Carson Fells Nevada

An early story (over ten years old) festering in the desk drawer of my C drive, in three parts ...


“So how’s our Man from Mars?”

The black suit shrugged. “Hard to tell. Might not make it through the night.”

“Radiation poisoning?”

“Yup.”

The two stared down at the shape on the gurney. There wasn’t much that this backwater clinic could to alleviate the soft semi-delirious moaning. A nurse entered periodically to adjust the IV drip, and a cigarette-smoking doctor checked in every twenty minutes, casting sour glances all around, to studiously eyeball the unchanging chart at the foot of the bed.

“We can’t let that happen . . .”

Gilchrist waited for the medical staff to leave, then sat in a folding chair and opened his briefcase. “You know, Charles,” he told black-suit, “we may not have a choice in the matter.”

“I don’t believe that. There’s always a choice.” Charles removed his crisp jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “I’ll lock the door.”

“Don’t do that,” Gilchrist blurted, glancing up. “At least, not yet. Let me feel out the doctor, first. Please.”

“Right-O. I’ll be back. Gonna find some smokes and a Coke.” Charles left, but only after throwing a backward glance at the bed, and the uneasy form under the sheets.

Gilchrist sighed, rubbed his temples. He removed a small black leather bag from the briefcase as well as the tape brecorder, sealed the case and placed both items on it. Standing, he slowly pulled the bedsheets back. The figure before his was a man, late-fifties or early sixties, hard to tell. Could chronologically be thirty. Dirty, ragged clothing. Second and third degree burns over just about all of the exposed skin; welts already appearing on the face, neck, lower arms, the triangle of chest. Though in obvious pain, the morphine drip mercifully kept him just under consciousness.

Charles would be sure to monkey with that, before the night was up.

A different nurse stormed in and cornered Gilchrist, planting her hands on her hips. “Doctor Heywood would like to know your business here,” she said sternly. “Mr. Carson has to be kept in a sterile environment – ”

Gilchrist reached into his jacket and calmly handed her his identification card. Immediately her expression clouded over, and she took a few steps back. She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again, but no sound came out. Gilchrist benignly smiled, reached out to her and ran a thumb over her name badge.

“Please show the doctor in, Nurse . . . Kelley. This is a matter extremely important to national security. I’m going to have to ask you to refrain from speaking about Mr. Carson or our presence here. Do you understand?”

Nurse Kelley backed away quickly. “Yes, sir. I will show the doctor in.” The swinging door cloesd softly behind her.

“Thank you,” Gilchrist said.

He returned attention to the prone man, Mr. Carson. Placing the leather bag gingerly on an adjacent table with the tape recorder, he neared for a better look. Once he secured a pair of plastic gloves on both hands he checked the body once, quickly. Pupils dilated, almost blood-red from broken vessels. Hair falling out in clumps. Tongue swollen; blood issuing from somewhere deep in the mouth. He reviewed the chart at the foot of the bed that the cigarette-smoking doctor found so compelling. Temperature: 104.

What is your first name, Carson, he wondered. Do you have a family? Who is missing you right now?

“Can I help you, Mr. . . . ”

Gilchrist spun, startled out of his reverie. Apparently this older and chubbier doctor was Heywood. “My name does not concern you. I need to – ”

“Yes it does. In my clinic, everything concerns me.”

The agent displayed his identification a second time, but saw it did not have it’s accustomed effect. “Doctor Heywood, I need to know everything you know about this man, particularly the circumstances which brought him here.” He paused, observing with concealed amusement the emotional display on Heywood’s face, from indignation to condescension. He wondering how long this pointless and dangerous standoff would last, then set the over-under at forty-five seconds.

Half a minute later, the doctor turned away abruptly. “I’m calling the police.”

And Charles slugged him in the back of the head. Heywood’s bulk, instantly limp and dead weight in the flesh, crashed to the floor.

Gilchrist raced to the door, sliding it shut quickly after a quick look-see out into the hall. “Charles!” he hissed, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting the job done, partner. You heard Mr. Gray. No outside authorities involved. Period.”

“Yeah, but, try to take it easy on the locals, all right?”


To be continued ...