Stealing Faces - Michael Prescott [62]
Dr. Cray had handed him a slip of paper with a string of letters and numerals written carefully by hand. Walter had studied the paper for a long time before nodding.
Can you do it? Dr. Cray asked, his voice more gentle than Walter had ever heard it.
Sure I can, Walter had said, pride lifting him.
He could, too. It was rare for him to drive as far as Tucson, much less to explore the city one street at a time, and the excursion would tax his capabilities—but he could do it.
For Dr. Cray, he could do anything.
Because Dr. Cray was the greatest man in the world. Dr. Cray might even be God.
Sometimes, especially at night when Walter lay alone in bed in the small guest room that was his home, he thought that Dr. Cray had come down from heaven to help all the sad, ill people like himself, and when they were cured, every one of them normal again, then Dr. Cray would ascend to the clouds in a burst of glorious light.
Walter had not shared these thoughts with Dr. Cray. He was shy.
The car belongs to a woman, Dr. Cray had said, keeping his voice low and conspiratorial. She’s a very dangerous woman, Walter. If you find her car, you must not let her see you. Do you understand?
Sure, he’d said, though in truth he had some trouble following this.
Just call me. Use the phone I gave you. Dr. Cray had kindly supplied Walter with a fine telephone that he took with him whenever he ran an errand. Walter had used the phone only once, when he became confused by a proliferation of street signs and had to pull over in a panic. Call me, and tell me where the car is, and I’ll take care of it from there.
But she’s dangerous, Walter had protested. You said so.
I can handle her.
You’ll get hurt.
No, Walter, I’ll be fine, just fine.
Walter, who did not like the thought of anything bad happening to Dr. Cray, the great Dr. Cray, Dr. Cray who was his hero and savior and maybe God, had made a soft mewling noise.
Are you okay, Walter? Walter? Are you okay?
I’m okay, Walter had said.
Dr. Cray seemed to think for a moment. Then he said very softly. Listen, Walter. I think I’d better tell you who this woman is. You know her. Or at least, you knew her once. She was a patient here.
There have been lots of patients, Walter said. It made him dizzy to think of how many there had been, coming and going, getting well sometimes, or other times dying. The dead ones were buried in the graveyard, and there was nothing left of them but bronze plaques and flowers.
Yes. Dr. Cray’s face was calm and expressionless. Many patients, but you may remember this one. Her name was Kaylie. Kaylie McMillan. She was just a girl when she came here, and you were thirty-seven.
Kaylie, Walter said, and he nodded.
Do you remember?
I remember. The girl’s face came to him, sharp and vivid. He had a photographic memory. He might have been looking right at her. She was pretty.
Very pretty, Dr. Cray agreed. I was trying to help her, but before I could, she ran away. Do you recall that night, Walter? She ran away, and there was trouble.
Walter stiffened. He remembered the trouble. There had been police and other people, people with cameras and microphones, and later it had been on TV, and they made it look like it was Dr. Cray’s fault. They said bad things about Dr. Cray and the hospital, and they kept using the same strange words, breach of security.
It had been bad. And Kaylie had caused it. She had run off, abandoning Dr. Cray, who only wanted to make her better. She had run, and Dr. Cray had been blamed.
She’s a bad person, Walter said.
Dr. Cray nodded gravely. Yes. She is.
I hate her.
You don’t need to hate her. You only need to be careful that she doesn’t see you. She looks a little different now, but not too much. Her hair is blonde, not red as it used to be. Do you think you would know her if you saw her again, Walter?
I’ll know her.
Good. If you find the car, don’t let her see you. Because she may remember you too. Do you understand?
Walter had been silent,