Arrival By Wrath Part 8

"Are you coming?" Her super-model face appeared playfully from around the corner. "Don't keep me waiting."

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," Argosi said, staring at her while he spoke. "She doesn't like to be kept waiting. We're done here, right?"

"I suppose," Preston said. "We'll be keeping in touch. Again, feel free to call us with anything else you can think of." As he started to turn, he added, "Goodbye, Mr. Argosi."

A playful groan escaped Alexandra's lips as the two detectives started walking toward the front door.

"Are you sure you two don't want to stay?" She was running her finger up and down the doorframe sensually as the two detectives stared back in disbelief. Her bare arm revealed just enough to see that the rest of her body hidden behind the wall wasn't clothed either.

"They have more important things to do, my dear. There's a disease on the streets, and these two are going to cure it," Argosi said, clearly a little annoyed as he shook his head slightly, rolling his eyes.

"Shame," she replied, again with a playful tone. "I've never been with a detective before, let alone two."

Preston forced himself to turn around, his back facing the woman, before he succ.u.mbed to a hushed laughter. He offered a half-hearted wave without looking back. Jack followed suit. They exchanged glances, all the while hoping to leave before Argosi saw them grinning.

The Persian rug greeted them as they left the room. Remembering the executive's words from earlier, Preston took another look at the ornamental masks as they entered the hallway, pausing as he pa.s.sed them.

"I guess he's right about the expressions," Jack said, noticing how interested Preston appeared to be in the Noh masks. "This one looks more, well, maniacal when I stand on my tip toes," he said, standing in front of the one ent.i.tled Happiness. Its large toothless grin stretched nearly from ear to ear.

Without saying a word, Preston reached up and grabbed the Sorrow mask with one hand on each side. It came free easily. It had only been hanging loosely by a small metallic hook connected to the plaque.

It was nearly the polar opposite of the Happiness mask. The smile was inverted and nearly as large. The eyes, although merely holes in the material, harbored a deep expression of their own. It offered a range of motion that he hadn't been able to appreciate fully when it rested on the wall.

"You're brave," Jack said. "I can't afford to risk touching anything in this man's house."

The Sorrow mask reflected some of the light from the ceiling as he moved it up and down slowly. Although the material was a chalky-white, it appeared coated in s.h.i.+ny veneer as if made of ceramic.

"There are three emotions this way," Preston said, raising and lowering the mask vertically in front of him. He inspected each expression individually. "I see, sorrow, anger and . . . jealousy."

"You can wax philosophical about what that means later. Just don't let that man's problems get in your head," Jack said, growing slightly more serious. "We're already dealing with enough issues for three people apiece. That guy could make us a baker's dozen at least."

Preston gently placed the mask back on the wall, making sure it was straight and secure. "I suppose you're right," he said.

They left casually, Preston following Jack the whole way. He regretted not being able to try the mask on in front of the mirror, but there was no way he could have lived with himself if he did it in front of his partner.

Again approaching the large entryway to the home, Preston's mind focused on the luxury all around him, trying to make sure he left Argosi's life out of his head as Jack suggested.

Leaving the mansion behind as they left, Preston wondered if there was any decision he could have made in his life that would have led to a life like Argosi's, without his problems at work, of course.

Chapter 8.

The sound of sedated screaming greeted him with an all too familiar haunting melody as Preston entered the rehabilitation wing of Chicago General. He hadn't been there in months, not since the first cases of Bloodstrife started cutting themselves up in alleyways and street corners, a plague that had now entered even the suburban homes of top-level executives and their high school-age children.

The hospital had a typical appearance. It was overcrowded and noisy, even aside from the sedated screaming. Doctors in white coats mostly proceeded at a normal pace, while overworked nurses tried to accommodate the charts and duties of three of their superiors at a time. Preston made his way past the throngs of people to the nurses' station where he was expected.

It had been two days since questioning Argosi at his mansion, and the experience was still forefront in his mind. The masks were a strange piece of the CEO's character. Preston couldn't help notice that they offered an eerie quality to the mansion and the man. The detective still felt a little rattled. It was likely something Argosi had great experience with, a strong opening move with a lasting impression.

He was greeted by a nurse who was clearly at the a.s.s-end of an unnecessarily long s.h.i.+ft. Her eyes were barely staying open, resting lazily on top of bags that had probably been there when she arrived at work. The woman was running on a shrinking supply of caffeine and an over-exerted adrenalin rush. He was sympathetic to the feeling.

"Hi, I'm Detective Burroughs," he said, presenting his badge.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, trying to cope with all the activity around her. Another nurse at the station was speaking to a woman at the desk. It was clear one of her ears was trying to keep up with that conversation while she helped him.

The woman was trying to present herself as happy to help, but Preston had been reading liars and sc.u.mbags for too many years to fall for it. He supposed it was more of a curse sometimes.

"Yes. They said they were sending a psychiatrist out to meet me to discuss a case I'm working on. Is she here?" he said as politely as he could. "I'm told her name is Dr. Morrissey."

"I don't-" the nurse attempted to say.

"That would be me," a voice said from behind him, cutting off the nurse. Turning to look, Preston saw a wheelchair-bound woman approaching him from the end of another crowded hallway. The buzz of her electric wheelchair was barely noticeable in the noise of their surroundings, but he had to admit, it stood out.

She had short brown curly hair and, unlike the nurse, appeared to have just arrived at work or at the very least was fairly accomplished at keeping herself presentable. She was smiling as she stopped a short distance away and shook his hand. Based on the fact that both her arms appeared normal and gripped with the appropriate amount of strength, Preston reasoned that she must have been in an accident that paralyzed her below the waist. By his estimation, she hadn't been born that way.

"I'm Doctor Shannon Morrissey," she said. "Please follow me, detective." Her voice was kind, but not overly happy. Just by her greeting alone, Preston felt more relaxed.

She wasn't clad in the typical white lab coat one would expect to see in a hospital. Detective Burroughs knew she wasn't a medical doctor, but the casual sweater and khaki pants threw him slightly off guard. She was also wearing a name badge that looked similar to the temporary one he'd been given earlier.

Preston bade farewell to the nurse who couldn't have been happier to see him depart. He followed the psychiatrist and caught up with Dr. Morrissey as she progressed down the hall before he began to speak.

"Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice. I know you're pretty busy around here," Preston said, conveying the appropriate amount of requisite courtesy. "Last time I was here a few months ago, Bloodstrife was still too new to the streets and a few confused doctors had given me a brief tour of the ward. Aside from the initial shock, the meeting wasn't very productive."

"Blind leading the blind, huh?" she said with a cool smile.

"Yeah, something like that," Preston responded, placing his hands in his pockets.

"Well, the good news is we've started an aggressive therapy program to help these kids kick the habit, but this stuff can be worse than crack. It's just so viciously addictive that I've seen them reach the verge of insanity when they start jonesing." She paused. "But I'm sure you're well aware of that already. I read that article where they interviewed you in the Herald."

"What are the successful treatment ratios these days?" Preston said, virtually ignoring her remarks about the article. He instantly remembered the conversation with the journalist who had put on a few too many pounds, proof that one's profession can be devastating without proper safety measures. Working at the hospital, he knew the psychiatrist was familiar with that reasoning as well.

Still, he hoped that the numbers would be promising, but felt with certainty that a drug like Bloodstrife had too strong a grip.

"I've had the Dean of Medicine on my back for months just for that reason," she said. "Like I said, this can be an almost impossible drug to kick. It's like trying to take a heroin addict off the stuff with nothing more than water, because that's essentially all we can give these people at this point," she continued. "So far we haven't been able to develop a methadone-equivalent treatment for Bloodstrife. It's just too new."

"So you mean you're just making them go cold turkey?" Preston said with surprise.

"'Fraid so," she admitted with a small amount of shame. "We sedate them whenever we can, but, of course, it's not an ideal way to do things for any medical treatment, really." Shannon continued to roll through the hallways that had remained packed and noisy the whole way. Doctors and nurses were doing their best to accommodate her, but occasionally one would rush by too fast, almost winging her with their elbow. She seemed used to it, brus.h.i.+ng it off without missing a beat.

Preston had also noticed during the conversation that the m.u.f.fled screams he heard when he first entered the building were starting to grow louder. He hadn't remembered them being this bad the last time he'd been here. Instinctively, he began to walk faster toward the noise, removing his hands from his pockets as he did so. Preston began to rub his fingers together nervously, noticing the sweat.

"When I first came here," he started, then paused as a gurney and some doctors raced by in the hallway, "there were about fifty people here at any given time. It was like a circus in itself. How's the situation these days?"

"That, Detective Burroughs, is the bad news," she said as they arrived at the end of the hallway. A large pair of swinging double doors stood in front of them, still moving a little from the last person who had pa.s.sed through.

She stopped in front of the doors and pushed the right one open. The screams flew into the hallway at full volume, sending him back a step. He looked to the sides of the threshold and saw the sound-proofing material that had been holding the noise in place was all over the sides of the door.

"This way, detective," she said, moving forward with a deep breath.

They entered an expansive hallway with beds lined up along the wall, end to end. Toward the front, the patients were resting in traditional hospital beds. These gradually transitioned into a thinner line of cots off in the distance. There were easily hundreds of people there, most of them wailing in a tone of voice that sounded nothing like pain. It was the familiar sound of anger, much like Gluttony's howls in the factory bas.e.m.e.nt. Preston held back the s.h.i.+ver than ran down his spine.

After every two to three gurneys there would be a s.p.a.ce just wide enough to allow entrance to the proper hospital rooms. The first one they pa.s.sed housed six patients, also crammed together as closely as possible like sardines.

"We usually would have used this wing of the hospital for something like a disaster or a terrorist attack to hold all the wounded," Dr. Morrissey said. "Now it's in use twenty-four seven just to house all the people we pull off the street. It's been like this for months, and there's no end in sight." Any feigning bits of her cordial countenance had faded the moment she opened the door. Preston wondered if that happened daily, like it was slowly sucking the life out of her. Maybe that'll be what happens to you as well, the Detective added.

Doctors and nurses were running everywhere in the triage-like wing. Most were administering sedatives, trying to knock the patients out so they would stop screaming. Preston could discern that much easily as they ran from hall to room and back.

Moreover, it seemed that each bed they pa.s.sed held a person in a slightly more advanced stage of addiction. The people who were closer to the door and had the luxury of actual hospital beds appeared normal except for the sweat pouring from their brow. Dull hums of anger and fear were seeping out of their mouths. Only a few were making sounds that could be called a scream.

Preston moved closer to the man he was currently observing, still relatively close to the entrance. He noticed the patient's eyes following him the whole way. He was wide awake. Preston made note of his restraints and decided not to get too close.

"He doesn't look to be very far along. Why isn't he on a cot in the back?" Preston asked between the screams from the sections of the room.

"Those closest to the door are the newbies," Shannon said, raising her voice to compensate for the noise. "If we can help them kick the addiction, they go home or back on the street, in all probability. If not, then they get a cot in the back. Since there's more traffic on this end, it's better to keep those who are almost always sedated in the back where they aren't in anyone's way."

"How long ago did you run out of beds?" Preston asked, still studying the patient in front of him.

"Oh, about two months, I'd say. The governor recently signed a bill that expanded funding for the homeless." Her wheelchair hummed as she moved to the other side of the bed. "Fortunately, that means more cots for us as well since about forty percent of these people live on the street anyway. We have the Dean to thank for that part, I guess. He can be a real politician."

"What about Myers-Echowan?" Preston asked, not taking his eyes off the patient.

"Sometimes I hear about them. I heard they had some public relations nightmare with this stuff a while back. I don't know the details, but when they were trying to rebuild their public image, they chose to donate a bundle of money to the hospital."

"What the h.e.l.l are you looking at, brotha?" the patient said, as Preston continued observe him.

He was young, probably early twenties. Judging by his haircut and the sores on his face, not only was he homeless, but he had probably been addicted to something else before B.S. Preston a.s.sumed it had to be meth.

"I'm sorry," he said truthfully. "I wasn't sure you could see me."

"You a figment of my imagination or somethin'?" he said, trying to smirk. "Say, you gotta smoke?"

"No," Preston said, shooting him down.

"Alright, alright, just kiddin' anyway." He brought his face over to his bound hand to scratch an itch, then returned his head back to the pillow. While his head was up, Preston could see the damp sweat mark on the fabric.

"How long have you been here?" he asked. Preston could see the thinning black veins on the man's arm. They weren't nearly as p.r.o.nounced as he was used to seeing, meaning that taking the patients off the drug cold turkey really did work, physically anyway.

"Two of the worst days of my life," the man said with a nervous laugh. "I'd say I was mad about the whole thing, but anger doesn't get you much help in this place, only a needle in the arm, then lights out," he said, relaying the last part in a whisper. "My veins are almost gone. The good doc was gonna tell me when I get sprung."

"How long were you using for?" Preston asked, hoping to get the first person perspective he'd missed out on four months earlier. At the time, he hadn't been allowed to speak with anyone. All of them seemed uncontrollable. "Why did you start?"

"You kidding me, bro?" he said, laughing again. "This stuff is like oxygen on the street. Everybody needs it, and everybody gets it. h.e.l.l, I can't even say that about food. Course, this stuff makes me forget about all that. I get angry about everything else in my life, but B.S. makes it easier to cope." There was a slight pause as he twitched, virtually his whole body shuddered in rolling spasms. The man didn't appear to notice and began speaking again immediately. "Then, I wake up later and so much time has pa.s.sed that I don't remember. That's the way it should be, don't you think? You just wake up closer to death and that s.h.i.+tty life you had isn't even a memory. It's like it never happened." He was smiling, genuinely happy that he'd lost so much time.

"What about when you get out of here?" Preston asked, already knowing the answer. "Will you use again?"

"I'll plead the fifth on that, bro. I'm not saying anything else to a d.a.m.n narc." His smile faded instantly. Rage started to boil over in his eyes. He ceased to be the calm, albeit troubled individual of the last few minutes. "Get the f.u.c.k away from me!" he screamed, writhing in his restraints and shaking the bed. His face turned beet red; the veins in his injection arm sprang up above the skin. He was a vicious animal whose original scream had devolved into a horrible guttural holler. Before long, he wasn't even uttering words anymore, just shrieks.

Preston looked down, noticing that the man's bed was bolted to the floor. As a matter of policy, all the beds were bound to the floor in some way. The patient's mood had changed at the drop of a hat, and he knew that if not for the restraints, Preston probably wouldn't have been able to get his gun out in time to save himself.

Shannon decided to keep them moving and proceeded farther down the line.

Preston took a few steps backward, keeping his eye on the patient, before turning to walk alongside Shannon. The screams followed them, and he turned back once more to see a doctor swinging by to sedate him. His screams hollowed out, then silenced completely. The man's body still twitched for a few moments more before succ.u.mbing fully.

After pa.s.sing into the area with cots, he saw the progression of the plague. Every other person was asleep, but shaking. Nurses kept moving from bed to bed like bees pollinating flowers, pumping sedatives into them to keep them unconscious. Most of their arms had black veins emanating from the injection sites and thinning out as they traveled farther away. Occasionally, a patient would have the veins closer to their necks or on their legs, but they didn't seem to be moving much, as if no one had been by to p.r.o.nounce them dead or drag the covers over their faces. Shannon a.s.sured him that they were still alive.

They approached another young patient being treated by a nurse. After the nurse administered an injection and moved on to the next patient, Preston stopped in front of him. Like the rest, he was unconscious and trembling. The sheets beneath him were drenched in sweat, along with most of his hair. Both of his arms were exposed, showing black veins that covered virtually its entire length. He was much worse off than the first addict.

"What about this one?" Preston asked. "How long has he been off it?"

Doctor Morrissey picked up his chart at the foot of the bed and looked at it briefly.

"He was admitted six days ago. He's been sedated for the equivalent of two of those days. This one was a particularly loud screamer." She placed the chart back in the holder. "I forgot to mention that part. Even though this guy is a newbie like the one at the start of the hall, he got moved back here automatically. Sometimes, they just need to be put under."

"The arm is still black? I didn't think it lasted so long without continued use," he asked, advancing closer to the patient.

"That's where probability comes in," Dr. Morrissey said with a sigh. "About ninety-five percent of them lose the veins completely in a week and, a.s.suming they don't relapse, tend to be completely cured. It takes about that long for the body to process the dead blood cells as waste. They tend to get caught in the vessels like cholesterol. The other five percent don't lose them at all."

"Then what?" Preston asked, turning to face her with curiosity and an antic.i.p.ation of bad news.

"We have to amputate the affected limbs," she offered nonchalantly. "If the patient was stupid enough to have used their torso or neck to inject the drug, then all we can do is make them comfortable until, well, you know."

"Jesus," said Preston. "I need to stop by here more often. None of this had started to happen the last time I was here."

"That's all the better for you, I suppose. It's been a trying couple of months." For the first time, the doctor's facade cracked for only a moment, but he saw it. She held back a shaky voice, attempting to cover it up with a cough.

"Tell me about it," Preston said, the sounds of the hall starting to get to him, as if the screams had been building. It seemed they were sneaking up behind him and were now ready to pounce.

Doctor Morrissey rolled out in front of him, picking up on the trailing of his voice.

"It's like post-traumatic stress," she said. "Hearing people scream all day has a serious effect on you. That's why s.h.i.+fts in this wing are similar to those of air traffic controllers, short and with frequent breaks. The rest of the time, they're out doing their normal jobs in the rest of the hospital. Most people try to get it taken care of at the beginning of their s.h.i.+fts so they don't have to look forward to it all day."

"I can't even imagine," Preston said, trying to understand what it would be like to spend an entire day in, or anywhere near, that wing of the hospital.

"I wouldn't be much of a psychiatrist if I didn't ask how you felt about all this," she said, having switched her tone from a tour guide to an empathetic and supporting voice. "I know it's none of my business, but those marks on your neck-did someone try to strangle you?"

"I'm a detective," Preston said with a half-hearted smile. "I can't afford a shrink," he continued, rubbing his neck instinctively. "Yes, you're right, though. It happened recently on a bust."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. But we can call it a trade," Shannon said with emphasis. "I can listen to your problems now and soon enough you'll pay me back by cleaning up our city. Then, I won't have to hear the screams anymore either." She gestured toward a vacant office in the back. "I took the liberty of sound-proofing the exterior offices. A lot of the nurses need a pep-talk when the earplugs don't cut it. If it helps you out at all, you won't be the first person I've spoken to in private about this and unfortunately, you won't be the last."

Preston's legs seemed to move on their own. He took a deep breath and followed her as she advanced toward the office in the back. Several more nurses had entered the large room behind them, administering more sedatives to those who had woken up since the pair had arrived. Preston eventually sided with reason, deciding to let her listen. He was all too eager to get away from the screams anyway.

The moment they entered the small room, the click of the door closing resounded in the cramped s.p.a.ce like a clap of thunder. The detective could hear himself think again. It was like a whole new world in there.

In the silence of the office, Morrissey positioned herself to the side of two metal folding chairs that faced an old couch on the adjoining wall. It was tattered, but looked clean. The walls were a bare white, and the room, as a whole, offered no distractions.