M Sellars - The Law Of Three

I staved off another twinge of pain from somewhere around the back of my grey matter and decided to ignore the tune. For the moment, paying closer attention to the goings on before me seemed the most logical way to do so.

I watched as the intern regarded the industrial-sized Native American in front of him with an exhausted gaze and then took hold of his hand once again. “Detective Storm,” he stated. “You are the one who refused to have a local anesthetic. Perhaps you would like one now?”

“I already said no,” Ben answered.

“Then I suggest you find a way to deal with it.”

“I don’t like needles,” my friend muttered.

“Not many people do,” he returned. “But it would hurt a lot less if you had the local.”

“No.”

“Fine, if that is your choice. However, you are going to have to stop flinching. You still have some metal fragments in your hand, and we need to get them out.”

“Well don’t you think you can be a little gentler or somethin’? I mean do you have to dig around like that?”

“Detective,” the intern began, clearly at the limit of his patience. “I don’t tell you how to do your job, please refrain from telling me how to do mine.”

Personally, I thought the doctor was handling the situation well considering that this outburst had made something on the order of the fifth time Ben had jerked his hand away-and, that’s not to mention that he hadn’t shut up either.

During their exchange, the door had swung open, and a nurse entered, armed with some fresh gauze and washcloths. She had been assisting with both of us earlier, and she now set about cleaning the area surrounding the wound on my cheek. I simply tilted my head to the side without a word, shifting my gaze between her and the floorshow. I couldn’t help but notice that she wore a bemused expression as my friend bickered with the intern behind her.

“So much for bedside manner,” Ben huffed. “Freakin’ Marcus Welby you ain’t.”

“Marcus who?” the intern asked in an absent tone.

My friend raised an eyebrow and cocked his chin down as he stared at the doctor. “How old are you?”

“I don’t really think that has any bearing on your treatment, Detective.”

“Doctor Drew may be young,” the nurse offered aloud without looking away from her task at hand, “but he knows what he is doing, Detective Storm.”

Ben glanced over at the back of her head and then returned his gaze to the doctor. “You really don’t know who Marcus Welby is?”

“No, I don’t,” he replied.

“Jeez. What’s this world comin’ to?”

“You said it yourself earlier, Ben,” I offered in a flat tone, speaking for the first time since I’d been threatened with a hypodermic full of sedative. “We’re getting old.”

“Yeah, well, old is one thing,” he agreed, “but that’s no excuse for…”

The repetitive electronic refrain of his cell phone interrupted him, and he reached around to his belt with his free hand. He fumbled for a moment since the appendage was securely wrapped in fresh gauze but managed to grasp the small device. As he brought it up, he gestured at me and then to the intern with the stubby antenna while it continued to trill. “It’s no excuse for him not knowin’ who Marcus Welby is.” He finished the admonishment then thumbed the phone to life and put it to his ear. “Yeah, Storm here.”

“Is he always like this?” the nurse asked in a quiet voice as she swabbed my cheek with cold antiseptic. A light, southern lilt underscored her words.

I grimaced as the sting set in and tried not to flinch then shifted my eyes over to her. “Pretty much. Don’t let it bother you though. He’s really a good guy.”

My own voice still sounded rough, and its tone remained emotionless and tired. I realized when I heard myself that I didn’t sound particularly convincing.

“I’ll have to take your word for it, Mister Gant,” she returned with a smile.

“No, really, he is.” I tried to sound more sincere. “And please call me Rowan. Every time I hear ‘Mister Gant’ I think my father is here.”

She chuckled. “All right then, Rowan. You can call me Dorothy. I am afraid, however, that I will still have to take your word for it on Detective Storm.”

“He grows on you,” I offered.

She pressed something to my cheek that I later discovered was a butterfly closure and then inspected it closely. “There. All done.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” she told me. “Doctor Kirkman will be back in shortly. He wanted to go over a few things with you.”

“That’s fine,” I said then shifted to look at her. “Oh, my wife is supposed to be here.”

She nodded. “Detective Storm told us. Someone will bring her back as soon as she arrives.”

“Thank you.” I tried to inject some enthusiasm into my still flat voice. “I really appreciate it. And there’s just one more thing.”

“Certainly,” she said as she cocked her head to the side and gave me a questioning look.

“Another officer was brought in ahead of us. Deckert, Carl Deckert. We’ve been trying to get an idea of his condition for a while.”

She nodded. “I’ll see if I can find out something for you.”

“Thank you,” I told her again.

“You’re welcome.” She flashed me a quick grin and nodded in Ben’s direction while turning to go. “You know, maybe you can teach some manners to your friend over there.”

“I heard that!” Ben called after her as she exited the treatment room, but she was already gone.

My friend looked back over at me and shook his head. “Jeez.”

I gave him a tired shrug in return.

“So, was that Allison?” I asked as I dipped my head at the cell phone in his hand, referring to his wife.

“What? Oh, no.” He shook his head and clipped the device back onto his belt. “It was Ackman callin’ to give me an update.”

“Good news?” I asked hopefully.

“Not really,” he returned. “Still haven’t found Porter. The weather’s not helpin’, and it’s gonna be dark in a few hours.”

“Is it really that late?” I asked as I pulled my hand up to look at my watch, only to remember that it was broken when I saw the shattered face. I don’t know why I hadn’t just taken it off. I glanced around the room and found the face of the wall clock. It was fuzzy, but it was large enough for me to be able to read it without squinting too much. The position of the hands told me it was just past two p.m. This time of the year the sun was gone by five.

“You didn’t sleep last night, did you?” Ben answered me with his own query.

I closed my eyes and massaged my forehead for a moment, then carefully laid myself back on the examination table. “No. Not much anyway.”

The tune was moving itself back into the forefront, and its eerie chords sent a fearful shiver racing up and down my spine. Each note seemed to carry with it a tiny pinprick of terror that grew exponentially as the melody wove itself through the even rhythm.

“How long you been up?” His voice sounded hollow and distant.

I did a protracted mental calculation that should have taken no more than a second or two then finally answered. “Pushing twenty-four at least, I think.”

“Jeezus, white man.”

“He’s got nothing to do with it,” I mumbled.

“Who?”

“Jesus.” This time my voice was almost a whisper.

The song was all but completely filling my ears now and sounding creepier by the second. If it were not for the level of exhaustion I was battling, I think I might have been overcome by the intangible fear. At the moment, even my earlier anger was falling by the wayside, and darkness was becoming a comfortable blanket. The fatigue broke through my defenses and began to batter me with its weapon of choice-sleep. I made a half-hearted attempt at fighting back but quickly found that I was hopelessly outmatched. With a final, heavy sigh, I surrendered.