The Fate Merchant

Chapter 22

     There was something about an empty hospital corridor at 4am that gave Jasper the feeling that around every corner lurked a psychotic, scalpel-wielding orderly. Maybe it was the silence, broken now and then by a cough or a moan. Maybe it was the way the shadows pooled along the walls, the darkness held at bay by fluorescent lights that dotted the length of the corridor to either side of him and seemed to stretch on forever. Maybe he’d watched too many horror films about psychotic, scalpel-wielding orderlies. It was the sort of environment where a person couldn’t walk five steps without checking over his shoulder while simultaneously feeling stupid about it.

     He walked five steps and checked over his shoulder.

     “What took you so long?” Callie asked, emerging from the shadows.

     Jasper yelped and dropped the coffee tray. Brown liquid sloshed over the linoleum as the cups hit the floor. Far behind Callie, a head popped up from behind the counter of a nursing station and glanced in their direction. Jasper smiled and waved. The head disappeared.

     Callie stared at the puddle of coffee. “Well that’s disappointing.”

     “Sorry.”

     “What’s wrong with you?”

     “I saw this movie once about a psycho—”

     Callie held up her hands. “Forget I asked.” She stepped over the puddle and started down the corridor. “Come on. He’s this way.”

     “Who?”

     “Your pal Frank.”

     They stopped halfway down the corridor, and Callie motioned toward a semi-private room. Frank lay on his back in the bed closest to the door, an IV taped to his arm. Wires ran from under his gown to a steadily beeping heart monitor.

     “What happened?”

     “Heart attack.”

     “How did you know he was here?”

     “I went to his office after you left to meet your boss. Thought we could chat.”

     “About architecture?”

     “Yeah. About architecture. We’re turning the restaurant into a dance club, and my mom is going to DJ.”

     “Don’t you think the Grill is a little small to—”

     “Jasper…” Callie closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “How did you get this far in life? Really?”

     “My theory is low expectations and the ability to generate pity.”

     Callie walked across the hall to a row of molded plastic seats and sat down. It was the type of seat, Jasper reflected as he sat next to her and failed to get comfortable, that did its best to keep you out of it and wandering, usually past the vending machines. And since you were up and about and snacking, why not make the short jaunt to the cafeteria for an overpriced coffee. He was pretty sure there was a conspiracy between the manufacturers of the chairs and the food service industry.

     “Listen,” Callie said. “There are four people that I know of who won’t think I’m nuts if I talk about my picture. There’s you; there’s my mom, who doesn’t really qualify because she gets Paris and the ending she wants, plus she’d worry; there’s the guy who wants to cut off Frank’s head with an axe, but I can’t talk to him because, you know, axe; then there’s Frank, who has suddenly become the only person I have anything in common with, seeing as fate-wise we’re both pretty much screwed. So I thought I’d see how he’s handling this, and if he might have any coping strategies I haven’t thought of, because the threads that are holding my sanity together are snapping faster than I can repair them, and I don’t want to end up overmedicated in some psych ward with spit dribbling down my chin. Anyway, his receptionist told me he’d been taken here.”