The House of Grey- Volume 3 Read Free Page B

quickly that he wasn’t drinking.”
    “How do you know, Mr. Gatt?” Artorius asked.
    “I happen to be well-acquainted with the county magistrate and he relayed the results of the man’s blood test to me.”
    Artorius leaned towards Casey. “What’s a magistrate?”
    Casey shrugged. “I’m pretty sure it’s old man for ‘cop,’ but I can’t be positive. Keep listening - you might be able to figure it out from the context.”
    Mr. Gatt ignored them. “Anyway, Deputy Craig said they were going to keep him for observation until his family flies in.”
    Monson posed the question. “Any why would his family need to fly in? Do they need to bail him out or something?”
    “No, Mr. Grey, though considering the circumstances that’s not a bad guess. I need to clarify that the young man is in custody, not jail.”
    Monson scratched his head. “Isn’t that where they take you when you’re in custody - to jail?’
    Mr. Gatt nodded. “Yes, if you’re conscious. To answer your question, the reason the man’s family has to come out is that he was found unconscious at the scene. He hasn’t woken up since.”
    Monson did not like the sound of that. “Mr. Gatt…does that mean what I think it means?”
    Mr. Gatt nodded. “Yes, he is brain-dead.”
     
    ***
     
    Monson was forced to spend most of his next week in the campus hospital, leaving only to attend some of the more important classes. Partly because he had now suffered three near-fatal accidents in the last six months (Monson thought this had to be some sort of record), and they wanted to monitor his mental health. Monson was forced to endure hour-long head-shrinking sessions with a specialist from Seattle flown in specifically to determine whether Monson was off his rocker. The whole thing was completely idiotic. The doctor wanted to talk about his grandfather and his past so much that Monson wondered if he was really a psychiatrist and not some fool trying to get details in order to write a book about Baroty Bridge. Monson couldn’t share what he couldn’t remember, but had some fun feeding stories to the psychiatrist, most of which ended with him decapitating someone. It took the poor guy three days to figure out what Monson was doing. He stopped coming after that.
    Not that the hospital was all bad. The school provided Monson with a massage therapist and aromatherapy adviser, both of whom were insanely hot and had no idea that Monson was the Horum Vir and the sole survivor of Baroty Bridge. These things greatly endeared them to Monson, despite the fact that both ladies were a little dim. They chattered constantly, telling wild stories and sharing their plans to join up with a cruise ship in the summer. Apparently they dug the ocean.
    On the morning of the second day in the hospital, Monson awoke to singing, the tones familiar and warm, but at the same time sorrowful. When Monson convinced himself to actually open his eyes, he saw no one, and nothing was out of place. He had almost convinced himself that the song was merely in his head until he saw a single blue rose on a tray next to his bed. The rose was beyond striking; such a cool yet vibrant color.  Monson spent most of the day gazing at it, which, together with the song brought to his mind images that rose up from deep within him…mountains, clouds and singing…lots of singing. The intensity of the images eventually made his head hurt and his chest burn until he was able to push them from his mind.
    On the fourth day, the driver of the Ferrari died from “causes unknown.” There was all sort of hoopla in the media, which thankfully left out Monson’s name. The driver, a Coren alumnus named Robert Fairal, had no drugs or alcohol in his system, no known illnesses, and, according to witnesses, was behaving normally minutes before he got into his vehicle on the night in question.  Strangest of all, the doctors at the hospital found no underlying reason for his death, there wasn’t even any real