THIRTY-TWO

Dr. Ross’s patient was set on a table, deep within the forest. He had found a clearing wide enough to support the table but small enough to keep himself and his supposedly dead patient hidden. He noted that Jordan’s wounds were clotting well, and it appeared that all the stitches were holding in the jagged lines where dogs’ jaws had ripped through skin.

“Sensation has returned to your fingers and toes?” Dr. Ross asked. He wore a surgeon’s mask to protect his identity. Better safe than sorry. Always.

Jordan slightly nodded. Dr. Ross laid a pillow beneath Jordan’s head. His face was extensively bruised; the black splotches would begin to turn yellow in a few days. While the doctor had removed the man’s gag, his wrists and ankles were still bound. The gagging and binding had to be done to keep Jordan from making noise in the coffin.

“It’s a side effect,” Dr. Ross said. “While you were in custody, I injected you with a slight paralyzing agent. To anyone but a medical doctor, you appeared dead. It was necessary to facilitate your escape.”

“I don’t remember the injection.” Jordan spoke as if his throat were constricted. Dr. Ross had given him water, but it would be days before the man’s body was fully hydrated.

“You were unconscious.”

“I remember the dogs. I remember being taken down the mountain. Mason Lee—”

“It’s no longer a concern,” Dr. Ross said. “To Appalachia, you’re dead and buried. The wagon carrying you continued to the graveyard once the casket was switched. You don’t have to worry about the hunters anymore.”

“Thank you, Doctor. But I don’t care about myself anymore. There’s a girl. I need to know that she’s safe. I made arrangements. She—”

“No more. I don’t want to hear anything about arrangements.”

Every six or eight months, it would happen. Dr. Ross would be riding down a trail to make a house call, and he’d be stopped by masked men. They’d tell him who he was required to sedate and pronounce dead. The payment was more than fair, but Ross didn’t do it for the money. He had his suspicions where the patients would go after the caskets were filled with sandbags and placed into the ground and buried. He never saw the undead again, but those suspicions were enough to give him satisfaction. Someday he’d do the same for his daughter and his son, spacing their deaths far enough apart to keep Bar Elohim from guessing. It broke his heart to think he’d never see them again; it broke his heart more to imagine them spending their lives in Appalachia.

On this occasion, however, he’d been required to make sure the patient was healthy enough to survive what was ahead. But the exam, of course, could not take place in a hospital. He had to make his best judgment here.

“Listen,” Dr. Ross said, “you have some broken ribs. A mild concussion. And stitches all over your body. You need to take these antibiotics—one pill three times a day until all the pills are gone. Understand? And make sure to have the bandages replaced frequently. As long as the pus remains clear, you will be all right.”

“Yes, but—”

“The yellow pills are painkillers. You’ll know when to take those.”

“The girl. Please. What happened?”

“I don’t have an answer.” Dr. Ross showed a syringe to his patient. “I need to sedate you. It’s for your protection. The journey might be rough, and you’re better off not feeling it. More importantly, you won’t know where you are and how you got there. That’s what will save your life. If they wanted you dead, they wouldn’t go to the effort of ensuring this.”

“They?”

Dr. Ross merely shook his head to the negative. “You’re getting a drug called flunitrazepam. It’s going to mess with your short-term memory. To protect them.”

He jabbed the syringe into the man’s shoulder and pressed the plunger. Moments later, Jordan’s eyes closed.

It would be a dreamless sleep. But at least it was sleep, Dr. Ross thought, not death. Or worse. Back in the hands of Mason Lee.