The Memory Killer. J. Kerley A.
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your friend OK?” one asks.
“A little touch of the bug,” Debro says. He winks.
“I know that bug,” one says. “For me it’s wine mixed with margaritas.” The others titter like birds and continue. Inebriation is as common here as the cabs on the streets.
“Shhhh, Jacob,” Debro says as Eisen struggles to speak. “We’re almost there.”
Eisen turns to Debro and swallows hard to dampen his constricting vocal cords. “I din tloo- muh nm.”
I didn’t tell you my name.
“You just forgot, Jacob. You’re sick.”
“Nuh,” Eisen chokes. He tried to push Debro away. “Ehm-ee-co.”
Let me go.
Debro sees only the receding backs of the quartet. He opens his vehicle’s rear door and grabs Eisen by his hair. Eisen screams. Though veins stand out on his throat and forehead with the effort, all that flows from Eisen’s mouth is a stream of warm air. Debro pushes Eisen into the back seat and puts a knee into Eisen’s spine, easily pulling his struggling arms back for the handcuffs, the man’s muscles like boiled rubber bands.
“Do you see us, Brother?” Debro grins as he takes his position behind the steering wheel. “Are you with me tonight?”
My inability to contact my brother – combined with his odd behavior – sparked strangely concocted dreams rooted in childhood, and this night was no exception. I dreamed of my father tied to a kayak I was paddling across my cove, screaming as sharks ripped away his flesh. I turned to my deck to see a two-headed man there, one face Jeremy’s, the other mine. The three of us exchanged looks of approval as my mother sat knitting silently in a chair on the strand, never acknowledging the blood-stained water moving her way.
I was enjoying the show when my phone turned the dreamscape into a shadowed pillow. I blinked my eyes, realizing I’d overnighted at the Palace, my empty glass on the bedside table with my phone. The clock said 5.48 a.m. and the phone’s screen was showing MORNINGSTAR.
“Why did I buy an alarm clock when I have you?” I mumbled.
“I stopped in to see Dale Kemp,” she said. “He’s regaining consciousness.”
I snapped upright. “What’s he saying?”
“Where? What? Water.”
“I’m on my way, Doc. Gracias.”
Wondering about Morningstar’s sudden fixation with the hospital, I found her sitting beside Kemp like a mother, her eyes scanning the chart on her lap. The heart monitor played a soft tone into the room.
beep … beep …
“He was just here,” Morningstar said, patting the hand and setting it on the sheets. “A minute ago he drifted off.”
“I’ve got to talk to him,” I said, fearful Kemp might again tumble into the cavern of his mind.
“He needs to stabilize. I’ll leave word with Dr Costa. Then when Kemp is—”
“I hear people talking about me.” Dale Kemp’s eyes fluttered open.
“Hi, Dale,” I said. “I’m Carson Ryder. I’m with the police.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t do anything, Dale. You were drugged and abducted. But you’re safe now.”
Morningstar frowned and put her lips to my ear. “I’m not sure this is the best time for—”
“What do you remember, Dale?” I said, pressing ahead.
He tightened his eyes. “I was … getting ready to go out to a bar, uh, the Scarlet Fox. I’m trying to decide what shoes to wear. And then …”
“What?”
“Jesus,” he whispered. “They’re coming.”
“What?”
… beep … beep beep …
I heard the heart rate monitor blip more rapidly.
“Dale? Memories?”
beep, beep, beep …
“They’ve got wings.” He eyes were getting wider and he tried to push to sitting. “They’re … insects. Ahhhh SHIT!”
beep beep beep beep
“Easy, Dale,” I said. “It’s over. You’re safe.”
He looked down at his arms. “They’re eating me! Oh, Jesus … HELP ME!”
beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep …
“What the hell’s happening here?” We turned to see Costa, the attending physician, fortyish, dark and slender with angry eyes. “What are you doing to my patient?”
“I just asked a couple questions,” I said.
“SAVE ME,” Kemp howled, tubes pulling from his arms as he raised them to fend off invisible creatures. “THEY’RE EATING ME!”
Costa scrabbled in the bedside cart and came up with a syringe, deftly plunging it into Kemp’s arm. Kemp’s eyes rolled back and he sank to his pillow. Costa checked his vitals and looked between Morningstar and me, his eyes holding on her.
“Who’s idea was this?”
“It was my fault,” I said. “Dr Morningstar was against my questioning the victim. I pushed ahead anyway.”
He aimed the eyes at Morningstar. “I’m not sure you should be spending so much time here, Dr Morningstar. What can a pathologist add to my patient’s care, if I may ask?”
I objected to his conveniently impaired recollection. “She’s the one you called in to identify the toxins,” I reminded him. “When you and your people came up short.”
“My patient needs to sleep,” Costa snapped. “I want no one here but hospital personnel. You can question him when I say, but only when I say. Got it?”
We glared at one another for the required time, then Morningstar and I retreated to the lobby. “Sorry,” I said, leaning the wall by the exit. “I should have listened. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“I should have protested harder. And I was afraid it might be your lone chance to get some information.” She sighed and turned her eyes skyward. “I guess I just burned Costa as a reference.”
I was about to ask what she meant by “reference” when my phone rang, Roy.
“Another victim with symptoms similar to Kemp entered MD-General a half-hour back. A young male found in the Glades west of Miramar. Whoops … here comes the vic now.”
I paid closer attention to background sounds and heard voices and clattering wheels, a gurney, probably. “You’re at the hospital, Roy?”
“You got me interested in this thing.”
“Roy … can you stop things long enough to look at the vic’s back? It’s important.”
“Hey, Doc …” I heard a hand cover the phone, voices. Twenty seconds later Roy was back. “The victim’s in front of me, Carson. He’s as limp as a wet rag. What am I looking for?”
“Check carefully between the shoulder blades.”
“They’re lifting him. Uh … it looks like a figure eight with some scratching