important.”
“I can try,” the technician said, scraping the pigment into a shallow dish. “But it’ll take some time. Where can you be reached?”
“Have me paged,” Scott said. “I’ll be around the hospital most of the afternoon.”
He went next to his office, where he told his secretary he was technically unavailable, and locked himself inside. There, he sat with his feet on a chair and studied the drawings.
When he’d first seen the sketches in the old man’s room, it had been like living the experience all over again. Closing his eyes, he’d actually been able to feel the weeds licking his skin, the water clutching at his throat. It had taken several shocked seconds for the only remotely acceptable conclusion that existed to sift into his mind, the same conclusion he’d reached on the morning of his mishap under the dock—that this was all just some bizarre and elaborate coincidence. His mind had lunged naturally for this safe old standby, an explanation still not unattractive, simply because of its sanity.
But what a huge and improbable coincidence it would have to be. The only major discrepancy between the drawings and reality—apart from the aquatic monster, of course—was the cartoon hand missing the rope.
Had the old man been incorrect on this point? Scott wondered now, believing in him despite his mind’s desire to reject the whole crazy deal. Or had Scott somehow beaten his own fate?
He shook his head. He was wading into a sea of questions that defied logic. He released the drawings, allowing them to drift to the surface of his desk; and as he so often did during quiet moments in his office, he turned to look at the family photo on the bookcase behind him.
But the photo wasn’t there.
Scott pushed to his feet too quickly, straining the muscles around his injured hip. After a moment’s quiet cursing, he scanned the office for the photo. Then he buzzed his secretary.
Claire’s voice drifted pleasantly out of the intercom. “Yes, Dr. Bowman?”
“Claire,” Scott said, his irritation immediately obvious to his secretary of four years. “There’s a photograph missing from in here, the one of my family. Is anything missing on your side?”
“Not that I’m aware of, Doctor, but I’ll have a closer look.”
“If you wouldn’t mind. And Claire, find out who’s been cleaning up in here. Maybe they just broke it and got scared. That picture was my favorite, and there’s no negative around to make a new print.”
“Will do,” Claire said and signed off.
Puzzled, Scott sat again, his hand moving unconsciously to his hip. In the recent past, the hospital had had some trouble with petty thefts: money lifted out of unattended purses, articles of clothing snatched from open racks. The pilfering had continued until two members of the cleaning staff were caught with some of the missing items in their lockers. What Scott couldn’t understand was why anyone would want a photograph—although, he reminded himself, the brass frame was an expensive antique.
But why would nothing else be missing?
Giving them a final, incredulous glance, Scott slipped the drawings into a top drawer. Then he made his call to Steve Franklin.
12
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, WHILE SCOTT was dictating the last of a pile of past-due discharge summaries, his secretary buzzed him from the outer office.
“There’s a call for you, Doctor. Hematology.”
Before picking it up Scott paused a moment, adjusting his legs into a more comfortable position. Earlier, Steve Franklin had X-rayed and examined his hip. He told Scott that he had done some structural damage to the joint capsule, nothing serious, but, as Scott had already judged for himself, he could expect it to grumble on and off for years—and quite possibly for the rest of his life. Steve gave him a prescription for an anti-inflammatory, which Scott filled at the hospital pharmacy, and a few potent analgesics. Afterward, Scott returned to his office and began
“I can try,” the technician said, scraping the pigment into a shallow dish. “But it’ll take some time. Where can you be reached?”
“Have me paged,” Scott said. “I’ll be around the hospital most of the afternoon.”
He went next to his office, where he told his secretary he was technically unavailable, and locked himself inside. There, he sat with his feet on a chair and studied the drawings.
When he’d first seen the sketches in the old man’s room, it had been like living the experience all over again. Closing his eyes, he’d actually been able to feel the weeds licking his skin, the water clutching at his throat. It had taken several shocked seconds for the only remotely acceptable conclusion that existed to sift into his mind, the same conclusion he’d reached on the morning of his mishap under the dock—that this was all just some bizarre and elaborate coincidence. His mind had lunged naturally for this safe old standby, an explanation still not unattractive, simply because of its sanity.
But what a huge and improbable coincidence it would have to be. The only major discrepancy between the drawings and reality—apart from the aquatic monster, of course—was the cartoon hand missing the rope.
Had the old man been incorrect on this point? Scott wondered now, believing in him despite his mind’s desire to reject the whole crazy deal. Or had Scott somehow beaten his own fate?
He shook his head. He was wading into a sea of questions that defied logic. He released the drawings, allowing them to drift to the surface of his desk; and as he so often did during quiet moments in his office, he turned to look at the family photo on the bookcase behind him.
But the photo wasn’t there.
Scott pushed to his feet too quickly, straining the muscles around his injured hip. After a moment’s quiet cursing, he scanned the office for the photo. Then he buzzed his secretary.
Claire’s voice drifted pleasantly out of the intercom. “Yes, Dr. Bowman?”
“Claire,” Scott said, his irritation immediately obvious to his secretary of four years. “There’s a photograph missing from in here, the one of my family. Is anything missing on your side?”
“Not that I’m aware of, Doctor, but I’ll have a closer look.”
“If you wouldn’t mind. And Claire, find out who’s been cleaning up in here. Maybe they just broke it and got scared. That picture was my favorite, and there’s no negative around to make a new print.”
“Will do,” Claire said and signed off.
Puzzled, Scott sat again, his hand moving unconsciously to his hip. In the recent past, the hospital had had some trouble with petty thefts: money lifted out of unattended purses, articles of clothing snatched from open racks. The pilfering had continued until two members of the cleaning staff were caught with some of the missing items in their lockers. What Scott couldn’t understand was why anyone would want a photograph—although, he reminded himself, the brass frame was an expensive antique.
But why would nothing else be missing?
Giving them a final, incredulous glance, Scott slipped the drawings into a top drawer. Then he made his call to Steve Franklin.
12
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, WHILE SCOTT was dictating the last of a pile of past-due discharge summaries, his secretary buzzed him from the outer office.
“There’s a call for you, Doctor. Hematology.”
Before picking it up Scott paused a moment, adjusting his legs into a more comfortable position. Earlier, Steve Franklin had X-rayed and examined his hip. He told Scott that he had done some structural damage to the joint capsule, nothing serious, but, as Scott had already judged for himself, he could expect it to grumble on and off for years—and quite possibly for the rest of his life. Steve gave him a prescription for an anti-inflammatory, which Scott filled at the hospital pharmacy, and a few potent analgesics. Afterward, Scott returned to his office and began
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