Chapter 3
Malcomb Lutey finished reading of his newest science-fiction thriller. It was about an airborne virus that within hours of being inhaled turned the internal organs of human beings into a black, oily goo.
As he read about the unaware yet doomed blond Parisian hooker, he picked at the pimple on his cheek, which his mother had admonished him to leave alone. "That only makes it worse, Malcomb. Until you start picking at it, it's not even noticeable."
Yeah, right. The pimple was way beyond
"noticeable." It was the current peak on the ever-evolving, knobby red mountain range that comprised his face. This severe, scar-producing acne had ushered in Malcomb's adolescence and for the past fifteen years had defied every treatment, topical or oral, either prescribed or purchased over the counter.
His mother blamed this chronic condition on poor diet, poor hygiene, and poor sleep habits. On more than one occasion she had hinted that masturbation might be the cause. Whatever her current hypothesis, it invariably suggested that Malcomb was somehow responsible.
The frustrated dermatologist who had valiantly but unsuccessfully treated him had offered up different, but as many, theories on why Malcomb was cursed with the facial topography of a Halloween mask. Bottom line: Nobody knew.
As if the acne weren't enough to keep his self-esteem at gutter level, Malcomb's physique was another misfortune. He was pencil thin. Supermodels who were paid to look undernourished would envy his metabolism, which seemed to have a profound aversion to calories.
Last but no less genetically dire was his kinky, carrot-colored hair. The fiery thatch had the density and texture of steel wool and had been the bane of his existence long before the onset of acute acne.
Malcomb's odd appearance, and the shyness it had bred, made him feel a misfit.
Except at his job. It was night work. And it was solitary. Darkness and solitude were his two favorite things. Darkness dulled his vibrant coloring to a more normal hue and helped to obscure his acne. Solitude was part and parcel of being a security guard.
His mother didn't approve of his career choice.
She constantly nagged him to consider making a change. "Out there all by yourself night after night," she often said, tsking and shaking her head. "If you work alone, how're you ever going to meet anybody?"
Duh, Mother. That's the point. This was Malcomb's standard comeback--although he lacked the courage to say it out loud.
Working the graveyard shift meant fewer times he had to conduct a conversation with someone who was trying hard not to stare at his face. Working through the night also allowed him to sleep during most of the hated daylight hours when his hair took on the brilliance of a Day-Glo orange Magic Marker. He dreaded the two nights a week he was off, when he had to endure his mother's harping about his being his own worst enemy. The recurring theme of her lectures was that if he were more open to people he would have more friends.
"You've got a lot to offer, Malcomb. Why don't you go out like other people your age? If you were friendlier, you might even meet a nice young lady."
Sure he would.
Mother scoffed at him for reading science fiction but she was the one living in a dream world.
His post at Tarrant GeneralHospital was the doctors' parking lot. To the other guards it was the least desirable post, but Malcomb preferred it. There wasn't a lot of activity at night.
Business didn't pick up, so to speak, until early morning when the doctors began to trickle in. Most hadn't even arrived when he clocked out at seven in the morning.
However, this being a Friday night, there were more cars in the lot than on a weeknight.
Invariably the weekend increased the traffic in the emergency room, so doctors came and went at all hours. Just a few minutes ago Dr.
Howell had driven up to the gate and disengaged the arm with the transmitter he kept clipped to his sun visor.
Dr. Howell was okay. He never looked past Malcomb as though he weren't there, and sometimes he even waved at him as he passed the guard shack. Howell didn't get all bent out of shape if the arm failed to disengage and Malcomb had to release it manually from inside the shack. Dr. Howell seemed like a regular guy, not snotty at all. Not like some of those rich assholes who acted so hoity-toity as they drummed their fingers on their padded steering wheels, impatiently waiting for the arm of the gate to rise so they could speed through as though they had someplace to be and something to do that was real important.
Malcomb read the first page of Chapter 4.
AS EXPECTED, THE PARISIAN blond hooker succumbed mid-coitus. She died in the throes of agony and grotesque vomiting, but Malcomb's sympathies were with her hapless customer. Talk about a major bummer.
He turned the book facedown on the counter, straightened and stretched his spine, and sought a more comfortable position on his stool. As he did, he happened to catch his reflection in the window glass. The pimple was growing by the second.
Already it was a monument of pus. Disgusted by his image, he focused his eyes on the parking lot beyond.
Mercury-vapor lights were strategically spaced so that most of the lot was well lighted. The shadows were deep only beneath the landscaping that formed its perimeter. Nothing had changed since the last time Malcomb had looked out, except for the addition of Dr. Howell's silver Beemer-third row, second car. He could see the gleaming roof of it. Dr. Howell kept his car in showroom condition. Malcomb would too if he could afford a set of wheels like that.
He returned to his novel but had only read a couple of paragraphs when something odd occurred to him. He looked toward Dr. Howell's Beemer again. His pale eyebrows furrowed with puzzlement. How had he missed Dr. Howell when he had walked past the shack?
In order to reach the sidewalk that led to the nearest employee entrance, one had to come within yards of the shack. It had become second nature for Malcomb to note when someone came past, either heading toward the building or returning to his car. There was a correlation. One either left the building and then shortly drove away in his car, or drove into the parking lot and then shortly passed the shack on his way into the building.
Malcomb subconsciously kept track.
Curious, he marked his page and set the book beneath the counter next to the sack lunch his mother had packed for him. He tugged the brim of his uniform hat a little lower. If he were forced to talk to someone, even someone as easygoing as Dr.Howell, he didn't want to subject him to his unsightly face any more than necessary. The brim of his hat provided an extra layer of concealing shadow.
As he stepped from the shack's air-conditioned interior he didn't notice any decrease in the outdoor temperature since making his last rounds. August in Texas. Almost as hot in the wee hours as at high noon. Heat from the asphalt came up through the rubber soles of his shoes, which made virtually no sound as he walked past the first row of cars, then the second. At the end of the third row, he paused.
For the first time since taking this job almost five years ago, he felt a prickle of apprehension. Nothing untoward had ever taken place on his shift. A couple months ago a guard in the main building had had to subdue a man who was threatening a nurse with a butcher knife. Last New Year's Eve a guard had been summoned to break up a fistfight between fathers over which of their newborns had been the first baby of the new year and therefore winner of several prizes.
Thankfully, Malcomb hadn't been involved in either incident. Reportedly they had drawn crowds. He would have been mortified by the attention. The only crisis he'd ever experienced while on duty was a dressing-down from a neurosurgeon who had returned to his Jag to discover that it had a flat tire. For reasons still unknown to Malcomb, the surgeon had held him responsible.
So far, his shifts had been luckily uneventful. He couldn't account for his uneasiness now. Suddenly his good friend Darkness no longer seemed as benevolent. He glanced around warily, even looking back behind him the way he'd just come.
The parking lot was as silent and still as a tomb-which at the moment wasn't a comforting analogy.
Nothing moved, not even the leaves on the surrounding trees. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
Nevertheless, Malcomb's voice quavered slightly as he called out, "Dr. Howell?"
He didn't want to sneak up on the man.
In a well-lighted room crowded with people, his face was startling to the point of being downright scary. If he were to come upon someone unexpectedly in the dark the poor guy might die of fright.
"Dr. Howell? Are you there?"
Receiving no answer, Malcomb figured it was safe to step around the first car in the row and check out Dr. Howell's Beemer, just to put his own mind at ease. He had missed him; it was as simple as that. When the doctor walked past he must've been concentrating a little too hard on what the blond hooker was doing to her john before she went into paroxysms of pain and started puking black gunk all over the guy. Or maybe he'd been distracted by the newest volcanic formation on his cheek. Or maybe Dr. Howell hadn't taken the paved path and instead had slipped through the shrubbery. He was a tall but slight fellow. He was slender enough to have squeezed through the hedge without creating much of a disturbance.
Whatever, Dr. Howell had slipped past him in the dark, is all.
Before rounding the first car in the row, just for good measure, Malcomb switched on his flashlight.
It was discovered later beneath the first car in the row where it had come to rest after rolling several feet.
The glass was shattered, the casing dented. But the batteries would have done that annoying pink bunny proud. The bulb was still burning.
What was spotlighted in the beam of Malcomb's flashlight had frightened him more than anything he'd ever read in a science-fiction thriller. It wasn't as grotesque, bloody, or bizarre. But it was real.