what I do, Dr. Crane?”
“Well, I’ve read your file. I’m very familiar with the demands and
pitfalls
of your line of work. I’ve seen vice workers for years.”
Silence. She just stared.
“Vice.”
She eyed the folder on his desk. “Is that my file?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She jumped up, snatched it. He stood, extended his hand.
“Scarla, give that back.”
Staredown. She flipped it open, started reading. He reached for it and she whipped it behind her back, defiant.
“What?”
Crane was calm, steady. “Put it down, Scarla. There’s nothing you don’t already know.”
She smirked. “I think there might be some things
you
don’t know.”
“Then sit down and tell me about them.”
Her eyes narrowed, skeptical. “What can you possibly do for me if they haven’t told you the truth to begin with?”
“That’s why we’re here. They have nothing to do with this, it’s just you and I. If you don’t trust the police file, tell me the truth. I’m listening.”
She watched him. He held eye contact, unblinking. She raised the file, held her cigarette to its corner. It smoldered. Crane sighed. “Scarla.” Flames sprang up the edge of the pages. He eyed the smoke detector. “Security will come when that goes off.”
She shrugged. “Shouldn’t smoke in the office.” Fire consumed the file. She held it out, let it burn.
Crane’s face suddenly dropped. “You’re bleeding,” he said.
She followed his eyes to her arm. It was sliced from wristto-elbow, blood pouring onto the carpet.
How’d
that
happen?
Crane leaned closer, eyes glaring.
“Ich bin der Geber des Todes.”
“Ich bin der Geber des Todes.”
Ray Smith’s battered face hovered inches from her own. Her heart jumped in her chest. She wasn’t sure if he’d just said something, or if he was even real. Her eyes focused, filling in the hospital room around him. He smiled slowly. “If I frightened you … I’m sorry.” Both her arms were bandaged like a mummy from wrist-to-elbow. She was hooked to an IV drip and vitals machine, oxygen tubes in her nostrils. She pulled the IV out of her hand, yanked the oxygen tube and sticky pads off, dragged herself along the safety bars to the foot of the bed. The room spun and she fell off the edge, slamming her cheek on the cold white floor. Smith stepped back. Two masked riot officers rushed in, hooked her arms, hauled her to her feet.
“No! No!”
she screamed, elbowing one in the mouth and hurling the other into the wall. An urgent voice came over the intercom.
Code grey, sixth floor. Code grey, sixth floor.
Scarla bolted. Smith let her go, looked down. One nurse was out cold, the other slumped semiconscious against the wall. He smiled. They’d have their dance soon.
* * * *
The nurse’s station was frozen like deer in headlights. Scarla’s bare feet slapped the floor as she charged past, mooning them in her hospital gown. The intercom sounded again.
Code grey, sixth floor, code grey.
She saw the elevator doors opening ahead. Two white-clad hospital security guys stepped out, both well over six feet. She slid to a stop, looked right. An elderly woman eating soup in bed. She frowned, looked left. The exit stairwell.
Sometimes it’s the little things.
The security guys charged her.
She blew through the door and bounded down the concrete stairs, jumping the last six and hitting the landing wall, wincing as pain shot through her heels. They were fast on her. “Stop before you hurt yourself, ma’am!” She grabbed the handrail and vaulted another ten feet down, stubbing her toes badly and tumbling the remainder of the flight. She landed flat on her stomach, looked up. The guys stopped, one calling out. “Ok, ok, we’re not chasing you! We’re
not
chasing!
Please
don’t hurt yourself!” She grimaced, jumped up, took the rest of the stairs at top speed until she reached ground level and ran through the door into the emergency room waiting area.
“Well, I’ve read your file. I’m very familiar with the demands and
pitfalls
of your line of work. I’ve seen vice workers for years.”
Silence. She just stared.
“Vice.”
She eyed the folder on his desk. “Is that my file?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She jumped up, snatched it. He stood, extended his hand.
“Scarla, give that back.”
Staredown. She flipped it open, started reading. He reached for it and she whipped it behind her back, defiant.
“What?”
Crane was calm, steady. “Put it down, Scarla. There’s nothing you don’t already know.”
She smirked. “I think there might be some things
you
don’t know.”
“Then sit down and tell me about them.”
Her eyes narrowed, skeptical. “What can you possibly do for me if they haven’t told you the truth to begin with?”
“That’s why we’re here. They have nothing to do with this, it’s just you and I. If you don’t trust the police file, tell me the truth. I’m listening.”
She watched him. He held eye contact, unblinking. She raised the file, held her cigarette to its corner. It smoldered. Crane sighed. “Scarla.” Flames sprang up the edge of the pages. He eyed the smoke detector. “Security will come when that goes off.”
She shrugged. “Shouldn’t smoke in the office.” Fire consumed the file. She held it out, let it burn.
Crane’s face suddenly dropped. “You’re bleeding,” he said.
She followed his eyes to her arm. It was sliced from wristto-elbow, blood pouring onto the carpet.
How’d
that
happen?
Crane leaned closer, eyes glaring.
“Ich bin der Geber des Todes.”
“Ich bin der Geber des Todes.”
Ray Smith’s battered face hovered inches from her own. Her heart jumped in her chest. She wasn’t sure if he’d just said something, or if he was even real. Her eyes focused, filling in the hospital room around him. He smiled slowly. “If I frightened you … I’m sorry.” Both her arms were bandaged like a mummy from wrist-to-elbow. She was hooked to an IV drip and vitals machine, oxygen tubes in her nostrils. She pulled the IV out of her hand, yanked the oxygen tube and sticky pads off, dragged herself along the safety bars to the foot of the bed. The room spun and she fell off the edge, slamming her cheek on the cold white floor. Smith stepped back. Two masked riot officers rushed in, hooked her arms, hauled her to her feet.
“No! No!”
she screamed, elbowing one in the mouth and hurling the other into the wall. An urgent voice came over the intercom.
Code grey, sixth floor. Code grey, sixth floor.
Scarla bolted. Smith let her go, looked down. One nurse was out cold, the other slumped semiconscious against the wall. He smiled. They’d have their dance soon.
* * * *
The nurse’s station was frozen like deer in headlights. Scarla’s bare feet slapped the floor as she charged past, mooning them in her hospital gown. The intercom sounded again.
Code grey, sixth floor, code grey.
She saw the elevator doors opening ahead. Two white-clad hospital security guys stepped out, both well over six feet. She slid to a stop, looked right. An elderly woman eating soup in bed. She frowned, looked left. The exit stairwell.
Sometimes it’s the little things.
The security guys charged her.
She blew through the door and bounded down the concrete stairs, jumping the last six and hitting the landing wall, wincing as pain shot through her heels. They were fast on her. “Stop before you hurt yourself, ma’am!” She grabbed the handrail and vaulted another ten feet down, stubbing her toes badly and tumbling the remainder of the flight. She landed flat on her stomach, looked up. The guys stopped, one calling out. “Ok, ok, we’re not chasing you! We’re
not
chasing!
Please
don’t hurt yourself!” She grimaced, jumped up, took the rest of the stairs at top speed until she reached ground level and ran through the door into the emergency room waiting area.
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