Henry Franks A Novel - By Peter Adam Salomon Page 0,27

time, there is no evidence to suggest that this is related to any previous or ongoing investigations,” Rawls said. “We encourage anyone with any information as to Mr. Suarez’s activities Friday to contact the Brunswick PD.”

Major Daniel Johnson, of the joint task force covering the string of gruesome attacks that have terrorized Glynn County this summer, was unavailable for comment.

fifteen

Henry woke with a headache and rubbed his eyes in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure. Distant images from his nightmare danced away from his memory as he looked around his room. The sun lanced through his window, low, hot, and far too bright to face this early in the morning. He sighed, swung his legs off the bed, and stood, bracing himself with his arms against the wall to keep from falling when he stumbled. The scars running down his thighs were puckered, raw, and in spots painful.

The skin on his legs changed tone and consistency from patch to patch, and some sections had long since lost anything more than an odd pins-and-needles sensation. His ankles, circled by a thin white diamond pattern of scars like his left wrist, itched, and he lifted first one foot then the other to rub what remained of the ointment his father made for him into the skin.

He carried the empty tub with him to the kitchen for his father to refill.

“That lasted less than a month, Henry.”

“I know.”

“Want me to make it stronger this time?”

Henry slouched down in his chair and took furtive bites of his toast. “Yes,” he said.

“Itching’s worse?”

Henry nodded, not looking up.

“Having nightmares again?” his father asked.

Henry swallowed the last of his breakfast, then pulled his hair down in front of his face.

“Henry?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“I’m fine.”

His father walked to the window, taking another look around the backyard. “Almost ready to go?” he asked when he turned around.

“Whenever,” Henry said.

“Remember, this isn’t an official visit. It’ll just be you and me.”

“Fine.”

“I thought Dr. Saville was working with you about that,” his father said with a half-frown on his face.

Henry followed behind as they walked out of the house, dressed far too warmly for the late August sun. Across the yard, in front of her house, Justine was setting up the sprinkler with her younger brother. Dressed as usual in cut-offs and a bikini top, she waved before jumping into the water.

“Henry?” his father called from the car.

With the door open in his hand, he stood watching her jump in and out of the spray.

“Henry!”

Shaking his head, sending a wave of hair into his eyes, he looked at his father, and then got in the car. They drove off in silence down Sea Island Road toward the Causeway and Brunswick.

Southeast Georgia Regional Medical Center was the largest hospital complex between Jacksonville to the south and Savannah to the north. Constantly under renovation, it boasted a state-of-the-art maternity ward and a turn-of-the-last-century morgue.

They pulled into the staff parking lot and Henry followed his father through a series of tunnels and freight elevators to the sub-basement of the Medical Examiner’s offices. One of every three fluorescents was turned off to save money on the weekend, and, of those that remained lit, most were flickering and yellow.

The hallway was made of concrete blocks that had once been painted a calming green, but most had faded to bland. FORENSICS was stenciled on the window to their immediate left, and Henry’s father had to swipe a card to enter the room.

Despite the ancient setting, the equipment was fairly contemporary and fully functional, a result both of FLETC’s overwhelming government presence in the neighborhood and a brief modernization whirlwind when Sea Island had hosted the G8 summit in 2004. Lining the walls were a bank of heavily latched metal doors. In the middle of the room, two autopsy tables, surrounded by light trees, stood empty.

“Lovely office you have,” Henry said, trying not to touch anything as he stopped in the door.

“I’m not the Medical Examiner,” his father said, pushing a gurney over to Henry. “Here, hop on.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just a gurney. The equipment in a morgue is slightly different than most since the subject can’t exactly get up on the table by themselves.”

“‘Subject,’ lovely,” Henry said as he sat on the bare metal. “Cold, too.”

“Next time I’ll bring a sheet for you.”

“There’s gonna be a next time?”

“I’d like to take a look every year or so, make sure everything’s all right, even though you say you feel fine.”

His father pushed open the doors and wheeled Henry down the hall. The