him it was running, full bore, into winter. At the start of the trip, only a few kinds of trees had bare branches or leaves in full fall hue. Now, all deciduous trees were totally devoid of leaves. In the Chicago area, the remnants of an early snow were piled low on the roadsides, partly melted into curved mounds of ice that had lost their virgin whiteness to the dinge of road dirt. And there was a change in air temperature—Gabe had to rely on the truck’s heating system for comfort. It was a good thing he brought his mummy-style sleeping bag. He planned to sleep away what remained of the night in the hospital parking lot again.
He pulled into the parking lot at ten minutes before two in the morning and found the same space he had used to sleep off his previous trip. This time, he had the luxury of climbing into the back seat, so he could stretch out without competing for space with the steering wheel. Ignoring the pain in his ribs, he kicked off his shoes and wrapped himself in the sleeping bag.
It zipped up so the only exposed part of his body was his face.
Earlier, when he had broken the outskirts of Chicago, he had turned up the heater so the cab of the truck was toasty-hot. A weather report on a local radio station had said the projected low for the area would be in the high thirties to low forties.
In the parking lot, the wind was moderate, and coming in from a direction that was blocked by the hospital building. Since daylight was only a few hours away, it wouldn’t be necessary to restart the vehicle to keep warm.
Gabe drifted off to sleep in a matter of minutes, but on the way, he once again had the distinct impression someone was staring at him from an upper floor window of the hospital. Dream or real, he saw the silhouette of a human figure in a third floor window.
The light of day came way too early, and the combination of the restricted room in the truck and the cold made Gabe extremely stiff. Bringing himself to a sitting position brought back the pain in his chest to a level he hadn’t experienced in the last two days. He fumbled for his watch, which he had placed in a storage compartment in one of the rear doors. Seven thirty. The more northern latitude brought daylight a little later, and sent it packing a little earlier in the day.
Anxious to see Father Costello, he started the truck, turned the heater to full hot, and drove back to the familiar McDonald’s where he freshened up and ate a little breakfast.
Back in the parking lot at nine, he was now comfortable in terms of his basic necessities, although the pain in his chest decreased only slightly, from incendiary to scorching.
Gabe made his way to the front doors of the hospital, the envelope with Father Costello’s notes tucked into his waistband. Even with all of his attention devoted to control of the crutches, he was still very awkward in their use. Fortunately, the snow remnants were restricted to the spaces between parking rows—the blacktop was devoid of ice.
Upon entering the foyer, the same overweight receptionist nodded to him with a friendly smile. Gabe had phoned ahead and set up the meeting this time, so he wouldn’t have to rely on a surprise phone call to gain admittance.
As he came closer, the smile on the receptionist’s face faded. “My Lord. What happened to you? You look terrible. Were you in some kind of accident?”
“It’s a long story. Can I go up and see the Father yet?” He didn’t slow his forward momentum.
The smile returned to the receptionist’s face. “Father Costello is in the same place as when you were here before. In fact, for some reason, he spent the entire night there last night.” Her tone turned to a friendly tease. “Do you think you can get through to him this time? If you do, I hope you bought a Lotto ticket. You get him to talk and I’ll want your numbers.” She chuckled a little too hard for Gabe to appreciate it as a joke.
“Fixing to do my best,” he said as he approached the elevator doors. He entered and turned in time to see the receptionist shake her head in what appeared to be a non-verbal form of “what a pity.” He imagined her reaching for his commitment papers.
The ancient elevator started its ascent with a sharp jerk that homed in on Gabe’s ribs. He let out a muffled grunt. Hopefully, the receptionist didn’t hear it through the closed doors.
Father Costello sat in the day room, in the exact same place, and with the same exact posture as when Gabe left him weeks ago. The same magazines were scattered on the table, but in different positions, and the room appeared as if it had been nearly unused in the interim.
Gabe made his way to the table and balanced on one foot as he pulled the envelope from his waistband and withdrew a folded paper from his back pocket. He crutched around the table, up to the priest’s left side. The drawing of Thibideaux was smoothed against the window in direct line of Father Costello’s blank stare.
The priest didn’t respond. Gabe remembered there was no guarantee he would come out of his trance again, even with the picture. For the longest thirty seconds of Gabe’s life, Father Costello continued to stare at nothing in this world. Then, a pair of quick eye-blinks started a wave of arousal that gradually brought the priest back to the day room.
Gabe saw him recoil as a look of fear paled his face. He looked up at Gabe and recognition replaced fear. Back at the drawing, he swept his tongue across his lips. A deliberately formed mouth emitted words in such a low tone Gabe had to lean close to hear them.
“How long has it been since you were here?” Before Gabe could answer, the father continued. “What was your name again?”
Gabe was shocked at both questions. Was the priest testing him again, or had he really forgotten the information?
“Name’s Gabe. I was here a little over a week ago. You remember much of it?”
Father Costello turned his head to directly address Gabe. “I’ve been thinking about it on and off. But last night I couldn’t keep my mind off of it. I had a strange feeling something was about to happen, and here you are. Did you find the Bible? It’s been in my family for three generations.”
Gabe ambled back around the table.
“Did Hughes do that to you?”
Gabe lowered himself onto the hard chair and let out a loud sigh. “He caught me when I was getting the Bible. Got hold of it and burned it up. Sorry. He also had some fun with me, but he let me go. Somehow, I managed to get this envelope out of the rectory without him knowing it.” He slid the envelope across the table. “These your notes?”
Father Costello unwound the fastener, pulled out the yellowed pages, and thumbed through them without saying a word. When he finished his brief inventory, he held them perpendicular to the table and tapped them into an even stack. At last, he carefully placed them on the table in front of him and looked up at Gabe with a look that seemed gloomy.
“Your trouble did produce positive results. These are my notes. I’m going to ask you to leave now. Could you please come back after lunch?”
“What?” Gabe’s voice echoed in the Day Room. “I’m in a bit of a hurry here, Father. Can’t we just go through them now?”
Father Costello’s expression turned to melancholy.
“Gabe, I’m sorry to put you off, but seeing these notes has brought back a flood of very disturbing memories. I’m afraid I can’t go through them without dealing with some strong emotions. It may actually speed up our talk if I have some time to go through the notes by myself. I’ve suppressed so many of the memories from that time it may take me a while to remember all of the necessary details. I only hope it all comes back to me and that you didn’t take that beating for no good reason.”
All of a sudden, Gabe felt tired. He didn’t know if it was due to fatigue or frustration. His bed in the back seat of Wes’ truck was just below the window, but he worried if he went to sleep, he might not wake up in time. “I’ll go down and catch a little nap in the truck. How about I come back around one?”
“Could you make it one-thirty? I want go get some lunch and I want to make sure we won’t be disturbed in the afternoon. Besides, my appearance in the lunchroom will probably cause a commotion.” Father Costello kept his eyes on the stack of notes.
Gabe didn’t say a word to the receptionist on the way out until she forwarded a verbal barb.
“Are you done talking? You didn’t drive all this way to give up so soon, did you? Never mind about the Lotto numbers.”
“Be back at one-thirty.” He didn’t look back at her. She’d realize her mistake long before he returned.
Gabe awoke from his nap at twelve-thirty and was afraid to doze back off. A rumbling stomach didn’t equate to hunger, but rather to anticipation of the upcoming discussion with Father Costello. The nervous energy had one beneficial side effect—it dulled the pain in his ribs and knee.
Promptly at one-thirty, Gabe crutched through the front doors of the hospital and made his way across the foyer. Before he was halfway to the elevator, the receptionist stood and motioned to two men who were waiting in a small room behind the glass wall. The men hurried around the wall and approached Gabe. The tallest one held out a hand.
“Mr. Petersen, I’m Doctor Ewing, and this is Doctor Freedman. We’d like to talk with you for a minute, please.” Dr. Ewing motioned toward the uncomfortable seats in the waiting area and tried to turn Gabe by putting his hand on Gabe’s shoulder.
Gabe withdrew his shoulder and stiffened, shifting his weight from the crutches onto his good leg. “You mind telling me what you got in mind? I got an appointment with Father Costello right now.” He tried to move toward the elevator but Dr. Freedman blocked his path.
“I’m afraid we must insist. We need to ask you a few questions. That’s all.” Dr. Ewing put his hand back on Gabe’s shoulder.
Gabe once again stiffened, and his voice showed his displeasure at the interference. “I drove all the way up from Boyston and I have some important business with the father. If I don’t get it done right away, some major bad will be coming to us down there. Would you please let me talk to Father Costello? Now!”
Dr. Freedman repositioned himself to block Gabe’s path while Dr. Ewing put more pressure on Gabe’s shoulder. His tone changed. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in the matter. Either you talk with us or we won’t allow you to talk with Father Costello at all. Now, can we please sit down for a few questions?”
Gabe balled his fists, except for the middle fingers, but he resisted the urge to raise them. “If it’s the same to you, I’d prefer to do it right here. It pains me to sit down and get up. And if you only have a few questions, like you say, we can get it done right here and now.”
“All right.” Dr. Ewing’s impatient demeanor gave Gabe’s irritation a good challenge. “We need to know how you managed to bring Father Costello back. What did you say to him?”
Gabe considered his choices on this one. Tell them the truth and he’d be in for a long line of explanations that wouldn’t find solid footing with such learned men. But he’d have to tell them something that would seem somewhat feasible to them. As he did once before, he decided on using a half-truth.
“You know about his problem in Boyston? The one that brought him here?”
Both men nodded.
“Well, there was a man who was very close to the father back then. He was having some problems and Father Costello tried to help him out. Some of the things the father talked about with this man made him worse, and he tried to kill himself. That seemed to really hit the father hard. It was just before the father’s big problem, so I suspect it contributed to his breakdown. Anyway, this man has since come around and he’s doing really good, although I think he’s slipping a little again. He was a very strange looking fellow, so I just showed the father a drawing of his face, and that brought him back.”
“That was all you did,” Dr. Fredman said. “Just show him a drawing of the man?”
“Yup. That’s it.” It felt good to give a truthful answer for a change.
Dr. Ewing took over. “Can we see the drawing?”
“Sorry, but that’s private. Between me and the father. Since it hit him hard when he saw it, I don’t want to share it with anyone else. It would betray his trust in me.”
“And if we insist?” An edge returned to Dr. Ewing’s voice.
Gabe turned his body to face Dr. Ewing. “Is Father Costello still a priest?”
“Of course he is. Why?”
“As doctors, if I asked you for some confidential medical information about the father, you could refuse to give it up, right?”
Both doctors furrowed their brows. After a pause, Dr. Ewing spoke. “Yes. We aren’t required to violate the doctor-patient privilege. What’s that got to do with this?”
Gabe’s argument rounded the bend. “I believe priests have the same kind of thing, right?”
Both doctors flashed simultaneous looks of surprise.
“I suppose so, but Father Costello isn’t advising you on any personal matter is he?”
“The matter I’m here to discuss with the father is extremely personal, and involves just me, the father, and the man whose face brought the father around.” Gabe lifted his chin. “As I see it, I don’t have to give you any more information than that. Correct?”
“You do if you want to meet with the father again,” Dr. Freedman said.
Gabe spun around so fast he almost fell over one of the crutches. He fixed the doctor with an angry stare and half-growled at him. “Now I don’t suppose that if I went to the bishop and told him about the situation, and about our conversation, that he’d agree with your reaction, you think? Besides, it seems I’m the only one who’s been able to get Father Costello back home in the last twenty some years. If I go away now, he’ll probably never come back again. You want to be responsible for that?”
Dr. Ewing gave Dr. Freedman a cold stare and turned a fake smile to Gabe. “Now, Mr. Petersen. What we all have in mind here is what’s best for Father
Costello. Dr. Freedman and I know what’s best for him medically, so I’m afraid we must insist that you give us some basic information. We’ll need that for his future treatment. Surely, you won’t object to that.”
Gabe studied the two doctors for a few seconds. They both looked very young, and their protests were a bit too forceful. Probably a couple of entry-level, kiss-ass doctors who wanted to take credit for the father’s breakthrough to gain favor with their superiors. Time to test the theory.
He turned to the receptionist. “Excuse me, Ma’am. Who’s the doctor in charge of Father Costello’s case?”
“That would be Doctor Lawrence.”
“He around?” Gabe noticed the two doctors look at one another.
“Sorry, but he’s out of town until the day after tomorrow,” the receptionist said. “But I can get hold of him on his pager. He has two of them. One’s for routine matters and the other’s for emergencies. If I use the second one, he’ll answer right away. Do you want me to contact him?”
She seemed to be playing into his plan as if she were suddenly an ally. “I don’t know,” Gabe said. “What do you two think? We need to call Doc Lawrence to get his okay?” Gabe rocked his neck back and forth, glowering at the two young doctors.
