The Corn Maiden and Other Nightmares (35 page)

Where’re you going sir?

D’you know that new condominium complex on the river? There.

Just beyond the exit ramp for the George Washington Bridge traffic was being rerouted into a detour. Here were police cars, medical emergency vehicles, blinding lights. Traffic was backing up for miles.

Lucas leaned out his window, sick with apprehension. He lowered his window and called out to a police officer directing traffic in the rain—what was wrong? Why were they being held up? how long?—but the officer, a young man, rudely ignored him. In the roadway were fiery flares, sawhorses blocking the lanes. Farther he leaned out the window of his car calling out to another police officer, but smiling—remembering to smile—his strained affable doctor-smile—for Dr. Brede would want these law enforcement officers to see, if it came to giving testimony, or evidence, that he’d behaved calmly; Lucas Brede had been in a genial, rational, reasonable mood at this crucial time; somewhat
edgy of course, and impatient, as any driver would be in such circumstances.

Evidently there’d been an accident. Two vehicles—three vehicles. Giddily lights spun atop emergency vehicles. Sirens pierced his eardrums. Quickly Lucas lowered his car window. “Officer? Do you need any help? I’m an M.D.”

Politely Lucas was told no, told to remain in his car. Told no, his services as a doctor weren’t needed, or weren’t wanted, there was an ambulance at the scene.
Please remain in your car, sir. Do not leave your car
. Seeing the wrecked vehicles on the roadway like broken bodies, piteous female bodies and glass glittering on pavement, confused by the piercing sirens, Lucas opened the Jaguar door and began to climb out into the roadway but another time was told, sternly this time he was being shouted at, instructed
No
. Trying to remain pleasant, reasonable—“I don’t think you heard me—I’m a doctor—a neurosurgeon. I can examine the victims—I can determine if there’s dangerous hemorrhaging in the brain.” An older police officer came to Lucas and asked for his driver’s license. Lucas fumbled to comply. He was clearly not drunk nor even agitated. His hands shook badly—this might be palsy. This might be the onset of Parkinson’s. There was blood on his khaki cuff s but the flashing red lights did not detect blood. Smears of blood on the front of his coat, mysteriously—for he’d been careful with the trash bags which he’d tied with the unwieldy body inside, he was sure he hadn’t brushed against them. Yet there it was, a smear of blood like a bird’s wing. And on his hands. Unless this was
older, long-dried blood from earlier in the day, that had been a very long day beginning with dark pelting rain before dawn.

“But I want to be of help, officer. Please let me help. I’m a doctor—this is my mission.”

They had no time for him. His offer was rebuked. Rudely he was made to climb back into his Jaguar, and to wait like the other drivers. Eventually traffic bound for the bridge was rerouted. Eventually the stream of vehicles began to move. The terrible dark rain had lessened, now columns of mist lifted from the river far below like ectoplasm. Which river was this Lucas could not have immediately said though he knew its name as he knew his own. He accelerated his vehicle onto the bridge. It was the upper level he chose. In the mist, the farther shore and the length of the great bridge were obscured. Lights shimmered uncertainly along the vast river, evidence of lives within. He started out, he would cross to that farther shore.