The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Eighty-Five
Fourteen Minutes Late
Crane
found himself pulling away from the fog of sleep. Cobwebs of last
night clung to him as he tried to focus, tried to remember what was
the last thing he remembered.
He opened and closed his eyes,
attempting to rid himself of the final stages of whatever it was had
taken him out. With his eyes finally wide enough he looked about and
found that he was viewing the world from the lowest level of the
room. From the floor.
Crane cricked his neck in a circle,
listening to the popping sounds of the bones telling himself that the
pillow he had used was not exactly the best. But then the pillow
moved.
“What?”
He turned his head to find himself
prone, head against the stomach of the pirate.
He gave out a
cry as he sat up, disturbing Jack who looked to Crane through slits.
“Wee too much of the drink, I think,” Jack slurred as he
turned to his side, trying to push himself to a sitting position. He
managed to get upright, but still weaved as he took in his
surroundings.
“Still here, I see.” he mumbled. “Bloody
Room.” He stumbled to his feet and found an empty chair, plopping
down with so much force the legs scraped the floor.
Gingerly
Crane eased himself from the floor, keeping his eye to Jack, afraid
the pirate would create an outburst and draw even more attention to
them. How embarrassing, Crane thought as he looked about the Room.
Some of the men sneered at them. Some made shrugs. But most
ignored them.
Ichabod staggered to his table, the one with
the damaged computer, his instruments, his research equipment and the
manila envelope.
But as he took stock Crane realized that the
envelope was not among the inventory.
“No…no….no….”
he cried quietly, rummaging through the items, lifting things to see
if it had been misplaced among the chaos. But there was no envelope.
A quick turn to face the others sent his head spinning and he
placed both hands to the side of his face. Good Gracious, what was it
he and the pirate consumed last night? Whatever it was he would be
sure, in God's good name, not to partake of it again.
“Something
wrong, copper?” Jung called out across the Room. “Looks like
you’re missing something.” Jung's laughter brought more gaiety to
his table.
“Do you know about it?” Crane asked. “Do you
know what is missing?” he asked trying to keep a level head and a
vertical stance.
“What’s missing? Yeah, I’ll tell ya
what the f--k is missing! My sanity! When the hell are we getting out
of this screwed-up place? Uh, answer that, Mr. Constable!”
Their
laughter cut into Crane’s head, his hangover whirlwinding his
thoughts as well as his logic.
But he knew that Jung did not
have the answer he needed.
The constable took a seat and
waited for the Room to stop spinning. He felt it was going to be a
long day and a long hangover to free himself from.
It took
most of the morning and into the afternoon before Crane began to feel
better. He had dozed on and off and during his waking hours he dogged
those around him for a clue to the missing manila envelope with the
spent bullet. But no one, so they claimed, had seen anything.
“Constable?” It was Mort.
Crane found enough
strength to make his way over to the writer’s desk.
“Yes,
Mr. Rainey. I must apologize. I really thought I was going to find
out who was responsible for the damage to your computer. But it seems
all I have managed is to lose the evidence.”
“Mm? Yeah,
well, right. Good job, constable.” Mort blew the man’s confession
off. “But I think you might find that something else is missing.”
Ichabod let his eyes roam the writer’s desk. “What is it,
Mr. Rainey?” Crane asked.
“What is missing?”
Mort
looked at his watch and seemed to be counting the minutes. Which of
course he was.
“Fourteen.” Mort said, tapping the watch
face. “Fourteen minutes.”
Crane sighed. He may have been
feeling better but he was not 100%.
“Fourteen minutes, Mr.
Rainey? Fourteen minutes until what happens?”
Mort shook
his head.
“Not fourteen minutes until what happens. It’s been
fourteen minutes since it didn’t happen. And it’s not what is
missing, but who is missing.”
Crane frowned, waiting for
Mort to explain.
“Glen Lantz.”
Ichabod kept
frowning.
“The kid from the bed. Everyday, like clockwork.
Two forty-five on the nose, the kid goes into the bedroom, lays down,
and the damn bed eats him.”
Ichabod looked over to the
bedroom door, then back to Mort who was tapping his watch again.
“Fourteen minutes, Constable. He’s fourteen minutes late.
I don’t think he’s coming.”