Lisa Miscione - Twice

Two armed and uniformed guards manned the booth beside the mammoth metal gates that separated the hospital from the rest of the world. Lydia could see another in a tower high above them, the silhouette of a rifle visible from the ground. The younger of the two guards approached the car and Ford handed over his ID and shield. The man returned to the guardhouse and could be seen picking up a phone and briefly speaking into the receiver.

“Proceed to the visitors’ entrance,” the guard said when he returned to the car, handing back Ford’s identification.

The giant gate slid open and Ford drove forward, pausing before a second gate. The first gate closed with a heavy clang and Lydia looked behind her. She took a deep breath as the second gate opened and they drove up the road.

The odor in the tunnels was hard to describe except that it smelled so strongly of human rot and dank earth that it made Jeffrey’s eyes water. The two men forged their way through the darkness, behind the beam of Dax’s Maglite. Jeffrey held one hand over his mouth and nose against the odor and kept his other on the wall to his right. A strange crunching suddenly beneath their feet prompted Dax to shine the flashlight beam to the floor. Cockroaches the size of hamsters formed a writhing, skittering carpet on the ground.

“Holy Christ. I fucking hate bugs,” said Dax. “Ah, God. I wish I’d just left the light off.” They picked up their pace a bit and Jeff fought the urge to scratch every inch of his body.

“Do you have any idea where we’re going?” asked Jeffrey, glancing behind him at the fading shaft of light that marked their entrance. He tried not to think about the fact that if anything happened to them down here, they might never be found.

“There should be a stairway coming up,” said Dax. “Someone is supposed to meet us.”

“Another one of your mysterious contacts?”

“Something like that.”

“And what does this person know?”

“Well, we won’t find that out until we talk to her, will we?” said Dax.

In the distance, the acoustics of the tunnels making it impossible to tell if noise came from above or below, from in front or behind, they could hear the sound of voices. Briefly, Jeffrey swore he heard the sound of someone playing a flute. The tune was mournful and slow, melodic. Some diffused light made its way down from the gratings above them, enough so they could make out doorways, shapes in the darkness but not enough to really see. The wall was cool and wet beneath Jeffrey’s hand. A dripping could be heard from somewhere and twice something had brushed past his shoe. The Glock at his waist gave him no sense of security at all. They were underneath the world and reality felt suspended. Bullets couldn’t stop shadows.

“This is worse than I imagined it would be,” said Dax.

“No shit ,” said Jeff.

“Figures an animal like Jed McIntyre would make a lair in a place like this,” said Dax. “I couldn’t think of a better place for him.”

“I can,” said Jeff.

Dax turned around to look at Jeffrey but saw only a shadow behind him. “Here we go,” he said after a moment, shining his light into an opening in the wall that led to pitch-nothingness. “Just where she said it would be.”

A flight of metal stairs took them into a new layer of darkness where whatever brightness had carried in from the streets above was extinguished by a damp and utter black. The silence was so total that Jeffrey could hear his breath and Dax’s, too. The stairs had led them to a narrow walkway, and at the end in the beam of Dax’s flashlight they could see a metal door with no handle. Jeffrey felt like they were in a tomb. They approached the entrance and stood for a moment.

“What do we do?” said Jeffrey.

“We knock,” said Dax, raising a big fist to the metal and banging hard.

Jetty Murphy reminded Lydia of nothing so much as Golem, the creature from The Hobbit that dwelled in darkness guarding his precious ring. Bent over and twisted like an old branch, he was so thin that his elbows looked like knobs and his collarbone stretched against his skin. His overlarge head seemed to bob on the end of his neck as if he didn’t possess enough strength to support it. Black oily curls hung past his shoulders. He cupped his hands together over his mouth and his fingers were long and ghoulish, with nails bitten to the quick, his eyes black saucers set in gaunt features. He rocked on his haunches in the chair across from Ford. An armed guard stood by the door and Lydia stood beside him.

“Do you remember me, Jetty?” asked Ford. He’d seated himself across from Jetty and sat relaxed, leaning back in the chair. Lydia noticed how he’d molded the expression on his face to a look of benevolence, of understanding.

“Of course I remember you. I’m crazy, not stupid,” Jetty said bitterly. He dropped his feet to the floor and pulled himself upright so that he was sitting with a straight back. He raised his chin in a gesture that seemed to mock dignity.

“It was a long time ago,” said Ford gently, running his fingers along the edge of the table. “Even I have a hard time remembering that far back. How long ago was it now?”

“Ten years or so,” Jetty answered with a shrug. “What do you want?”

“Something’s come up, Jetty. I think you can help me.”

“Help you?” he said, laughing a little, as if such a thing were beyond imagining. But Lydia saw a brightening in his expression, like he had something someone wanted and it was a new feeling for him.

“I want you to remember that night for me again. Tell me again what you saw.”

“What’s in it for me?” he said, looking over at Lydia quickly and then back at Ford. “Can you make me a deal?”

He leaned forward quickly on the table and Lydia felt the guard twitch at her side.

“Sit back, Murphy,” he barked at Jetty. His voice boomed off the cold walls and filled the room. Murphy jumped back as if he’d been shocked.

“It’s okay,” said Ford, looking at the guard. “Me and Jetty go way back. Right, Jetty?”

“That’s right. Way back,” said Jetty, relaxing and casting a smug smile at the guard.

“I can’t make you a deal, Jetty. I won’t lie to you. But I might be able to get you a few privileges, put in a good word at your next review. I’ll tell you straight that you don’t have to help me. But I’d really be grateful if you did.”

Something about the way Ford had softened his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, the way he leaned in slightly toward Jetty, seemed to have an impact. Jetty looked less hopeless, a little less edgy. Lydia had to remind herself that she was looking at a rapist and a murderer, but it was hard not to have compassion for someone who just seemed so weak, so desperate. Ford lifted a bag that had been sitting by his feet filled with candy bars and a carton of cigarettes.

“I remembered that you used to have a sweet tooth, Jetty.”

“We’re not allowed to have that stuff here,” he said, casting a sidelong glance at the guard and a longing look at the bag.

“I’m sure I could get them to bend a few rules if you help me today, Jetty. What do you say?”

Jetty shrugged, trying and failing to look nonchalant. “What do you want to know?”

Ford took a Baby Ruth from the bag and slid it over to Jetty, who grabbed it up, ripped the wrapper off, and shoved it in his mouth in one movement. He pressed the bar into his mouth, chewing at it frantically, smearing chocolate on his face, as if he were afraid if he didn’t eat it fast someone would snatch it from him. Lydia looked away. It was pathetic. She wondered what had to happen to a person in his life that he wound up here, like this.