Victoria Frankenstein, III, Part 17

 

Fourteen

I started jogging toward Father as he waved me back into the coffee shop, took us to our table, and from there I could see that there was, indeed, something happening at the motel.

Dr. Eastbrook’s car was parked right near ours. Father then pointed toward the outdoor staircase that led up to the higher floors. The doctor and Blue Boyle were slowly moving upwards.

“We’ve got to move now!” said Father. “I’ve already paid the bill.”

We hurried outside and made our way as quickly as possible to the doctor’s car. Staying bent over so he would have a hard time seeing us from the motel, we checked the front door handle. Open! Father reached in, found the latch for the trunk, pulled it. I heard it pop.

We lifted it up, slightly, and I saw my backpack.

I carefully pulled it out, and as we turned to hurry to our car, I heard a ferocious roar.

We both looked toward the motel and saw the enormous Blue Boyle pointing right at us and heard him bellowing like an enraged predatory animal.

Which he had become.

Blue Boyle and Dr. Eastbrook had whirled and were moving quickly down the stairs—but they had a long way to go, and by the time they’d reached the bottom, we had already driven out of sight.

***

But we didn’t go far. Father’s plan had been to find a concealed place where we could watch Dr. Eastbrook drive out of the parking lot. Then, after a brief wait, we’d follow him. Find out where he was going—what he was doing. And then we would notify the authorities.

Sounded like a great plan to me.

If only.

***

The first part went very well. We found an alley very close to the motel exit; Father backed into it, out of view, and we waited.

And we didn’t have to wait too long.

Dr. Eastbrook’s car roared by, heading toward I-87, which is the route he must have figured a sensible fugitive would take. (Actually, I thought a sensible fugitive would not take the most prominent road out of there but would find something a little less obvious.)

After a couple of moments, we headed out behind him, keeping several cars and trucks between us so that he wouldn’t see us easily. 

Sure enough, he headed up onto the southbound ramp, and we followed cautiously, figuring it would be much easier to keep him in sight on an Interstate than on other roads with stoplights and other obstructions.

Another factor: Beside him in the front seat, Blue Boyle swelled like a giant blowfish. It would be impossible not to see him many car lengths away.

“I hope you’ve got plenty of gas,” I said to Father.

“I’m not as dumb as I look!” he joked.

“That’s a relief,” I said.

He smiled.

***

We stayed on I-87 (S) for about forty-five minutes, all the time keeping what we were sure was a safe distance. Then, near Troy, New York—just a few miles up the Hudson River from Albany—we saw him turn to leave the Interstate and turn east on New York State Highway 7.

And we entered a small town—the smallest, I would later learn, in the entire state of New York.

I felt my heart surge when I saw the sign: “Village of Green Island.”

Before I could say anything, Father mumbled, “I know, Vickie—I know.”

***

This was getting too weird. As I wrote earlier in these Papers, my friend Harriet and I had nearly died on the Green Island in Lake Erie—and Dr. Eastbrook had taken me there again when he was drugging me and traveling to various sites where I’d had similar near-fatal encounters with him and Blue Boyle, encounters that you can read about in the earlier volumes of these Papers.

And now … another Green Island?

Only, I later learned, Green Island, New York, was no longer an island—and had not been one since the 1960s when construction crews had used soil and rubble from the I-87 construction to fill in part of the river, and so Green Island became part of the mainland of New York. And the little community of Green Island had a name that made no sense.

Remaining in the Hudson River, however, are a few other islands: Stormy, Adams, and Starbucks—a name I recognized immediately. Starbuck was the First Mate aboard the Pequod in Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick. I had thought it odd, back when I’d read that novel, that it was published in 1851—the same year that Mary Shelley died. Melville’s name does not appear in her letters—or in her journal. But had she really never heard of him? Had she not read his earlier, far more popular books? Like Typee—a South Sea adventure from 1846?

This may all seem a little beside the point right here … but be patient. 

And remember.

***

Father and I followed Dr. Eastbrook and Blue Boyle carefully through the quiet streets of the town—staying at least a block away. Then we saw them take a left turn toward the river; we did, too. They stopped. And they moved toward a little dock, where they approached a little motorboat, put their bags in it, and headed off to the nearby island—Stormy, which, as far as I could see, was heavily wooded.

“Now what?” I asked Father.

He said nothing. Just stared ahead.

I waited, then asked again, “Father?”

He said nothing.

“You think we should follow them?” I asked.

He finally spoke: “How?” He sounded both frustrated and weary. And I’m sure he felt that he had no idea where all this was headed. He must have been wondering what he’d gotten himself into.

“I guess we could wait awhile,” I said. “See if they’re coming back? Or staying somewhere on the island?”

Father shrugged.

By then, the little boat had turned around the point of the island and had passed out of our view.

***

I’m not sure if we remained because Father wanted to see if they returned—or because he’d just become inert, worn out by all that had happened, all that was happening. But sit we did—fortunately, we were parked near but not underneath a tree, so the sun added a little welcome solar heat.

I took out my new book—the one I’d just bought by Kate Atkinson, Behind the Scenes at the Museum. It was quite out of character for Father not to ask me about a book I was reading, but, arousing from his funk, he looked over, saw the title, and finally asked me about it.

“Who’s Kate Atkinson?”

“She’s from England,” I said. “This is her first book—I got it at the drugstore back in town—and just listen to the blurbs on the cover.” I read a few of them to Father, who seemed to perk up when he heard them. A good book could do that to him.

“You haven’t started it, have you?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you read aloud then? I think I’m too tired to dig through my things and look for something to do.”

I did this occasionally—read aloud to Father. He, of course, had done so for me since I was a toddler. And still did so now and then.

And so I launched into the book.

I exist! I am conceived to the chimes of midnight on the clock on the mantelpiece in the room across the hall.[i]

I stopped.  Father and I looked at each other a moment, then broke out in laughter.

I didn’t need to say it, but I did: “Sounds like that famous night in Frankenstein, doesn’t it?”[ii]

“Indeed.”

***

After about an hour it was fairly clear to us that they had landed on the other side of the island. They had not returned; they had not rounded the island and come back into view.

“Well,” said Father, “now what?”

I had no idea.

He looked at his watch. “Why don’t we get something to eat? Then go find somewhere to spend the night?”

“Okay,” I said, “and that will give us a chance to examine that device in my backpack and see if we can figure out what it is.”

I’d used we, but both of us knew I meant I. Father had long ago realized that I had great scientific interests—and knowledge—and that he, though very bright, was not exactly in my league—not in anything having to do with science.

We drove up into town and found a quiet little restaurant—and parked several blocks away, just in case Dr. Eastbrook and Blue Boyle thought of cruising the streets, looking for our car. We were pretty sure that they didn’t know that we’d followed them here to Green Island, but we didn’t want to take a chance.

I found I was far hungrier than I’d thought I would be. So was Father. We both ate the huge portions they brought us, every scrap, until not even a grain of salt was left on our plates.

The waiter, stopping by to refill our drinks, saw those clean plates and could not help commenting. “I guess you two were hungry?”

“Good guess,” joked Father.

The waiter took it well.

“Do you have a dessert menu?” I asked.

They did.

***

We drove to a small motel and, once again, found a place to park that was not visible from the road. Father told me that he registered under a name that was close to ours so that he could claim it was a handwriting mistake if anyone ever asked him about his it.

“I don’t think anyone will ask,” he told me in the room. “The clerk didn’t seem to care about much of anything.”

“That’s good,” I said. “So what name did you use?”

“Sloan,” he said.

I nodded. “Better than ‘Rock,’” I joked.

After we both cleaned up a little—I could not even remember when I’d last taken a shower, though it had not been that long ago—we sat in a couple of chairs at the little round table in the room and took out the device that I’d found on Green Island back on Lake Erie, the device that Dr. Eastbrook was very determined to recover.

As I mentioned earlier, it resembled a thin toaster, but, when you opened it, you could see slots that seemed designed to hold test tubes. 

I opened it again for Father, and we stared at it, trying to think what its purpose could possibly be.

There was some sort of padding or insulation surrounding the inside. I pulled some of it away and saw what looked like small heating elements—and it was only then I noticed the small spot for a connection on the outside. It apparently had a way to attach to an electrical outlet.

“Well,” I said, “it definitely held things he wanted to keep warm.”

“But what?”

I said nothing. Just sat there and thought.

And then something dawned on me—something horrible—but something I was certain must be true.

Father saw the change of expression on my face. “What is it, Vickie?”

I told him. And then I watched the change of expression on his face.

---

[i] These are the actual opening lines to Atkinson’s novel.

[ii] The night that Victor Frankenstein brought his creature to life. Here’s how Mary Shelley described it in the opening paragraph in Chapter 5 of Frankenstein: “It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.”

Victoria Frankenstein, III, Part 16

 

Thirteen

 

It was a short walk to the rest area, where, when an attendant saw me enter the building, she hurried over and immediately set in motion a series of things to help me. She found a blanket in the staff room and wrapped it around me.

Then she called the police.

Who were there in moments.

I told them the same I-fell-off-a-boat story (which they seemed to buy, mostly because I was still pretty wet, head to toe).

They took me back to their station, where I told them I’d call someone to come get me (who?) but figured I’d come up with something before I got there.

Which I didn’t.

But I didn’t need to. When I entered the building, I heard a very familiar voice call out, “Vickie!”

I looked.

It was Father.

***

We embraced as if each of us had just returned from the dead—which, in a way, we had.

I have to say, though, that the cops were mystified—and seemed more than a little suspicious.

“This is a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?” asked one whose face was a perfect picture of skepticism. “Anybody want to explain?”

I tightened my grip on Father’s arm, letting him know I could do it. And so I did.

“I was on the boat, like I said, and when I fell off, Father, as soon as the boat reached the parking lot (which wasn’t very far away), drove over here, I would guess, right away, to see if there was any news.” I looked at Father.

“Right,” he said.

“And it was just really, really lucky,” I said, “that we both ended up here.” I started to cry—some of it was acting, some was not.

My tears apparently softened the officer we were with, and, though there was still a trace of disbelief in his voice, he said, “Well, I’m so glad this all worked out.” He paused a moment. “Whatever this is.”

We hurried out before more questions came—or more officers—climbed in his car and drove away before the police changed their minds and came after us.

Father took a few crazy detours—just in case—and we ended up in kind of a mini-mall, where he stopped, and we talked.

The only real questions that mattered to me were these: “Father, how did you know I was in New York?” And: “How did you escape from Dr. Eastbrook and his … crew?”

“The first is the easier—and the harder—part to explain,” he said.

“I’m listening …”

“Aunt Claire told me.”

***

And that, of course, caused a long conversation to begin.

I told him my whole story—how I came home from Dracula, Baby!—how I found the house ransacked—how Father was missing—how I called the police—how I ran away—and all the rest of it (including my “visits” with William Godwin and James Fenimore Cooper and Harriet)—my diner visit with Father himself, who hadn’t recognized me. And so on.

Oddly, Father did not express any evidence of doubt or disbelief.

But here—briefly, briefly—is what he told me. Not long before I’d gotten home that night, he’d gotten a call about a story he might be interested in—something that was occurring right then. He’d figured it would just take a few minutes, but when he got to the scene, nothing was going on.

He figured it was a prank (such things had happened to him before), and he quickly drove home, where he found things just as he’d left them. And then he was overwhelmed by … someone? Or some thing? “It must have been Dr. Eastbrook, and I have only a vague memory of how he questioned me, and all I could tell him was the truth: I did not know where you were. And then I was out cold again.

“Vickie, I don’t know how long I was out. Only when I came home, you still hadn’t come home. 

At first Father thought I might have been with some other kids—but he didn’t think that for too long, so he hurried  over to the school, where he found the cast still enjoying all the congratulations they were getting from their parents and classmates

He did’t see me.

But then Dracula (John) came over to him and told him he’d seen me leave quite a bit earlier. John told Father he hoped I was all right.

Another tear was forming …

“When I got home,” Father said, “still nothing, and I was about to phone the police when I looked up and saw Aunt Claire walk through the front door—and I mean walk through the front door, Vickie. She didn’t open it. She just passed right through it—as if she were a ghost.”

I nodded. Nothing was surprising me right now.

“And she told me where you were—and that if I stopped at the police station in New York, I would find you.”

We sat in silence for a bit.

“Where is she now?” I finally asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “She walked right back out through the door. I threw a few things in a suitcase and drove like a madman to find you.”

Another tear—and I could see that he was having some … leakage … problems as well.

“Oh, and I should tell you,” said Father. “Aunt Claire told me I needed to bring your toiletries—and a change of clothing.”

I looked at him hopefully.

“And so I did.”

***

Father had booked a nearby motel room, so we headed there, where I showered and changed into the clothing he’d brought along.

Afterward, we went to find a quiet restaurant where we could talk some more.

And it was there that I told him what had seemed the most important thing to Dr. Eastbrook—that seemed to be the reason that he had abducted me.

“He kept asking me,” I said, “about a device I’d found in the old lighthouse on Green Island.”

“He took you there again!” Father was shocked. And probably afraid.

“I was drugged,” I said. “So it’s hard for me to know what was real and what wasn’t. But he told me that he had waited too long to sneak more of the drug into something I was drinking—and while I was somewhat aware, I did find something. A device.”

“What do you remember about it?”

“Not much. It looked like a toaster.”

“Toaster?”

“Yeah, you know—to make toast for breakfast?”

Father smiled.

“Anyway,” I went on, “when I opened it, I vaguely remember seeing that it was not like a regular toaster—but had slots for things that looked to be the size of test tubes.”

Father looked interested now. “So, it must be something he was using in his work—and needed.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“You must have given it to someone …”

But memory betrayed me. I could remember nothing.

***

We finished eating, then drove back to the motel to see if we could figure out what to do next.

I knew one thing we had to do for certain: Avoid Dr. Eastbrook, Blue Boyle, and whoever else—or whatever else—the doctor had with him.

Our motel room had a small round table near the window (we’d drawn the drapes, and Father had parked the car far away from our room—just being cautious).

Father had gotten us a couple of soft drinks from the machine in the lobby, and we sat there drinking and thinking and talking.

And Father asked the most basic question of all, of course: “If John wasn’t there—and if you don’t have the device—and if Dr. Eastbrook doesn’t have it—where is it?”

I was stumped. Had no idea.

“All I can figure,” I said after a bit of a pause, “is that I hid it somewhere.”

Father then had a thought. “Did you have a backpack with you?”

“I did!” I’d forgotten.

“And where is it?”

“I have no idea.” I thought a little. “I didn’t have it in Cooper’s Cave …”

“Can you remember when you last had it?”

I could not.

And then it hit me. “I must have left it in Mr. Leon’s car!”

“Except Mr. Leon wasn’t ever there.”

“There is that,” I confessed.

Silence.

Then Father had an idea: “But you were in a car …”

“Dr. Eastbrook’s car!” we cried simultaneously.

***

There’s something about discovering a solution that also creates a bigger problem, isn’t there? Like, oh, nuclear energy? Or learning that something you really need is in the trunk of a car that’s pursuing you.

We talked about various strategies—until Father finally said what was obvious. “We have to let him think that he’s found us.”

I realized right away how sensible this was—and terrifying. I mean, I knew that we could not reacquire my backpack without access to his car. And the only way to get that access was to have him drive to where we were—or where he thought we were—but, of course, actually where we really were—but not precisely where he thought we were.

Confusing, eh?

But Father and I worked out something that resembled a plan—and we set it in motion.

            It required involving the police—only they really wouldn’t know they were involved.

***

We knew that our room was visible from a nearby coffee shop. Ours was one of those high-rise motels, and our room was on the top floor, a room facing the parking lot. Inside, Father made a call to the police station where we had found each other.

He identified himself, told them that a “friend” would probably stop by looking for him, and they could tell him where he was staying. And he gave the police the name of the motel—and our room number.

“Do you think Dr. Eastwood will fall for it?” I asked when he’d hung up.

“Well, he doesn’t have a lot of options but the police right now, does he? He’s got to hope that you haven’t drowned—and that, ashore or rescued or whatever, you will find yourself at the police station.”

“So he’ll go there and ask about me.”

“That’s the plan,” said Father.

We didn’t dare take a chance that Dr. Eastbrook would find us quickly—find us in the room—so we walked over to the coffee shop and settled in for what could be a long wait. Father got a coffee; I, a soft drink. We bought a local newspaper, and, after a while, I asked Father if it would be all right for me to walk down to the drugstore about a half-block away. I could get myself a book to read. He told me to make it quick; I said I would.

The drugstore did have a paperback book rack, which I scanned quickly for something interesting. I saw newer titles by Stephen King (Desperation) and Anne Rice (Servant of the Bones), but I figured I had enough actual horror in my life right now—I didn’t need any of the fictional kind.

In one of the lower racks I saw a book by Kate Atkinson, a writer I’d never of, which certainly made sense because I saw it was her first book—Behind the Scenes at the Museum.[i] I flipped some pages; it looked interesting.

I went up to the counter and bought it, earning a strange look from the clerk, who probably hadn’t heard of Atkinson, either. He was probably disappointed I didn’t buy a Snickers bar to go along with it.

I headed back up the street—and saw Father waving at me with the motion that means, “Hurry up!”

            And so I did.

---

[i] An actual book—published on March 2, 1995.

Victoria Frankenstein, III: Part 15

 

***

A half-hour later I was ready.

I yelled out toward the cavern wall: “I think I remember!”

Moments later, Dr. Eastbrook came in, followed by Blue Boyle. My back was to them.

When I was sure they were both inside, I whirled around and blasted Blue Boyle in the forehead with a rock I’d found on the cave floor, a rock I’d propelled with the homemade sling I’d just fashioned from part of my top that I’d ripped away.

Blue Boyle collapsed like a frail statue in an earthquake.

Dr. Eastbrook looked stunned.

So I took that moment to sprint through the opening in the wall, saw the Hudson River not far away, jumped in, and the current swirled me away.

The last thing I heard was Dr. Eastbrook scream, “You idiot!”

***

Moments later, I was pretty sure I was an idiot. The river swept me along in its swift current, heading south, heading toward … what?

***

Toward an island.

It wasn’t that far south, a pretty big island, too. Covered with trees.

As I neared it, I was able to swim closer and eventually pull myself ashore, where for a few minutes, I lay soaked, tired, cold. But relieved. And thrilled, too: I had escaped Dr. Eastbook, had taken Blue Boyle out of the game for a while.

But I also knew this: Dr. Eastbrook knew which way the river flowed and would quickly be in pursuit. Realizing this, I pulled myself into the woods, to a place where I could see out but no one could really see in.

I don’t know what I was waiting for. I’d read Robinson Crusoe, so I knew that a shipwreck, at least in fiction, could leave you on an island for a long time. For about twenty-eight years Crusoe lived alone on an island off the coast of Venezuela in South America. That didn’t sound all that appealing to me. Twenty-eight years with no books to read?

But, watching from the woods, I realized that there was a lot of river traffic. If I could be certain that the boat flowing by did not contain those who were chasing me, maybe I could wave one over?

I figured it would take a long time for Dr. Eastbrook to get a boat and pursue me … or would he do it by car? Would he guess I had struggled ashore on the eastern side of the river? Had made it to a highway? Where I would try to get a kind person in a car to stop and pick me up?

It wasn’t long before I saw what looked like a father and a young son in a small fishing boat. I took a chance. They saw me waving, saw my torn top, heard my cries (though I’m not sure they could tell what I was saying—neither could I, to tell the truth).

The father quickly swung the boat toward the shore and waved me toward them.

“What on earth has happened to you?” he asked.

The son looked dazed.

I had already crafted a lie. “I fell off a tour boat,” I said. “Luckily it was near this island.”

The father didn’t look as if he believed me, but he signaled for me to get in the boat.

“There’s an I-87 rest area not far from here,” he said. “We’ll let you off near there, and you can get help inside.

And so they did. And so I did.

 

From Blue Boyle

That rock hurt. That was mean.

Victoria Frankenstein, III: Part 14

 

Twelve

Now I was in shock. Had Mr. Leon been playing me all along? Was he really operating as an agent for Dr. Eastbrook?

I needed help. But I was alone.

I stood there dumbfounded as the two of them shook hands and smiled. Then Dr. Eastbrook smiled at me. And said, “I know you’re confused.”

I said nothing.

“Come on over here and sit down.” He gestured toward some chairs I had not noticed before.

I said nothing. I did not move.

“It’s all right, Vickie,” said Mr. Leon.

I said nothing. I did not move.

Both of them shrugged and moved to chairs that were facing me. “Don’t you have any questions?” asked Dr. Eastbrook. “Surely you do?”

I said nothing.

And then I did.”Tell me, Mr. Leon, why did we revisit all Middle Island, and Put-In Bay and … Niagara Falls?”

“Good question,” he said—as if flattering me was going to make some kind of difference.

“Never mind,” I said. “I think I know.” I paused, looked at them both. “You wanted to make sure Dr. Eastbrook had left no traces behind? No traces that could lead the authorities to him?”

Mr. Leon smiled, turned to Dr. Eastbrook. “I told you she was bright,” he said.

“As if I didn’t know,” said Dr. Eastbrook in a bit of a darker tone. “She has somehow managed to disrupt my research several times. That could not have all been just some kind of childish luck!”

My fear was fading; my anger, rising. I was sick of their sarcasm—their smug sarcasm.

“Where’s Father?” I demanded.

They just looked at me.

“And who was that Father-robot back in that diner near the Falls?”

Dr. Eastbrook smiled. “That was wonderful, wasn’t it? I’d love to have seen your face when he walked into the room.” He laughed—but it sounded to me more like a snarl.

Mr. Leon was laughing, too. “I did see it,” he said, “and it was all I could do to keep from laughing.”

“Yes, laughter can ruin things,” growled Dr. Eastbrook.

Then he turned sharply toward me. “Now, little Vickie,” he mewed. “Where is it?”

I wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

“Don’t play dumb,” he said—“not with me.”

I said nothing.

“I know you have it,” he continued. “And if you tell me where it is right now, well, things will go a little easier for you. If not …” And then he barked some primitive, wolfish sound, and another portion of rock wall opened, and through it came Blue Boyle. Well, sort of. This version of Blue seemed to be about twice as large as he used to be. He looked kind of like a rhinoceros that could walk on its hind legs.

***

“I have nothing to say to any of you”—Blue Boyle was moving toward me, and I tried to sound fearless—“so I suggest you tell me—”

Blue tapped me on the head, and that’s the last thing I remember for quite a while.

***

It had been a pleasant darkness, and as I slowly felt myself re-entering the light—re-entering the world—still alive!—I slowly opened my eyes.

I was alone.

I was in some other cavern—or part of one—and I had no idea how much time had passed. Other than a slight headache, courtesy of Blue Boyle, I seemed all right—though I checked myself to make sure: no missing limbs, no horrible injuries.

Nor was I bound or chained—just alone in a grim cavern, sitting on the floor, leaning against a stone wall, and fearing that I would never again see the outside world.

I could hear the outside world, however. The surges of the nearby waterfall obscured most every other sound—but that sound alone was a mild kind of comfort.

As my mind cleared some more—to the point that I could actually form coherent thoughts—I began to consider a series of questions:

·       Why did Mr. Leon betray me?

·       Had he ever been loyal to me?

·       Had I actually experienced those odd things? The Karmann Ghia that seemed able to ride the river of time in a way that the rest of us could not—except in dream or imagination? The conversations with William Godwin and James Fenimore Cooper? The encounter with Father in the diner? The mysterious arrivals and departures of Aunt Claire, of John, of Harriet?

·       Had any of this actually happened? Or was it all some kind of weird dream—and if it was a dream, could I still be asleep?

That would be nice, I thought. I would soon wake up, and this would all be over, and Father would still be …

And then I bolted upright, electrified by the thought that I was certain was the truth. It wasn’t a question—it was a realization.

I’ve been drugged!

No doubt about it. But then questions surged in: Who had done it? When? How? Why?

I decided that the only way I could find out was to play along with Dr. Eastbrook—pretend that I still believed all the unbelievable things that had occurred since I found Father missing. Make him think I was still in my drug delirium.

What an irony, I thought. Blue Boyle actually knocked some sense into me.

***

I’m not sure how long it was—a few minutes? an hour?—before I heard the stone wall across from me begin to move aside. And in came Dr. Eastbrook and Blue Boyle.

“Feeling better?” the doctor inquired, as if I were a patient back in his office.

“I see you haven’t lost your bedside manner,” I said.

“And you haven’t lost your smart mouth,” he replied in a much different tone. “Do I need to let Blue loose on you once again?”

“No, thank you.”

“Excellent decision,” he said in that cheerier, Sesame Street way.

I said nothing.

And so on he went: “Have you thought anymore about the question I asked you? About something you might have found on Green Island?”

I ignored his question. Instead, I had one of my own.

“Has any of this really happened?” I asked. “Or have I been a pawn in your latest chess game?”

“Very good,” he said, smiling with what I recognized as his typical arrogance. “I’d heard you were halfway intelligent.”

I said nothing.

“I guess I could torture the answer out of you,” he said, “but that would be against the oath I took when I became a physician.”

As if you’ve ever worried about that, I thought. I smiled instead of spoke.

“But why not make a bargain?” he said. “I tell you how I arranged all this—and you tell me where it is.”

“I’ll tell you the truth,” I said.

He didn’t seem to catch the idea that I was being a bit ambiguous, and on he went to explain how he had manipulated me.

“It started back in Ohio, in Wisbech.” He looked at me as if I might have a question. Oh, I did, but I was not going to satisfy him by asking it.

“Anyway,” he said, “when you came home from Dracula, Baby! that night, you found the house empty and all the lights on.”

“Yes.”

“But what you didn’t know is this: Your father had left a note for you—well, we had left a note for you, forged in your father’s hand.”

“I found no note!” I cried.

“Patience, patience,” he said. “We left a note for you that said he’d gone out to get some soft drinks and had left the last one for you on the counter.”

“I remember none of this.”

“Exactly. I already had … custody … of your father and had injected a little ‘medicine’ through the cap of that bottle.”

“Medicine?”

“A drug,” he said. “A very powerful one I have concocted over the years. It both subdues you and causes you to have the sorts of hallucinations that I need.”

“So everything that’s happened … the memories of Father’s disappearance … of the swift journeys here and there in Mr. Leon’s car …?”

“All—well, mostly—drug-induced visions.”

I couldn’t believe it—all of it had seemed so real.

Dr. Eastbrook seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “One of the very special  effects of the drug,” he said, “is to put you to sleep when you’re moving—like in that car.”

I was starting to feel very, very stupid—and gullible.

“And,” he continued, “when you arrived at a place, you would wake up, and you would find that you were encountering people from your memory and imagination—only they weren’t there at all.”

Very, very, very stupid.

“Periodically,” he said, “Mr. Leon or I would zap something you were drinking with a little more of the drug—but I forgot at Green Island, and it was there that you found … it.”

And then he looked at me fiercely. “And so now it’s your turn to tell me where ‘it’ is.”

“I forgot,” I said. And I was absolutely telling the truth.

***

He very obviously was not pleased with the truth. But I carried on, hoping to convince him before he nodded again to Blue Boyle, who would do what Blue Boyle did best.

“You’ve said yourself”—I was speaking hurriedly—“that I would forget—that the drug would make me forget …”

He stared at me. Debating. I saw his body tense, then relax.

“Vickie,” he said, “you’re very bright. I’ve learned that about you.”

I said nothing.

“So I hope you’re not trying to deceive me right now.” He stared at me intently.

“I’m not.”

“Good,” he said. “For doing so would have some very serious consequences.”

And he and Blue Boyle whirled around and exited through the opening in the wall of the cavern, the opening promptly closing as soon as they had passed through it.

***

Now what?

I slumped back down where I had been before—on the cold stone floor—and tried to figure out what to do.

Apparently, I could expect no help from the outside. The “outside” that I’d thought was there was not there. It resided only in my head, created there by the workings of some drug Dr. Eastbrook had cooked up—probably in some kind of witch’s cauldron.

Yelling would be pointless. No one would hear me.

The old message-in-a-bottle idea? Pointless, too. Nothing to write with. No bottle.

Fighting Blue Boyle? I almost laughed when I thought of that one. Peter Rabbit vs. Godzilla. David vs. Goliath.

And then the idea came.