False Memory

Skeet’s right hand.
    “No obvious signs of paralysis, no stertorous breathing,” Donklin said, “no puffing of the cheeks on expiration.”
    “Pupils are equally dilated,” Tom Wong noted.
    After checking the eyes himself, Donklin continued his brisk examination. “Skin isn’t clammy, normal surface temperature. I’d be surprised if this is apoplectic coma. Not hemorrhage, embolism, or thrombosis. But we’ll revisit that possibility and transfer him to a hospital if we can’t identify the problem quickly.”
    Dusty allowed himself a measure of optimism.
    Valet stood in a corner, head raised, intently watching the proceedings—perhaps alert for a return or reoccurrence of whatever had raised his hackles and had driven him from the room a short while ago.
    At the doctor’s direction, Tom prepared to catheterize Skeet and obtain a urine sample.
    After leaning close to his unconscious patient, Donklin said, “He doesn’t have sweet breath, but we’ll want to check the urine for albumin and sugar.”
    “He’s not diabetic,” Dusty said.
    “Doesn’t look like uremic coma, either,” the physician observed. “He’d have a hard, fast pulse. Elevated blood pressure. None of the symptoms here.”
    “Could he be just sleeping?” Dusty asked.
    “Sleep this deep,” Henry DonkJin said, “you need a wicked witch casting a spell or maybe a bite from Snow White’s apple.”
    “The thing is—I got a little frustrated with him, the way he was behaving, and I told him to just go to sleep, said it sort of sharply, and the moment I said it, he zonked out.”
    Donklin’s expression was so dry that his face looked as if it needed to be dusted. “Are you telling me you’re a witch?”
    “Still a housepainter.”
    Because he didn’t believe that apoplexy was involved, Donklin risked the application of a restorative; however, a whiff of ammonium carbonate—smelling salts—failed to revive Skeet.
    “If he’s just sleeping,” the physician said, “then he must be a descendant of Rip van Winkle.”

     
     
    Because the trash container held only the box of cutlery and because its wheels were large, Martie was able to drag it up the short flight of stairs onto the back porch with little difficulty. From inside the well-taped box, through the walls of the can, came the angry music of knives ringing against one another.
    She had intended to roll the container inside. Now she realized that she would be bringing the knives into the house again.
    Hands locked on the handle of the trash can, she was frozen by indecision.
    Ridding her home of all potential weapons must be priority one. Before full darkness descended. Before she surrendered more control of herself to the primitive within.
    Into her stillness came a greater storm of fear, rattling all the doors and windows of her soul.
    Move, move, move.
    She left the back door standing open and parked the wheeled trash can on the porch, at the threshold, where it was near enough to be convenient. She removed the lid and put it aside on the porch floor.
    In the kitchen once more, she pulled open a cabinet drawer and scanned the gleaming contents: flatware. Salad forks. Dinner forks. Dinner knives. Butter knives. Also ten steak knives with wooden handles.
    She didn’t touch the dangerous items. Instead, she carefully removed the safer pieces—tablespoons, teaspoons, coffee spoons— and placed them on the counter. Then she removed the drawer from the cabinet, carried it to the open door, and upended it.
    Along with a set of plastic drawer dividers, a steely cascade of forks and knives clinked and jingled into the trash can. The marrow in Martie’s bones rang in sympathy with the icy sound.
    She put the drawer on the kitchen floor, in a corner, out of her way. She didn’t have time to return the salvaged spoons to it and slide it back into the cabinet.
    The false twilight was bleeding into true twilight. Through the open door, she could hear the first rough songs of the little winter toads that ventured forth only at night.
    Another drawer. Miscellaneous culinary tools and gadgets. A bottle opener. A potato peeler. A lemon-peel shaver. A wicked-looking spikelike meat thermometer. A small meat-tenderizing hammer. A corkscrew. Miniature yellow-plastic ears of corn with two sharp pins protruding from one end, which could be jammed into a cob to make fresh corn easier to eat.
    She was astonished by the number and variety of common household items that could also serve as weapons. On his way to an inquisition, any torturer