Chapter Six – Part 1
Chuck Wilson's first conscious thoughts weren't his own.
«fucking doctor should be here by now. fuck they want me to bleed to death? fuck.»
«"It'll be all right honey god let her be all right The doctor will give you something to make it all better is it strep, please don't let it be strep Shh, Mommy's here can a baby die from strep?"»
«should have known better than come here on a sunday night. too many people.»
The thoughts were accompanied by a fractured view of a crowded waiting room. The scene came from a dozen different viewpoints, some overlapping, none lasting long enough to make any sense of. There was a black woman holding a squealing baby as if it was a life preserver. There was a scruffy‑looking man in an army jacket holding a bloody bandanna to his thigh. A dozen others, all of whom tried to grab space in Chuck's semi‑conscious mind.
«when are they going to get to me? i think my arm's broke.»
«so much easier when they're a minor. just lean on the parents a little. feelings of fatigue. fingers come to rub eyes. a glance down at the papers in his lap.»
What the fuck? was Chuck Wilson's first lucid thought that he could call his own. He could feel the contact slipping, even as Chuck realized that on that paper was the name Charles W. Wilson. For the first time in a long while, Chuck tried to hold onto the voices in his head.
«should have been here a year earlier. no question the mother wants to be rid of him. another glance downward. glimpse of a tie graced by a gold bald eagle. papers in lap with chuck's picture on them. dates, ages, police record. shouldn't have used him to bait the girl. now we got all this hospital red tape. glance up at a clock on the wall of the waiting room. clock reads 12:09. yeah, a year early, before the asshole turned eighteen. mom would've caved in five minutes, an then nobody would miss the creep. glance down at the papers. especially the euclid heights police.»
Chuck Wilson was fully awake now. He was dimly aware straps holding him down on some sort of table.
«a tap on the shoulder. right hand experiences an almost subliminal jerk toward left armpit. awareness of pressure of holster, and of the dozen civilians. surprise over in an instant, hand doesn't move. turn to look over. sandy haired kid with a black cartoon T‑shirt. "What is it Elroy? don't like that look of his. never did. what the hell does the kid really see?" the kid looks up and says, "Charlie's awake, I can feel him here—"»
Chuck's eyes snapped open and he lost contact. Shit boy, you in trouble.
The voices in his head might mean he was nuts, but some hard experiences made him trust them. Hell, if the voices weren't right all the time they wouldn't have fucked up his life so much. Chuck tried to sit up, and found that he really was strapped down.
"Fuck," he whispered.
The stellar medical staff of wherever‑the‑hell‑he‑was had parked him on a rolling stretcher off in a corridor somewhere. A chart lay on his stomach, and was slowly sliding off, knocked askew by his attempt to sit up.
He was held fast by thick leather straps across his chest and arms just above the elbow, by large cuffs on his wrists and ankles, and another belt across his legs just above the knee. None was tight enough to be painful, but any real movement was impossible.
God, why didn't they just get a straitjacket and get it over with?
Chuck had been questioning his sanity for so long that there was little doubt in his mind that they were bottling him up for the nut factory. That was probably what the man with the eagle on his tie was all about. Either that or he was some sort of cop. Either way, Chuck didn't want to deal with the man. But, strapped down here, he didn't have much choice.
The chart kept sliding until it fell into the crook of his arm.
"What the fuck I'm going to do?" Chuck muttered. He tossed his head around, to get an idea of where he was. It didn't help much. He was in an empty corridor flooded with florescent light. The corridor was a short one ending with a T‑intersection at each end. All the doors around him were closed, no signs of any doctors, nurses, or anyone else.
He suspected he was close to the emergency room.
Midnight? I've been here twelve hours?
At least they hadn't taken his clothes, such as they were. His jeans were splattered with blood, and the sleeves of his shirt had been slit up to the shoulder. A bag suspended over him was dripping into a needle in his left arm, and his right hand was swathed in bandages.
Fuck that bitch, this is all her fault.
Chuck froze as he saw a uniformed cop cross past the intersection in front of him. He didn't breathe until the cop had passed. Then he had to catch his breath again as a barely audible conversation started up around the corner.
"Hey, Doc, how's the patient?"
"Fine, still sleeping," said a mumbled voice.
"Any more word from those feds?"
A grunt.
"Yeah, I know. Never heard of the ASI either. I'm just here to take a statement from the kid."
Chuck's eyes finally focused on the chair by the foot of his stretcher. It was surrounded by a half‑dozen paper cups, and hanging off of the chair's arm was a cop's hat.
