The Crescent

Chapter 18

Zacari couldn't see her hand in front of her face, but if she could have, she was certain she'd see her own breath dissipating in the cold. She lightly reached for the door and felt it brazen with frost. Her heartbeat reached a hammering crest in her ears and she wondered if this had been a terrible mistake. Her voice echoed threadbare when she called, "Baker?" She smelled smoke but saw no smoldering cigar foot in the darkness.

"Zacari, my friend," tsked a honey-laden voice. "I thought we agreed you'd call me Norman?" Baker came out of nowhere, and all at once the room was faintly alight, like the imprint the glow of a firefly leaves behind on the pink of your eyelids. Baker though, was anything but faint. The white of his suit was crisp, the lavender tie bright, and his white skin shone. Zacari realized the light was radiating from him, casting The Operating Room in a tangle of shadows. "How are you, Zacari?"

"Fine - Norman," she said politely.

"I see you didn't bring your little friend."

"Little frie– oh, Lela? She's asleep."
"I had dogs once. Bastille and Burdock." Zacari was having trouble imagining him with any sort of pet, much less a dog. "Strapping, beautiful beasts. No matter, this is a conversation better reserved for the two of us. Down to business, yes?"

"Sure."

"Let's begin with my story. My mother was a writer. Exceptional. My father, didn't approve of this profession, and could be considered harsh at times –"

"Everyone already knows your story," she interrupted. Baker raised his eyebrows, and Zacari caught the faint smell of rot again, but it was quickly overpowered by stale cigar smoke.

"Yes, but in what light?" he countered. Zacari was silent as she recalled Javier poking fun at Baker's incredulous cancer-curing claims. Baker smiled. "Don't spare my feelings. I know how they see me. Monstrous. But you see, I'm not a monster at all."

"Let me guess," she couldn't help herself. "You're misunderstood?"

His mouth flattened, a large dimple appearing on the right side of his face. The expression unsettled Zacari, but also ignited a peculiar familiarity in her. But then his mouth rearranged itself into a smile, undimpled and uncross, and Zacari could scarcely recollect she'd seen it at all.

"Precisely." He sauntered to the surgical table and slid his hand down the edge. "My story's been told every which way but from my own. Quack doctor. Madman. Murderer." He eyed her. "But you – you can be the one to change all that. To be my voice. To let the world know who Norman Baker truly is."

Was, Zacari thought, but said nothing. "I thought it was about the patients?"

"Indeed. You're right, Zacari. My patients speak for me as much as themselves." He paused. "Look through my camera."

She hesitated, but curiosity gave way and she looked through the viewfinder. It wasn't The Operating Room on the other side, but a different room altogether. She pressed deeper into the camera.

The walls were vibrant: Lime green, fuchsia pink, monarch orange, jam purple. The image swallowed her up, and she found herself afoot in the strange room. She had never taken drugs, but she thought it might go a little something like this. There was a crystal chandelier hanging above her that felt too large for the room. A tangle of I.V.s in the corner led to a woman on a bed with wheels, her blanket embroidered in little circus figures; ballerinas, bowtied tigers, trumpeters, acrobats. She had unruly curls like Zacari, but her skin was much darker than Zacari's. Her face was hollow in a sickly sort of way, but with a bit of concealer and foundation she could have passed as a model with an appetite for Virginia Slims. Her hand rested in the slender hand of a man sitting at her bedside. His back was turned to Zacari and she could only see his light, slicked-back hair, but his white suit was telltale.