Bleeding in the Eye of a Brainstorm by George C. Chesbro

Author:George C. Chesbro
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Private investigators, Criminologists, Mystery & Detective, Mongo (Fictitious character), Space Opera, Hard-Boiled, General, Science Fiction, Dwarfs, Fiction, Adventure
ISBN: 9781930253131
Publisher: Apache Beach Publications
Published: 2011-07-24T23:49:12+00:00

Chapter 9

I slept fitfully, awakening often with painful muscle spasms and cramps, my dreams haunted by the pasty white faces of deadly puppets coming at me with cattle prods. I awoke in midmorning twisted like a pretzel. Drinking up all that voltage pumped into me by Punch and Judy had definitely not been welcomed by my muscles, joints, nerves, and acetylcholine, and my body was telling me to go on about my business if I liked, but it would take its own sweet time recuperating, thank you very much.

After a half hour of stretching exercises, calisthenics, and a hot shower, I could move more easily. I dressed, then went downstairs to check on my charges. Margaret was stronger, able to sit up now, and I found Michael in her room. Apparently they enjoyed each other's company, and had been talking all morning, swapping stories. Margaret had been telling the man about her former existence—what she could remember—as Mama Spit, and Michael had been telling her about life at Rivercliff. From Margaret's description of the murdered man who had given her the plastic bag of black-and-yellow capsules, Michael had given the patient a name—Philip Mayepoles. I duly noted the information so as to pass it on to MacWhorter.

It occurred to me that it might be very useful at some time in the future to have the reminiscences of the two schizophrenics on tape, and so I retrieved a tape recorder from my apartment, gave it to them along with several blank cassettes. When I left them, Michael was speaking into the microphone, talking about Rivercliff.

When I went downstairs to my office, I found Francisco in a foul mood. Precisely those qualities that made him such an excellent administrator and assistant also made him an occasional pain in the ass. He was obsessive about having clean desks—mine as well as his; he considered it his sworn duty to see that all business—mine as well as his—was taken care of promptly, and in the past week I had certainly let things slide. He knew nothing about what I was involved in, but he did as he was told and never asked questions, in this case not even about the miraculous transformation of the woman who, until a week before, had sat in rags on a grate and cursed and spat at him every time he passed by. Francisco had no objections whatsoever to playing butler for my two mysterious guests and monitoring their movements to make sure they stayed out of sight; what he did object to was the small mountain of unsigned documents, unfinished reports, and unanswered messages that were piling up on the desk in my office, which was behind his. When he began to mutter darkly about how he was going to have to look for new employment after Frederickson and Frederickson lost all its clients and could no longer afford to pay him, I saluted, then dutifully marched on my cramping legs into my office and closed the door behind me.

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