A search of my home? Child pornography? How had the other one got hold of such vile filth in so short a time? After a while, I begin to think about the radio broadcast, what was said and what was not. It had been unusually well informed, as if the police were freely releasing information to the press. They did not even bother to use the word alleged when referring to me. None of this was normal. The enemy must be manipulating the release in order to increase the frenzy of the search for me.
CHAPTER SIX
I am now fully integrated, with no fragmentals. Greg and Willard lie sleeping in the cab of the truck, empty beer cans piled at their feet. My body trudges away from the road, the darkness of unconsciousness gnawing at the edges of my vision. My head feels like the anvil of a blacksmith and he is busy at work. The pain throbs so intensely that I find my gait is in sync with its cresting and ebbing. The cabin is only a quarter of a mile away through the woods.
Dawn is three hours away. When the two men awake from their drunken stupor I expect a blackout to obscure the past several hours. They might remember a blonde woman, but hopefully confusion and embarrassment will stifle their questions.
A dog starts to bark nearby and I freeze. There are other cabins up here, weekend getaways for the more exclusive sort. I last visited two years ago. Sinking to my knees and pressing my fingers against my temples, I will my tired brain to function and draw out the memories of that visit.
It was spring then. Green leaves everywhere. Bright flowers among the underbrush. The gravel road twists and turns, going from cabin to cabin. Each owner has five acres. There was a pond, three or so acres. A houseboat on it. That should be off to my right. The gravel road to my left.
Another dog joins the first in frenzied barking. Are they agitated over me? Sometimes dogs just like to bark. Standing, I move to the left. One hundred yards. Two hundred. The crunch of gravel under my feet.
I am so tempted to stay on the road and just follow it to my cabin. But the chances of being seen are too great. Across and into the trees on the far side, up a slight rise and then the glow of a lamp through the trees. The Saunders lived there. They keep that lamp on year-round, even when not here, a habit born of suburbia. My cabin is the next one.
A whiff of skunk jerks my head up. Faint, yet pungent. So that is what the dogs are complaining about. I turn about a bit, sniffing. Running into that frightened critter would be a complete disaster. I do not have any way of cleaning myself if it marks me. It is to the left, deeper in the woods, where I had wanted to go.
I move back to the road and travel on its edge, pushing branches aside. Past the Saunders’. There is the cabin. A key is hidden in the bole of a tree around back.
Once inside, I pull out a sleeping bag and unroll it. The dust from the wood floor causes me to sneeze. The night is too warm to get inside, so I rummage around in a closet for a blanket. Lying on the sleeping bag, I pull the blanket over me and immediately fall into a deep sleep.
It is past noon when I wake. I would have slept longer, but my muscles and shins are aching too much. Besides, my bladder demands attention.
The toilet in the bathroom has antifreeze in it. Of course the water is turned off. Awkwardly, I squat and pee into a bucket. This is the first time in years that this body has voided under its own control and not into a diaper. Heavy ammonia proclaims my dehydrated state. The cupboards in the kitchen contain a lot of canned goods. This cabin is insurance against the unforeseen, owned under a different name, with money hidden in three different places. There is some fruit juice, which I open and drink straight from the can.
Pulling a cover from the couch, I sit down to eat a meal of canned ravioli. The last food that Joanna had eaten was dinner from the hospital cafeteria. The motions are deliberate: spoon in can, up to mouth, back to can. Depression is a strange and bitter quandary.
The stress of running and of having my life torn apart, the fear of death, tends to weigh down the self. Brain chemistry diverts my thoughts down forlorn paths where hope is a dim light and self-recrimination waiting for an opportunity to pounce. My fear rules me and that is humiliating. I abandoned a boy in need, deceived a young orderly, and left two young men drunk. Will that boy cower in fear for the rest of life? Will Pete be fired for letting Barash take Joanna? Medical schools hated any indication of scandal, making him a pre-med that will never become a doctor. Would Greg and Willard be fired for being late to work today? Blackouts can be so terrifying, such a loss of self-control that self-confidence suffers a fatal blow.
The can of ravioli is empty. Lurching into motion, I walk to the kitchen table. My muscles moan with every move. Setting down the can, I pull up my shirt. In the truck toolbox I had lain on my right side. Now my ribs and hip are black with bruises. What I really need is a hot bath, lasting at least a couple of hours. There is a bathtub, but do I dare turn on the water?
What is the risk? The valve to turn on the water is inside to protect it from the winter cold. If a meter reader comes by, he would see that the house was occupied. I do not want anybody to know that. But how often does a meter reader come? Every couple of months? Twice a year?
My imagination readily supplies the sense of heat and wet enclosure and the decision is made. The water valve is under the kitchen sink and twists easily. Then the tub. It spits air for a few moments, then brown water, then pure water. I wash the dust from the tub and turn on the hot water. Water comes, but not hot water. Of course, the water heater. That requires natural gas. To turn that on requires going outside to the meter.
“Damn it all to hell,” I say through clenched teeth.
Returning to the living room, I pick up the blanket and lie down on the couch. I lie on my left side, my body aching so badly that tears trickle across my nose and off the side of my cheek. Fortunately the oblivion of deep sleep comes quickly.
There are deeper shadows when I awake. The sun is going down. This time I flush away the antifreeze and use the toilet. I hope that it’s not too loud. A can of beef stroganoff and another can of juice serve as dinner.
On the shelf is a radio covered with dust. A quick search of the refrigerator locates enough batteries to get the radio going. No power to keep them cool, but they work anyway. I find WNES, put an earphone in my left ear, and patiently wait for news.
“The FBI alleged at a press conference this evening that Dr. James Barash apparently has committed even more murders. Dr. Barash worked at Jenkins State Hospital and today the bodies of a nurse, an orderly, and three patients were found. According to the FBI, each had been beaten to death.
“The nurse, Rita Foster of Cleveland, had earlier been in contact with the police about Dr. Barash. When she failed to report for work today, police were sent to her home and found her dead—”
Sick with sadness and guilt, I turn off the radio. I don’t even want to know which three patients are dead. The orderly is most certainly Pete. I had only met him once before last night and now he is now dead. Beaten. They had seen their attacker, felt his rage, felt their own terror. Obviously the enemy has a scorched earth policy, killing everyone I leave behind. Would he find the boy, Tim Horgan? The possibility leaves me terrified.
It is dark now. To even think about the enemy brings ever increasing surges of despondency and grief. Briefly I rally, self-righteous indignation rising: I did not kill them! It did! But they are dead because of their contact with me, even if my hands are not bloody; to rationalize otherwise is too humiliating. I refuse to be morally handicapped by denying the situation.
While acknowledging my responsibility, I take care to not let my guilt overwhelm me. There is serious thinking to be done. Why is the enemy killing everyone? That makes no sense, regardless of how I look at it. Another thought strikes. Wait, why were they still searching for James Barash? Surely they had found his body where