Read Online Darkness Under the Sun by Dean Koontz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dean Koontz
Ads: Link
the almost mythological aura of one who battled giants and dragons.
3
ON THE SECOND FLOOR, ONE DOWN FROM BILLY LUCAS, THE hospital-staff lounge featured an array of vending machines, a bulletin board, blue molded-plastic chairs, and Formica tables the color of flesh.
John Calvino and Coleman Hanes sat at one of the tables and drank coffee from paper cups. In the detective’s coffee floated a blind white eye, a reflection of a can light overhead.
“The stench and the darkness of the urine are related to his regimen of medications,” Hanes explained. “But he’s never done anything like that before.”
“Maybe you better hope it’s not his new preferred form of self-expression.”
“We don’t take chances with bodily fluids since HIV. If he does that again, we’ll restrain and catheterize him for a few days and let him decide whether he’d rather have a little freedom of movement.”
“Won’t that bring lawyers down on you?”
“Sure. But once he’s pissed on
them
, they won’t see it as a civil right anymore.”
John glimpsed something on the orderly’s right palm that he had not noticed previously: a red, blue, and black tattoo, the eagle-globe-and-anchor emblem of the United States Marine Corps.
“You serve over there?”
“Two tours.”
“Hard duty.”
Hanes shrugged. “That whole country’s a mental hospital, just a lot bigger than this place.”
“In your view, does Billy Lucas belong in a mental hospital?”
The orderly’s smile was as thin as a filleting knife. “You think he should be in an orphanage?”
“I’m just trying to understand him. He’s too young for adult prison, too dangerous for any youth correctional facility. So maybe he’s here because there was nowhere else to put him. Do you think he’s insane … ?”
Hanes finished his coffee. He crushed the paper cup in his fist. “If he’s not insane, what is he?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“I thought you had the answer. I thought I heard an implied
or
at the end of the question.”
“Nothing implied,” John assured him.
“If he’s not insane, his actions are. If he’s something other than insane, it’s a distinction without a difference.” He tossed the crumpled cup at a wastebasket, and scored. “I thought the case was closed. What did they send you here for?”
John didn’t intend to reveal that he had never been assigned to the case. “Was the boy given my name before he met me?”
Hanes shook his head slowly, and John thought of a tank turret coming to bear on a target. “No. I told him he had a visitor he was requiredto see. I once had a sister, John. She was raped, murdered. I don’t give Billy’s kind any more than I have to.”
“Your sister—how long ago?”
“Twenty-two years. But it’s like yesterday.”
“It always is,” John said.
The orderly fished his wallet from a hip pocket and flipped directly to the cellophane sleeve in which he kept a photo of his lost sister. “Angela Denise.”
“She was lovely. How old is she there?”
“Seventeen. Same age as when she was killed.”
“Did they convict someone?”
“He’s in one of the new prisons. Private cell. Has his own TV. They can get their own TV these days. And conjugal visits. Who knows what else they get.”
Hanes put away his wallet, but he would never be able to put away the memory of his sister. Now that John Calvino knew about the sister, he read Hanes’s demeanor as less phlegmatic than melancholy.
“I told Billy I was Detective Calvino. I never mentioned my first name. But the kid called me Johnny. Made a point of it.”
“Karen Eisler at the reception desk—she saw your ID. But she couldn’t have told Lucas. There’s no phone in his room.”
“Is there any other explanation?”
“Maybe I lied to you.”
“That’s one possibility I won’t waste time considering.” John hesitated. Then: “Coleman, I’m not sure how to ask this.”
Hanes waited, as still as sculpture. He
3
ON THE SECOND FLOOR, ONE DOWN FROM BILLY LUCAS, THE hospital-staff lounge featured an array of vending machines, a bulletin board, blue molded-plastic chairs, and Formica tables the color of flesh.
John Calvino and Coleman Hanes sat at one of the tables and drank coffee from paper cups. In the detective’s coffee floated a blind white eye, a reflection of a can light overhead.
“The stench and the darkness of the urine are related to his regimen of medications,” Hanes explained. “But he’s never done anything like that before.”
“Maybe you better hope it’s not his new preferred form of self-expression.”
“We don’t take chances with bodily fluids since HIV. If he does that again, we’ll restrain and catheterize him for a few days and let him decide whether he’d rather have a little freedom of movement.”
“Won’t that bring lawyers down on you?”
“Sure. But once he’s pissed on
them
, they won’t see it as a civil right anymore.”
John glimpsed something on the orderly’s right palm that he had not noticed previously: a red, blue, and black tattoo, the eagle-globe-and-anchor emblem of the United States Marine Corps.
“You serve over there?”
“Two tours.”
“Hard duty.”
Hanes shrugged. “That whole country’s a mental hospital, just a lot bigger than this place.”
“In your view, does Billy Lucas belong in a mental hospital?”
The orderly’s smile was as thin as a filleting knife. “You think he should be in an orphanage?”
“I’m just trying to understand him. He’s too young for adult prison, too dangerous for any youth correctional facility. So maybe he’s here because there was nowhere else to put him. Do you think he’s insane … ?”
Hanes finished his coffee. He crushed the paper cup in his fist. “If he’s not insane, what is he?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“I thought you had the answer. I thought I heard an implied
or
at the end of the question.”
“Nothing implied,” John assured him.
“If he’s not insane, his actions are. If he’s something other than insane, it’s a distinction without a difference.” He tossed the crumpled cup at a wastebasket, and scored. “I thought the case was closed. What did they send you here for?”
John didn’t intend to reveal that he had never been assigned to the case. “Was the boy given my name before he met me?”
Hanes shook his head slowly, and John thought of a tank turret coming to bear on a target. “No. I told him he had a visitor he was requiredto see. I once had a sister, John. She was raped, murdered. I don’t give Billy’s kind any more than I have to.”
“Your sister—how long ago?”
“Twenty-two years. But it’s like yesterday.”
“It always is,” John said.
The orderly fished his wallet from a hip pocket and flipped directly to the cellophane sleeve in which he kept a photo of his lost sister. “Angela Denise.”
“She was lovely. How old is she there?”
“Seventeen. Same age as when she was killed.”
“Did they convict someone?”
“He’s in one of the new prisons. Private cell. Has his own TV. They can get their own TV these days. And conjugal visits. Who knows what else they get.”
Hanes put away his wallet, but he would never be able to put away the memory of his sister. Now that John Calvino knew about the sister, he read Hanes’s demeanor as less phlegmatic than melancholy.
“I told Billy I was Detective Calvino. I never mentioned my first name. But the kid called me Johnny. Made a point of it.”
“Karen Eisler at the reception desk—she saw your ID. But she couldn’t have told Lucas. There’s no phone in his room.”
“Is there any other explanation?”
“Maybe I lied to you.”
“That’s one possibility I won’t waste time considering.” John hesitated. Then: “Coleman, I’m not sure how to ask this.”
Hanes waited, as still as sculpture. He
Similar Books
