Thumbprint by Joe Hill Read Free Book Online Page A

theater, he had switched off all the lights—not just the lights over the gurneys but also the safety lights that were always on, in the corners of the room and over the desk. The room smelled of iodine and benzaldehyde. Hicks let the door sigh shut behind him and stood isolate in the darkness.
    He was running his hand across the tiled wall, feeling for the light switches, when he heard the squeak of a wheel in the dark and the gentle clink of metal on metal.
    Hicks caught himself and listened and in the next moment felt someone rushing across the room at him. It was not a sound or anything he could see. It was something he felt on his skin and a sense in his eardrums, like a change in pressure. His stomach went watery and sick. He had reached out with his right hand for the light switch. Now he dropped the hand, feeling for the .38. He had it partway out when he heard something whistling at him in the darkness, and he was struck in the stomach with what felt like an aluminum baseball bat. He doubled over with a woofing sound. The gun sank back into the holster.
    The club went away and came back. It caught Hicks in the left side of the head, above his ear, spun him on his heel, and dropped him. He fell straight back, out a plane and down through frozen night sky, falling and falling, and try as hard as he could to scream, he made not a sound, all the air in his lungs pounded right out of him.
    W HEN E RNEST H ICKS opened his eyes, there was a man bent over him, smiling shyly. Hicks opened his mouth to ask what happened, and then the pain flooded into his head, and he turned his face and puked all over the guy’s black loafers. His stomach pumped up his dinner—General Gau’s chicken—in a pungent gush.
    â€œI am so sorry, man,” Hicks said when he was done heaving.
    â€œIt’s okay, son,” the doc said. “Don’t try to stand. We’re going to take you up to the ER. You’ve suffered a concussion. I want to make sure you don’t have a skull fracture.”
    But it was coming back to Hicks, what had happened, the man in the dark hitting him with a metal bludgeon.
    â€œWhat the fuck?” he cried. “What the fuck ? Is my gun . . . ? Anyone see my gun?”
    The doc—his tag said SOPHER —put a hand on Hicks’s chest to prevent him from sitting up.
    â€œI think that one’s gone, son,” said Sopher.
    â€œDon’t try and get up, Ernie,” said Sasha, standing three feet away and staring at him with an expression approximating horror on her face. There were a couple of other nurses standing with her, all of them looking pale and strained.
    â€œOh, God. Oh, my God. They stole my .38. Did they grab anything else?”
    â€œJust your pants,” said Sopher.
    â€œJust my— What? Fucking what ?”
    Hicks twisted his head to look at himself and saw he was bare naked from the waist down, his cock out for the doc and Sasha and the other nurses to look at. Hicks thought he might vomit again. It was like the bad dream he got sometimes, the one about showing up at work with no pants on, everyone staring at him. He had the sudden, wrenching idea that the sick fuck who had ripped his pants off had maybe poked a finger up his asshole, like Sasha was always threatening to do.
    â€œDid he touch me? Did he fucking touch me?” Hicks cried.
    â€œWe don’t know,” the doctor said. “Probably not. He probably just didn’t want you to get up and chase him and figured you wouldn’t run after him if you were naked. It’s very possible he only took your gun because it was in your holster, on your belt.”
    Although the guy hadn’t taken his shirt. He had grabbed Hicks’s Windbreaker but not his shirt.
    Hicks began to cry. He farted: a wet, whistling blat. He had never felt so miserable.
    â€œOh, my God. Oh, my God! What the fuck is wrong with people?” Hicks cried.
    Dr. Sopher shook his head.