False Memory

forward. Rake it down some unsuspecting person’s face, jam it into his throat.
    Slamming doors could have been no louder than the crash of her heart resonating through her body.

    23
    “Urine doesn’t lie,” said Dr. Donklin.
    From his sentinel post near the door, Valet raised his head and twitched his ears as if in agreement.
    Skeet, who was now hooked to an electrocardiograph, remained in a sleep so deep that it appeared to be cryogenic suspension.
    Dusty watched the tracery of green light spiking across the readout-window on the heart monitor. His brother’s pulse was slow but steady, no arrhythmia.
    New Life Clinic was neither a hospital nor a diagnostic lab. Nevertheless, because of the self-destructiveness and cleverness of its patients, it had the sophisticated equipment required to provide rapid analysis of bodily fluids for the presence of drugs.
    Earlier, Skeet’s initial blood samples, taken upon admission, had revealed the recipe for the chemical cocktail with which he had started his day: methamphetamine, cocaine, DMT. Meth and coke were stimulants. Dimethyltryptamine—DMT—was a synthetic hallucinogen, similar to psilocybin, which itself was an alkaloid crystal derived from the mushroom Psilocybe mexicana. This constituted a breakfast with a lot more punch than oatmeal and orange juice.
    Analysis of the latest blood sample, drawn while Skeet lay in a comalike slumber, had not yet been completed; however, the urine sample, acquired by catheter, indicated that no new drugs had been introduced into his system and, moreover, that his body had largely metabolized the methamphetamine, cocaine, and DMT For the time being, at least, he would be seeing no more of the angel of death who had induced him to leap off the Sorensons’ roof.
    “We’ll get the same data from the second blood samples,” Donklin predicted. “Because it’s true, urine doesn’t lie. Or in laymen’s terms... there’s truth in a tinkle. Pee-pee can’t prevaricate.”
    Dusty wondered if the physician’s bedside manner had been so irreverent when he’d had his own practice or if irreverence had come upon him after retirement, when he’d taken this for-hire position at New Life. In either case, it was refreshing.
    The urine sample had also been analyzed for urethral casts, albumin, and sugar. The results failed to support a diagnosis of either diabetic or uremic coma.
    “If the new blood workup doesn’t tell us anything,” Dr. Donklin said, “we’ll probably want to transfer him to a hospital.”
     
     
    Inside the refrigerator, against which Martie leaned, the clink of glass against glass gradually subsided.
    The pain in her cramped hands wrung tears from her. With the sleeves of her blouse, she blotted her eyes, but her vision remained blurred.
    Her hands were hooked, as if she were clawing at an adversary— or at a crumbling ledge. Seen through a salty veil, they might have been the menacing hands of a demon in a dream.
    With the image of a jaggedly broken wine bottle still vivid in her mind’s eye, she remained so frightened of her potential for violence, of her unconscious intentions, that she was paralyzed.
    Action. Her father’s admonition. Hope lies in action. But she didn’t have the clarity of mind to consider, analyze, and then judiciously choose the right and most effective action.
    She acted anyway, because if she didn’t do something, she would lie on the floor, curl into a ball like a pill bug, and remain there until Dusty came home. By the time he arrived, she might have turned in upon herself so tightly that she’d never be able to uncurl.
    So, now, with pale resolve, push away from the refrigerator. Cross the kitchen. To the cabinet from which she’d retreated only moments ago.
    Fingers hooking around the handle. Klick-klick. Pulling open the drawer. The gleaming scissors.
    Martie almost faltered. Almost lost her shaky conviction when she saw the shiny blades.
    Action. All the way out of the cabinet with the damn drawer. All the way out. Heavier than she expected.
    Or perhaps the drawer wasn’t in fact as heavy as it seemed, was heavy only because, for Martie, the scissors possessed more than mere physical weight. Psychological weight, moral weight, the weight of malevolent purpose residing within the steel.
    Now to the open back door. The trash can.
    She tipped the drawer away from herself, intending to let the contents spill into the can. The sliding scissors rattled against other objects, and the sound so alarmed Martie that