Empathy Page 4

  The driver, a smear of hotdog smells and cologne, jerked his receding hairline toward the back, “If you’re okay wit’ sharin’ and it’s okay wit’ my fare.”

  Martie looked into the back of the cab at the silhouetted passenger already there. “It’s kind of an emergency,” she said, squinting into the shadows. The passenger waved her aboard and Martie beamed. “Fantastic!” she said and jumped in. “Twelve-twelve, Avenue D,” she repeated to the back of the driver’s head.

  As the cab merged into traffic, a bar of pink sodium light scanned over the features of the other passenger.

  Martie started, smiled. “Oh, hey” she said. “What a small world.”

  * * *

  AT THE END of a street with more broken lamps than not, the back end of a yellow cab jutted from a garage like a thrushy tongue. The garage led into a warehouse long abandoned by industry and owners more agile than its crumbling cinderblock and rusting corrugate. The cab’s exhaust pipe did not exhale; its red-eye taillights were shut.

  The garage coughed a crash—what could have been a file cabinet falling over, or a refrigerator. A moment later, the warehouse vomited a man in his middle forties. He slipped out of the loading bay, avoiding any puddles of light and stood at the back of the cab. Tall with pale skin and dark hair, he cut a decisive figure in the gloom; a long finger pressed to a frowning mouth. Hush.

  Dr. Drummond Fine crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed the street. He eyes were rare, a shade of blue so pale they seemed to be made of mercury. In a red room they shone like blood stones. In a green room they were emeralds. Under blue skys they were white. In close they would match the color of your own eyes.

  Summer weeds jutted through cracks in the pavement. The skeletal remains of a stripped car hunkered next to the curb, blocking a fire plug. Apparently, the metro parking authority wasn’t concerned about restricted access to emergency water in this neighborhood.

  As recently as the Nineteen-Eighties, this row of industrial space had served as a thriving lumber and aluminum trade ground, but then the train tracks were re-routed. The absense of those iron arteries cut off the blood supply of commerce. Now, the warehouses were little more than havens for vermin both quad and bipedal.

  A shadow leapt in Drummond’s periphery. He turned and caught the flicker play from a cigarette lighter through the window of an adjacent warehouse. His nostrils, twin paisleys, dilated into lima beans, his chest expanded. He couldn’t actually smell the crack smokers from this distance, but whenever he reached with his mind he inhaled nasally. It was a habit almost as old as he was. He closed his eyes and winced. What had been ram-straight posture melted into a defeated hunch. A slight tremor jiggled his left hand. His mouth hung open, moist and slack.

  His will and something far darker, threw a spark of motivation into his forebrain. Drum’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes flew open. His neighbors would be of little consequence. Their feelings were as empty as their chemically scoured brains. Besides, the other denizens of this little neighborhood knew better than to trouble his warehouse. Strange noises often blew from its blind windows, and when the city sweltered in the summer months tides of complex odor wafted and crooned to the flies.

  Drum cocked his head as if he’d heard a noise. There was nothing on the air but the faint sigh of the city’s breath punctuated by the odd siren, car alarm or horn. It was all distant. His warehouse sat in a wasteland, claimed by the city only on paper. No one lived here. People only came here to die. And yet he listened, face intent. A shiver ran through his frame, closing his eyes and smithing a grin out of his lips. Inside the warehouse, his guest was awake and already afraid.

  Drummond Fine, M.D., prominent psychiatrist and author of two best selling self-help books, strolled back into the garage. As he walked by the cab, he reached through the driver’s side window and shoved the body of the cab driver over on its side. A cloud of hot dogs, cologne, and excrement drifted up behind him. A fly droned. He’d have to take care of that mess soon, but not now.

  Drum stepped around a pile of old boxes and crates, registering the rodent scurry from within. He imagined a ball of twitching brown bodies, squirming with hairless, wormy tails and wild, jewel-chip eyes. Rats had proven evocative in previous sessions with other patients. Perhaps he could employ them later if his guest proved susceptible to their charms. All he needed to do was ask and listen in his careful way. Drum rounded a corner and stepped into the open floor of the warehouse proper. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a gourmet bar of chocolate and almonds. He bit off a square and pondered the scene in front of him.

  A ray of orange streetlight slanted down through a broken skylight. At the base of the beam sat Martie Jenny, tied fast to an old wheeled office chair. Her head lolled forward, the platinum mushroom cap of wig just ready to drop off. She moaned as she rose through the depths of unconsciousness, the knot on the back of her skull where the good doctor had sapped her throbbed. She got a noseful of pigeon dander and let out a resounding sneeze. The blood pressure spike to the wound on her head brought her the rest of the way around. She jerked and the wig dropped into her lap.

  “Hello, Martie,” the doctor said. He shoved the candy bar back into his pocket. “Or should I call you as ‘Michael’ now the wig’s fallen off?”

  Martie squinted into the darkness, a hangover victim on the morning after. “Doctor Fine?” she said, then noticed the electrical tape binding her wrists and ankles. A waver edged her voice. “Whass goin’ on here?”

  Drum caught her emotion—fragrant incense—and pulled it in. He staggered into the light like a man after one too many and leaned down to bring his eyes level with Martie’s. They seemed to go backward a long way, a tunnel of facing mirrors. They froze Martie in their depth, a thousand of her dwindling into nothing.

  “I don’t…” she whispered.

  “You will.”

  ~~~~~~~~

  From the Journal of Drummond Fine, MD

  Monday, June 3rd, 9:32pm

  I think Sinatra’s famous lyrics could sum up my day most succinctly: Luck, be a lady tonight! An interesting phone message from the cardiologist across the hall at the hospital office annex: the faggot needs a shrink. One mister Michael McCafferty (the self-same drag queen detritus that helped me gather my papers some weeks ago) is experiencing some anxiety. He/she/its cardiologist—concerned that the addition of yet another drug to poor Michaels already overtaxed system might be detrimental to his heart condition—suggested a cognitive approach to treatment. What luck that a specialist in anxiety and phobias keeps offices right across the hall. What luck. What good fortune. I can’t stop smiling.

  It’ll take some work on my part, maintaining a poker face through his treatments. The stench of the emotions MM is sure to emit will be powerfully disquieting, but I’ll get a wonderful opportunity to go deep into his triggers. When the time comes for our real session, our final session, his departure will be beyond mere sensation. It will be art. I know I shouldn’t even entertain thoughts of hunting so close to home. It’s foolish, reckless, but why else would he have been figuratively deposited on my doorstep were I not meant to cull him out? I’m not a believer in any kind of god or overseer being, but it almost feels as if there’s a larger hand in this. Perhaps he/she/it and I are entangled like a pair of Einstein’s “spooky action” quarks. Perhaps the simple truth of my existence is to end my clients. Perhaps the simple truth of MM’s is that his is to die.

  I’ll learn him, his life, his ties if any, and then end him at the sharp point of his greatest terror. The timing couldn’t be better.

  Experienced 147 distinct emotions from the cloud today. Session imminent. Client…self-determined. Our first “session” is tomorrow afternoon. Soon then.

  No dreams or discernable impressions.

  3 bowel movements, pale, watery consistency.

  Urinated 3 times.

  Breakfast: 1 cup Special K, 1 cup skim milk, coffee.

  Lunch: Steak sala
d.

  Dinner: Chicken stir-fry, 2 oz. whiskey.

  Water: 64 ounces.

  —DF

  ~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 3

  EMILY THE MOUSE stuck her head outside the entrance of the Morgan Hotel at just after eleven o’ clock at night, wondering if the cat would snatch her up. She stood under a deco stone arch that had felt the rough of a mason’s hand more than one of her lifetimes ago and paused. She had been safe from the alien feelings in her room, but would it be the same outside? The door man cocked an eyebrow at her. “Miss?” he said. “Get you a cab?” He fingered a shiny whistle at the end of a chain.

  Emily squinted into the street and scowled. Was it? Would it?

  “Miss?” He tried again. “Lady?” Goddamn tourists.

  Emily’s foot stuttered toward the curb, retreated. Could she? Were they?

  The doorman stuck out his chin. “Hey! Honey! You want a cab or what?”

  Emily spun around and stared at him. His face was all fissures and downward angles. That kind of face matched what people looked like when they were angry, but that couldn’t be right could it? Emily frowned. She couldn’t feel anything from him and anger was one of the easiest emo…

  She couldn’t feel him.

  She blinked. “What’d you say?”

  He put his hands on his hips—hands that had held more important employment than this ignoble post-retirement job—and addressed Emily as if speaking to a person for whom English was not the mother tongue, “Do…you…need…a…tax…zee?”

  “Huh?”

  He turned his head and threw his hands up in the air. “Oy! These kids with the drugs.”

  Understanding spread its warmth across Emily’s mind and a smile spread over her features. “You’re upset,” she pronounced, not feeling his emotions in the slightest. She clapped once. “That’s awesome!”

  A rough rebuke rose in the doorman’s throat, but having caught hell from the hotel manager in the past for losing his temper with guests, he gagged on it. The hateful fact was that after thirty some years of faithful, accurate accounting in a dusty closet of an office, his pension hadn’t been enough. These days you had to be a crooked bean counter to make any kind of real money. Course you might get caught, but if you were high enough up the corporate chain, you wouldn’t do any real time and at least some of your skimmed millions would be waiting like a faithful spouse when you got out. But he had not been a big time corporate accountant and so now was a small time doorman at a hotel that was as far past its hey day as he was past his prime. He swallowed what was the most basic of New York retorts and sighed. He looked down at his shoes, took a breath, then back up at Emily. “May I get you a cab, ma’am?”

  Em tilted her head. This was all so curious. This old guy was rolling through one emotion after another—she could see it on his face—but there was nothing else. It was like watching TV with the sound down or taking a bite of three-alarm chili and tasting air. He seemed sad now. Why was that? Then she got it, and as her previous breakthrough brought a smile, this knowledge wiped it off.

  She was being an impolite jackass. He’d gotten mad at her for ignoring him and then had bit down on it. “Oh,” she stammered. “Shoot, sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be…” She looked around as if some guardian angel might materialize and explain to the doorman that she hadn’t meant anything by it, she was just new to the whole not-being-able-to-psychically-tap-into-the-emotions-of-other-people thing. A guy in a jogging suit flashed by with a swish of synthetic fabric and gave her tits a quick ogle, but that was all she caught. She went for simplicity. “Sorry for being weird. I’m really out of it.”

  The crevices in the doorman’s face filled and flattened. He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his polished heels. There was definitely something wrong with this kid, but she was okay, he guessed. Called him “Sir.” Far as manners went, that put her past most of the schmucks with whom he dealt on a daily basis “You, uh,” he began, taking in her shoes. Low top Keds, scuffed as hell. And that was it: the shoes, the “Sir”, the apology—he liked her. “You a tourist, or here on business?”

  Emily still swam in confusion and shame at her offense. “I really am sorry.”

  He waved her off and she caught the fish-belly band of skin where a ring had recently lived. “Oh, don’t worry about it, miss. Just an old bear grumbling.” He smiled down at the worn red carpet. “Times I think I caught menopause from my wife like a bad cold.” He glanced up at this risk and caught her covering a giggle. He exhaled and gave a chuckled of his own. “I’m Samuels,” he said and stuck out one age-gnarled paw.

  Em latched on with her best Mid-Western grip and gave a solid pump. “Emily Burton.”

  “So, miss Emily, B or P?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You say that a lot.” He winked. “Business or pleasure.”

  “Oh,” she smiled and thought for a second. “Neither?”

  “You asking me?”

  “Guess I’m just not all that sure.”

  “Hmm, well then, let’s just start with tonight. Where’re you off to?”

  Emily looked down the street, flashing lights and flashing cars, horns, a shout that dwindled down an honor guard of street lamps. “I, uh,” she looked the other way. Same deal, just more of it. “Jeez, I’m ah…”

  Samuels set his face. “You,” he said, “are in need of direction, miss Emily.”

  “I really don’t know where to start. I’ve never been to New York.” A cab roared by, dragging a mix of hydrocarbons and greasy food. Someone shouted in a liquid tongue unfamiliar to Emily’s ear. “This place is all so different from what I’m used to.”

  “And what would that be?” Samuels asked then threw up a creased palm. “Wait! Let me guess.” He closed his eyes and inclined his head just so. “Say something. Say, um…” He opened his eyes. “Say this: I spilled the milk and cleaned it up with a towel.”

  “What?”

  “Indulge me. It’ll make sense in a minute.”

  Emily shrugged. “I spilled the milk and cleaned it up with the towel.”

  Samuels cupped his elbow with his left hand and pinched his chin with his right. He looked up, left, then said, “It’s not Illinois, but it’s close.”

  Emily brightened. Her lips parted.

  “No, no. Don’t help me.” Samuels thought for a moment, punctuated by “hmm”s and “maybe”s. He squinted at Emily, cataloguing her outfit. Low top, scuffed-as-hell Keds. Loved those. Denim trousers, not too tight, but close fitting enough to show her shape. Tiniest bit of softness around the cheekbones, but this one was a jock or had been. Natural blonde. “No twang in the voice,” he said. “I’m going to guess that the closest big town to your home is either Milwaukee or Madison, but you’re definitely a Wisconsin kid.” He nodded. “Am I close?”

  Emily closed her mouth with a click of her teeth. “That was so cool.”

  Samuels nodded. “Yes, it was cool. Thank you.”

  “How’d you do that? Just from the way I talk?”

  He checked his watch then said, “It’s rude to answer a question with a question, but I started off rude, so what the hey. Do you have any friends here?”

  “No.”

  He nodded again, quick and decided. “You do now, and I will tell you how I discerned your origins over a cup of coffee. I was off three minutes ago.”

  Emily grinned. She had a friend in New York City.

  * * *

  “YOU’RE NOT CRAZY,” Samuels the doorman decided and sipped his tea. Green tea. Decaff. Caffeinated anything at this hour meant that his next meeting with the Sand Man would occur roughly three years down the pike. He’d been a pot of coffee a day man for the better part of his life, and then he hit sixty-one and his nervous system seemed to re-wire itself. When sleep came it was never easy. He wasn’t about to help it elude him any more than he absolutely had too. He watched Emily sip her mocha latte with the resolve he’d applied to the passing of his wife: he was nev
er going to get to enjoy this thing he loved again. Oh, well, life sucks. Let’s move on.

  Watching his face for sign, Emily said, “So you believe me?”

  Samuels pursed his lips and considered. She’d just told him that she possessed the psychic ability to feel the emotions of other people like a telepath could read minds. “What the hell,” he said. “Why not?”

  “Really? I mean, it sounds so out there.”

  “Were you delusional about something as…,” he searched for the right word in the steamy depths of his tea, “paranormal as psychic empathy, I suspect you’d also subscribe to other delusions that would make your hypothetical sickness fairly obvious.”

  Emily suppressed a grin. Who talked like this?

  Samuels caught it, blushed a little. “You’ll have to forgive me, miss Emily. I like words.”

  Now she did smile. “What you’re saying is that if I were really crazy it would show in other things? Not only would I say I was an empath, but I’d also believe the CIA had planted a GPS tracker in my butt or something?”

  He snorted a laugh. “Inelegant but accurate. I actually knew a woman several years ago who was certain the Navy was indeed monitoring her every move via satellite surveillance. Whether or not she also believed to have been the victim of rectal beacon implantation is not a point upon which I pressed.”

  “Hey, aliens do it all the time right?”

  “Now you’re just trying to scare me.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Can’t you tell?” Samuels looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Can’t you just feel me out?”

  “Bad pun.”

  “Couldn’t resist.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t tempt me. I’m trying to cut back.”

  “Don’t follow you.”

  “God,” Emily pressed her palms against the table top and threw her eyes at the ceiling. “I can’t believe I even told you.” She looked back at him, following the deep lines around his mouth. The guy smiled a lot, or did during the part of his life when his features were still being carved. Her dad would like Samuels. Would have liked him. “It’s not something I like about myself.”