“Now, let me give you a little shot of something that will make you drift and really feel quite good about things. Yes, Holland, hold her arm for me.”
Sally felt the chill of the needle, felt the brief sting. Within moments, she felt herself begin to drift out of her brain, to float in nothingness. She felt the part of her that was real, the part of her that wanted life—such a small flicker, really—struggling briefly before it succumbed. She sighed deeply and was gone from herself.
She felt hands on her, taking off her clothes. She knew it was Holland. Probably Dr. Beadermeyer was watching.
She didn’t struggle. There was nothing more to care about.
Quinlan woke up with a roaring headache that beat any hangover he’d ever had in college. He cursed, held his head in his hands, and cursed some more.
“You’ve got the mother of all headaches, right?”
“David,” he said, and even that one word hurt. “What the devil happened?”
“Someone hit you good just above your left ear. Our doctor put three stitches in your head. Hold still and I’ll get you a pill.”
Quinlan focused on that pill. It had to help. If it didn’t, his brain would break out of his skull.
“Here, Quinlan. It’s strong stuff; you’re supposed to have just one every four hours.”
Quinlan took it and downed the entire glass of water. He lay back, his eyes closed, and waited.
“Doctor Grafft said it would kick in quickly.”
“I sure as hell hope so. Talk to me, David. Where’s Sally?”
“I’ll tell you everything. Just lie still. I found you unconscious in that narrow little strip of alley beside the Hinterlands. Thelma Nettro had reported you and Sally missing, so I started looking.
“You scared the shit out of me. When I found you lying there, I thought you were dead. I slung you over my shoulder and brought you to my house. Doctor Grafft met me here and stitched you up. I don’t know about Sally. She’s just gone, Quinlan. No trace, nothing. It’s like she was never even here.”
If he hadn’t hurt so badly, Quinlan would have yelled. Instead, he just lay there, trying to figure things out, trying to think. For the moment, it was beyond him.
Sally was gone. That was all that was real to him. Gone, not found dead. Gone. But where?
He heard children’s voices. Surely that couldn’t be right. He heard David say, “Deirdre, come here and sit on my lap. You’ve got to keep very quiet, okay? Mr. Quinlan isn’t feeling well, and we don’t want to make him feel worse.”
He heard a little girl whisper, but he couldn’t make it out. Deirdre meant sorrow. He slept.
He awoke to see a young woman with a pale complexion and very dark red hair looking at him. She had the sweetest face he’d ever seen. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jane, David’s wife. You just lie still, Mr. Quinlan.” He felt her cool palm on his forehead. “I’ve got some nice hot chicken soup for you. Doctor Grafft said to keep it light until tomorrow. You just open your mouth and I’ll feed you. That’s right.”
He ate the entire bowl and began to feel human. “Thank you,” he said, and slowly, her hand under his elbow, he sat up.
“Your head ache?”
“It’s just a dull thud now. What time is it? Rather, what day is it?”
“You were hurt early this afternoon. It’s eight o’clock in the evening now. I hope the girls didn’t disturb you.”
“No, not at all. Thank you for taking me in.”
“Let me get David. He’s tucking the girls into bed. He should be just about through with the bedtime story.”
Quinlan sat there, his head back against the cushions of the sofa, a nice comfortable sofa. The headache was gone now. He could get out of here soon. He could find Sally. He realized he was scared to his socks. What had happened to her?
Her father had come for her just as he’d promised he would. No, that was ridiculous. Amory St. John was long dead.
“You want some brandy in hot tea?”
“Nah, my pecker doesn’t need optimism.” Quinlan opened his eyes and smiled at David Mountebank. “Your wife fed me. Great soup. I appreciate you taking me in, David.”
“I couldn’t leave you with Thelma Nettro, now, could I? I wouldn’t leave my worst enemy there. That old lady gives me the willies. It’s the weirdest thing. She always has that diary of hers with her and that fountain pen in her hand. The tip of her tongue is practically tattooed from the pen tip.”
“Tell me about Sally.”