by Mark DuCharme

-III-

The sign outside the office read “LAMAR GREENWAY, M.D.”  For a man of that distinction, my doctor friend was quite the character. I knocked but didn’t wait for a distracted “come in” from behind the door’s frosted pane. There was no secretary or nurse, just a one-room office with some cabinets and a door on the opposite leading to the adjoining “clinic.”  Dr. Greenway slouched behind a desk in between, a cigarette dangling from fleshy lips, and a steak sandwich in one of his large hands while the other jotted notes on some stained medical record.

He looked up but didn’t smile, then looked back down to finish his note, put down his cigarette in the ashtray (overfull, as always) and— using both hands now— took a large bite from the steak sandwich, letting horseradish and a little juice dribble out the other end. The steak was rare: just the way he liked it. After hasty mastication, he swallowed, set down the repast, wiped his fingers on his trouser fronts, stood up and, leaning forward, extended his big, greasy hand, never smiling the whole time.

“Pinky! Good to see you!”  I shook that hand, which was somewhat clammy, and had a looser grip than you’d expect from such an imposing figure.

Dr. Lamar Greenway was a fairly corpulent man— obese, if you want to know the truth— tall and big-boned. He carried his weight as most heavy people do, strategically, and with a kind of grace that might at times be compared to a dancer’s. It would have been hard to guess his age, but for hints of gray in the carefully groomed circular beard that ringed his surprisingly small mouth. Curly hair was abundant on his scalp and cut stylishly. A suit jacket hung off the back of his chair, threatening to pull it to the floor when he stood. His vest and pants matched that jacket’s color, but his collar was open to his loosened tie, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms.

“Sit down— sit down,” he beckoned, and did so himself. “What brings you in?”

I eyed him warily before I spoke. When I did, it was strategic. “Doc, I know you’re busy, and I don’t want to take up more time than I need. But I’m a little worried, and it would do me good to have a talk with you about— well, you know— some things.”

I tried to look at him with that blank expression, that unknowingness, that seemed the raw currency of the day.

He was unruffled, but gathered his thoughts, as if to appear polite. When he spoke, it was purposefully, as if he’d already had this conversation before— as if the script had been played out.

“Pinky, you know, these are troubled times.”  He didn’t even look at me directly. “It’s understandable, even normal, to get a little anxious now and then.”  I swallowed, then looked toward the floor, in an effort to gather my own thoughts.

“Can you tell me, Doc, what you know about this plague,” I said when I looked up.

“What do you want to know, Pinky?”

“Well, for starters, why is it so important that I deliver my cargo before dark? It seems kind of strange that—”

He cut me off officiously. “It’s company policy, Pinky. You know that as well as I do.”

“But why is it the policy? What’s the reason?”  I met his gaze, and after a moment, he looked down, pausing.

“Pinky,” he replied, when he looked up soberly, still shunning my gaze, “there are things about this plague you don’t really want to know. Trust me. Some things are best left”— he paused, this time for emphasis— “to the professionals.”

“But look, I work with those— things— every day. For my own protection, Doc, I got to know,” I replied, rather proud of myself. I was playing my naïve-but-sincere card for all it was worth.

Doctor Lamar Greenway looked me straight in the pupils, but yet a little furtively, and took a long pause. Then he found his most recent cigarette stub in the rather disgusting, crowded depository, relit the nubbin, and took a longer drag off it than you’d have thought it could bear. His eyes were level, and did not avoid mine, but neither did they seek mine out. He looked weary, as if he hadn’t slept well lately.

Then he looked at me straight. There was some sort of force he had when he did that, which was quite rarely. But there it was, all the sudden, startling.  He took another drag, then averted his gaze just as easily as he’d thrust it upon mine, then regathered his thoughts once more. He turned back to face me.

“I don’t know much about this plague, to tell you the truth— if that’s what you want to know.”  His eyes were level, and his face would have suited a hard game of poker. It wasn’t easy to know if he was telling the truth or not, but still, I was sure he was lying. He continued.

“What I do know is mostly what we don’t. I mean the medical community.”  He took another drag, then paused. “Okay, here is what I’ve seen.”

“I’ve seen patients infected with that— thing. You’ve seen those yellow eyes; I know you have. But here’s another telltale clue: the ones who have it all have two close puncture wounds. It’s kind of peculiar. Usually, they’ve got them on the neck, pretty near the jugular. But I’ve seen ‘em, and not a few times too, in other places— mostly on the inside wrists and along the inner forearms, where veins tend to bulge. Once or twice, I’ve seen ‘em on the thighs. Once, I even saw those wounds all over  a corpse’s body.”

He seemed a little disgusted with himself, for just for a moment. I wondered why. But just then, he looked back up, and squarely at me. If you could say one thing of him, he was a confident bastard, though perhaps a less accomplished one than he let on.

“Look, Pinky,” he confided, “you ought not mess with such things. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. You’d best leave it be.”

“Okay, Lamar— may I call you that,” I said, smiling, trying another tactic. “Just one more thing: what can you tell me about Artemas Thorn?”

Anger crossed his face. “Just where did you hear that name?”

“Around.”

I could tell by his eyes that he didn’t buy my evasion. He made no attempt to conceal his anger this time. “Look, don’t ever say that name again, at least around me. And keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you!”  He was clearly pissed off; I had overplayed my hand.

I could see that I would get no further with him now. Also, his anger had made the interview suddenly uncomfortable, so I made polite but insincere apologies and left quickly. Still, as I entered the shabby elevator— too shabby for one leading up to such a tidy, if modest, doctor’s office— I wondered just who this Thorn character was, and why so few cared to talk about him, especially if he was so prominent. And I wondered, further, why Dr. Greenway feared him— for that is what I sensed. I am normally a man who keeps to his own business. Nobody says anything to me, and I don’t say anything back: that’s what I pride myself on. But Gruber’s ravings and Doc Greenway’s fierce defensiveness were all starting to become a little unsettling. Was there really something about this Thorn character that I ought to be worried about? I mean, even if he was my landlord (and I doubted it, for I clearly recalled signing a lease with Brood Properties, LLC— oh yes, I am a man who reads all the legal documents very carefully), what could it matter? The documents I most carefully read made no mention of a Mr. Thorn. So how is it that he could have owned the room— if you want to know, it was two rooms, counting the combination living and sleeping quarters and the kitchenette; the bathroom is down the hall— that I currently occupied, and with such satisfaction? And I wondered, too, if it was really worth going to the trouble to find out.

-IV-

As it turned out, I didn’t have to wonder. When I got back to my quarters, I found a business card left too prominently on my pillow. “Artemas Thorne,” the card bearer’s name read, in very dark, red letters. I wondered now about the obvious: the Greek goddess whom the first name suggests, and the surname, thorn, something sharp. Yet it was a man’s name— the masculine variant of the spelling. I already knew Thorne was a man, whoever or whatever else he might be. And I also knew his ancient namesake was the Greek goddess of hunting. I found the name perplexing, and my reaction to it even more so. I mean, why should I care about the etymology, no doubt coincidental, of a man’s name? Yet the name itself seemed to set off all kinds of alarms that I couldn’t quite wrap my mind about.

It must have been the concierge who left that card, for how else could it have gotten there? She was an old, somewhat feeble woman, though she’d only been here maybe three years at most, and she’s most worthless at her job. I mean, it takes a good effort for her to even climb those stairs, with all that huffing and puffing. And for what? She can’t really do anything once she gets up here, to the third floor, where I live; she’s much too infirm. In fact, she rarely makes it all the way up here at all anymore. But who else could it have been? This Artemas Thorne character? But why? Even if he were the landlord— even if crazy old Gruber had been right, which I seriously doubted— why would Thorne “introduce” himself suddenly now? He can’t have known that I’d been asking about him with Doc Greenway, just a few hours before. I mean, there are rules about such things— very serious rules. Patient confidentiality and whatnot. Oh no! And further, even if he had some clue, some whiff of information, he’s still not part of the Company. The Company is very strict about the flow of information, and Doc works for the company, just like I do. We’re all employees, you see. We’re all non-carriers, dealing with carriers, and in my case, transporting them. That’s really all that any of us are: Doc diagnoses and treats; I transport. We all have our assigned roles, you see, and it’s best not to look outside too far. In any case, it’s best for me.

Yet somehow, the card both annoyed and frightened me. What right had he, for one thing— even if he were the landlord— to let himself into my chamber, or force that feeble concierge (Mrs. Dittleboffer was her name) to climb those harrowing flights, only to deposit a stiff, off-white piece of rectangular cardstock in blood-red font upon my very pillow? I vowed then and there to ignore such an impolite intrusion and to take Gruber’s advice (which in this instance, might have been rather sage after all, I now judged) and seek no further this Mr. Artemas Thorne, this remarkably mysterious but somehow prominent man, whom some at least knew and feared.

I would have lived up to my vow, I am certain, were it not for the chain of events that intervened.

Deep in the night, I was awakened by an urgent knock at my door. Although somewhat groggy from the sudden transition between dreams and waking, I am proud to report that I leapt up promptly, and as promptly (though not without some slight stumbling) made my way to the entry to my quarters, from whence I had heard the rude interruption. I unlatched the bolt, then blinked at the light which greeted my eyes, so unaccustomed was I in that moment even to the brightness of the grayly dim hallway bulb.

A figure was standing there, with the light behind its unlit face. In the few seconds it took my eyesight to adjust, and my still rather imbalanced mental state to attempt the abrupt transition from hazy consciousness and dreams, I tried to gather my wits and focus my vision. When I had done at least the latter, I noticed that the hazy figure, when seen more carefully, was, though a mysterious sight, not an altogether unpleasant one. Some might have called her comely, though after such an abrupt awakening, I confess no adjectives immediately were at my disposal. She was brunette and slender, wearing a gray suit jacket and skirt and black heels, and had an urgent expression, unlike most you see on the street these days.

“What is it,” I managed to get out.

I recall that her mood the whole time was grave and impatient.

“May I come in?”

I should have asked more questions, but my thoughts weren’t quite connected to my voice yet.

I nodded, and she crossed the threshold with a heel click and then turned to me, her large brown eyes clearly conveying a practiced note of distress. Her perfume was a sickly sweet jasmine that crowded out the air. “My father’s not answering his door,” she said, with a tone that matched her body language.

I tried to compose myself, though in fact I was just starting to realize that I needed rather badly to pee, and furthermore that I was somewhat hungry. I decided to try to cut the rude interview short.

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Well, aren’t you Johnny?”

She had called me “Johnny.”  My name’s not  Johnny. It isn’t Pinky, either. That’s when I knew she was Gruber’s daughter. No one else ever calls me Johnny.

“What happened,” I asked. The shock of seeing her had slowly started to awaken me.

She looked at me with those brown eyes again, but they seemed warmer now. She smiled. I had nothing to fear, I thought. But then, a more grave demeanor overtook her.

“My dad isn’t answering the door,” she explained, expecting me to figure out what I already had.

“What do you want from me?”  It was a reasonable question, but her answer wasn’t.

“Help me break it down.”

I was taken aback. I didn’t know this woman at all, and all the sudden she was asking me to break into someone’s apartment to find out if its occupant, her father she claimed, was alright. Furthermore, though I confess I was strangely drawn to her, I was also equally a bit distrustful of her, and even repelled by her company. Moreover, I had my position at the Company to consider. I mean, breaking through a man’s own oaken door in the dead of night just might have consequences— just might!

“Why should I risk that?”  The question was what I was thinking, though I hadn’t intended to let it blurt out so frankly.

“Why not?”  She smiled, in a way that I thought alluring but still set me on edge. And it was then that I really noticed the scarlet-red, lipsticked smile on a surprisingly death-pale face framed by shoulder-length, jet-black hair, straight and silky.

“Okay,” I said. I don’t know why I said it. She smiled some more.

Bursting through that goddamned, thick, oaken door nearly killed me.

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Next Time: Gruber No More (Or The Plague Next Door)