William Lashner - Falls The Shadow

Then I was on the phone to Chicago, speaking first to Franny Pepper, then checking the flights from O’Hare, and then trying to find the right nurse to take care of Virgil Pepper while she flew in to testify. I doubted whether Jim could even get out of the lounge chair, better yet climb the stairs to take care of the brutal old man. So I called a couple nursing homes, I asked the administrators if any of their nurses moonlighted, I requested someone with strong hands and a nasty temper. You’d be surprised how many candidates I found.

When all was put in place, I typed up a subpoena for Dr. Bob. Tomorrow court was in recess, the judge had a conference, so I’d have time enough to pay a visit on my dentist, though hell if I’d ever let him touch my teeth again, despite the gap that still remained unfilled.

So it was late by the time I shut off the office lights, locked the office door, stepped out into the warm, humid night. I was exhausted and hungry, and the Phillies were in San Francisco for a late-starting game, which meant I’d fall asleep on the couch by the third inning, which sounded just right. On the way home, I bought a six-pack of beer and a take-out cheese steak – yes, we actually do eat those things – grabbed my mail from the entranceway of my building, and headed up the stairs to my apartment.

I opened the door, stepped inside, and stopped cold.

There was something familiar and terrifying in the air. And something else, too.

I had left the place a mess, yes, I admit it, but not this big a mess. Clothes were strewn, the cushions of the couch were slashed, the dining table was overturned, chairs were scattered, framed posters were flung about, my cheap china was shattered, and, worst of all, the television was crumpled on the floor, its screen smashed. No baseball for me. My first thought was whether my homeowner’s insurance would cover it all, and my second thought was that I didn’t have any homeowner’s insurance. Before I could conjure a third thought, something grabbed me around the neck and killed my breath.

My back was pressed against a wall, wide and surprisingly soft. I was lifted into the air. My throat was constricted in on itself. I am using the passive tense here on purpose, because frankly, in the first few instants I was paralyzed into passivity by shock.

When I finally realized what was happening, I grappled helplessly at the thick arm around my throat. I slid my hands down the shaft of the arm, hoping I could find my attacker’s hand and maybe bend a finger back to force him to let go of me. I felt a thin layer of latex over an unmovable mass of gristle and bone. So much for that.

The finger gambit having failed miserably, I took my next-best option, and as my lungs started screaming for oxygen, I flailed about like a madman. I might have looked like some bad Elvis impersonator dancing to “Jailhouse Rock” on a bed of hot coals during an epileptic fit, but it wasn’t all about styling.

My heel hit a shin, my knuckle landed on something soft in the middle of a face, my elbow banged a rib. The monster holding me started hopping, loosened its grip, and let out a quick exhale along with a deep grunt.

Next thing I knew, I was facefirst on the floor. I started struggling to my feet, but something hard and heavy slammed into the small of my back and I was pancaked again onto the floor. The whole of my front was in pain, and it seemed to center on a sharp jut in my cheek.

I lifted my head away from the pain and something smacked it hard so that my nose smashed against the floor.

“This is your last chance, bucko,” came a sharp Germanic whisper.

Something grabbed my ear and twisted it so hard I screamed.

The weight on my back disappeared. I again jerked my head up to escape the pain in the cheek. I tried to turn around to see who was there, and something inside my face slipped. I stopped moving, reached a hand gingerly to my cheek. It came away slick, as if my cheek was covered with a viscous oil. But it wasn’t oil.

I lifted myself slowly to my hands and knees, sat down on the floor, reached again to my cheek. Something was sticking out, some shard. I took hold and pulled, and after an initial tug of resistance out it came, with little slurp. A wedge of glass, slightly curved. I wasn’t the first person skewered by television, but all in all I would have preferred it be on 60 Minutes.

I thought about climbing to my feet, staggering down the steps, seeing if I could spot my attacker, but as the nausea started blossoming like a beastly flower in my gut, I thought better of it. And I already knew, didn’t I?

Tilda. It rhymes with Brunhilda. The fat lady had sung.

I entered Dr. Pfeffer’s waiting room with great wariness. I almost expected Tilda to be guarding the entrance with a baseball bat and a sign saying NO TWO-BIT LAWYERS ALLOWED, but everything was as it was before. The walls were still beige, pretty Deirdre behind the desk was still smiling. The same bright lights, same jaunty Muzak, same oppressive sense of cheer.

And I, apparently, was still more than welcome.

“Oh, Mr. Carl, we’re so glad you’ve come for a visit. Is that a new tie? And what’s that on your cheek? I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Just a little too much television,” I said, not mentioning the hours spent in the emergency room, the needles of Novocain, the fourteen stitches.

“I don’t see you down as having an appointment today. Are we mistaken?”

“No, Deirdre, your book is right. I thought I’d drop in for a friendly little chat with the doctor. Is he in?”

“Dr. Pfeffer is seeing another patient right now, but he’ll certainly be glad to see you. You’re one of his favorites.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I think one of the examination rooms is available. If you want, Mr. Carl, you can wait for the doctor in Examination Room B. As a rule we don’t let visitors in the operational part of the office, but I’m sure that’s a rule we can bend for you.”

I looked at the closed door that led to the hallway that led to the examination rooms and the examination chairs and the picks and the drills and the… I looked at the door and I shuddered.

“No, thank you,” I said. “To tell you the truth, you couldn’t drag me back there with a chain and a backhoe.”

She smiled, unsure of what to say to that. “Then please take a seat. I’m sure the doctor will be out shortly.”

I sat in a beige chair, picked up an old magazine, tried to calm my nerves. It was unsettling enough to be there in the first place – it was the waiting room to a dentist’s office, after all – but it was doubly so since this dentist seemed to be after more than the usual amount of my blood. He wanted me to leave him out of the Dubé case, and the pressure was accelerating at an alarming rate. It had to stop, somehow, and that was the purpose of my visit. I could back off, sure, but as much as I had decided to do just that the night before, as the doctor was tying up the stitches in my cheek, one after the other after the other, I’m not built that way. I don’t have much of a spine, it’s a wonder I can stand up in the morning, but push me like he had been pushing me and whatever is actually there stiffens with doggedness. So I figured the way to get it over with was to get it over with, to drop the damn subpoena on his lap and end the suspense.

The door to the examination room opened. I jumped to my feet. Tilda stood in the doorway, bent stiffly to the right, her left eye swollen shut. She stared at me with malice in her one open eye before she moved to the side and Dr. Bob and his patient, a lovely young woman, brushed past her to the desk.

Dr. Bob stopped suddenly when he saw me, his face startled for a moment before recovering into a smile. “Victor, hello. What an unexpected pleasure.”