Death’s Head

Monday, October 15, 1990, 8:13 a.m., Seattle. Dr. Paul Raymond didn’t pull out of the hospital parking lot until after eight. A shower and a shave had momentarily energized him, but for the rest of the evening he had found himself mired in reports for tomorrow afternoon’s mortality conference. Still, eight o’clock was early for Raymond: he didn’t like to think about all the nights he had come dragging home at midnight. He was tired and didn’t notice the car coming up on his left as he nosed out onto Magnolia Boulevard. He slammed on his brakes just in time to avoid being hit, and in the process was almost rear-ended by the van that was following him out of the lot. This time he looked both ways, signaled, and then drove out into the wet Northwest weather. The pavement was shiny from the rain, and the light from the street lamps glistened off of the drops that fell from the windshield of his Porsche. It was an older model, a 928 from the early eighties, and was costing him a fortune to keep running, but it was the first real car he had purchased for himself and he had a certain sentimental attachment to it. Rush hour was over and traffic was light as he headed across the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge toward his home in Medina, just across Lake Washington from Seattle. Raymond was a widower. His wife Lynn had died six years ago from cancer and it had been the lowest and most painful period of his life. Since that time he had buried himself in his work, becoming Chief of Neurosurgery at the hospital and winning several federal grants for research. It seemed strange to him that he had attained most of his success after her death. Before, he had been content just to do his job and spend as much time with his family as possible. He and Lynn had three children. The oldest, Kristy, was living with her boyfriend in Olympia. They had just bought a house and were engaged to be married, even though they hadn’t set a date yet. The younger daughter, Tina, was married and lived in Tacoma. She and her husband already had two children, both boys. Only Raymond’s youngest, a son named Steve, was still living at home. Steve was in his first year of medical school, following in his father’s footsteps. Raymond had turned off the 520 Highway and was driving down 84th toward home when he noticed a black van in his rearview mirror. He thought he recognized it as the one that had followed him out of the hospital parking lot but he wasn’t sure. He wound the Porsche around the expensive residential area and stopped short of the driveway in front of his home to check the mailbox: a couple of bills, the rest just junk mail which he threw onto the passenger seat. After pulling into the carport he shut off the engine. Bringing the mail and his briefcase with him, Raymond stepped out of the car and went to the door, fumbling through his keys to unlock it. The house was dark; all the lights were off and the smell of last night’s chicken greeted him as he stepped inside. He hit the switch by the door but nothing happened so he walked inside and tried the lamp by the kitchen table: still nothing. “Damnit,” he muttered as he set down his briefcase. Raymond went to look for a flashlight, listening to his footsteps as he walked, the brush of his shoes against carpet changing to a dull echo as they hit the vinyl floor of the laundry room. He was fishing blindly in a drawer when someone grabbed him from behind. An arm came around his throat while another grabbed his left arm, forcing him to the floor. His head banged against the washing machine on the way down and he felt the weight of his assailant land on top of him. He flailed wildly with his free hand but someone else pinned it down. Then he felt the needle enter his right semitendinosus at the back of his leg. He tensed up at first and then relaxed for a moment, wondering what type of drug he had been injected with. The next thing he knew they had released him. His first thought was to escape. Raymond staggered to his feet and thrust his hands into his coat pocket in search of his car keys, but they were gone. If he’d dropped them, he couldn’t see where they were in the pitch-blackness. He shook his head; the drug was already beginning to take effect. Disoriented, he thought he was heading for the door but he found himself in the pantry. Now his head was spinning. He was rapidly losing sensation in his legs and reached out to brace himself on the door-jam, but he missed and would have fallen to the floor if someone hadn’t caught him. A rush of cold air revived him briefly. He was being carried outside. His vision was blurred, but he could make out a large black vehicle looming in the foreground. Next, he heard the side door of the van open up to swallow him, and then he blacked out.