The Caretaker: chapter one
Our protagonist discovers his patient is a villain and is drawn into his attempt at redemption.
This week I want to begin sharing my novel. I’ll be posting chapters each week, so if you enjoy the story please return and follow along as Matthew Reynolds tries to deal with the surprising, and dangerous, responsibility of saving the country from itself. I hope you find it interesting and entertaining.
I would love to hear comments:
Chapter One
Wednesday evening
Matthew Reynolds stepped through the door, his thoughts on his daughter, Jenni, who he was looking forward to going to the movies with that night; it was all he could think about that week. He wasn’t supposed to see his patient until the next day, but Dr. Welling, had called just after dinner insisting he return to the house immediately. Welling had never done that before, so he feared Ravendale might have taken a turn for the worse. When Reynolds left him earlier that day, he was stable, but for a man in such poor health it was a short step from stable to critical.
Reynolds surprised himself by his emotional reaction to the call. As a rule Reynolds didn’t like to be too emotionally involved with his patients, especially someone like Jonathan Ravendale. For him nursing meant caring, but with an emotional distance. He had learned from his experiences overseas the hard, harsh consequences of becoming too close to the people for whom he cared. Being too close to his patients drained the reservoir of his emotions, leaving him empty and wanting, with less for his family and friends. That was partly the reason he had taken this nursing job. He was to take care of a dying man until he reached his certain end in a few months. But a few months had turned into nine, and despite his attempts at remaining professional and dispassionate, in the last months they had gradually grown closer. And despite Ravendale’s air of superiority and the general feeling of malevolence he emitted, Reynolds’s humanity and empathy gradually brought them closer, if unwillingly and distantly.
He was suffering terribly. Reynolds was amazed Ravendale had survived as long as he had, especially with his level of pain, which was strikingly high as he neared his end—maybe days, at the outside, a week.
Dr. Welling thought was holding on until because he had some business in life yet to complete, but Reynolds didn’t believe that. He saw too many people die, particularly the young men and women with whom he worked while in Medecins Sans Frontieres who died leaving their lives incomplete.
As Reynolds stepped into the house the smell that assaulted his nose assured him it wouldn’t be long before Ravendale would finally reach his end. He wondered if, in this particular case, he was waiting for someone or something before releasing his grip on life, or if was he simply unwilling to submit to death? Continuing his life out of spite seemed in character he thought. Whatever it was, Reynolds knew that regardless of what he wanted, death was coming and was not going to be denied. Ravendale was stubborn, but death is persistent, and it always wins.
Reynolds hardening to death developed over the years from sheer volume, a gradual evolving into a professional distance, not callousness, familiarity. Still, he did feel sad for Ravendale. But that feeling was at the shallow end of the pool of his affection; the deep end was occupied by his ex-wife and his daughter, who’s love he was trying his best to hold.
As he entered the vestibule he turned right down the hallway to Ravendale’s bedroom. It was really the living room, but it had been converted to allow for more space in which to care for him. When he arrived outside the door he stopped for a minute; he could hear the machines beeping and pumping and clicking, a musical performance that sang, “I’m alive!”
Reynolds closed his eyes and took a deep breath, he held it, let it out, opened his eyes and the door. The drapes were opened slightly to let in the now absent evening sun. The depthless dark of night now completed its closure. A single shaft of white light beamed down from overhead onto the center of Ravendale’s hospital bed. The red and green glow emanating from the medical technology was cast on the walls and ceiling, fighting off the darkness that dominated the room. The medical instruments on either side of the bed, mixed with the blue light of the television on the wall opposite the bed, created an otherworldly environment.
The light cast by the TV flickered as the images changed and created a sense of movement and life in a room in desperate need of both. The muted TV was on a channel showing a State of the Union Address by President Oliver Henry, his last. He was leaving as one of the most unpopular, and unsuccessful presidents in history.
Reynolds moved toward his patient as the sound of the respirator pump and the beeping of the monitors continued their discordant chorus of denial. They were the only things breaking the cold silence of the room. Without them the room would have been even more morbid and morose, tomb-like.
He could hear Ravendale moan quietly as he moved slowly under the sheets like a serpent in a bag. When Reynolds arrived at the bed he reflexively went through his routine, checking monitors and then physically checking his patient’s pulse and his breathing. He was no luddite, but it reassured him to confirm the readings without the distance created by technology. For him, touching meant feeling, and it was important to him to maintain human contact for fear those in his care would stop being people and would become simply bodies; he was caring for Ravendale, not the machines.
When Reynolds released Ravendale’s wrist he suddenly twitched. The heart monitor line jumped, and the rate of beeping jumped with it. Ravendale’s head moved up, his eyes popped open, with an expression of alarm and fear. Then, after he found the face of his caretaker, he relaxed and the beeping monitor returned to a slower, yet still elevated rate.
Ravendale’s hand slithered slowly from under the sheets, grabbed the bed control, and the hum of the bed motor joined the symphony of machines. The bed began to rise and incline, slowly moving up to an angle and elevation that put him on a more even level with Reynolds, allowing them to better see each other’s eyes. He forced out something resembling a smile and then slowly his lips pealed apart to whisper, “water”. Simultaneously, the beeping monitor increased momentarily. The order for more water came from a dry, raspy, creaking voice that sounded like the ancient hinges of a wooden box.
Reynolds was slightly startled when Ravendale spoke because he hadn’t spoken for many days because he was heavily sedated in an effort to relieve his suffering.
Ravendale had initially complained about being drugged. He had on several occasions expressed his anger at the betrayal of his body, saying his body should be punished for failing him. But his pain had begun to interfere with his ability to think. His suffering didn’t bother him as much as his not being able focus his mind, so he acquiesced to Dr. Welling’s prescription.
Reynolds stepped over to the table nearby and picked up a glass next to a pitcher. Beside the pitcher was a large manila envelope with what looked to be a dull metallic flash drive laying on top. He wondered momentarily where they had come from, since they weren’t there earlier that day. “Not my concern,” he thought as he poured water from the waiting pitcher, filling the glass halfway. He helped Ravendale lean forward so he could drink. He sipped it at first (he refused to use a straw), but he gulped at it until it was gone. Then, turning his head, he stared directly into Reynolds’s eyes.
Ravendale’s eyes commonly looked cold and distant, empty and tired. But for the first time since Reynolds began working for him, he was struck by an expression he thought might be affection. It was hard to tell with him, but simultaneously with the appearance of tenderness came a jump in the beeping of Ravendale’s heart rate. An instant later, his expression moved to one of serene resignation. Reynolds was surprised by it since Ravendale had been angrily fighting his condition for as long as he cared for him. He told Reynolds after he had started working for him that, “you fight death with discipline and determination”, but he didn’t have the strength for such grandiose aspirations now.
To Reynolds’s amazement, Ravendale spoke again. “I’m sorry, Matt,” he said softly, but with a seriousness manifest in a leadened tone, and narrowed, focused eyes.
“Sorry for what?” Reynolds returned.
“Tonight I’m going to change your life…. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to burden you with this…. but I know now that I was denying the inevitable, out of my feelings for you.”
Reynolds was taken aback—Ravendale had feelings for him!
“Matt…you weren’t hired to escort me to my death by happenstance…. I chose you.”
Reynolds replied with a lost, quiet, whisper, “You chose me?”
For the first time in months Ravendale’s voice was becoming strong and clear and Reynolds marveled he could marshal the strength he heard in his voice and saw in his eyes. Both demonstrated his commitment to speak, and were validated by the increased intensity of the monitor’s beeps.
“I’ve accepted that I’m going to die—the doctors made that clear to me ten months ago. But Welling told me yesterday I have days left.” Ravendale closed his eyes and gasped for strength then continued weakly. “If there’s one good thing about getting a diagnosis like mine it’s that the inevitability and finality forces clarity. It burns away all distractions and leaves one with only what matters.” He closed his eyes again and sighed, and then slowly reopened them and said, “I’ve been working out something over the last few months; everything’s ready now, except one last detail, and I’m not able to take care of that.”
He paused momentarily, gathering his strength, the monitor beeping with more intensity. “In all my years I’ve met only three men whom I could trust. One died years ago—I told you about him and his bravery and selflessness—and the other I discovered was killed this afternoon on his way here,” he again grabbed for air.
“I’m sorry for your friend’s death, but you should rest, gather your strength,” Reynolds interjected.
“There’s not time,” Ravendale said as his eyes widened. “My friend’s death confirms my fear that Osmilos has discovered my plan and is going to try to stop me. My friend was going to complete the last step of that plan, but since he can no longer do it, I have no other option but to turn to you.”
The monitor’s beep stuttered momentarily, prompting Reynolds to check Ravendale’s pulse. Ravendale recoiled instinctively and defensively from his touch, but he quickly relaxed.
“I have to tell you what’s about to happen, and what I need you to do.” Ravendale spoke soberly, and with the stern expression of a parent instructing a child about the danger of guns.
“What do want me to do?” Reynolds asked tenderly, his heart now overtaking his professionalism. Ravendale closed his eyes. Reynolds stood silently waiting. He had connected with Ravendale on a professional level early on, but more recently they had had conversations about their lives and those stories had softened him in Reynolds’s heart and narrowed the emotional distance between them. However, nothing said to him during those conversations indicated Ravendale considered him as anything other than a caretaker, a companion.
“I’ve made a great many sacrifices in my life…I regret few of them…. I’ve served my country with honor…but I’ve come to believe the patriotism which has meant so much has now been used to manipulate me, and that I cannot countenance.”
“What do you mean?” Reynolds asked with a mixture of concern and bewilderment rippling across his face.
“I’ve discovered in the last year that I was misled and used by others whose motives are more…ego-centric. And I have to admit my own ego and arrogance enabled me to rationalize things I shouldn’t have done.”
Reynolds stared intently at his patient. In all the months he had cared for him Ravendale never once spoken this way—so open, solemn, serious, sincere, emotional, even affectionate, like a confidant, and in an almost fatherly way. It was unnerving. A feeling which was accentuated by the monitor’s continued smooth, steady, elevated rhythm, a cadence to their conversation.
Then Ravendale’s countenance turned dark.
“I’ve done some bad things Matt…very bad things. I’ve sacrificed my morals, my ethics, and ignored my conscience for what I believed was a higher purpose; to make the world better. Safer.” As he spoke he seemed to become more alive and vital, and this was mirrored by the increased beeping from the monitors.
Ravendale paused again, momentarily, rallying his strength.
“Unfortunately, the people I worked with to make what’s about to happen, happen, began to suspect a change of feelings. They started watching me…. They are most likely watching me now. They are afraid my imminent death will alter me. They think I will grow a conscience…and they are right. But it’s not just conscience, it’s more than that. I have a new perspective…and you have been a part of that, Matt.”
Reynolds stiffened.
“Consequently, they have been waiting and watching anxiously, hoping for me to die to ensure they are safe.”
Ravendale paused once again to take a deep, meditative, breath. Reynolds leaned closer to make it easier on his patient. “Omilios…,” Ravendale said with venom, “… their time is running out; their deadline’s near. They have to move now to execute the last stages of the plan I started over a year ago, and their patience with me has evaporated as its time has arrived.
“I understand their anxiety. They’re right to be concerned. I’m going to do exactly what they fear I will,” at this a sinister smile slid across his face and sent a shiver down Reynolds’s spine.
“I won’t allow my infirmities to prevent me from stopping them. Unfortunately, I’m now in no position to stop them myself, and when Dr. Welling told me earlier my friend was murdered I realized I’m forced into an action I’ve resisted. Please understand, I can’t trust this to anyone I have worked with—they are like I was—I regret I have no choice but to turn to you.” Ravendale looked more than sad. More than somber. His expression was of a deep, profound regret, a tortured remorse which seemed to come from a black hole at his very center and Reynolds was being pulled in by the gravity of it.
Ravendale fell silent for a moment and closed his eyes. But the monitor didn’t slow; its register increased. He then took a deep breath and opened his eyes, only this time they had lost their previous softness and had taken on a fierce desperation, one heralded by a sudden increase in the frequency of the beeps spoken from the monitor, as if it was fighting to keep him alive.
“Maybe we should continue this later,” Reynolds offered, fearing the stress was becoming too much for him.
“NO!” Ravendale replied with the gravelly screech of someone who was enduring a long fall into his singular, personal abyss, “Do you see the envelope and flash drive on the table?”
“Yes,” Reynolds answered as he swung back from looking at the two items.
“In that drive is everything. The envelope has printouts of some important documents as well. All I need everyone to know is in there. I’m not strong enough to tell you everything now, but it’s all explained in the pages.”
“What’s in there?” Reynolds said, his bewilderment blooming.
“Inside the envelope are instructions on where to take the flash drive and what to do when you arrive.
“I’m sorry to put this on you, Matt, but you’re the only person I know I can trust. You mustn’t share it with anyone until you can share it with everyone. If you are discovered with it Osmilos will kill you. Don’t trust anyone!”
Reynolds leaned back as the beeping from the monitor increased dramatically.
“I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to take on my penance,” Ravendale continued, “but they have to be stopped.”
“What are you talking about?” Reynolds asked as he stood upright and looked away at the curtains and the darkness beyond, the void providing a home for his confusion. Then he added, “Who has to be stopped? Why?” His voice vacillated from a pronounced bewilderment, to the beginnings of a vague, formless fear.
“Now listen carefully, you must have an encryption key to open the drive, and there’s one….”
Reynolds heard a quiet ‘tink’… simultaneous with the curtain moving slightly and a thud hitting the far wall. Looking back from the wall, Reynolds saw Ravendale move forward, fall back, and moan. Then a dark red oval began to form on the white sheet covering him, the circle expanding irregularly and steadily. The monitor’s beeping spiked, causing Reynolds to look over at it. When he turned back he met Ravendale’s face, his mouth curving bravely downward as he desperately pushed his lips to whisper.
“What?” Reynolds said under his breath as he leaned down to better hear.
Reynolds heard another tink. Once again simultaneous to the curtain moving a thud hitting the wall on the opposite side of the room from which shards of plaster and a plume of white dust exploded.
The monitor suddenly screamed and Ravendale accompanied it as he used the last breath of his life to scream, “RUN!”
At that moment the monitor’s dancing line fell flat and an alarm sounded, flooding the room with its high-pitched panic.
Reynolds’s mind locked. So did his limbs. He stared at Ravendale as his life drained from his eyes and all over the bedsheet, the monitor still screaming in horror. Reynolds stood, deaf to the alarm.
When a third shot shattered the glass behind the curtain it also shattered his paralysis, and he impulsively followed Ravendale’s plea and turned for the door.
He now heard the monitor heralding the passing of Ravendale and submerging the room in sound so overwhelming he couldn’t breath. He was acting on instinct—primal survival was commanding him as he tried to escape.
As he ran, the monitor cord that snaked to the bed tripped him and he fell to the floor like a swimmer hit by a cresting wave. At that moment another shot hit the wall and he began to swim across the floor desperately trying to reach the door.
He had almost worked his way there when he remembered the envelope and the flash drive. He looked back and saw them still on the table. At that moment a crash so loud he could hear it over the alarms pushed the curtain away from the window and a canister fell and rolled across the floor to the far side of the room. It began to vibrate and give out an audible buzz, followed by a green-yellow liquid that bled over the floor like warm honey. A series of clicks and a spark caused the liquid to burst into flame, which quickly followed the liquid toward the wall and the curtain. The blue, green, yellow, and red lights that painted the walls were now overtaken by the brilliant orange of the fire.
Reynolds pushed himself to his feet and raced to the door. As he was reaching for the doorknob, the screaming monitor reminded him he still hadn’t retrieved the envelope and the drive. Ravendale’s last act was to give it to him; he couldn’t leave it. He turned to see it waiting on the table. The fire had now found the curtains and was traveling across the back of the room. Because of the alarm, the fire seemed to race its way across toward the envelope, as though seeking it out. The flames jumped to the table, climbing their way up the legs, reaching the envelope and drive in seconds. Reynolds dashed to save it. The room was now bright orange and the fire was everywhere—walls, drapes, floor, ceiling.
Ravendale’s bed was on fire, and Reynolds looked momentarily at him and saw an almost peaceful expression on his face. He had never seen the expression on him before and he felt a stab of irony that it should appear at this moment.
Reynolds reached for the envelope and drive. The flames fought him off, leaping at him and singeing his fingers. He reflexively pulled back, but immediately reached again and grabbed the drive, dropping it into his coat pocket, and then he pinched an edge of the envelope, far from the burning side, and threw it across the room, toward the door, where it floated to the floor. He ran to it and stomped on the burning edges like a flamingo dancer. As the flames were smothered on the envelope, the monitor’s alarm went silent. The fire had killed it. The silence created a feeling of finality in Reynolds, that everything that was was no more, all now replaced by death and flame.
Reynolds grabbed the blackened and smoldering yellow paper and hurried to the door, coughing from the thick smoke now filling the room. The door was already hot and slightly swollen from the heat which had consumed the moisture from the room. He stuffed the envelope into his outside coat pocket so he could use both hands on the doorknob. He pulled his coat sleeves over his hands, gripped it tightly, and pulled. It barely moved.
He pulled again, this time as hard as he could, and the door gave way. Its sudden release caused him to lose his balance and he fell backwards, slamming his head against the floor.
For a moment Reynolds laid there, between the present and the future. Then a flaming red part of the ceiling fell a few feet away. He was dizzy and unsteady, but he pushed himself up and through the door.
As he stumbled out and down to the driveway, he turned to see the entire back side of the house engulfed in an orange inferno whose glow swam across the sparkling white dusting of snow held by the trees, framing the house in an eerie, hellish halo.
He slowly backed away, staring at the fire as it towered toward the sky, angry and raging, its heat melting the snow surrounding the house as it grew. Then there was a loud bang.
He stood for a moment, wobbling, and trying to collect himself, dizziness washing over his brain. He flopped to the ground putting his hand out to catch himself and lowered himself onto his back, breathing deeply.
The sky was black, no moon, no stars. He heard what sounded like sirens off in the distance. As he lay there he opened his eyes and saw a figure walking over to him, a human-shaped void outlined in yellow and orange. The man reached down and pulled the envelope from Reynolds’s coat. Reynolds reached up to try and stop him, but the silhouette batted away his hand.
Reynolds heard sirens waling, and saw red lights flashing off the oak canopy overhead. The dark man said in a whisper, “You should be more careful who you work for.” He then abruptly stood, turned, and disappeared into the flaming darkness.
Reynolds lowered his head and laid back against the bed of white gravel. A moment later he surrendered his consciousness.