The Shibboleth (15 page)

I am a ghost now to the nurses, doctors, and patients. I sense a few Riders, yet the staff makes no fuss or squawk as I walk among them, their gazes sliding over me like a snake slipping over a rock into a stream to disappear. The eyes I see from, they do not see me. The eyes the Rider inhabits … I do not know. But it told me to leave back at Casimir and now that I have, it seems content not to impede my departure.

Before the elder awakens.

On the ground floor, North Wing, I find an employee's
locker room and a nurse changing into his blue duds and squeaky shoes. I wait, sitting on the benches, as he changes.

It's not that I'm invisible now. It's that I'm the blind spot in their mirror. I'm a wee little adjustment in the ledger. But still, it's weird to see a guy changing out of his street clothes, down to his tighty-whities, not five feet away from me.

When he finishes, I give a little
twist
, and he conveniently leaves his locker open on his way out.

He's a little thicker around the middle than me, and a good three inches taller, so I have to roll the cuffs and put on two pairs of his socks even to think about getting the guy's big black harness boots to stay on my feet. His short-sleeve shirt swallows my torso in a gulp. And though it's not the most sanitary, I use his toothbrush and toothpaste to scrub the funk from my teeth. Focus on the tongue.

The reflection of myself in the mirror is gaunt, peeling. And sad. I look like a withered old man wearing the clothes of his youth.

I've grown old.

Sixteen and I've grown old. Deep lines shooting away from my eyes. Lean and angular and hungry. I don't like the dead glint to my expression, but I can't seem to wipe if from my face. It's the dull gaze of a predator, the lifeless eye of a shark—cold, implacable. I try to sneer.

I can't.

I'm not really me anymore.

Of all the souls in Tulaville Psych, Dr. Billy Grainger—and more specifically his 1970 Plymouth GTX—has my attention
this morning. I want to burn the memory of Rollie and Tulaville out on the blacktop, but that particular bit of muscle car seems too suspicious and identifiable.

Given those I might not be able to sway or adjust with the shibboleth—and because I'd rather not be constantly adjusting the general pop—I go with Rusty Greewell's Honda Accord, as bland as cafeteria food and just as safe.

In Dr. Sinequa's office, I stand before his desk as he types a report on his laptop and sips coffee. He does not glance at me.

He looks good, rested. He woke this morning in his office, wondering how he'd fallen asleep and slept the night through. His phone showed multiple messages from his wife. His personal trainer.

But he had slept the night through in this chair and felt wonderful when he awoke. Surprised to find all his staff had the same experience. A blessing and a miracle, the more religious-minded of them had said, smiling.

That helps ease the pain of Rollie, some.

I watch Dr. Sinequa.

I could make him dance, make him give himself a dose of Haldol, enough to float an elephant in a canoe all the way downstream to zombietown.

I don't. I just hold up a finger like a gun, point it at his eggshell cranium as he continues to type, and say, “Gimme all your money.”

He withdraws his wallet, places it on the desk. On a piece of paper, he writes, BANK OF THE OZARKS - PIN: 1947. FIRST SECURITY - PIN: 0531.

“Danke schoen, Herr Doktor,” I say.

I stop at the highway, look back at the brooding old hulk of Tulaville Psych. The roof looks so remote, half-obscured by the trees lining the drive.

Good-bye, Rollie.

Good-bye, Shreve.

Easy enough to look up her address on the computers at the John Gould Fletcher Library. I watch her house until she leaves, gets in her little sedan, and putters off to the local grocery store. A Kroger. Moms used to pronounce it “Kay Roger,” which was stupid but still made me laugh when I was a boy.

I follow, easing the Accord behind her.

Driving. I have no license. Just the memories of hundreds of people. I've flown airplanes, manned .50-cal chain guns on Hueys, and dived the Great Barrier Reef. Stolen memories. Tailing a septuagenarian in a Honda Accord is a cakewalk in the park, sniffing daisies.

She takes a long-ass time shopping. I twist and turn the dial on the radio and wait for her to come out. When she does, holding two small plastic bags, I put the car in gear, exit my parking spot, and pull up, blocking in her car.

Window down. My arm draped outside. Casual. Like I'm supposed to be here.

“Hey, Nurse Cheeves!” I say. This gets her attention. “It's nice to see you again. I'm not here to hurt you. Actually, I'm very sorry for what happened. I made mistakes. Nobody is going to get hurt this time. I'm taking care of things.” If that's not enough, I say, “I promise.”

She nods, almost imperceptibly. I can tell she's terrified, little tremors in the flesh of her cheek, a quaver in her hands.

She's standing by her car, holding her shopping bags and goggling at me through the window of the Accord. “I have a little favor to ask. There's a photo that was in my cell at Casimir. I need you to get it for me. It's a picture of Jack Graves and a girl.”

“Why, I—”

“If they haven't tossed and cleaned my cell, it'll be in the top drawer of the dresser. If they
have
tossed it, it'll be in Administration. Sorry for the way this sounds but …
I command you to get that photo for me.
Understand?”

“Yes. I—”

“You will find that photo and mail it here.” I hand her a slip of paper on which I've written an address. The address of Jerome Abraham Aaronson. My old buddy from another hospital, another time.

I'm through with hospitals. I'm through with cages.

“Thank you. What I'm going to say now is not for your ears, and you will not remember it. It is for a man named Quincrux.”

She wavers, standing poleaxed. I wonder if she will fall. I open the door, leave the Accord idling in the parking lot, and escort her to her car.

Once her bags are in the trunk, she turns to me, her old rheumy eyes watering. I say, “Quincrux, I am coming for you.”

She blinks. Tears pool and make little paths across her wrinkled yellow skin. So small, this woman. I must be gentle.

“Nurse Cheeves? I know I've already done too much. To you. To everyone at Casimir. I'm so sorry. But I have one more thing to say. I
command you
to forget me and go be happy. Can you do that?”

She nods, pouring tears but smiling now. I spark inside her mind, for just an instant. Her match head ignites. Shines bright.

She will sleep well tonight.

Driving now, and every time I glance at the passenger seat, I feel its emptiness. I drive east, on 40, toward Memphis, Nashville. Beyond that, the East Coast.

To find Jack.

Quincrux.

Riders. Everywhere. Seems that a large cross-section of folks on the East Coast have visited Maryland at one time or another.

On the drive up, the farther east I move, the more Riders I encounter. I buy new clothes at a Target outside of Nashville, spotting Riders and spending the whole shopping spree worrying about money and feeling guilty about the expense. Used to be, at the old Holly Pines Trailer Park, occasionally a cardboard box of hand-me-down clothes would appear at our front door, enough for Vig and me to get by. Never shopped for myself before. Thinking about Vig hurts some.

Getting a little worried about the ruse. Teenager, driving alone cross-country. But I'm sixteen now, and even though I don't have a license, I could. There's a little stubble on my jaw. And there's the fact that I look like a withered old man.

Strange, I've got a bellyful of memories not my own, but this is the first time I've been alone and in control of my life since, like, ever. Or maybe I've always been holding the wheel: raising my brother, wiping up Moms's spills and lighting her smokes, dealing candy to the general pop back at Casimir.

I feel lost and centered, all at once. Driving is such a hypnotic thing, or maybe that's the aftermath of the Haldol and the return of the shib.