Read Online Grist 04 - Incinerator by Timothy Hallinan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Timothy Hallinan
Ads: Link
Annabelle Winston look genuinely surprised.
“Himself,” I said. “When I took the job, I acknowledged that I was willing to go looking for him. I’m not willing to have him looking for me. I’m flammable.”
“We made a mistake,” Annabelle Winston said contritely.
“What are you talking about?” Bobby Grant said. “He’s writing letters now. That could be a breakthrough,” he added, sounding like Hammond Lite.
“Bobby,” Annabelle Winston said. It was the vocal equivalent of a one-way ticket to Siberia. “Go away.”
“But, but,” Bobby sputtered.
“Just scram,” Annabelle Winston said. “Down the hall. Anywhere. This instant.” She snapped her fingers. Bobby gave her a betrayed look and faded about six feet behind her.
“We made a mistake,” she said again. “All I was trying to do was light a fire under the cops.”
“Miss Winston,” I said. “You succeeded. You also robbed me of whatever advantage I might have had in trying to find the Crisper.” She winced at the word. “What’s more, and what’s probably more serious, you pissed off the police. Before Bobby orchestrated his headlines, I had a chance at getting hold of whatever they have. Now I might as well be wearing a bell around my neck and a sign that says Unclean. They’re embarrassed. Cops are macho, you know. They don’t like to be embarrassed. It makes them feel impotent.”
She lowered her head. “Forgive me,” she said.
“I forgive you,” I said. “But I’m finished.”
“We’re finished, Miss Winston,” echoed a male voice. “You can go back in now.” I hadn’t heard the door open.
The owner of the voice was a young doctor wearing an ill-advised pencil-thin mustache. His face was the shade of gray that the relatives of patients don’t want to see. He’d been through something for which his training hadn’t prepared him.
“Is he … ?” Annabelle Winston let the question hang in the air.
“Sedated,” the doctor said, touching the mustache with an experimental thumbnail. “This is the part that hurts.” He looked at me. “Changing the dressing,” he explained. “We have to put him out.”
“I thought it all hurt,” I said.
“He’s got third-degree burns,” the doctor said. “That means total loss of skin. The nerves go with the skin. Where he hurts most are the boundaries between the third- and second-degree bums. Where he’s got some skin left.”
Annabelle Winston started crying. This was nothing controlled, nothing like the averted face in the suite at the Bel Air. This was tears and snot and screwed-up eyelids and a sound like someone exhaling golf balls.
“Now, now,” the young doctor said ineffectually, out of his depth again. The mustache made him look like a kid fancied-up for Halloween. He put a hand on her arm, but she shrugged it off and grabbed my wrist. Her fingers felt like bridge cables. “Come in here,” she said fiercely. “Get your ass in here.” She dragged me through the open door with a strength that almost dislocated my shoulder. Bobby Grant followed us, hovering like a bad conscience. The doctor, abashed at the reaction he’d provoked, came in and closed the door behind us.
“Take a look,” Annabelle Winston said shakily. “The brotherhood of the pumpkin.”
Abraham Winston—what had once been Abraham Winston—lay in a bed that looked like one of the roasting racks at the Escorial, the Spanish palace of Philip II where heretics had been barbecued for the enlightenment of the Saved. The bed was a metal frame hitched up to a complicated series of levers and pulleys. Winston was swathed from feet to nipples in white bandages, and the skin that was exposed was covered with a ghastly, greasy white ointment.
His head was enormous. It was swollen and blistered, all the features concentrated into an area in its center. His hair was gone. His face looked like the crimped end of one of Hammond’s cigars, eyes, nose, and mouth pinched into the middle.
“Himself,” I said. “When I took the job, I acknowledged that I was willing to go looking for him. I’m not willing to have him looking for me. I’m flammable.”
“We made a mistake,” Annabelle Winston said contritely.
“What are you talking about?” Bobby Grant said. “He’s writing letters now. That could be a breakthrough,” he added, sounding like Hammond Lite.
“Bobby,” Annabelle Winston said. It was the vocal equivalent of a one-way ticket to Siberia. “Go away.”
“But, but,” Bobby sputtered.
“Just scram,” Annabelle Winston said. “Down the hall. Anywhere. This instant.” She snapped her fingers. Bobby gave her a betrayed look and faded about six feet behind her.
“We made a mistake,” she said again. “All I was trying to do was light a fire under the cops.”
“Miss Winston,” I said. “You succeeded. You also robbed me of whatever advantage I might have had in trying to find the Crisper.” She winced at the word. “What’s more, and what’s probably more serious, you pissed off the police. Before Bobby orchestrated his headlines, I had a chance at getting hold of whatever they have. Now I might as well be wearing a bell around my neck and a sign that says Unclean. They’re embarrassed. Cops are macho, you know. They don’t like to be embarrassed. It makes them feel impotent.”
She lowered her head. “Forgive me,” she said.
“I forgive you,” I said. “But I’m finished.”
“We’re finished, Miss Winston,” echoed a male voice. “You can go back in now.” I hadn’t heard the door open.
The owner of the voice was a young doctor wearing an ill-advised pencil-thin mustache. His face was the shade of gray that the relatives of patients don’t want to see. He’d been through something for which his training hadn’t prepared him.
“Is he … ?” Annabelle Winston let the question hang in the air.
“Sedated,” the doctor said, touching the mustache with an experimental thumbnail. “This is the part that hurts.” He looked at me. “Changing the dressing,” he explained. “We have to put him out.”
“I thought it all hurt,” I said.
“He’s got third-degree burns,” the doctor said. “That means total loss of skin. The nerves go with the skin. Where he hurts most are the boundaries between the third- and second-degree bums. Where he’s got some skin left.”
Annabelle Winston started crying. This was nothing controlled, nothing like the averted face in the suite at the Bel Air. This was tears and snot and screwed-up eyelids and a sound like someone exhaling golf balls.
“Now, now,” the young doctor said ineffectually, out of his depth again. The mustache made him look like a kid fancied-up for Halloween. He put a hand on her arm, but she shrugged it off and grabbed my wrist. Her fingers felt like bridge cables. “Come in here,” she said fiercely. “Get your ass in here.” She dragged me through the open door with a strength that almost dislocated my shoulder. Bobby Grant followed us, hovering like a bad conscience. The doctor, abashed at the reaction he’d provoked, came in and closed the door behind us.
“Take a look,” Annabelle Winston said shakily. “The brotherhood of the pumpkin.”
Abraham Winston—what had once been Abraham Winston—lay in a bed that looked like one of the roasting racks at the Escorial, the Spanish palace of Philip II where heretics had been barbecued for the enlightenment of the Saved. The bed was a metal frame hitched up to a complicated series of levers and pulleys. Winston was swathed from feet to nipples in white bandages, and the skin that was exposed was covered with a ghastly, greasy white ointment.
His head was enormous. It was swollen and blistered, all the features concentrated into an area in its center. His hair was gone. His face looked like the crimped end of one of Hammond’s cigars, eyes, nose, and mouth pinched into the middle.
Similar Books
