‘Where did you get this lip balm?’ I ask.
‘You can only get Ray of Sunshine at the general store in Longridge. They’re totally local and small, but they’ll probably sell out to a huge corporation soon because they’re too good.’
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to trust any more.
‘Oh – hang on,’ says the librarian, still engaged in her task.
‘What?’ I ask, distracted.
The librarian turns to me with a triumphantly raised eyebrow. ‘There is a woman, née Maeve Jacobson. A former philosophy professor at UC Berkeley, she’s wanted by the FBI because her husband, Ray Walters, a former anaesthesiologist at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, who’s wanted for helping seven terminal cancer patients end their lives.’
I almost fall down. ‘No way.’ The librarian moves so I can see her screen.
‘Yes way. Here’s a picture of one of the men he euthanized,’ she continues when I don’t respond. ‘This was taken moments before the man’s death. I believe the victim’s wife took the picture – yes, see? She’s credited with the photo.’
The librarian points down to the name in italics at the bottom of the picture, but I can’t see to read right now. I wipe oily sweat off my face and focus my eyes well enough to make out a grave yet hopeful group of people surrounding a withered husk of a man lying in a hospital bed.
The dying man’s hands are so twisted that his palms lie flat against the underside of his forearms. His head is bald, his skin a dry membrane stretched tight over nothing but agony. Even his attempt to turn towards the camera is obviously such a bone-breaking effort that my blank eyes sting with tears for all the suffering that man is enduring.
‘That’s his son, those are his two daughters, and – wow – twelve grandchildren standing around them,’ the librarian continues in a subdued tone as she points out the background figures.
‘Oh my God!’ Amy gasps. ‘That poor man.’
‘He’s not poor, dear,’ the librarian reminds her. ‘He’s surrounded by his family.’
We linger on this photo for one more moment, and then the librarian decides we’ve looked enough and moves on to the next.
‘And here’s one where you can see Ray’s face. This photo is also credited to the wife of the victim,’ she says in a low voice.
Ray looks a lot younger. Twenty or so years younger, but that’s definitely him. He looks just like Bo. He’s cradling the suffering man as gently as he can while he inserts an IV. Everyone else in the room looks grateful. Relieved. Like this is the moment they’ve fought for, waited for, even prayed for. But Ray looks abstracted while he works through the mechanics of death. Gentle, kind
, reluctant. He takes no joy in killing, or in this justifiable death. He looks like a man apart.
And I know. Because there’s a fixed line between people who have, and people who haven’t. And I’ve killed.
I remember now. I remember everything.
‘Do you want to see some more pictures of his victims? Or the headlines? I guess an ex-husband of one of the euthanized women pressed charges. There was a manhunt spanning three states . . .’ The librarian trails off.
‘No. Thank you,’ I reply. I should be moving, but I can’t. I need a minute to think, but I don’t have a minute. The pieces are all here, I just need to put them together. I need someone logical and grounded to help me walk through all the steps. Amy’s sweet, but right now I really wish she were Gina.
Wait.
Where the hell is Gina? What would make her leave me if she knew I needed her? Gina lives to save dumb-ass junkie girls who beg her to take care of them while they come down.
I can only think of one thing that could be more important to her.
The librarian hits a key, and the screen goes black.
‘This is a horror book you’re writing?’ she asks disbelievingly.
I feel my heart start to speed up. ‘For me it is.’ I grab Amy’s hand and pull her after me.
‘Good luck,’ the librarian calls after us.
We get back into Amy’s little car, and she looks at me uncertainly, waiting for instruction.
There’s a long pause while my brain pans through scenarios like eyes tracking trees as they whip by on the side of the freeway.