The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 4

“I’m sure,” he soothed. “And I’m sure you’re good at what you do. I’m sure you’ve seen your share of fakers and posers. You know their kind. And I know yours, miss, because I’ve seen it many times before. They’re usually not as pretty as you—” Finally a trace of accent, pretty coming out as purty. “—but their condescending attitude toward pain they have never felt themselves, pain they can’t even conceive of, is always the same. They work in sickrooms, they work with patients who are in varying degrees of distress, from mild pain to deepest, searing agony. And after awhile, it all starts to look either overdone or outright fake to them, isn’t that so?”

“That’s not true at all,” Kat said. What was happening to her voice? All at once it was small.

“No? When you bend their legs and they scream at fifteen degrees — or even at ten — don’t you think, first in the back of your mind, then more and more toward the front, that they are lollygagging? Refusing to do the hard work? Perhaps even fishing for sympathy? When you enter the room and their faces go pale, don’t you think, ‘Oh, now I have to deal with this lazy thing again?’ Haven’t you — who once fell from a tree and broke your arm, for the Lord’s sake — become more and more disgusted when they beg to be put back into bed and be given more morphine or whatever?”

“That’s so unfair,” Kat said… but now her voice was little more than a whisper.

“Once upon a time, when you were new at this, you knew agony when you saw it,” Rideout said. “Once upon a time you would have believed in what you are going to see in just a few minutes, because you knew in your heart that malignant outsider god was there. I want you to stay so I can refresh your memory… and the sense of compassion that’s gotten lost somewhere along the way.”

“Some of my patients are whiners,” Kat said, and looked defiantly at Rideout. “I suppose that sounds cruel, but sometimes the truth is cruel. Some are malingerers. If you don’t know that, you’re blind. Or stupid. I don’t think you’re either.”

He bowed as if she had paid him a compliment — which, in a way, she supposed she had. “Of course I know. But now, in your secret heart, you believe all of them are malingerers. You’ve become inured, like a soldier who’s spent too long in battle. Mr. Newsome here has been infested, I tell you, invaded. There’s a demon inside him so strong it has become a god, and I want you to see it when it comes out. It will improve matters for you considerably, I think. Certainly it will change your outlook on pain.” To Newsome: “Can she stay, sir?”

Newsome considered. “If you want her to.”

“And if I choose to leave?” Kat challenged him.

Rideout smiled. “No one will hold you here, Miss Nurse. Like all of God’s creatures, you have free will. I would not ask others to constrain it, or constrain it myself. But I don’t believe you’re a coward, merely calloused. Case-hardened.”

“You’re a fraud,” Kat said. She was furious, on the verge of tears.

“No,” Rideout said, once more speaking gently. “When we leave this room — with you or without you — Mr. Newsome will be relieved of the agony that’s been feeding on him. There will still be pain, but once the agony is gone, he’ll be able to deal with the pain. Perhaps even with your help, miss, once you’ve had the necessary lesson in humility. Do you still intend to leave?”

“I’ll stay,” she said, then said: “Give me the lunchbox.”

“But—” Jensen began.

“Give it over,” Rideout said. “Let her inspect it, by all means. But no more talk. If I am meant to do this, it’s time to begin.”

Jensen gave her the long black lunchbox. Kat opened it. Where a workman’s wife might have packed her husband’s sandwiches and a little Tupperware container of fruit, she saw an empty glass bottle with a wide mouth. Inside the domed lid, held by a wire clamp meant to secure a Thermos, was a green aerosol can. There was nothing else. Kat turned to Rideout. He nodded. She took the aerosol out and looked at the label, nonplussed. “Pepper spray?”

“Pepper spray,” Rideout agreed. “I don’t know if it’s legal in Vermont — probably not would be my guess — but where I come from, most hardware stores stock it.” He turned to Tonya. “You are—?”

“Tonya Marsden. I cook for Mr. Newsome.”

“Very nice to make your acquaintance, ma’am. I need one more thing before we begin. Do you have a baseball bat? Or any sort of club?”

Tonya shook her head. The wind gusted again; once more the lights flickered and the generator burped in its shed behind the house.

“What about a broom?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Fetch it, please.”