The Cure

Craig Marcus did not enjoy watching people die. The Driver, on the other hand, enjoyed it very much. Marcus mused over this fact as he stared at the surrounding sea of cactus and sand that blistered in the Arizona sun, mesmerized by the dull thrum of the tires and the sameness of the landscape flowing past his window. His head bobbed, his chin dropped to his chest and his hand twitched, jostling the Coke can in the cup holder.

"How old is she?" the Driver asked.

Marcus’ head snapped up and his gut tightened. He looked at the man driving the car, studied his cold gunmetal eyes and then noticed for the first time that he still wore a “Hello My Name is Walter” sticker on the lapel of his matte black jacket, no doubt a vestige of some social event to which he had driven Phillip Porter, and then Porter had made him accompany him inside. "Thirty-one," Marcus said. The Driver did not respond, but Marcus looked at him and watched his face as the corners of his mouth twitched upward, not quite forming a smile. Marcus grimaced at the display.

"Nice," the Driver said.

Marcus opened his mouth in protest, a finger extended toward the Driver’s head. “Look Walter,” he said, “you —“

The Driver glared, cutting him off. “Only Mr. Porter can call me that,” he said. “Please don’t forget.”

Marcus inhaled as if to speak, then withdrew his finger and wilted. He turned away to continue watching the parade of desert flora.

The Mercedes pulled into a long cobblestone driveway, and Marcus saw the stately facades and sun-bleached columns of The Complex’s red brick buildings. Like a college campus, Marcus thought, except for the hundred miles of lifeless desert surrounding the place. The Driver nosed the Benz into a space labeled "Dr. Craig Marcus," and they got out of the car. Marcus felt the sun’s heat burning his scalp, and he stole an envious glance at the Driver’s thick, short-cropped hair.

The security guard at the entrance scanned their lapel badges and said, "Hello, Dr. Marcus," before looking back down to his computer screen. He did not acknowledge the Driver. Marcus stepped through the metal detector into the lobby and offered silent thanks for air conditioning, then headed toward the elevator, the Driver on his heels.

Marcus stabbed the call button twice, then stepped back and looked around. "Where is everyone?" he said. The Driver shrugged. Marcus inhaled and enjoyed the medicinal tang of Mentholatum and rubbing alcohol, the smell of childhood visits to the doctor’s office. His reverie was interrupted when the elevator doors popped open and the Driver grabbed his elbow to pull him into the car.

Music was playing, tinny and flat, from a speaker hidden in the elevator's roof. Marcus heard mumbling and looked over at the Driver, who was, despite the elevator’s subdued lighting, sliding on a pair of sunglasses, snake-like and cool. Marcus noticed that the Driver's lips were moving: " . . . long and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking . . . ." The Driver was singing along with the Muzak.

The elevator doors opened, exposing the third floor lobby, and they stepped out into an empty foyer where the hospital smell was stronger and the air was cold. Marcus shuddered and looked around, aware of the security cameras trained on him. He saw no nurses' station, only a lone sign indicating that rooms 312-320 were down a hallway to the left. It was quiet, except for the occasional murmuring of conversation coming from the rooms. Marcus tried to make out the words, but they were muffled and distant, like they were coming from yesterday. "What was the room number again?" he said, his voice bouncing down the cinderblock corridor.