So why the dark sensation? Maybe someone from a dream. And he’d had a boatload of those of late.
“You want some water or something?”
“I’m okay.” Jack could hear fear in the breathy scrape of his voice.
The man eyed him suspiciously, then nodded and went back to banging something in place, his mouth still moving.
Jesus, what’s happening to me? Jack asked himself. What the hell is going on in my head?
Without expression, the man locked hard eyes on his. “I asked you a question.”
Jack didn’t remember the question. Maybe he’d nodded off for a moment and just dreamed he had. He looked up at Theo to reply, but the sensation was back, and worse—leaving him thinking that he had lived these moments before. Some wicked déjà vu.
In an instant an inexplicable anxiety set Jack’s diaphragm in spasms. His throat constricted as if a snake were coiling around it. His forehead was a cold aspic of sweat, and his chest and neck were a flash of prickers.
Heart attack. I’m having a heart attack.
“Hey, you want me to call the nurse?”
Jack could not answer.
Shit. Worked yourself into cardiac arrest. A killer surge of self-inflicted anxiety, and you won yourself a permanent flat line.
But another thought cut across that one: No. Not a heart attack. His heart was strong, they had said, and at the moment was pounding so hard that his shirt was pulsing. No, something else. What had passed through him was a bolt of black horror.
Something about this repairman.
He wants to hurt you.
The guy glared down at him. And in Jack’s mind, he jumped off the ladder and smashed his head with that shiny ball-peen hammer.
“You having a seizure?”
A skim of panic formed over Jack like ice. Seizure. How did this repairman know about seizures?
But the other voice was back: You’re being an asshole. The guy’s perfectly friendly in his Mr. Fixit overalls and body shirt, up there on his ladder being chatty and doing his business with the blinds. And just because he’s a repairman doesn’t mean a limited vocabulary. You’ve got the problem, pal, not him.
The repairman continued to stare at Jack, the individual slats making razor-edged slashes of light and shade across his features. He look demonic, his mouth a black gash in his brown face, his features jagged. And hot black auger eyes boring through him.
Suddenly the guy climbed down, the hammer in his fist.
Oh, Jesus! God, no. No! his brain screamed. A faint squeal pressed out of a clenched larynx.
The man took no notice and came up to the bed, the hammer still in his hand. Jack let out a gasp and in a flash he saw the hammer come down on the crown of his head with a sickening crack, blood and brain matter splattering all over the bed.
Under his pillow Jack’s hand scrabbled for the nurse-call button.
“This will take care of you,” the guy said.
Jack pressed the button and closed his eyes against the blow.
Nothing.
“Here you go,” and Theo handed Jack a glass of water.
“Everything okay?” Marcy said.
Jack opened his eyes. Theo was standing over him with a glass of water, Marcy by his side. “You okay, Jack?”
Jack grunted. “Can’t sleep.” Theo went back to the blinds.
“No problem.” And she produced a pack of pills. “Theo looks about done, right?”
“Just about.” And he slipped the hammer into his holster and popped the blinds in place and pulled the strings. They were fixed. He dropped them closed to darken the room.
“Great.” Marcy gave the lorazepam to Jack.
Theo gathered his things. “You hang in there, buddy.” And he walked out of the room.
In a matter of moments, the horror had flushed from Jack’s mind.
There, asshole. There’s your crazed psychopath in farmer johns.
Jack sipped more water and closed his eyes, concentrating on the liquid flowing down his parched throat. Damn lucky the proverbial cat had your tongue, or you’d have some fancy explaining to do.
So just what was that? Jack asked himself as he lay there. Just your hot imagination—like those dreams of misshapen creatures killing people.
But that didn’t satisfy. There was something he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe the guy looked like somebody else. Maybe someone in a movie. Maybe someone in a dream.
A dream. His mind kept on coming back to that.
Like the dream about someone sneaking in here one night and trying to squirt some bad juice into your tubes.
But the other voice was back: The guy’s just some friendly innocent you’re hanging your loonies on. Period. The meds. It’s all the crap they’re giving you, playing crazy dreams when you sleep, giving you the ooga-boogas when awake. That, or you’re losing your mind. Spent six months in the Twilight Zone and came out with half your luggage. Could be worse. Could be sleeping with the jellies.
Nothing made sense, but the incident had left him weary and yearning for oblivion. Marcy dimmed the lights, and Jack closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep for a week and wake up whole and ready to get out of here.
“You sleep tight,” she said.
Besides, Bunky, who the hell would want to kill someone who’s been in a coma for half a year?
4
61
ON APRIL 24, VINCE DROVE JACK to a rented house about two miles from the colonial he had shared with Beth.
In spite of the memories, Jack wanted to return to Carleton because he liked the town and because it was close to the Lahey Clinic where he had his physical therapy. He also wanted to be near Yesterdays, where Vince talked him into being host now that he was back on his feet. Two weeks ago he had renewed his driver’s license and would get around in rentals until he could afford a car of his own. “Maybe I’ll check the Yellow Pages for Rent-a-Wife,” he told Vince.
The place was a neat six-room Cape painted dark green, making it look like a giant Monopoly piece. Low trimmed bushes formed a border around the front, which sat on Old Mystic Road, near the Mystic Lakes and the town line of Medford, where he could buy beer since Carleton was steadfast in the virtues of its Puritan ancestors—holding dry and proud of it. The house came furnished, which was fine, since Jack harbored no sentimental attachment to what he and Beth had shared. Nor did he want to be reminded.
He and Vince spent a few hours putting things away from boxes stacked in the different rooms. And when most of it was done, Jack walked Vince to his car. “‘Thanks’ doesn’t come close.”
“It’ll do.” Vince gave him a hug. “You need anything, you call.” He got into his car, a 1992 green Mitsubishi 3000 VR4 twin turbo. Jack tapped the rear spoiler. “Does this do anything?”
“Keeps me out of the trees.” Vince started the car. “You take it easy and work on your Charlie Charm.”
Jack started hosting at the restaurant in three nights. “No reservations, fuck off! Next.”
“Perfect,” Vince said and pulled away.
As he turned on his cane, Jack noticed a black SUV with tinted windows roll down the street. He wouldn’t have noticed it except that it rolled by slowly, then sped away as Jack looked up.