From the Corner of His Eye by Dean Koontz Page A

door, however, not hers. She did not possess a ticket to ride the train that had come for him. He boarded, and the train was gone, and with it the light in his eyes. She lowered her mouth to his, kissing him one last time, and taste of his blood was not bitter, but sacred.

Chapter 11
        
        WHILE THE SLATS of ash-gray light slowly lost their meager luster, and sable shadows metastasized in sinister profusion, the sentinel silence remained unbroken between Junior Cain and the birthmarked man.
        What might have become a waiting game of epic duration was ended when the door to the room swung inward, and a doctor in a white lab coat entered from the corridor. He was backlighted by fluorescent glare, his face in shadow, like a figure in a dream.
        Junior closed his eyes at once and let his jaw sag, breathing through his mouth, feigning sleep.
        "I'm afraid you shouldn't be here," the doctor said softly.
        "I haven't disturbed him," said the visitor, taking his cue from the doctor and keeping his voice low.
        "I'm sure you haven't. But my patient needs absolute quiet and rest."
        "So do I," said the visitor, and Junior almost frowned at this peculiar response, wondering what was meant in addition to what was merely said.
        The two men introduced themselves. The physician was Dr. Jim Parkhurst. His manner was easy and affable, and his soothing voice, either by nature or by calculation, was as healing as balm.
        The birthmarked man identified himself as Detective Thomas Vanadium. He did not use the familiar, diminutive form of his name, as had the doctor, and his voice was as uninflected as his face was flat and homely.
        Junior suspected that no one other than this man's mother called him Tom. He was probably "Detective" to some and "Vanadium" to most who knew him.
        "What's wrong with Mr. Cain here?" Vanadium asked.
        "He suffered an unusually strong episode of hematemesis."
        "Vomiting blood. One of the paramedics used the word. But what's the cause?"
        "Well, the blood wasn't dark and acidic, so it didn't come from his stomach. It was bright and alkaline. It could have arisen in the esophagus, but most likely it's pharyngeal in origin."
        "From his throat."
        Junior's throat felt torn inside, as though he'd been snacking on cactus.
        "That's correct," Parkhurst said. "Probably one or more small blood vessels ruptured from the extreme violence of the emesis."
        "Emesis?"
        "Vomiting. I'm told it was an exceptionally violent emetic episode." "He spewed like a fire hose," Vanadium said matter-of-factly.
        "How colorfully put."
        In a monotone that gave new meaning to deadpan, the detective added: "I'm the only one who was there who doesn't have a dry-cleaning bill."
        Their voices remained soft, and neither man approached the bed.
        Junior was glad for the chance to eavesdrop, not only because he hoped to learn the nature and depth of Vanadium's suspicions, but also because he was curious-and concerned-about the cause of the disgusting and embarrassing episode that had landed him here.
        "Is the bleeding serious?" Vanadium inquired.
        "No. It's, stopped. The thing now is to prevent a recurrence of the emesis, which could trigger more bleeding. He's getting antinausea medication and replacement electrolytes intravenously, and we've applied ice bags to his midsection to reduce the chance of further abdominal-muscle spasms and to help control inflammation." bags Not dead Naomi. Just ice. ice bags. I almost laughed at his tendency to morbidness and self dramatization. The living dead had not come to get him: just some rubber ice bags.
        "So the vomiting caused the bleeding," Vanadium said. "But what the vomiting?" do further testing, of course, but not until he's been stabilized at least twelve hours. Personally, I don't think we'll find any physical