He laughed and they concluded their conversation. After a moment to catch her breath, she called Curt's parents. His father answered.
"Good morning, Pop," she said. She had been calling Curt's father "Pop" ever since Curt had given her the engagement ring. Then she began to relate the events as close to any form of logic she could compose.
"What's that?" he asked after every revelation, partly because he really needed it repeated as a result of his faulty hearing, which he stubbornly refused to correct with an aid, and second because he needed to confirm he really understood what she was saying. "Why didn't you call us last night?" he demanded at the end of her attempt at any explanations. The best she could come up with was some sort of psychotic schizophrenic was out and about their hometown and Curt had intercepted him trying to break into her home.
"It was very late by the time I left the hospital. Curt was out of any danger," she explained.
"None of this makes any sense to me. I've been reading about these deaths that involve some sort of deficiency or another, but I still don't understand how you are involved," Bill Levitt said.
"Neither do I, Pop."
"Terri. I don't like being left out of the loop," he added sternly.
"You're not, believe me. There isn't much of a loop at the moment."
"Makes no sense," he repeated. "We'll head over to the hospital. You should have called us last night," he repeated, obviously disturbed.
"I'm sorry. I thought I was being sensible."
"I might be retired," he said, "but I'm not dead."
"I'm sorry," she chanted.
"What?"
"I'm sorry," she practically shouted.
"I'll see you later," he concluded.
Now, feeling worse, she punched out her parents' phone number, dreading their reaction even more. Everything she expected resulted: her mother's hysterical panic, her father's deep concern.
Somehow, her mother found a way to blame it on her delaying her marriage to Curt.
"A woman can't be alone in today's world," she declared with a formality and portentous air that made it sound like the title of an Oprah show. "You might be a doctor, but you're still a woman. Poor Curt," she followed. "We'll go right up there."
Terri was going to discourage that or at least have them go later, but then she thought, the more Curt is occupied, the less he will be worrying about her.
"You'll come home tonight, won't you, Terri?" her mother asked.
"I'll see, Ma."
"I'll fix your old room. You'll be safe," she insisted. Here she was a physician responsible for the health and lives of hundreds of people and her mother wanted her home, sleeping in her old room, surrounded by her stuffed animals. Maybe, she thought, maybe I really did make a mistake coming back here to practice medicine.
Hyman warned me in so many ways. 'You can't be a prophet in your own land.'
If depression fell like raindrops, she was leaving the house in the midst of a torrential downpour.
SIXTEEN
He was never a late sleeper, especially after he had fed and felt invigorated the night before. Sometimes, immediately after he awoke, he would literally fall to the floor and do dozens of push-ups, hundreds of sit-ups before going for his jog. He was like that today, exploding with energy. He had gotten a wonderful rest. The room had proven to be as quiet as the ugly motel owner had predicted. The highway itself was lightly traveled and his room was a good distance from the road.
First, I'll go for my run, he thought, and then I'll find out from the motel owner where I could go for breakfast close by. It would be a big breakfast today. Maybe even steak and eggs. He got into his sweats, put on his running shoes, and opened the door.
It was a much cooler morning than he had anticipated. He could actually see his breath. The sky was clear and a darker shade of blue. Across the way the branches of trees denuded of their leaves turned the scene into a field of skeletons, bones growing out of tree trunks, scarecrows picked clean by oncoming winter, nature's vulture. The bark of many of the trees looked streaked with dried blood. A pair of crows seemed to be looking his way, nervously lifting and dropping their wings as if they were churning up energy for a quick getaway should it be required.
"Hey!" he screamed at them.
One flew off and then the other, after a moment of courage, followed quickly. They circled and disappeared to the right.
He laughed and then stepped completely out of the room. When he looked down the railroad car-designed motel building, he saw his was the only vehicle. He had been the only customer last night. The owner had been right about the dropoff of his business. How the hell did this guy exist? he wondered. He could see the light was on in the office. Walking at a brisk pace to warm up, he started in that direction. When he reached it, he glanced at the newspaper machine at the front door and stopped instantly. The resemblance between him and the drawing on the front page was very clear, very sharp. So much so, it was as if he was looking into a mirror that reflected only one's highlights, but enough of them to make it clear that one was looking at oneself. He read that the police were looking for this man for questioning about the death of Paula Gilbert, a country singer who had performed at the Old Hasbrouck Inn. There were no other details about the man they were looking for, but what he had read and the picture drawn was enough to disturb him deeply. This was the first time such a thing had occurred, and he hated the idea of being the hunted. That's what I do. That's my purpose, he wanted to shout.
His eyes lifted from the machine to the window of the office door. Through it he could see the motel owner staring down at the front page of the paper. He seemed to sense his presence and lifted his eyes, too. They confronted each other. Panic rose to the surface of the owner's face, coming out of it like a thick, red blotch. His eyes brightened like two tiny lights warning outsiders not to enter his thoughts, recording was taking place within.
Without hesitation, he lunged at the door and stepped into the office. The motel owner backed away from the counter.
"Good... morning..." he said, practically choking on each syllable. "How was, was your room?"
"Full of snakes," he replied.
"Whaaa."
"Snakes!" he shouted. "Snakes, everywhere. You put me in a den of snakes!" The owner shook his head vigorously and continued to back up.
"What are you talking about? What snakes?"
In response, he moved quickly, practically leaping over the counter until he was at him, his hands grasping the man at the neck and practically lifting him off the floor as he drove him back into his living quarters, smashing the door open and pushing him in until he stumbled and fell to the floor, carrying him over with him as he went down.
The man struggled to break free and was doing well, his panic giving him unusual strength. Quickly, realizing the motel owner might break loose, he drove his knee onto the man's Adam's apple and pressed all of his weight there. The motel owner's face began to explode with terror. His eyes bulged, rising like hard-boiled eggs being squeezed in the middle. His mouth contorted, the lips losing all their shape, and the blood that rose to the surface of his face seemed to jell and clog in the pores of his skin. His choking grew more and more intense. He clawed and swung and tried to buck like a wild horse so he could throw his aggressor off, but nothing worked. He began to lose consciousness. His tongue edged its way out from under his clenched teeth and peered about like a desperate thick-headed snake. It trembled along with the rest of him until he gasped a final time and then sunk into himself, dropping into his death like a rock sinking in water.