Voices again. Helen listened intently. Maybe they hadn’t sent for a doctor yet. That’s it! The doctor will know.
“There she is, boys. A real doll. Take a look!”
The whiteness whisked away. It must be a sheet, she thought. The light glinted down at her. She heard a long, low whistle.
“Boy, what a dish. Why, hell, if he didn’t want her, I’d of been glad to take her off his hands.”
“At fifty bucks a night? That stuff’s way out of your class, buster.”
“What’d the M.D. say, lieutenant?”
“Blow on the head. Can’t see it though. Not a mark on her!”
The whiteness floated down on her again. My God, thought Helen. They really think I’m dead. Even the doctor who examined me. Of course he made a mistake. I’m not dead! Oh, dear God, dear God, let them see that I’m alive. Please!
Helen knew she was being carried. The light got dimmer. I must tell them somehow, she thought, I must! She fought to move. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing! She was floating again, floating, the blackness closing in. She fought it. Time stood still. Gradually reason groped its way back. Someone was near. She knew! She heard street sounds. Then voices.
“Les’ll be madder’n hell, bringing a stiff in this time of night. It’s almost three.”
“Hell! He’s gettin’ paid for it. Soft job. All he’s gotta do is tag em’ and put em’ on ice.”
That’s me they’re talking about, thought Helen. Dear God, no! No! She sobbed within. The street sounds faded.
“Tell Les to get the wagon out here on the double. I wanta get back. Damn hospital’s bad enough, but the morgue really gets under my skin.”
“Know what you mean, boy. Know what you mean. Les’s got an easy job, but I wouldn’t take it for all the tea in China.”
“Les sure seems to like it. He’s a queer one. Gives me the creeps sometimes.”
I’m in the morgue, Helen thought in terror. Help me! Somebody help me! She heard movements, squeaking wheels. The whiteness became whiter, then dimmer. She heard echoing footsteps. Knew she was being moved again. Somebody here’ll see that I’m not dead, she thought. Les! This Les! He’ll see I’m alive. God! I’m going crazy. This isn’t real. It’s just a bad dream. I’ll try to forget it and I’ll wake up. She repeated this over and over to herself, comfortingly. Suddenly the whiteness lifted. A thought far back in the recesses of her mind pushed its way to the front, shouldering out all other thoughts. It’s for real! It’s not a dream! You’ll be burried alive — alive — ALIVE!
Blackness again. Then a light shining in her eyes. A new face, soft, blubbery, injected itself between her and the light.
“You boys brought me a real doll this time, didn’t you? My, what pretty yellow hair — and such a pretty face. If her eyes were closed, you’d think she was sleeping, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” said the loud voice of one of the hospital attendants. “Sign this so we can get out of here, will yuh?”
The grinning face disappeared. A hand blocked the light from Helen’s face. Darkness! Then the bright light again.
“Hmm,” purred the soft voice. “Eyes don’t want to stay closed, do they, little one?”
“Come on, will yuh?” The hospital attendant’s voice again. “You can do that later.”
Footsteps faded. Helen’s eyes were riveted on the light overhead. Her mind refused to accept the reality of all this. Don’t leave me here alone, she thought. Please don’t leave me. Somebody’s got to know I’m alive! The blackness pressed against her, left her. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, closer, closer. A door clicked shut. A key turned in a lock. Les’s middle-aged, fleshy face appeared above her. Her eyes were glued to his large nose. Les leered at her, and her flesh began to crawl.
“Tomorrow they’ll cut you open to see what made you tick. Or rather,” he corrected himself, “to see what made you stop ticking.” He giggled. “Then you won’t be so pretty, will you, my charming little miss!”
Cut me open? Helen thought: An autopsy! That’s what he must mean. But I’m not dead. That’ll kill me for sure...
She blacked out momentarily. Got to let him know. Got to! She struggled within her prison. All that had been recently happening welled up inside her. I must — I must! She strained. Every fiber fought against the bonds that imprisoned her. Then, ever so slowly, Helen felt the little finger of her left hand begin to rise. It took an eternity to raise it half an inch, then let it drop. Raise it half an inch, let it drop. Les had stopped talking. Helen could hear the click of her fingernail against the metallic table on which she lay. It drummed loudly in her ears. Relief flooded over her. Now Les would know she was alive...
She saw Les grin broadly, stupidly. Had he heard the sound? Had he? Large beads of perspiration gleamed on his forehead. His expression cunning, mad.
“Your kind don’t die easy,” Les said. “I know what you were. We get lots like you.” He smiled lewdly. “Fifty bucks a night, huh! Pretty hot stuff, weren’t you? Huh? Huh?”
Helen knew Les wanted an answer. The man was insane. He knew she was alive and yet he didn’t go for help. Go away! Her thoughts were screaming. Get me out of here!
“Tonight,” Les said, “you’re working for free, baby. For free.”
Helen saw him slowly begin to unbutton his jacket, draw nearer, nearer. This can’t be happening, she thought over and over. Les’s bare chest shadowed her. His face, his slobbering mouth, covered hers. Her mind cried out: No! No!
Les was standing beside her now, dressed again. His gleeful babbling had stopped. And his sudden silence was fear. And she saw the fear of punishment for what he had done in his wet brown eyes, as well as in his silence. But her mind was too spent to cry out. What more could be done to her? Nothing. Nothing...
Les’s face suddenly loomed large. Larger and larger. The ceiling reeled as he lifted her in his arms. There was the motion of walking, which suddenly stopped. The empty expanse of the ceiling; she could see nothing else.
Then, the smooth flowing whiteness of a sheet engulfed her. No! NO! Her mind was screaming in agony now as Les slid her into her own, private, refrigerated compartment.
The Charles Turner Case
by Richard Deming
I said to the blonde, “Just when were you attacked, Miss Haliburton, and what was the man’s name?”
I won’t say I had completely forgotten the Charles Turner case when I was reminded of it by something George Novy told me. Novy’s information concerned the strip act a woman who lived in the apartment house across the areaway from his put on for his benefit each night. No district attorney is likely to forget the case which started him up the political ladder. But that case was five years in the past, and I doubt that I’d thought of it in three.
“You better be careful,” I advised Novy with a smile. “I tried a case once where the defendant started out by peeping in a neighbor woman’s window. He got twenty-five years to life.”
George Novy looked at me in astonishment. He was just out of law school and brand new to the district attorney’s office. “Twenty-five to life just for peeping?” he asked.
“I said he started by peeping. The peeping overexcited him, and he ended up with rape.”