Coma

“Susan, you can hypothesize until you’re blue in the face,” said Bellows with a tinge of anger growing out of frustration. “What you’re suggesting is some fantastic organized plan—a criminal plan—with the sole purpose of making people comatose. Well, let me tell you this: you haven’t given an ounce of effort to the biggest question: the question of why. Why, Susan? Why? I mean, you’re spinning your mental wheels at ninety miles per hour, taking all sorts of risks with your career, and mine, I might add, to come, up with a potentially plausible although fantastic explanation for what is a series of unconnected, unfortunate incidences.

But at the same time, you’ve conveniently forgotten to ask why. Susan, there would have to be motive, for Christ’s sake. It’s ridiculous. I’m sorry, but it is ridiculous. And besides, I’ve got to go to sleep. Some of us work, you know. ... And there isn’t one bit of solid evidence. A valve on the oxygen line! God, Susan, that’s pretty weak. I mean you’ve got to come to your senses. I can’t take any more of this. Really. I’m finished.

I’m a surgical resident, not a part-time Sherlock Holmes.”

Bellows got up and finished his bourbon in one long drink.

Susan watched him intently, her paranoia awakening once again. Bellows was no longer on her side. Why indeed? The criminal aspect of the matter was horribly apparent to her at that point.

“What makes you so sure,” continued Bellows, “that all this has anything to do with Nancy Greenly or Berman? Susan, I think you’re jumping to conclusions. There’s an easier explanation for this character who seems so interested in getting hold of you.”

“I’m waiting.” Susan was angry now.

“The guy was probably looking for some action and you ...”

“Screw you, Bellows!” Susan went livid.

“Now she gets mad. God damn it, Susan, you take this whole affair as some sort of complicated game. I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Every time I tell you about some aggressive behavior from Harris to this fucker who tried to kill me, all you can come up with is some Goddamn sexist explanation.”

“Sex exists, my child. You’d better learn to face that.”

“I think it’s more your problem. You male doctors never do seem to grow up. I guess it’s too much fun being an adolescent.” Susan got up and put her coat back on.

“Where are you going at this hour?” said Bellows with an authoritarian air.

“I have a feeling I’m safer on the street than here in this apartment.”

“You’re not going out now,” said Bellows with determination.

“Ah, now the male chauvinist is displaying his true colors. The great protector! Bull crap. The egoist says I’m not going. Just watch.”

Susan left quickly, slamming the door.

Indecision kept Bellows immobile and silent as he watched the door. He was silent because he knew that she was right in a lot of ways. He was immobile because he really wanted to be rid of the whole mess. “Carbon monoxide, holy shit.” He walked back into his bedroom and got into bed once more. Looking at the clock, he realized morning was going to arrive very, very quickly.

D’Ambrosio began to panic. He had never liked confined spaces and the walls of the freezer began to move in on him. He began to breathe faster, gulping for air, and then he thought he might be going to suffocate. And the cold. The deathly cold wormed its way through his heavy Chicago overcoat, and despite constant motion, his feet and hands had gone numb.

But by far the most disturbing aspect of the whole miserable affair was the bodies and the acrid odor of formaldehyde. D’Ambrosio had seen a lot of grisly scenes in his life and had been through some gruesome experiences, but nothing could compare with being in the freezer with the stiffs. At first he had tried not to look at them, but involuntarily and out of mounting fear, his eyes had been drawn to the faces. After some time it had begun to look as if they were all smiling. Then they were laughing and even moving when he didn’t watch them carefully. He emptied the clip in his pistol by blasting away at one particularly sneering corpse whom he imagined he recognized.

Finally D’Ambrosio retreated to the corner so he could keep the whole group in view. Slowly he sank into a sitting position. He couldn’t feel his knees any longer.

Thursday, February 26, 10:41 A.M.