Part 27 (1/2)

Phillips beckoned the other doctor to follow him, and led Hatfield into the examining room. ”I want this done quickly, Orrin,” he said. ”Jolene's calling Fred Childress, and by the time his hea.r.s.e gets here, I want your report to be ready.”

The coroner frowned uncertainly. ”I don't know, Warren. Given what Jolene said, there'll have to be an autopsy, and that takes some time.”

Phillips's eyes hardened. ”There will be no autopsy, Orrin. Look her over if you want to, but don't touch her with a scalpel. We need her, Orrin. All of us.”

Orrin Hatfield, who had already bent over Jenny, beginning his examination, straightened up. As he saw the expression in Warren Phillips's eyes, he slowly began to understand.

”I see,” he said softly. ”How much time do we have?”

Phillips glanced at his watch. ”None. If we don't start now, she might really be dead.”

Going to the cabinet against the wall, he found the syringe he'd brought with him to the hospital less than an hour ago, carefully putting it away even before he started forcing water from Jenny's lungs.

Now, slipping the needle into Jenny's arm, he administered the shot of naloxone, which would counteract the morphine he'd used to put Jenny into a coma even before he'd immersed her in the tub of ice water.

The morphine had slowed her metabolism nearly to the point of death, and that, combined with the hypothermia induced by the ice water, had kept her barely alive through the last hours.

With luck, there wouldn't even be any brain damage.

Not that it mattered, really, for Warren Phillips wasn't the slightest bit interested in Jenny Sheffield's mind.

It was her thymus he was after.

Her thymus, the large mysterious gland above the lungs, whose use he'd finally discovered so many years ago.

There would be enough of the precious secretion from Jenny Sheffield's thymus to stave off the aging processes of at least three of his patients. And she was young enough that he could milk her for at least another year.

As long as she didn't die before he got her to Fred Childress's funeral home.

21.

There were no lights on in the house, but she knew there was someone inside, waiting for her. Though the house was barely visible in the darkness of the night, still she could see it clearly; the worn, splintered boards of its siding glowing unnaturally, as if they had somehow come alive. Vines crept up the walls, but though the air was still, the vines moved like serpents, rippling around the windows, creeping toward the roof.

She wanted to run from the house, but something drew her toward it, and though she struggled to turn away, her legs refused to obey her, carrying her steadily closer.

At last she was on the porch, and now she could feel the vines reaching out for her, their tendrils twisting, searching. One of them brushed against her skin, and she wanted to shrink away, but again her body seemed paralyzed. As the vines began to enfold her, binding her arms to her body, the terror inside her threatened to overwhelm her.

She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

The door opened, and in the darkness a figure appeared.

A man, so old he seemed barely alive at all. His hair, only a few thin wisps, hung limply from his scalp, which was covered with bleeding sores. His eyes-pale blue, shot through with reddish veins-fixed greedily on her, and when his lips curled back in an evil smile, she could see his rotting teeth, worn nearly away, crumbling from his gums.

He reached for her, clawlike fingers ending in jagged, torn nails, touching the skin of her face.

”No!” The word choked in her throat. With a valiant effort she tried to jerk away from the specter's touch, tried to wrest herself free from the constricting vines.

It was the effort of that final struggle before the man grasped her that finally woke Jenny, and now she did cry out, her voice a strangled scream as the last vestiges of the dream still held her in their grip.

Her eyes opened and she tried to sit up, but the thick straps that bound her to the bed held fast, and at last, her eyes filling with tears, she gave up.

She had no idea what time it was, nor how long she'd been here.

There were no windows in the room, nor was it ever dark. Always, when she woke up from the horrible nightmares that seized her whenever she fell asleep, the lights were on.

She wasn't alone in the room. It was filled with cribs, four of which had babies in them. If she turned her head, she could see one of them, and now, as the dream released her from its terrifying grip, she gazed over at the tiny form.

The baby was also awake, looking back at her, its small eyes fixed on her as if it knew how frightened she was.

”It's all right, baby,” Jenny whispered softly, the sound of her own voice comforting her, if only slightly. ”It was just a dream, and my mommy says dreams can't hurt you.”

Her mommy.

Why didn't her mommy come for her?

Over and over she'd begged Dr. Phillips to let her see her parents, but he always told her the same thing. ”When you're better. You don't want to make your mommy and daddy sick, too, do you?”

She heard a door open, and turned her head the other way. Sometimes it was the woman who came in, the silent woman who never said a word, no matter how much Jenny begged.

But this time it was Dr. Phillips, and when he came over to the bed to look down at her, smiling, she started crying.

”I had the dream again,” she said. ”The man-the old man who looks like he's dead.”

”It was just a bad dream, Jenny. You mustn't let it scare you,” she heard the doctor tell her.

”But it does does scare me,” Jenny wailed. ”I want my mother. Why can't I have my mother?” scare me,” Jenny wailed. ”I want my mother. Why can't I have my mother?”

”Because you're sick,” Phillips explained. ”And that's why I'm here. To take care of you. Haven't I always taken care of you?”

Jenny hesitated, but finally nodded. She'd known Dr. Phillips as long as she could remember, and he'd never hurt her, not really. Sometimes, when he gave her shots, it stung a little, but after he took the needle out of her arm, he always gave her a lollipop and she always felt better.

Except this time she kept feeling worse every time she woke up.

It was a funny kind of feeling. Every time she went to sleep, she hoped she'd feel better when she woke up, but she didn't. She always woke up feeling empty, as if something inside of her was slowly draining out. She felt all cold inside, and when she thought about her mother and father, and even Michael, something was different.

She still wished they'd come and see her, and take her away from this place, but each time she woke up, the ache inside her when she thought about them didn't hurt as much.

Instead, that strange icy lump inside seemed to get a little bit bigger each day, numbing her.

Jenny silently wondered if she was dying, and if she was, what being dead would be like. But she was afraid she already knew-it would be like being in the dream again, with the man coming after her, reaching for her, wanting something from her.

But if she was dead, she wouldn't wake up from the dream, and it would just go on and on and on.

The thought made her gasp, and Dr. Phillips frowned down at her, his eyes leaving the bottle that hung on the rack above her, dripping clear liquid that she had been told was food into a tube that went into her arm.

There was another tube, coming from a big needle that was in her chest, held in place with a piece of tape. That needle hurt, and the tape itched, but she couldn't scratch it because of the straps that bound her to the bed, which were only undone when she had to go to the bathroom.