A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Thirteen

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Despite the sedative, he hardly slept. His nervous system was in overdrive, his thoughts were jumbled and confused. He awoke countless times to find himself pacing the floor or thrashing around on his bed, certain something was holding him down. He dreamed he was climbing mountains and falling off cliffs, his heart pounding, his breath coming in whistling gasps as he braced for an impact that never came. Only endless, terrifying free falls.

"Ah, God," he whimpered at one point, "please make it stop. Please, please."

Dawn had barely broken when he heard the click of the dead bolt. Madeline was up early. He hoped he hadn't disturbed her sleep, making noises. Was it safe for him to get up? He still felt surges of wild energy coursing through him. He injected himself again and lay still awhile, waiting for the sedative to kick in. Finally he stumbled to his bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror, afraid he'd see a monster. Thankfully his face was still recognizable, though his eyes were bloodshot with dark circles beneath them. He flattened his hair over the reddish bruise on his forehead, but it made him look like a moron, so he combed it to the side in its usual swirl, letting one lock drape down. The red mark would just have to show. It matched his bloodshot eyes.

In the hall he paused and sniffed. Something was burning. Alarmed, he checked the lab door, relieved to find it locked. The smell was coming from the kitchen, so he hurried to the entryway and turned right. Madeline stood at the sink, vigorously scraping something. She was bare-footed, dressed in khaki shorts and a green T shirt, her hair pulled back in its usual ponytail. Archie sat at attention nearby, watching her every move. She was scraping the bottoms of some cookies she'd just taken from the oven.

"I hope you don't expect me to eat those," TP said.

"Oh, good morning. No, they're for Mel and Marge."

"Are you trying to make enemies?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, they're just a tiny bit overdone.  A little scraping and they'll be perfect." She took a bite, chewed, made a face and spit into the sink. "Crap."

"Has Archie been out?"

"Yes, and I gave him his ration of kibbles, which he devoured in about three seconds."

"What has caused you to become domestic and neighborly all of a sudden?"

"I want to do some sleuthing. Marge works in the psych ward, you know, so I'm going to steer the conversation around to the people who were treated after being assaulted by Dr. Demento. And I want to know more about this drug, Gogetamine, that showed up in their systems. Something doesn't add up. Just following my nose, TP. You never know what you might sniff out."

"Hopefully something besides burnt sugar."

"The cookies were an excuse to go over there. Now I'll have to come up with something else, I guess." Disgustedly she dumped the burned lumps down the disposal.

"Take them some lettuce from the garden. Harold's not awake yet?"

"No, I got up super early to do my kitchen work before Gladys made her appearance. You should still be in bed, TP. You don't look so good."

He sat down at the table to hide his trembling legs. The sedative was making him dopey. Today he'd planned on starting the furnace to fire the vegetable stone. Somehow he'd have to find the strength, because as the days passed, he was only going to get weaker and more confused.

Harold appeared, still clad in his jungle pajamas. "Where's Gladys?"

TP glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five.

"She may not be coming," Madeline said. "She might be pouting because I scolded her yesterday."

"Don't count on it," TP said. "Gladys is not one to pout, believe me. She's as dogged and persistent as a hungry mosquito."

"But what will we have for breakfast?" Harold wanted to know.

Madeline looked at TP, then said, "Get dressed, Harold. We're going out to eat."

She knew a little out-of-the-way place that made seafood omelettes and other breakfast fare. It had an outdoor courtyard with picnic tables; very casual.

"I'll drive, TP. You just enjoy the ride. Some fresh air and good food might perk you up."

While Harold was dressing, TP's phone jingled. It was Evalda.

"TP, I have to come to Baltimore tomorrow and thought I may as well pick Harold up. It will save me a trip later in the week. And of course I know better than to ask you to bring him home."

Relief washed over him. He'd been dreading the call to Evalda; now he wouldn't have to endure her squawking when he asked her to come get the boy.

She prattled on a few minutes, complaining about something - TP hardly listened - then wanted to talk to Harold.

While they chatted TP took his trash can out to the curb and ran into Gladys, performing the same task.

"Oh, Thad! Fancy meeting you here!" She smoothed her shell-pink housedress and fluffed her curls. Her voice jangled his already frayed nerves. Of all the luck.

"I'm sorry I'm late with breakfast. I had an important phone call, but I can whip something up in a jiffy."

"That won't be necessary, Gladys. We're going out for breakfast."

"Oh. Oh, I see. Well, I guess I'm not needed."

"Harold's going back to his grandmother's tomorrow."

"Then I'll fix an extra special breakfast for him tomorrow morning. We'll have a going away party, won't that be fun? What did you do to your forehead, Thad? Did you fall?"

He waved his hand. "Just a slight accident. Thanks, Gladys, for all the cooking." He hurried back to the house.

Harold was telling his grandmother about collecting fossils. "They're from the Miocene era, when there were odd-toed ungulates, and we found petrified poop. Three pieces, and one's for you. OK, see you tomorrow. Bye."

Somehow TP got through breakfast at the cafe, listening to Harold and Madeline chatter, all the while going over and over what he needed to do in the lab. The hard work was done, he had only to fire up the furnace, or athanor as it was called in alchemy, combine the liquid and solid preparations and seal the final formula in a fire-proof mold. He had a good supply of wood pellets for heat which would keep the temperature steady a long while before needing to be stoked. The lab would become uncomfortably hot, but the athanor was in a well insulated alcove that could be closed off, and he could keep the windows open. He'd endure much more than heat to succeed in making the stone.

He ate, barely tasting the food, knowing he needed energy. Madeline kept giving him looks of concern which he tried to counter with smiles that felt more like grimaces. 

When they got home, a lawn service truck was parked in front of Gladys' drive, and a very loud mower roared behind the hedge. The front door was unlocked. Funny, TP could swear he'd locked it, but apparently not. Inside, he walked towards the lab and stopped short. The lab door stood open. A chill shot through him as he crept to the doorway and looked in. Gladys stood at his work table, holding the flask of thick, precious liquid destined for the furnace. She'd removed the lid and was sniffing the contents. His mouth opened to speak, but Madeline, who'd walked up behind him, beat him to it.

"What are you doing? Put that down!"

Time slowed to a crawl as Gladys turned, her eyes round with shock and guilt. She stepped backward sharply, her foot catching the leg of TP's swiveling stool. Off-balance, arms flailing, she lost her grip on the flask, which sailed aloft in a spinning, tumbling arc. For one glorious moment TP felt bathed in the aura of a holy presence, as familiar as his own beating heart. It hovered there amidst the sparkling droplets that contained all his hopeful, earnest striving, all the longing of his soul for health, and truth, and goodness, and then it was gone as the flask fell and shattered on the floor.