Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [118]
I look up to see the drunk. He’s ambling awkwardly, his gait a demi-sprint. He holds his arms close to his chest. He disappears into a darkened stairwell. From his pocket, something falls, a piece of paper, onto the damp cement.
“Don’t move. You might be hurt,” says a voice from my right.
It’s the brunette, the one from the turnstile. Where did she come from? My vision remains unfocused.
I blink hard and look for words.
“Breathe,” she says. She kneels and extends an arm and puts fingers on my shoulder. She’s shaken too.
Her touch brings attention to the acute pain near my deltoid. The strap of my ratty black backpack must’ve given me a nifty friction burn. But it also probably spared me a rougher fall. The pack, which follows me everywhere, contains an overflow of magazines and notes, the flora and fauna from which journalism sprouts and, tonight, a serendipitous back pillow.
I exhale, emerging from shock. I’m out of acute danger. Overcome with intense relief.
I run back a reel of the last minute. I picture the man coming at me, falling but somehow purposeful, his face camouflaged.
“Say something,” the brunette encourages. “Did you know that guy?”
“Scleroderma,” I mutter.
“What?”
I don’t express my thought: the drunk’s skin was pulled tight against his forehead and around his eyes. Scleroderma means “tight skin.” Its presence can indicate a rare disease of the organs, very rare, so these days it is much more likely to indicate a visit to the dermatologist; this drunk recently had an injection of botox that tightened his wrinkles. Rich drunk.
My scrutiny is a sign of my own condition: excessive medical analysis. Some people focus on faces, or names. I remember pathologies. My not-very-exciting sixth sense is seeing illnesses and physical conditions, a vestige of my medical school training. Jaundice, clinical water-retention, lazy eye, gout, misaligned spine, all the herpes variants, emphysema cough, flat-footedness (the obsessive medical labeler can identify it even when the flat-foot is wearing shoes and walking by). Even though I’d abdicated a career in medicine for one in medical journalism—after realizing I lacked the intensity and rigidity to be a good doctor—I can’t shake associating humans with their conditions.
“It doesn’t feel right,” I say.
“What? Your head?” The brunette asks.
“That too.”
I stand, feeling her fingers fall away. I wobble, get my footing, walk unsteadily to the piece of paper that fell from the mountain’s leather jacket. I pick it up.
It is lined and legal sized, creased and smudged with black grease. I unfold it and discover two names written in blue pen. One name is Sandy Vello. Doesn’t sound familiar. The other name does.
“What is it?” the brunette asks.
I point to my name on the piece of paper. She shakes her head, uncertain what I’m talking about.
“This is my name?”
“What?”
“Nathaniel Idle.”
“I’m Faith,” she says, still not getting it: My name was on a piece of paper that fell from the pocket of a man who nearly turned me into subway smoothie.
“That wasn’t an accident,” I say.
“Do you think you need an ambulance? I suspect you’re in shock.”
I look at Faith. She’s biting her lip with perfect teeth, her head tilted, concerned, compassionate, empathic. My eyes lock on her for a millisecond more than is appropriate. I am struck by an urge to make her laugh. But it’s overwhelmed by a more powerful compulsion.
I look at the stairs where the dangerous mountain disappeared. I sprint after him.
Chapter 2
I bound up a steep set of metal stairs. They’re slippery and dimly lit from a tract on the low ceiling.
I’m near the top when I’m hit by a wave of light-headedness and nausea, and feel my toe slide, causing my leg to collapse underneath me. I brace myself with my palms against one of the cool stairs