The Killing League

37.

Mack

Mack shifted from being a brother to a parent with relative ease. The time spent caring for Janice had taught him the ability to play whatever role was required of him at the time. Sometimes he was the loving brother. Other times, the stern parent setting boundaries. And in some situations, like this one, he was the nurturing parent.

He was sitting in his favorite chair, reading a book about Great White sharks off the coast of California.

Lately, he found himself falling asleep in his reading chair or in front of the television with increasing frequency. Sometimes, he just sat and waited for Janice to awaken in the middle of the night.

Mack had been on that fine line between reading and nearly dozing off when his sister appeared in the hallway, whimpering.

“Janice,” Mack said. His sister shook with uncontrollable spasms. For reasons even the doctors couldn’t explain, she occasionally became paranoid and had trouble sleeping. It was a feature of Korsakoff’s Syndrome — not all patients exhibited similar problems. For Janice, nocturnal disturbances sometimes occurred.

Tonight was one of those nights.

“I thought I was in the hospital, with the nurses stabbing me with needles,” she said. Her dark hair, once full and lush, hung in weak straggling strands around her face. Her cheeks were wet from crying.

Mack went to her, put his arms around her and held her.

“Shhh,” he said. He could feel her heart pounding against him. It was beating a million miles an hour. He stroked her hair and kissed away her tears.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

The hospital was another one of Janice’s recurring nightmares. When Mack had broken into the apartment she shared with a degenerate named Shelby, what he found had shocked him. Utter filth and madness. The room reeked of alcohol, body odor and human excretion. Janice was alone, near death. First they’d gone to the ER, then later, to a mental hospital to try to put her mind back together.

Later, Mack learned that Shelby had made it out of the apartment earlier — and had been taken straight to the morgue.

Janice had spent almost six months in the hospital, rebuilding her immune system and taking tests to determine how much damage had occurred.

At least once a month, she dreamed of the hospital.

Now, he took her back to her room and helped her back into bed. Mack turned on the little night light next to her bathroom.

From a low bookcase near the door, Mack pulled a copy of James and the Giant Peach, by Roald Dahl. For whatever reason, Janice reacted to the story. She loved the cover. The giant peach, the insects, floating in the water.

Mack opened the page.

“Until he was four years old, James Henry Trotter had had a happy life. He lived peacefully with his mother and father in a beautiful house beside the sea.”

He read for several more minutes, then paused when he heard the sound of Janice’s breath change. It became more audible and slower. He peeked at her. Janice’s eyes were closed. He kept reading another five minutes until he was sure she was sound asleep. He then closed the book and slipped quietly out of the room.

He went to the balcony overlooking the river.

He heard the palmetto leaves sway next to the macadamia nut tree he planted last year. This year, he hoped he would get some fruit.

Something splashed in the river and Mack listened for a follow-up sound. If the alligators were mating, there would be more splashing and low-pitched groans.

Nothing sounded. The splash had probably been a mullet, feeding on algae.

Going to sleep was a distant possibility. He thought of the cases, of the crime map on the wall in his office.

He still hadn’t heard back from the Charleston Hospital and the Georgia Trucking Commission.

Mack was growing impatient. He walked back into the house and headed for his office. Maybe it was time to bring in Ellen Reznor.

His secret weapon.