The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Crandell lounged back in his seat, taking an occasional sip of coffee from the travel mug which sat beside him. He’d turned on the stereo, so there was a thin trickle of music. Classical, which is what he usually preferred in such situations, if it was something quiet and contemplative. The shadows were starting to lengthen across the street, and soon everyone would be coming home. He’d have to be even more...

There was movement in the target house and he swung back into action. The back door opened, and one... two... figures appeared. One was the target, now wearing a light red jacket, and the other... a blonde woman wearing a green dress. This was Suzanna, presumably, coming ‘round the mountain at last. He couldn’t see her face very well from this angle, but he shot off a couple of pictures anyway. The two women were moving quickly, headed towards the target’s van. Then the blonde stopped, and evidently spoke; the target jerked to a halt as if she had come to the end of an invisible leash. She paused then disappeared back inside the house, and after a short moment re-emerged holding something in her hands, a large flat rectangle. A painting. Crandell caught a flash of black and white as she passed it to the blonde, but he couldn’t see what the exact subject was. The back door was closed and locked, and the two women climbed into the target’s van and started it up.

Crandell watched all of this, considered... made his decision. The van drove away, down the alley and out of view. He punched the button which killed the music in mid-chord, then slid open a nearby drawer and began extracting items. A pair of conservative brown-rimmed glasses, which he put on. A muted tie which he knotted neatly into place around his throat with a few quick twists. He passed a comb through his hair, a couple of quick swipes, and checked the results in a small mirror. Smiled. It was pretty good, that smile, even the eyes. It should be; he’d practiced at it often enough. Satisfied, he produced the last thing from the drawer, a pair of thin leather gloves. These were carefully wiggled into place, every finger just so. The long coat came off the hanger on which it had been waiting, and he slipped it on, smoothing away any wrinkles.

He stepped from the bland white van, the slim briefcase in one hand. He checked the shine on his black leather shoes, then started up the street, walking confidently, openly.

Up the walk, between the blue stones, past the hedges trimmed by a woman who had the time to do the job herself, and not the money to pay someone to do it...

The door. Stepping under the eaves, he pushed the bell, and noted clinically that there didn’t seem to be any resulting sound. Broken? Somehow, that didn’t tally with the picture he was building. He waited a moment longer, then firmly rapped on the door with his knuckles. Still no reaction from within. As he waited, he flipped up the multicolored welcome mat with a toe, on the unlikely chance the target was one of those people stupid enough to ‘hide’ a key there. Nothing.

The tools slid into place against his fingers, slim and cool. No alarm system, but the target had paid for a high-quality dead-bolt, so it took a few extra seconds before the door popped open a crack. He waited; the target didn’t strike him as being a dog-owner, but you never took chances. Nothing. Carefully adjusting the mat to its original position, Crandell used it to give his shoes a couple of efficient swipes. He then stepped inside, shooing away the still-lurking cat with a small automatic push of a foot when it tried to follow him inside.

Beyond was a hallway. Crandell stood very still for a moment and listened again. No sounds, no motions anywhere. The house was indeed empty. He oriented himself to the house plans he had studied before. To the left was an open archway leading into the living room. A sofa, a battered-looking armchair, various knickknacks scattered around on tables. (On one table, he marked a wood carving of the type he’d often seen being produced during his time in Thailand.) Among all of this, another archway opened onto the kitchen. Crandell pulled a camera from a pocket, snapped a couple of quick pictures. To the right, a closet door stood open ajar, and a hanger was lying on the floor, as if someone had hurriedly extracted a jacket. He went on down the hall. Another door to the right, which unlike the first was closed. This he opened and looked through. The room beyond had originally been a bedroom, but now it was evidently a combination office/utility room, with a desk, a computer, file cabinets, a sewing machine. Mounted beside a door leading to the bathroom was a washer and dryer. More pictures. Back out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Next was another archway to the left, leading into the dining room... no, an artist’s studio. He sniffed the smell of fresh paint, and noted that an empty easel sat in the center of the room. Beyond the studio could be seen the kitchen again. To the right was a long narrow bedroom which had been two small rooms in the original plans, with another door to the bathroom. Pictures, including one of the mural that ran the length of one long wall.

He entered the studio, passed through into the kitchen. There was a phone sitting on the counter near the refrigerator, and he noticed the attached answering machine. A small red light shone, and a quick scan of the labels indicated there were messages on machine, listened to but unerased. He pulled a small tape recorder from another of the coat’s many pockets, carefully set the briefcase on the floor, punched the right buttons...

-beep.—

“You—have—SIX—messages.”

-beep-

“Tuesday—12 -14—PM”

“Hi, Ms. Johanson. This is Walter... Walter Abernathy? You said that I could swing by today and pick up those pots? If you’re not going to be there... let me know.”

-beep-

“Tuesday—1—17—PM”

“Hello, Miss Johanson. This is Ian Dwyer at Seafront Savings. I was just calling to check up on the progress of our painting. If it’s convenient, I’ll come by and see it later in the week. Is Thursday, at 2:00 PM good for you? I’ll talk to you later; my number here is 555-6521.”

-beep.—

“Tuesday—2—42—PM”

“Hey, girl. Ursula. ‘Another masterpiece’, huh? Gonna price yourself right out of the damn market if you keep this up. Gimme a call if you ever come down outta your garret.”

-beep.—

“Tuesday—3—12—PM”

“Hi, Erika. It’s Denise. I just wanted to let you know, it looks like I’m going to be headed out your way next month; got another signing tour coming together. If you’re going to be around on the 30th, maybe we can get together, paint the town red. Albert and the kids all say hello, and Mom and Dad... well, boil it down, they say hello, too. See you soon, I hope. Love you.”

-beep.—

“Tuesday—4—23—PM”

“Erika. This is Nina. Tom’s been in a car accident. He’s not dead. They’ve taken him to Eastside General. That’s all I know. I’m going there now.”

-beep.—

“End—of—messages.”

Crandell raised an eyebrow as he turned off the tape recorder and put it away. He glanced at his watch. Retrieving his case, he returned to the studio and looked again at the empty easel. There was a palette laying nearby, and there were globs of black and white and gray paint on it, uncleaned brushes laying in small pile, all slowly drying.

Crandell considered.

-They were in the house all afternoon, painting that picture, whatever it was, and they didn’t answer the phone when it rang. They let the machine pick it up.—

-They finally check their messages, hear that this Tom person is in the hospital, and it would appear, care enough about him to immediately dash out the door.—

-But then ‘Suzanna’ stops and says... that they should take the painting with them....—

He considered some more.

He put down his case, extracted a couple of small items. It was the work of a few moments, then he was out the door without looking back, again brushing away the cat.

The phone rang, and the dark-haired woman sitting at the desk answered it.

“Records and receiving. Jolene speaking.”

“Hello, Jolene.”

“Oh...” Her eyes narrowed and her voice turned into something quite different, almost a purr. She fingered one of her dangling ringlets of hair. “My goodness. If it isn’t Doctor Fix. It’s been so long.”

“I need some information, Jolene.”

“Of course you do. After all, that’s the only time you ever call me.” A well-practiced and rather theatrical pout filled out her lips. “Well then. You know the price for my help.”

A short silence, then a reply, maybe not exactly thrilled but also a long ways from unhappy.

“Fine, Jolene. I’m busy right now, but later...”

“I’ll keep the light on for you, Fix. What do you need?”

“A man was checked in over there within the last three or four hours. All I have is a first name. Tom. Also that he was in a car accident, and that he’s probably not in the morgue.”

“Well, let me just see...” She hooked the phone in place with her shoulder and spun in her chair so that she was facing her screen. She started stroking the keys, and after a moment of her expert attentions the attached computer gave up its secrets. “Ahhh... Here we are. This must be your friend. Thomas Jeffery Woodhue. W-O-O-D-H-U-E. Admitted with a head wound and a mild concussion, and put in room 423. Seems to be on the mend, however; he’s already scheduled for release tomorrow. Has his insurance through his employer, one Harrison Manufacturing, located aaat... 3131 Beeker Street. Mr. Woodhue himself lives here in town as well, at 451 Montag Avenue, Apartment 27. That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

“That’s enough. See you soon, Jolene.”

“Goodbye, Fix.” She cradled the phone and she smiled, a thin thing. She rubbed one of the rings on her finger, an idle back and forth motion. “Poor Mr. Woodhue. Sounds like he’s made some most interesting friends.” She turned back to her other work.

Kay emerged from the elevator lugging her burden, and was surprised to meet Mona heading in the opposite direction. Her fellow nurse stopped and smiled as she finished sliding into her coat. “Mona? Thought you’d gone. What are you still doing here?”

Mona rolled her dark brown eyes. “Got sucked into one of Briggs’ damned meetings. You know how it is.”

“Oh, yes. Mr. Black Hole himself. Say, did you admit the patient in 423? Woodhue?”

“The car accident, wasn’t it? Yes. Why?”

“Did he seem... strange... to you in any way?”

“Strange? No, not really.” Mona casually pulled her straight black hair out of the coat and let it spill down her shoulders. “He was unconscious. Awake now? He giving you any trouble?”

Kay wiggled the box she was holding and the contents shifted against one another. “Nno... no trouble... I was just taking his stuff to him, from the safe. But he’s... he’s strange.”

“So you said.”

“Yeah.” Kay shook her head. “It’s nothing. Never mind. See you later, Mona.”

“Later.” Mona waved as she entered the elevator and dropped out of sight.

Kay walked down the hall to 423 and stepped inside. For a moment, she thought she was going to have to scold the patient; the TV was on, a news report about the recent earthquake in India, but then she saw he was lying fully reclined with his eyes closed, evidently just listening. He held the remote loosely in one hand.

“Tom?” She spoke softly, in case he was asleep, but he immediately opened his eyes and looked over at her. His finger stabbed down on the remote and the TV died.

“Yes?”

“Here are you personal items. I’ll just put them here on the table.” Kay forced her own mouth into a smile. He smiled in return.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Kay blinked. This was just getting stranger and stranger. It was the same man in the bed as before, but at the same time... before, he had been almost glittering, all hard edges and coiled danger. Now he looked... well, he was basically normal.

Sort of cute, even, if he lost a little weight...

“No problem. Buzz if you need anything.”

She left this time with only a puzzled backwards glance.

After the nurse had left the room Tom lay in the bed for a moment and studied the speckles in the ceiling for a moment longer. Then he sighed and took the box into his lap. A quick sort showed that everything seemed to be there. Pager. Wallet. Checkbook. Company pen. Keys. Multitool... And the other two things, the most important things of all. He took hold of the plastic baggie with a thumb and forefinger and started to lift it out of the box, but then there were noises across the room. A shuffling, a movement of fabric, a curtain being drawn back.

Tom dropped the baggie back into the box and looked over. It was the man in the other half of the room. He had pulled aside the wrap-around curtain that separated them, and he was sitting on the edge of his bed, his skinny legs sticking out of his crinkly hospital gown as he carefully toed his way into his slippers. Seeing he had Tom’s attention, he grinned, showing a mouthful of surprisingly well-preserved teeth, for a man his age. (He was old. Quite old, with a deeply wrinkled face and a fringe of white hair. His eyes were behind a set of large black-framed glasses.) The teeth might have been dentures, but Tom didn’t think so. The man spoke, his voice a bit rickety but friendly.

“Howdy.”

“Hello.” Tom replied carefully.

“I’d ask what you were in for, young fella, but I think I can pretty much guess. How’d the other fella come out of it?”

“Other fellow?”

“The one who did that to you.” The man pointed a gnarled finger at the bandage wrapped across Tom’s temple.

“Oh.” Tom found to his mild surprise that he could still smile and mean it. “I think... from what the doctors said... that he didn’t pull through. But other, bigger, people besides me were hitting him at the time.” He studied the other man, who seemed spry and alert enough, all things considered. “And why are you here... Mr...?”

“Hooker. You might understand why I prefer to have people call me Sam.” a dismissive wave with the gangling arm that was hooked into the IV unit hanging on the metal pole by the bed. “Why am I here? Old age, mostly. If don’t mind a bit of advice from a fossil like myself, Tom, don’t ever get old. ...it is Tom, right? Just about everything else may be busted on this end of things, but the ears still work pretty good... Old age is just about the only thing that they can’t cure anymore, and I think the fact sorta gnaws at their vitals. In any event, they keep insisting that I come back here so they can take another stab at it.”

“Literally and figuratively, I imagine.” Tom took the other important thing, the small box, and started turning it in his fingers.

“Ah huh. Sometimes.”

“As for your advice... The alternative isn’t that great. To being old.”

“There’s only the one? Pity that. Anyhoo.” Sam got carefully to his feet, took hold of the IV pole with an absent grab, a gesture that betrayed long practice, and he shuffled closer, his slippers making little flapping noises as he walked. “I was going to say, you look like a man with a lot on his mind. As you say, not just in the physical sense.”

Tom lay back again, letting his body crumple into the mattress. The box’s surface fuzzed slightly against his fingertips.

“Yes, Sam, it’s been a very busy week for me.”

“Apart from picking fights?”

“Yeah.” Tom looked over at Sam again, and decided he may as well be fairly honest about everything. It was a good start for what all he had to do. “Let’s see. I totaled my car, so there goes my insurance rates. Secondly, I’m pretty sure that I’m going to either quit or lose my job in the next few days. I buy materials for a manufacturing company.”

“Ah huh. Well, that second one could be good or bad.”

Tom shrugged.

“It’s certainly not what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Partly, I was only... competent at it.”

“Ah huh.” Sam nodded. “Those are the worst. The jobs you’re good at, no problem. The jobs you’re bad at, eventually they fire your ass. Competent, you can slog along in your groove for decades and just dig yourself deeper and deeper. Saw it often enough myself, working at HTU all those years.”

“And then on top of all of that, I have woman trouble.”

Sam sniffed and made another of those waves.

“Damn, son, half the people on this tired old planet have woman trouble. Nowadays, I hear that some of them are even women themselves.”

“I have trouble with three women.” Tom said this, then remembered Fran and Eve. “At least.”

“Ouch.” Sam drew himself up and plastered a solemn look across his face. “’Fraid I can’t help you with the car or the job, but with that last one... if you don’t mind some more advice... Get married, son.”

Tom flinched and looked down. He forced his voice to stay light.

“How do you know I’m not already married?”

“I know where we are, and I know I’m not seeing you at your best, but you’re just too damn scraggly to be married. But I was going say, one of the nice things about being married, you only have problems with one woman then. Simplifies matters a whole lot.”

Tom looked at Sam’s hand. A simple gold band circled the appropriate finger.

“I see you speak from experience.”

For the first time in the conversation, a slight film passed over Sam’s expression and he looked away, his face for the first time gone truly old.

“Forty-seven years Bessie and I were hitched. She was a fine girl. She didn’t suffer too much in the end, thank God.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sam nodded, shrugged a little, and the film was brushed away.

“Well, I’m a lot luckier than some. HTU has its faults, but even these days, they still do their pensions right. And Sam Jr. and Joyce, they’ve been good to me. Come and see me nearly every day. He’s a banker, you know, downtown. Got a real nice office, pretty secretary, the works. She... Joyce, I mean, not the secretary, she does something with computers all day... never did understand that stuff like you young people.”

“I’m not the biggest fan of computers in the world, actually.”

“Glad to hear it. So. We Luddites have to stick together. You’re going to lose your job, and you got women trouble. Anything else?”

“I have to make a decision. The most important decision that I’ll ever face. Or maybe I have to stick to a decision, no matter what happens. I don’t have all the information I need, but I think, whatever I end up doing, there’s going to be a lot of pain and hurt.”

“A man I read once in the paper, he said that life is pain, and that anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to sell you something.”

Tom considered this idea for a time.

“That doesn’t sound like something that any newspaper would publish. Their whole purpose in life is to try and sell you stuff.”

Sam shrugged again and changed the subject.

“This decision, I suppose it’s too private to discuss with any nosy old bastard who happens by.”

“Yes. And you wouldn’t believe me if I did tell you.”

“You get older, you start believing in all sorts of things. But I—” Sam broke off and looked towards the door. Tom followed the older man’s gaze and saw that someone was standing there, silently watching them. Nina. The dark-haired woman was clutching at her purse; Tom noticed absently that there were spots of color in her cheeks and her grip was so tight her knuckles were turning white. He smiled and spoke.

“Hello, Nina.”

She blinked before she replied.

“Hello, Tom.” Her eyes went to Sam for a beat, back to Tom. “You’re... going to be all right?”

“Yes.”

He held out a hand, and she finally came into the room the rest of the way.

“I’m glad.” She took one last look at Sam out of the corner of her eye. The older man smiled at her then winked at Tom.

“I’ll just be over here if you need me for anything.” He shuffled his way back to his bed and yanked the curtain closed.

Nina watched him go, then came over and stood by Tom’s bed. She further tortured her purse as he found and punched the button that raised the bed’s head. She finally spoke in a near whisper, staring down at her feet...

“When Eve told me... the hospital called...”

“Yes, I know. They told me they called Harrison.”

She went on like she hadn’t heard him.

“And they wouldn’t say how bad it was... if you had been... been...” She shot a glance at the curtain and said nothing more.

He took her hand and gave it a slow squeeze. She finally looked at him directly.

“I know. I understand. But everything’s OK. Well, for the moment. Did you tell the others what happened?”

She was all brisk efficiency again.

“I called before I left Harrison. They weren’t there, and I left a message on her machine.”

Tom concealed a small frown. -They couldn’t have gotten into trouble already? Surely if the Author’s out there, he isn’t that organized...— He tried fairly successfully to sound calm and collected as he replied.

“OK. Well, I guess we’ll see them when we see them. Now... I suppose the well-wishers are going to start flooding in.” He took a steadying breath. “So even when the others get here... we can’t discuss all the things that need to be discussed. Not until tomorrow at least, when they release me.”

“I understand, Tom.”

He let go of her hand, and she found a chair and she sat down beside him. She folded her hands over her purse in her lap and she sat very still, staring straight ahead.

As it happened, Richard was walking through the parking lot towards the front doors of Eastside General just as Beverly came wheeling in in her compact. He was talking to someone on his cell phone, but he still saw her, waved, and gestured to indicate he’d meet her inside. Beverly nodded back and trawled up and down the rows until she found a slot to wiggle into, not far from Richard’s forest-green van. (Forest-green with neat brown letters. WOODHUE PLUMBING. Brown and green. Wood Hue. She still had to groan and roll her eyes a little every time she saw that, but then, Richard more than made up for the infamous Woodhue Sense Of Humor in many other ways...) Parking, she took a long moment to uncramp her fingers from steering-wheel shape and use the rear-view mirror to comb her bob of sandy-blonde hair back into some kind of order. Finally satisfied, she got out of the car, feeling only a small spasm of guilt at grabbing the briefcase stuffed of papers and lesson plans along with her purse. She was fond of Tom and all, but it hadn’t sounded like her brother-in-law was about to die or anything, and even though the school year was rapidly winding down, a teacher’s work is never, ever done.

And her general experience with hospitals had always been that once one sucked you into its bowels there was a whole lot of ‘hurry up and wait’ involved.

The sky was looking threatening again as she hurried across the lot in her tennis shoes. Gusts of cool breeze gusted in between the rows of tall evergreen trees that lined the lot, pushing her along, flapping the edges of her coat, even trying to get up under the legs of her jeans.

Richard was waiting for her inside the ‘airlock’ created by the two sets of sliding glass doors, standing out of the pedestrian traffic flow. (Which was steady in both directions.) There was a large potted plant sprouting up behind him, giving him the appearance of being in some cut-rate jungle movie. He now had both his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket and his omnipresent baseball cap pulled down over his forehead.

The cap and the jacket of course matched the paint-job of the van. Richard was nothing if not methodical.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

She went up on her toes and they kissed, brief but firm. His neatly-trimmed beard tickled her like it always did. He spoke again.

“Good timing. So you were able to get away?”

“It’s not so bad this time of year, really. Things are winding down. I was—”

His cell phone beeped and he flipped it out and into position next to his ear in a single automatic motion.

“Woodhue.... Hey, Zoë... What?... Oh, brother. Look, you just tell that idiot Riff to get off his damn butt and do his damn job... I’ve got personal business to take care of. We’ll deal with it in the morning. Bye.” He started to re-holster the phone, then saw the words posted by the door in large red letters: ALL CELLULAR DEVICES MUST BE TURNED OFF ON HOSPITAL GROUNDS. He did as instructed, then put the phone away. “Sorry about that. You were saying?”

“Actually, I was going to say I was surprised that you were able to get away. I know its been a madhouse this month, what with that mess up in Black River and everything.”

Richard removed his glasses to rub at his eyes for a moment before he replied.

“He’s my brother.” He blew out a slow breath. “That reminds me. We need to call Harriet and Frank when we get home. They’ll want to know.”

“And your folks.”

He groaned a little.

“Oh, right. I think I was blotting that part out. This’ll just make mom’s day.” He put the glasses back on, straightened his hat.

“Don’t be silly. It will make her month, at least.”

He managed a smile.

“And Justin? Did you...”

“He’s over with the Shaws, like usual. I gave Cathy a call, and told her what happened. She said she’ll fill him in, give him some dinner.”

“OK. Good. Well, let’s go see what my idiot little brother bumbled himself into this time, shall we?”

She gave him small admonishing poke in the ribs as they passed through the second doors. Beyond was the lobby, a wide space with a high ceiling. Hanging overhead from an thick array of wires was a large metal sculpture. It was probably supposed to be a bird, but to Beverly it looked more like a toothy pterodactyl from one of those dinosaur cartoons that Justin never got tired of watching. (Actually, it wasn’t just Justin; when you taught third grade you quickly learned all the dinosaur names...) They moved on, past the banks of chairs filled with waiting people, past the large multi-floored map of the hospital complex, arriving finally at the reception desk. A woman waited there, a thin narrow-faced woman who looked exactly like all the reception-desk manners that Beverly had ever encountered anywhere. After the usual tussle, they pinned her down and extracted the information they needed. The elevator bank was close by, and following a moment’s wait for one to arrive, they entered a car already containing two male nurses and a tall black-haired man, his chin chiseled, his dark suit sharp and immaculate in every detail. The only thing that disrupted his air of confident success was the goofy, bulgy-eyed black-and-white stuffed cat he was holding in one hand. They trundled slowly upward, the nurses talking about what a damn idiot someone named Carver was, the rest of them silent as the Muzak cheerily oozed by in the background.

On the fourth floor, Beverly and Richard escaped and approached the nearest duty station, where a tall (female) nurse sporting a fuzz of light brown hair was typing on a computer. Her small white nametag read KAY PRICE. When they said who they were looking for, she smiled, the very opposite of the woman down at the entry desk.

“Oh, yes! Tom is in room 423.” She pointed down the hallway, the green stone in the ring on her finger catching the lights. “You’re his family?” When Richard confirmed this, she went on. “I see the resemblance. Well, it looks like he’s going to be fine. He needed a few stitches in his forehead, and he had a mild concussion, but he seems to be springing back quickly and he should be ready to be released tomorrow. You can go ahead and talk to him now, but I think that Dr. Phibeson will want to have a word with you later.”

They thanked her and went in the indicated direction, dodging the usual collection of people that you find in the halls in such places. The indicated door stood open, and they went in.

The only sound was the hum and peep of all the equipment. Tom was stretched out in the bed nearest the door with his eyes closed; he looked a bit pale, but apart from the bandage there didn’t seem to be anything seriously wrong. Beyond him, a curtain was pulled shut hiding the window and whoever was in the other bed. Beverly opened her mouth to speak, then belatedly realized there was another person present in the room: a woman sitting in a chair near the head of Tom’s bed, silently studying at the new arrivals with dark eyes. Beverly checked her out in return. The short brunette was one of those women where nothing is out of place, every last bit of frizzy hair corralled back into a bun, makeup applied just so, one small stud in each ear, no more, no less.

At her side she could see Richard doing a similar quick study. In the end, he was the one who spoke.

“Hey, Tom.”

Tom opened his eyes and looked at them, formed a tired smile.

“Hi, Richard. Beverly. I figured you’d be along. Oh...” He gestured at the other woman. “This is Nina Hollenburg. She works at Harrison, over in the accounting department. Nina, this is my brother Richard and his wife Beverly.”

The woman said hello and she smiled, but the movement didn’t really reach her eyes, and she didn’t offer to shake hands. Being in the profession that she was, Beverly had a general tendency to categorize people in terms of students, and Nina... She looked like one of those people who are just fine about 95% of the time, sitting quietly at her desk, doing her assigned work and doing it correctly if unspectacularly.

But there were very faint alarm bells ringing somewhere as well. Her eyes didn’t smile, and the way her bow-like mouth was set...

95% of the time, no problem.

But when that other 5% finally came rolling around, when that tightly-wound rubber band that was powering it all finally snapped...

“Were you in the accident, too?” Richard asked this of Nina, distracting Beverly from her thoughts. Tom answered; Nina made no effort to speak, just went on studying them.

“No. Nina just came around to offer some moral support. After the hospital... or the police, or whoever it was... called Harrison trying to find your number. It was just me in the accident. I was out doing some chores and the brakes failed on my car. I slid into an intersection, got creamed by some other cars.” Richard started to speak, but Tom raised his hand in a forestalling gesture and continued, his voice suddenly sounding even more tired. “And yes, Richard, I took the car to a quality mechanic on a regular basis. I’m not good with machines, but I’m not stupid. I needed the car for my job. There was absolutely no sign of trouble until it happened.”

“Oh.” Even considering the situation, Beverly had to stifle a small smile at Richard’s slightly deflated expression. She hung back near the door while her husband took a couple of steps closer to the bed, and the smile passed. Something else about this whole scene was bothering her, besides Nina, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. Richard placed his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “So you’re going to be OK? The nurse said you just cut your head open there?”

“Yeah.” Tom brushed the bandage with a finger and winced. “Got a few stitches, and there are a few other bumps and bruises here and there, but there’s nothing serious. After I rest a few days, the doctor I talked to seems to think that I’ll be all right.”

“That’s what the nurse told us.” Richard turned and looked at Beverly, saw her expression. “Bev? Something wrong? Beyond the obvious?”

Beverly shook herself. It would come, whatever it was.

“No. Nothing.” She smiled at Nina. “Thank you for coming and sitting with him until we got here. We appreciate it.”

“Of course. I was happy to.”

At this, Beverly suddenly realized part of what had been bothering her and she did a quick pivot so she was facing Tom.

“Say... I’m surprised it isn’t Suzanna that’s here. Did she abandon you in your hour of need?”

Tom shrugged.

“I’m afraid the Harrison purchasing department is having a run of bad luck this week. She was out sick today. Probably doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“Oh. Nothing serious, I hope.” She felt stupid as soon as she said it . “She had an unpleasant shock yesterday. She was told that her father had been in some kind of accident. Turned out to be nothing, but maybe it got to her after all.”

“Oh.” Beverly looked back to Nina. “You know... you don’t really need to stick around anymore. If you need to get going somewhere.”

Nina and Tom exchanged a glance, then Nina rose in a smooth careful motion, taking her purse in her hand.

“Of course. I hope you’re feeling better soon, Tom.”

“I’ll talk to you soon. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He flashed her a smile.

“Yes, Tom.” Still no smile in return, and she disappeared out the door.

Beverly watched her go, frowning, and another thought coalesced as Richard spoke.

“You can come stay with us for a couple of days. If you want. We can get the guest bed made up by tomorrow.”

“Actually, I don’t think that—”

Beverly interrupted.

“She isn’t... you aren’t seeing Nina, are you?”

“What? Nina? You mean, dating her? No, Nina’s not my girlfriend. But we’ve gotten to know each other a little better lately.” He hesitated, and looked as if he was about to go on, but he was interrupted once again.

“Hello?” A new voice, and they all turned. It was the nurse they had spoken to before, and she was holding a tray with... not food, exactly, but something along the same lines, swirling in various containers. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s time to get Tom and Mr. Hooker—” A nod beyond the curtain “—set up with their dinner. If you could just wait outside for a moment?”

“Uh, sure.” Richard said this, smiling, and promptly herded Beverly out the door. Outside, he spoke to her, looking slightly put out. “Did you really think that she was his girlfriend?”

“I dunno. There was some weird vibe going on in there. Didn’t you feel it?”

Richard looked blank.

“No.”

“Excuse me?” Not a reply from Beverly, but another new voice. They both turned and saw a tall thin man whose rather aristocratic features clashed both with his fringe of messy graying hair and crumpled white coat. “You’re Mr. Woodhue’s family? I’m Edward Phibeson.” He shook hands with them both; his fingers were noticeably long and graceful. “I wanted to discuss Tom’s case with you for a minute, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes? Is something wrong?”

“Well, no, not wrong per se. In fact, there’s every indication that your... brother?”

“Yes.”

“Your brother should make a full recovery shortly. Assuming nothing happens during the night, there isn’t any reason he can’t be released tomorrow. However, now that you’ve had a chance to speak to him for a couple of minutes, I did want to ask you if Tom seems to be behaving normally to you, considering the circumstances, of course. He seems to be... ah... functioning perfectly well, but it’s something I try to always ask the families of concussion patients, since such blows to the head can sometimes cause behavioral changes that strangers wouldn’t notice.”

Richard gave Beverly a concerned sidelong glance and jerked his thumb in her direction.

“Bev was just saying that Tom was acting strange.”

“No!” Beverly blurted the word, and wondered where the vehemence came from. “I mean, actually, it was that woman who was acting strange, not Tom.”

“Woman?” Phibeson raised his eyebrows.

“One of Tom’s co-workers was just here, and she was...” Beverly suddenly felt extremely silly, like she had built up a huge tottering tower out of flimsy cards and it was now swaying under her feet, about to collapse. “No. It’s nothing.”

“And you didn’t notice anything?” Phibeson asked Richard.

“No. Hell, if anything, he seemed a little sharper than usual. Mentally I mean. He’s not stupid or anything, but sometimes he’s fuzzy-headed about the way things really work.”

Beverly rolled her eyes.

“Tom usually votes Democratic, you see.” She couldn’t quite keep the dryness out of her voice, and Phibeson flashed a small smile.

“Ah. Well, I’m afraid that that is one disease that we can’t cure. But you’re sure that everything is all right?”

“Yes. Fine.”

Even as Beverly said this, her eyes were drawn back to the door.

Everything was all right, but had something still changed?

Erika’s thoughts were like the traffic they were stuck in, churning in slow useless circles. Fumes rising to the night sky. It wasn’t until they had left the house and driven nearly all the way to the hospital that her mind seemed to fully emerge from some strange fog that had swallowed it. She often had to undergo mental decompression after finishing a piece, but it wasn’t normally this bad. Of course, painting the spiral hadn’t been at all... typical... but still, there was no reason to be feeling this way.

None at all.

She stared over at the scowling man in the truck next to her, and he looked back, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. She faced forward.

No reason at all, except that he might be dead.

The fog burned away altogether at that, gone in an instant, showing everything with cruel sharp angles. Dead. Tom might be dead. Right this instant, he might be lying on some hard metal slab in the basement of Eastside General Hospital, one of those little fucking white tags tied around his big toe. Name rank and serial number, tacked down in black and white. He would never touch her again, speak to her, never slip his penis inside her, never fill her to overflowing, never impregnate her again...

Her stomach clenched into a tight twisted knot and her fingers trembled. If he truly was gone, then she only had his two idiot slave girls and his baby, growing inside her. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. Somehow.

But no. Nina had specifically said that he wasn’t dead. Erika remembered that now. Not dead.

So he was horribly mangled instead, a crippled shell strapped into a respirator, only breathing air because some machine forced it into his lungs. His eyes, his hands, slewed away, leaving jelly and rags...

She stifled a scream, but it was a near thing. As she had done earlier in the day when they were out driving, she looked over at Suzanna. The blonde woman had the painting... The spiral. Why on earth had they brought that along? The paint wasn’t even dry. What had she been thinking? ...Suzanna had it in her lap, propped up so that it was facing her at an angle, and she was staring at the center of it... down there... in the twists and the shapes...

Erika again yanked her gaze back to the road, hunching her shoulder a little. She was going to have buy herself a pair of blinders.

“Suzanna. Suzanna!” Only looking from the corner of her eye, she flapped her hand in between Suzanna and the spiral. Suzanna gave a start and blinked, once, a sort of mechanical clicking.

“Oh. I’m sorry, Erika. It’s just that...”

“I understand.” Erika hesitated for a moment. “I don’t suppose that you can tell how he is?”

“No.” A slow firm shake of the head. “I have absolutely no idea what the Master’s condition is. As I have said before, It’s not as if I now have telepathy. I can only hope, like you.”

Hope. Erika felt something inside her shrivel a little more.

“At least put... that thing... in the back. There’s a rack back there for carrying paintings. It’s that thing on the right side. After all this, we don’t want to get it damaged now.” Erika remembered that the canvas had already been ripped. It now seemed almost sacrilegious that she had used it. “Any more damaged.”

“Yes, Erika.” Suzanna undid her belt and started to get out of her seat, but Erika promptly changed her mind and waved her back into position.

“No, never mind. Not while we’re moving. We’re almost there.”

And this was the case. The white bulk of the hospital was visible now above the trees and the usual surrounding sprawl of doctor’s offices and treatment centers, lights beginning to shine out here and there from its rows of windows as the sun slowly went down.

It was actually an elegantly designed building, far better than that squat beige monstrosity that was Pathfinder General, but right now, it reminded Erika of nothing more than a skull. She glared up at it as they entered the parking lot. The lot was crowded, and they had to park out on the fringes, near the base of one of the larger trees.

It hadn’t been raining during their drive, but the clouds still hung low and ominous in the sky as they stepped out. Erika locked her door, then came around the van and met Suzanna at the back. The blonde woman was still carrying the painting, holding it with both her hands.

“Suzanna. We need to leave that thing here. We can’t carry it into a crowded hospital!”

Suzanna stared at the striped concrete as she spoke, her lip stuck out stubbornly.

“Tom will want to see it. If he’s all right.”

Erika opened her mouth to say “He probably has other things on his mind right now.” but then she closed it again.

-We leave it in the van, and the way things have been going this week, some crook will come along, break in and steal it. Keep it with us.—

“OK. Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

She hesitated for a moment, then gave the back of Suzanna’s hand a brief firm squeeze. The blonde woman flickered a smile and, walking side by side, they started off across the parking lot.

Something caught the corner of Suzanna’s eye as they walked towards the door, a flash of green, an oh-so-familiar name... she flashed a look in that direction, confirmed that the van was sitting there, confirmed what was written on the side.

-This could be a problem...—

She faced forward again, didn’t say anything to Erika beside her, at least not yet.

They entered the hospital. Lots of textures again, which was nice, but they were mostly glum and depressing ones, tinged here and there with others that were truly disturbing. This probably wasn’t much of a surprise, considering where they were. The flashes of curiosity and puzzlement she attracted by carrying the spiral were actually rather welcome.

She glanced at the large bird sculpture overhead. She had read about it and seen a picture in the Herald eighteen months and three days ago, when its creator, the artist Lawrence Ingerhold, had officially unveiled it, but she had never seen it in person before. It was smooth and shiny, and it seemed to wink at her as it ghosted overhead.

She moved on, making sure to keep the canvas pointed at the ground, and to not rub the still-tacky paint against her dress.

Erika squared her shoulders, and they went to the reception desk. The woman there... her texture screamed so loudly that anyone within five feet could read it, even if they didn’t have their own flock of birds. Suzanna thought there might be trouble, that she might even have to show the woman the spiral, but Erika went to work with a ruthless clinical efficiency, and extracted the needed information in short order, leaving the woman lying in their wake, her texture flattened and stunned.

And that information...

The birds soared happily into the sky and did pinwheels of joy.

The Master was alive.

He wasn’t in intensive care.

She and Erika exchanged a relieved glance, words weren’t needed, and they hurried to the elevator.

They rode up with a skinny man and a woman with long blonde hair, holding a baby in her arms. No one spoke, but the man and the woman’s textures throbbed the deep shades of love between them. Suzanna watched and smiled. It made a very nice change from everything festering out there in the lobby.

They stepped out on the fourth floor, and oriented themselves. A nurse’s station directly ahead, hallways off to the left and right. A sickly green room-number sign pointed them to the left, but as they turned that way, Suzanna saw two men walking directly towards her and Erika, and a blonde-haired woman disappearing into a room that had to be the right one, judging from the number of doors. One of the men was an unfamiliar doctor, but the other...

And the woman...

And that van out in the lot...

And she was supposed to be out sick somewhere...

The birds made a split-second decision, and Suzanna did an abrupt about-face, walking away. Things were going to get complicated enough, and since the Master was all right, she could wait to see him, wait as long as she was required to. She would lie low for a while, stay out of sight. Erika would be confused, but she would probably figure it out eventually. She ducked around a corner, and there was a small waiting room, with four mediocre seascapes hanging on the wall, six chairs, a low wooden table with five outdated magazines laying on it.

And a woman. Sitting in one of the chairs, hiding her face behind a sixth magazine, the red title BLAH! blaring out from the cover. (It was the issue from last September, with the cover story about Canadian wildlife. A bird flashed a brief memory-picture of the issue sitting on a shelf in a magazine rack in a book store, an antlered head poking out of a water...)

A woman.

Nina.

The dark-haired slave girl looked up from her magazine, saw Suzanna, smiled one of her smiles. Her texture flared, showing...

Lots of things...

“Suzanna.”

“Nina.” The word came out as a whisper.

Nina got up, put the magazine down on the table, came over.

“What have you got there, Suzanna?”

Silently, Suzanna showed her.

Kristen was almost all the way back to Angus’ apartment when it happened. She had been racing along, weaving in and out of traffic, when she cut it too close, passing in front of yet another poky car. There was the last bend in the road before her destination, and suddenly there was also a large black semi coming at her in the opposite lane, baring down, its horn blaring, the bellowing of a surprised and angry beast...

She made it back, but it was a very near thing, the close passing of the truck rattling the frame of her car, rattling her back teeth. She may have left a layer or two of paint on the semi’s front bumper.

She slid to a smoking stop in the parking lane, and took several deep breaths as the other cars continued past. The engine and her heart both settled back down to their accustomed rhythms. As she had looked at the hospital, she looked now at the drab four-story building up the road ahead, fit in between the roof of the car and the dashboard. Haldeman Place Apartments.

She looked at it for a very long time.

As if the near-miss had shaken something loose inside her head, a new thought opened up, like all of a sudden coming out of a thick fog and finding yourself at a scenic vista, overlooking miles of stunning terrain, plunging valleys, soaring mountains capped with snow.

She knew what she had to do. That had not changed. Nothing would ever change that, not if Gabriel blew his horn and the stars died and the sun went cold.

But...

Fucking with Angus again... that wasn’t part of it. Her jaw dropped a little as she realized this, as the black twisting lines that were wrapped tight around her mind bent themselves into a slightly new position. It wouldn’t get what she needed to do done any faster. If anything...

So what would speed things up? Where should she go, wait, spend the night if need be?

She knew exactly.

The bolts had slipped into a slightly new position, the lines pulled themselves tight once again. Her jaw snapped itself shut.

Waiting for a break in traffic, she did a careful U-turn and drove away.

Calmly. Slowly. Very deliberately.

Gary shifted the toothpick to one corner of his mouth and whistled tunelessly through his teeth as he exited the Harrison sales office, pulling the door shut behind him and locking it. After the key was safely stowed away, he flicked an imagined piece of dust off the door’s frosted window. If the other idiots in this place left their doors open and unlocked all night, that was their problem.

He looked around as he automatically straightened his red-and-blue striped tie and resettled the various pieces of his suit around his paunch. (Yeah, he had one, but not as half as bad as a lot of men his age, and unlike some he still had his hair.) The damn building was already like a tomb. Half of the offices had been empty and everybody left had been moping around all afternoon because Woodhue had gone and gotten himself in a car wreck. It would of course be politic to now swing by the hospital and put in a quick appearance, but the thought didn’t exactly fill Gary with joy, especially since he and Wanda had a dinner date scheduled with that dinosaur Hughett from Allied Associates. It definitely looked like the old fool was going to finally scrawl his crabby hemorrhoid-ridden John Hancock on the dotted line, giving Gary yet another feather in the ol’ cap, and that was a hell of a lot more important than Woodhue banging up his damn car... He turned to go and gave a startled yelp, almost dropping his briefcase, almost swallowing the toothpick.

That Ogden woman from the shop floor was standing there in the hall in her boots and her grubby overalls, silently watching him. He hadn’t seen her before; it was like she had suddenly sprouted up out of the ground. He forced a smile.

“Holli. Hey there. What can I do you for?”

She smiled in return, the angles of her mouth sharp, and her eyes...

Suddenly, Gary Miller was nervous.

Holli reached out, very deliberate, and took hold of his tie. He had never realized how strong-looking her fingers were. She took hold, and she pulled it and him towards her. The silver tie-clip came off with a little spronging sound and spun away somewhere.

“Come with me. Gary.“

Eve had meant to go see Tom at the hospital after getting off work, really she had; but somewhere along the way her brain had smoothly shifted itself into autopilot and when she looked up, suddenly she was pulling into the driveway of the duplex. Joseph’s maroon pickup truck was already there; he had been working strange hours at the plant lately, what with all the new orders they had been getting.

Eve stared at the other vehicle. A strange burble of emotions came up. She was happy that Joseph was home, of course, but there was something else there. Fear to start with. Near panic. Why on earth should she be feeling such things? Part of her mind wanted nothing more than to start up the car, throw it in reverse, drive away, tires squealing, drive forever...

But there was something else, deeper than both the fear and the happiness, deeper and far more powerful, flowing inside her mind, black and twisted, getting stronger and stronger...

She got out of the car, taking careful hold of her purse, as if something deeply precious was now there. Folded in half and tucked deep into one of the pockets, as it had tucked itself deeply into her mind. It throbbed slowly in her hand, or so it seemed, and then she couldn’t think about it anymore.

She walked up to the front door, swung it open, stepped inside. She put the purse on the table, closed the door, locked it.

“Babe? That you?” Joseph’s voice, from further in the house.

She stepped out of her shoes, then started pulling off her clothes, one careful piece at a time, dropping them to the floor.

“Babe?” Joseph’s dark head followed his voice as he leaned around the corner from the kitchen, holding half a sandwich in his hand. “You... OK?” He trailed off

Eve took Tom Woodhue’s face and superimposed it over Joseph’s. It snapped down and locked in place, a perfect fit. All the lines went taut, thick and black and dripping. She dropped her bra and went to him. He offered only token resistance as she took the sandwich from him, tossed it away.

As she twined her arms around him and pulled him into the darkness of the bedroom.

The door swung shut behind them.

Fran sat in the Chair and stared at the Door. The Rock was warm now under her skin, warm and smooth, and there was very little else left in the universe.

Darkness fell.