it's wrapped around a microphone which hangs down from the ceiling on a black cord.
The mike looks like a steel teardrop. Seeing it there makes this horror real in a way it wasn't before. Surely they won't really cut me up, will they? Pete is no veteran, but he has had training; surely he'll see the marks of whatever bit me while I was looking for my ball in the rough, and then they'll at least suspect. They'll have to suspect.
Yet I keep seeing the scissors with their heartless satin shine-jumped-up poultry shears and I keep wondering if I will still be alive when he takes my heart out of my chest cavity and holds it up, dripping, in front of my locked gaze for a moment before turning it to plop it into the weighing pan. I could be, it seems to me; I really could be. Don't they say the brain can remain conscious for up to three minutes after the heart stops?
'Ready, Doctor,' Pete says, and now he sounds almost formal.
Somewhere, tape is rolling.
The autopsy procedure has begun.
Let's flip this pancake,' she says cheerfully, and I am turned over just that efficiently- MY right arm goes flying out to one side and then falls back against the side of the table, hanging down with the raised metal lip digging into the biceps. It hurts a lot, the pain is just short of excruciating, but I don't mind. I pray for the lip to bite through my skin, pray to bleed, something bona fide corpses don't do.
'Whoops-a-daisy,' Dr. Arlen says. She lifts my arm up and plops it back down at my side.
Now it's my nose I'm most aware of. It's smashed down against the table, and my lungs for the first time send out a distress message-a cottony, deprived feeling. My mouth is closed, my nose partially crushed shut (just how much I can't tell; I can't even feel myself breathing, not really). What if I suffocate like this?
Then something happens that takes my mind completely off my nose. A huge object - it feels like a glass baseball bat - is rammed rudely up my rectum. Once more I try to scream and can produce only the faint, wretched humming.
'Temp in,' Peter says. 'I've put on the timer.'
'Good idea,' she says, moving away. Giving him room. Letting him test-drive this baby. Letting him test-drive me. The music is turned down slightly.
'Subject is a white Caucasian, age forty-four,' Pete says, speaking for the mike now, speaking for posterity. 'His name is Howard Randolph Cottrell, residence is 1566 Laurel Crest Lane, here in Derry.'
Dr. Arlen, at some distance: 'Mary Mead.'
A pause, then Pete again, sounding just a tiny bit flustered: 'Dr.
Arlen informs me that the subject actually lives in Mary Mead, which split off from Derry in-'
'Enough with the history lesson, Pete.'
Dear God, what have they stuck up my ass? Some sort of cattle thermometer? If it was a little longer, I think, I could taste the bulb at the end. And they didn't exactly go crazy with the lubricant ...
but then, why would they? I'm dead, after all.
Dead.
'Sorry, Doctor,' Pete says. He fumbles mentally for his place and eventually finds it. 'This information is from the ambulance form.
Mode of transmittal was Maine driver's license. Pronouncing doctor was, um Frank Jennings. Subject was pronounced at the scene.'
Now it's my nose that I'm hoping will bleed. Please, I tell it, bleed.
Only don't just bleed. GUSH.
It doesn't.
'Cause of death may be a heart attack,' Peter says. A light hand brushes down my naked back to the crack of my ass. I pray it will remove the thermometer, but it doesn't. 'Spine appears to be intact, no attractable phenomena.'
Attractable phenomena? Attractable phenomena? What the fuck do they think I am, a buglight?
He lifts my head, the pads of his fingers on my cheekbones, and I hum desperately-Nnnnnnnnn-knowing that he can't possibly hear me over Keith Richards' screaming guitar but hoping he may feel the sound vibrating in my nasal passages.
He doesn't. Instead he turns my head from side to side.
'No neck injury apparent, no rigor,' he says, and I hope he will just let my head go, let my face smack down onto the table-that'll make my nose bleed, unless I really am dead-but he lowers it gently, considerately, mashing the tip again and once more making suffocation seem a distinct possibility.
'No wounds visible on the back or buttocks,' he says, 'although there's an old scar on the upper right thigh that looks like some sort of wound, shrapnel perhaps. It's an ugly one.'
It was ugly, and it was shrapnel. The end of my war. A mortar shell lobbed into a supply area, two men killed, one man-me-lucky.
It's a lot uglier around front, and in a more sensitive spot, but all the equipment works ... or did, up until today. A quarter of an inch to the left and they could have fixed me up with a hand pump and a CO, cartridge for those intimate moments.
He finally plucks the thermometer out-oh dear God, the relief-and on the wall I can see his shadow holding it up.
'Ninety-four point two,' he says. 'Gee, that ain't too shabby. This guy could almost be alive, Katie ... Dr. Arlen.'
'Remember where they found him,' she says from across the room. The record they are listening to is between selections, and for a moment I can hear her lecturely tones clearly. 'Golf course?
