chapter 18
"Excuse me, ma'am?"
The nurse manning the visitor's reception desk looked up from her charts at the slightly built man, dressed in an Armani suit and sporting elaborately braided gray hair. She had seen many strange things working at the Wexler Memorial Institute, so the visitor's choice in coiffure didn't rate so much as a raised eyebrow.
"Yes, sir?" she replied, without missing a beat. "May I help you?"
"I have an appointment with Mrs. Hawley."
When the visitor spoke, the nurse detected a distinct British accent. She checked the appointment book that lay open before her. "You must be Mr. Jennet. Mrs. Hawley will be with you directly."
Jennet nodded solemnly and stepped aside to study a sofa-sized batik painting of seagulls in flight that hung on a nearby wall. A couple of minutes passed before he was joined by a middle-aged woman dressed in a sensible pantsuit and a waist-length white coat with the Wexler Memorial Institute emblem stitched on the right breast. She held a clipboard and a manila file under one arm.
"Mr. Jennet?" She extended a hand in greeting, flashing the high-wattage smile of a professional administrator. "I'm Joanna Hawley. I spoke with you over the phone."
Jennet bowed slightly at the waist as he took her hand. "Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule, Mrs. Hawley."
"Nonsense! I always have time for the family and friends of our residents. Would you like to see the ward for yourself?"
She did not wait for his answer, but began walking down the hall with a brisk, measured stride.
"Of course," Jennet said, falling in beside her.
"As you can see," Mrs. Hawley said, motioning to the well-lit corridors and pastel-colored walls, "we here at the Wexler Memorial Institute believe in maintaining a pleasant atmosphere; one conducive to the comfort, and eventual recovery of our residents." An elderly man, seated in a wheelchair parked outside the door of his room, flashed a toothless smile and nodded a greeting as they passed.
"That's Mr. Doherty," Mrs. Hawley explained, without breaking stride. "He's here to recover from a stroke. The majority of our residents are seniors, but we have more than adequate facilities for younger residents, such as Mr. Lazarus. Ah, here we are: MIW. That stands for Memory Impairment Ward."
They paused before a large metal security gate that separated the ward from the rest of the building. Mrs.
Hawley produced a specially coded plastic card and swiped it through the computerized locking mechanism on the door.
"Please don't mind the security, Mr. Jennet," she said as she pushed open the heavy metal door. "None of the residents in MIW are violent. This is done simply as a precaution against any of them becoming lost.
Most of the residents suffer from Alzheimer's, and they have a tendency to wander off if you're not looking."
"Of course. I understand perfectly," Jennet said, smiling politely.
"Mr. Lazarus should be in here with the others," Mrs. Hawley said, pushing open the swinging double doors that lead to the communal day room.
A dozen or more "residents" were seated in a large room with narrow gunslit windows that allowed slices of sunlight to travel across its brightly painted walls. While most looked to be in their seventies, there were a handful of younger men and women scattered about, watching television, reading magazines, playing Ping-Pong, and assembling jigsaw puzzles.
"Ah, there's Mr. Lazarus," Mrs. Hawley pointed to a man with shoulderlength white hair seated alone at a table nearest the windows. Lazarus was dressed in peppermint-striped flannel pajamas, with matching terrycloth robe, and diligently making his way through Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel, brow furrowed in concentration.
"He's been making remarkable progress," she stage-whispered. "As you well know, when he first came here, he was incapable of walking or talking, much less feeding or cleaning himself. Now, less than six months later, he's doing so well we're giving serious consideration to graduating him from the Memory Impairment Ward into the Assisted Living Wing. Yes, we're quite proud of Laz.
"Beg pardon?" Jennet said, raising an eyebrow. "What did you call him?"
"That's the staff's pet name for Mr. Lazarus. It's just that, well, we've never been informed as to his Christian name..."
"That is the only name he needs," Jennet replied. "I'm sorry, my good woman, I did not mean to sound so... harsh. It's just that, well, Mr. Lazarus's parents are no longer living and his only remaining relative - the one who sees that his bills here are paid - is his grandmother. The sad condition your staff originally found him in was the result of illicit drug use, and she is desperate to keep the family name out of the papers. That's why he was sent here. The family knew of your facility, back when it was called Elysian Fields, and is keenly aware of its reputation for discreteness."
"Who, exactly, is Mr. Lazarus' grandmother?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell you that right now. I'm sure you appreciate the situation," Jennet replied curtly, the temperature of his voice dropping noticeably.
"Oh. I, um, see..." Mrs. Hawley nervously glanced down at her clipboard, aware that she had crossed into hazardous territory with her visitor.
Jennet's calculated smile returned to his lips as he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small black-and-white photograph. "However, perhaps this picture of Mr. Lazarus' beloved Nana will help jog his memory..."
"Thank you, Mr. Jennet," Mrs. Hawley said, carefully sliding the snapshot into the manila file folder.
"Would you like to speak to Mr. Lazarus yourself? He has been tested recently and found to possess the verbal acuity of a five year-old. He can answer most questions put to him now, provided they are about his life here at the Institute."
"No. That won't be necessary. It would just confuse him. Mr. Lazarus and I never had any dealings with one another. I merely represent his grandmother's business interests. Speaking of which," he smiled crookedly, handing her a stiff white business envelope, "is a cashier's check acceptable?"
Mrs. Hawley's smile regained its previous wattage. "It will do most nicely, Mr. Jennet."
Jen slid behind the wheel of the ebony Lexus, sighing with relief as the car door closed solidly behind him.
"How is he?"
Sonja sat in the back of the car, the collar of her leather jacket turned up as far as it could go, her shoulders hunched against what sunlight made its way through the darkly tinted windows.
"He's no longer crawlin' and shittin' himself, it's that's what you're askin'," he replied, tossing a sheaf of photocopied medical charts and case notes over his shoulder and onto the seat beside her. "Read all about it."
Sonja thumbed through the Xeroxed pages, nodding occasionally. "He's maturing rapidly. Excellent. Did he see you?"
"I don't think so."
"Good. Did you give them the photograph?"
"I fed 'em the song and dance about our friend in there being the last black sheep of a thinning flock. They bought it, just as you said they would. Luckily our Mrs. Hawley didn't recognize Lazarus' beloved "Nana"
as Dame Margaret Rutherford. Then again, I get the distinct impression that as long as th' check doesn't bounce, I could say he was Prince Mongo of bloody Mars and they wouldn't have batted an eye."
Sonja glanced through the rear window at the entrance of the sanitarium, a sour look on her face. "They may have changed the name since I was locked up in there, but this place still makes its money seeing to it that the dirty little secrets of the rich and famous are swept under the rug. As long as Lazarus' bills are paid, they won't do anything to rock the boat. When the time comes, we'll present them with a suitable family history for him, along with a modest fortune. And, if he ever fully regains his senses, he'll be free to start clean, the way he should have the first time, without parents to avenge or monsters to slay."
Jen turned around in his seat and stared at his kinswoman, shaking his head in amazement. "I'll be damned if you don't still love him."
"Don't be redundant, Jen. Besides, the man in there is a complete stranger to me. How can I love someone I've never met? And I intend to keep it that way; I can't risk triggering a residual memory in Lazarus, whether it belongs to Judd or Estes. The last thing I want is for him to remember me."
"Fine, then, if that's how you want it," Jen shrugged. "But if you truly loved these men, and they loved you, why erase yourself from their lives?" "Because it's not safe for humans to be around me, Jen. Every `normal' man I've ever been with has come to an unpleasant end because of me. Even those who had the ability to see into the Real World, like Chaz and Palmer, ended up getting the worst of it. I'm like radioactive waste. I contaminate those around me, even without trying."
"Where does that leave me, eh?" he sniffed.
"You don't count. You're suspended somewhere between heaven and hell - just like me."
"So you're sayin' I'm so filthy the dirt won't show, is that it?"
"I mean no disrespect, cousin," Sonja replied, smiling crookedly. "In your own way, you're as incorruptible as a saint."
"Thanks for th' compliment. I guess. And speakin' of the divine - why didn't you allow Pangloss to remove the Other? Without it, you could have somethin' resemblin' a normal life with Lazarus, without fear of his being tainted."
"I still need the Other, at least for now. How else can I hope to track down and slay Lord Noir? I promised Estes I would avenge him, and I will, even if it takes a dozen decades."
"You do realize what you're getting yourself into, don't you? Noir wants you to give chase, and that's exactly what you're doin'."
Sonja scowled, shaking her head. "No. You're wrong. I'm doing this for Jack."
"If that's what you want to believe," he said, rolling his eyes. "But this is how it always begins, y'know."
"How what begins?"
"The Ennui. I've seen it plenty of times. You find yourself obsessin' over perceived injustices, holdin' grudges, takin' the slightest insult and blowin' it up to apocalyptic proportions. You'll eventually latch on to anything that'll justify a blood feud, so you can pass the time and keep yourself busy... anything to keep you from thinkin' about the futility of it all."
Sonja stared at Jen, her mouth compressed into a thin line. She wanted to tell him he was full of shit and didn't know what he was talking about. She wanted to tell him she was different from the others, that her anger was righteous, not a self-serving excuse for violence for violence's sake.
Instead, she said nothing, for fear he would hear doubt in her voice... and that she would hear it as well.
Afterword
Some people make their midlife career decisions after passing the Buddha on the road. In my case, it took my coming down to Georgia to understand what was necessary for me in order to continue to grow as a writer. I have taken this time in my life as a sign to move further into mainstream fiction, focusing in particular on stories set in the South of my birth. I have been intending to walk this path for some time now, but, whenever the time came, it had always been easier to write another Sonja Blue novel than to strike out on something new.
After ten years of chronicling the adventures of Sonja Blue, I have, to be frank, grown weary of the task. It is entirely feasible that I will one day, possibly sooner rather than later, find myself eating these words with a large side-order of crow. However, should I feel the need to pen another Sonja Blue adventure, it will probably be less than novel length. And, of course, there is the chance that a theatrical film or television series might inspire me all over again.
I appreciate the interest and enthusiasm shown my work by those of you who have followed my writing so faithfully over the last decade. I hope those of you who have enjoyed my writing will be willing to follow me from the shadowy haunts of horror into the uncharted territory I am heading into. I can't promise much, but I can guarantee that whatever I end up doing, it will no doubt be weird and more than a little twisted.