But not too late for what?

22Oct

“I said, he’s not here,” the nurse stressed.

I motioned back to the narrow waiting room, whose handful of occupants were watching me out of the corners of their eyes like school kids afraid to be called on in class. “So none of these patients are his?”

“Dr. Caldwell has taken Dr. More’s patients while he’s on sabbatical.” She was around 60 and work no makeup. Her hair was parted in the middle and fell below her ears in curves. There were three thin, parallel scars on the side of her face near her right eye.

“Funny, he never mentioned a sabbatical. That kind of thing takes some planning, doesn’t it? Seems to me a professional psychologist might let his patients know if he were planning an extended absence.”

“All his patients were made aware. Perhaps he told you and you didn’t listen.” The implication was that I still wasn’t.

“I’m sure I would’ve remembered,” I said.

“Then you’ll have to take that up with Dr. More when he gets back.”

“Is he coming back?”

“Your questions have been asked and answered, Detective. This is harassment.” She picked up the receiver to the phone like she was going to dial 911 or something. “Please leave.”

“If he’s not here, then you won’t mind me looking in his office.” I started around the desk.

She replaced the phone quickly and stepped in front of me. “This is private property. You c can’t just walk in.” She pointed to one of the younger assistant nurses, who was staring at the confrontation in disbelief. “Kay, please dial the police and tell them we’re being harassed.”

The young woman picked up the phone but hesitated.

“You keep using that word,” I said to my adversary. “Is it supposed to scare me?

What’s wrong with a quick peek? If you have nothing to hide, I mean.”

She crossed her arms and planted herself.

I turned to the younger colleague. “Well? What are you waiting for? Call.”

The elder nurse sighed and turned for the door to Dr. More’s office. It was already shut. She pulled a mass of keys from the waist of her scrubs and locked it. I caught the sign on the next door down. It said DR. ALAN CALDWELL, same last name as the couple who moved into More’s house, according to the neighbor.

I walked forward and opened it over the nurse’s objection.

The interior was more or less the same as More’s: a nice glass-topped desk, some chairs, fancy framed degrees with giant matte borders, a sofa to one side, a credenza at the back. There were tribal masks on the wall, and when I turned my head to look, I caught a glimpse of a wasp. It crawled through the eye of a faded Balinese mask and disappeared.

The nurse moved me back and shut the door. She shouted something. I couldn’t hear it, but I saw her lips move. I saw her brow crease in anger. And I saw her breath.

I looked around the waiting room at the shocked faces, staring at me in confusion and fear. I looked at the pair of uniformed security guards who walked, as if in slow motion, through the office door. I couldn’t hear any of them. The whole room was silent. But their breath puffed from their mouths like they were standing in the dead of winter. I could see it billow from their nostrils like steam.

I started shivering. I could see my own breath, too.

“No . . .” I could feel it coming. I could feel it out there. Waiting.

The dire hunter.

I pulled free of the first guard’s grasp and stormed through the door, room still shrouded in silence. I skipped the elevator and went right to the stairs. I made it two flights before I was shivering so bad that I couldn’t walk. It was like I’d been sleeping in snow. I was chilled to the core.

I fell back against the block wall and slid down until I was sitting with my back to the corner of the stairwell landing, shivering. Teeth chattering. Not that I could hear anything, but I could feel them rattling against each other.

I stared ahead at a tree line. White-barked birch trees with bands of black stood in an irregular row, marking the boundary of the forest. The interior was dark. It was nighttime. The only light was reflected from the moon, which I couldn’t see. I was squatting in a clearing, staring at the silent forest. Everything was still. There wasn’t even a hint of a breeze. The only smell was snow.

I squinted into the darkness, between the branches. It was in there. I knew it. I couldn’t see anything, but I knew it was in there, looking back at me. The wolf with three eyes. I knew it had been stalking me through the still forest. I couldn’t see it. But I knew. I caught glimpses of it’s footprints in the snow from where it had walked out of the clearing and into the forest, which was still lush, despite being under a blanket. Here it was seemingly the dead of winter, yet none of the leaves on the trees have fallen. In fact, they were still green as spring. The branches were topped with snow, but the leaves were full. It was quite a sight — incongruous and beautiful. I think it meant it’s not too late.

But not too late for what?

 

a rough cut from the third mystery in my forthcoming supernatural thriller FEAST OF SHADOWS. If you enjoyed this, leave a tip!