at the hospital, she was reluctant to leave. George Hannaby was home already. But Ginger hung around, chatting with patients, double-checking charts, until at last she went to George's office, where she intended to look again at Viola Fletcher's file.
The professional offices were in the back wing of the building, separate from the hospital itself. At that hour the corridors were virtually deserted. Ginger's rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the highly polished tile floors. The air smelled of pine-scented disinfectant.
George Hannaby's waiting room, examining rooms, and private office were dark and quiet, and Ginger did not switch on all the lights as she moved through the outer rooms into the inner sanctum. There, she snapped on only the desk lamp as she passed it on her way to the file-room door, which was locked. George had given her keys to everything, and in a minute she had withdrawn Viola Fletcher's records from the cabinet and returned with them to George's desk.
She sat down in the big leather chair, opened the folder in the pool of light from the desk lamp - and only then noticed an object that riveted her attention and caused her breath to catch in her throat. It lay on the green blotter, along the curvature of light: a hand-held ophthalmoscope, an instrument used to examine the interior of the eye. There was nothing unusual - certainly nothing ominous - about the ophthalmoscope. Every doctor used such an instrument during a routine physical examination. Yet the sight of this one not only inhibited her breathing but filled her with a sudden sense of terrible danger.
She had broken out in a cold sweat.
Her heart was hammering so hard, so loud, that the sound of it seemed to come not from within but without, as if a parade drum was thumping in the street beyond the window.
She could not take her eyes off the ophthalmoscope. As with the black gloves in Bernstein's Delicatessen more than two weeks ago, all other objects in George's office began to fade, until the shining instrument was the only thing that she could see in any detail. She was aware of every tiny scratch and minute nick on its handle. Every humble feature of its design seemed abruptly and enormously important, as if this Were not a doctor's ordinary tool but the linchpin of the universe, an arcane instrument with the potential for catastrophic destruction.
Disoriented, suddenly made claustrophobic by a heavy, insistent, pressing mantle of irrational fear that had descended over her like a great sodden cloak, she pushed the chair away from the desk and stood up. Gasping, whimpering, she felt suffocated yet chilled to the bone at the same time.
The shank of the ophthalmoscope glistened as if made of ice.
The lens shone like an iridescent and chillingly alien eye.
Her resolve to stand fast now swiftly melted, even as her heart seemed to freeze under the cold breath of terror.
Run or die, a voice said Within her. Run or die.
A cry escaped her, and it sounded like the tortured appeal of a lost and frightened child.
She turned from the desk, stumbled around it, almost fell over a chair. She crossed the room, burst into the outer office, fled into the deserted corridor, keening shrilly, seeking safety, finding none. She wanted help, a friendly face, but she was the only person on the floor, and the danger was closing in. The unknown threat that was somehow embodied in the harmless ophthalmoscope was drawing nearer, so she ran as fast as she could, her footsteps booming along the hallway.
Run or die.
The mist descended.
Minutes later, when the mist cleared, when she was again aware of her surroundings, she found herself in the emergency stairwell at the end of the office wing, on a concrete landing between floors. She could not remember leaving the office corridor and taking to the stairs. She was sitting on the landing.
The professional offices were in the back wing of the building, separate from the hospital itself. At that hour the corridors were virtually deserted. Ginger's rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the highly polished tile floors. The air smelled of pine-scented disinfectant.
George Hannaby's waiting room, examining rooms, and private office were dark and quiet, and Ginger did not switch on all the lights as she moved through the outer rooms into the inner sanctum. There, she snapped on only the desk lamp as she passed it on her way to the file-room door, which was locked. George had given her keys to everything, and in a minute she had withdrawn Viola Fletcher's records from the cabinet and returned with them to George's desk.
She sat down in the big leather chair, opened the folder in the pool of light from the desk lamp - and only then noticed an object that riveted her attention and caused her breath to catch in her throat. It lay on the green blotter, along the curvature of light: a hand-held ophthalmoscope, an instrument used to examine the interior of the eye. There was nothing unusual - certainly nothing ominous - about the ophthalmoscope. Every doctor used such an instrument during a routine physical examination. Yet the sight of this one not only inhibited her breathing but filled her with a sudden sense of terrible danger.
She had broken out in a cold sweat.
Her heart was hammering so hard, so loud, that the sound of it seemed to come not from within but without, as if a parade drum was thumping in the street beyond the window.
She could not take her eyes off the ophthalmoscope. As with the black gloves in Bernstein's Delicatessen more than two weeks ago, all other objects in George's office began to fade, until the shining instrument was the only thing that she could see in any detail. She was aware of every tiny scratch and minute nick on its handle. Every humble feature of its design seemed abruptly and enormously important, as if this Were not a doctor's ordinary tool but the linchpin of the universe, an arcane instrument with the potential for catastrophic destruction.
Disoriented, suddenly made claustrophobic by a heavy, insistent, pressing mantle of irrational fear that had descended over her like a great sodden cloak, she pushed the chair away from the desk and stood up. Gasping, whimpering, she felt suffocated yet chilled to the bone at the same time.
The shank of the ophthalmoscope glistened as if made of ice.
The lens shone like an iridescent and chillingly alien eye.
Her resolve to stand fast now swiftly melted, even as her heart seemed to freeze under the cold breath of terror.
Run or die, a voice said Within her. Run or die.
A cry escaped her, and it sounded like the tortured appeal of a lost and frightened child.
She turned from the desk, stumbled around it, almost fell over a chair. She crossed the room, burst into the outer office, fled into the deserted corridor, keening shrilly, seeking safety, finding none. She wanted help, a friendly face, but she was the only person on the floor, and the danger was closing in. The unknown threat that was somehow embodied in the harmless ophthalmoscope was drawing nearer, so she ran as fast as she could, her footsteps booming along the hallway.
Run or die.
The mist descended.
Minutes later, when the mist cleared, when she was again aware of her surroundings, she found herself in the emergency stairwell at the end of the office wing, on a concrete landing between floors. She could not remember leaving the office corridor and taking to the stairs. She was sitting on the landing.
Similar Books
