DAVID’S FEW DAYS in the hospital stretched into a week and a half, elongated by a poor reaction to an antibiotic followed by a flare-up of clandestinely infected tissue in his abdomen. The cut along his chest had a tendency to weep and weep without healing over, the surrounding skin alight with strange bacterial fires the doctors struggled to put out. He was allowed out only once, for Walter’s funeral, and chastised upon his return for staying away the whole afternoon. Eventually the doctors capitulated to his constant insistence that he was well enough to go home, warning him away from any strenuous activity.
“I expect you to be off work for at least the next two weeks,” intoned Dr. Bianchi, a slender woman with stern glasses and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. “And riding a desk for a few weeks after that. No strenuous exercise, and try to keep off your feet.”
David, whose ribs felt as if they’d been crushed in a vice, didn’t think this advice would be hard to follow. He patted his side gingerly in recognition. “Believe me, these guys are all the reminder I need.”
“Whatever works, but honestly I’m more worried about that infection.” She glared at the troubled spot through David’s shirt, as if observing it through some extra sense available solely to doctors. “Your ribs seem to be healing up nicely.”
“Good to know.”
On the mend they may have been, but recovery didn’t stop his ribs from screaming like rusty hinges every time David shifted position. He paused twice on his way to the elevator, gripping the railings that lined the hospital hallway and breathing steadily until the shriek abated. His slipped into his pocket to confirm the presence of the prescription chits the doctor had given him. One was for an antibiotic he’d never heard of. The other was for Oxycontin.
David spotted the cruiser idling on North Street. He huffed his way to the curb, masking the strain on his ribs as best he could, and got inside.
“Your wife couldn’t pick you up?” Melissa asked.
“She doesn’t know I’ve been released.”
Melissa raised an eyebrow. “Won’t she wonder how you got home?”
“Probably.”
“In her shoes, I’d be pretty pissed off.”
“Probably.”
Melissa exhaled. “It’s your life. Where do I drop you?”
“My house isn’t far, but we’ve got a couple stops to make first.”
“Where?”
David guided her using directions he’d scribbled on the back of his antibiotics prescription. They pulled up to a modest brick bungalow on a quiet St. Catharines street. David checked the number against his notes and hoisted himself out of the car, moving his torso as little as possible. His ribs twanged as he straightened up and walked casually around the house, mentally comparing what he saw to Iman’s slightly fevered description of Motes’ property.
He found the cellar window and crouched down to inspect it. The scene was much as Iman had described it: a slab of plywood set on the inner frame, a hand-sized chunk torn from its approximate center. In front of the plywood stood a grill of iron bars, beyond them a double-glazed pane of glass. Neither had been disturbed or damaged. The same could be said for the house’s other windows.
A final tour of the perimeter revealed no other obvious signs of escape. He lit a cigarette and smoked it down to the filter, pondering the dark windows shrouded by thick red curtains. Here dwelled his monster, so he was told, but how did the thing get out? He couldn’t picture the beast that had attacked him and killed Walter using the front door. The sign of his egress should be obvious, but David didn’t see a thing apart from the split plywood around back. He flicked his spent cigarette into the gutter and eased himself back into the passenger seat.
“Home?” Melissa asked.
David shook his head. “Brock University.”
“You just got out of the hospital. You really think this is wise?” Her tone was disapproving, but she pulled away from the curb and towards the highway without further prodding. Clearly she was as keen to meet Professor Motes as he was.