Blood coats his fingers. He grunts, or groans, or maybe he is trying to talk to me.
“What the fuck do you want from me?” I scream at him.
Moans. Galdini backs up to his desk that sits at the other end of the room. He bumps a stack of folders and they crash to the floor like a felled redwood.
I stand, try to look away, but it’s like a car crash, and I can’t pull my stare from the spluttering mess erupting out of his neck. Approach slowly, a tiger on the prowl.
“I don’t want to do this anymore. Just tell me what you want.”
He pushes a pile of papers out of the way and reaches for his desk phone. I step forward and push him out of the way. Galdini rolls off the edge of the desk and stumbles to the ground, still making noises. I yank the cable out of the phone base.
“You’ve done this to me,” I tell him. “Turned me into something I’m not.”
He’s now on his hands and knees, slowly crawling to the door, unsure of how to move and maintain pressure on the ballpoint protruding from his lower jaw at the same time.
Do it! Finish the job!
I stand over him. “I can hear them.” I grip my head. “There’s something in my head, and they’re telling me to do things. What do you want with me?”
He’s closer to the door now. On his stomach, red fingers reaching for the doorknob.
But I can’t let that happen. I know what I need to do. She told me what I need to do, how to protect myself, how to defend both of us.
I lift my foot and slam it down on the back of the doctor’s head. The slipper doesn’t make much of an impact, yet there is a squelch just the same. I do it again. And again. And again, until there is a bloody mess on the floor.
“You! You did this. You’re fucking with my brain!”
Galdini doesn’t get up. I don’t know if he’s dead or unconscious or in some other state. His head is mashed; something is broken. A pool of blood seeps out from his head. If he gets up, if he survives, he will have one hell of a headache. Despite the violence, the scene washes over me like a wave at the beach. There is something there—remorse? Guilt? —one minute, and then it’s gone. I’m back to normal. Nothing to see here.
I take in my surroundings, the room glowing thanks to strategically-placed lamps. At the other end of the room is a deep-red couch on an oriental rug. Leather-bound books and anatomy ornaments line available wall space.
Approach the desk, an island in a sea of paper. I walk over the mess and find a single beige folder sitting proudly on the surface. My name is on the tab. I start to open it but stop when I hear footsteps outside the door. I need to escape, to get as far away from here as possible. Storytime will need to come later.
I search the desk drawers for anything I can use and come up with a few hundred dollars held together with a money clip, and a set of Mercedes-branded car keys. Behind the desk is a cupboard, which I raid for anything I can get changed into. The clothes are a little loose (light blue long-sleeved shirt and gray slacks still in a dry-cleaning wrapper), and the shoes (polished black leather) are half a size too small, but oh, well. I thread the file into the back of my pants—the best hiding place I can manage, given the circumstances. I make sure it ends up under the waistband of my underpants or else it will fall into the ass of my pants. I’m uncomfortable enough already. A white coat from the hat rack in the corner completes my transformation, from patient to doctor, from bottom of the food chain to the top...from hunted to hunter.
I look down at the body. Galdini hasn’t moved.
You need to go.
Yeah, I know. I need to go.
I ease the door open and peek out into the corridor. It’s empty. And white, bright white. A vast contrast from the cave-like office I was in. Doors line the opposite wall, and I’m sure the same is true for my side of the passageway.
I take one last look at Galdini and express supreme guilt for my actions.
It’s not your fault.
I know. It was his fault. It’s their fault.
It’s always their fault.
I know. What would I do without you?
Get killed?
Touché.
I step out into the corridor, ease the door shut behind me, and sneak down the hallway. When I reach the end, I press myself against the wall. In front of me, the space yawns open. As I peer around the corner, I can see an uninspired waiting area that incorporates a half dozen black plastic chairs, several horrible scenic paintings (most likely crafted by a patient who had no hands), and a front desk. A young female nurse inhabits this space, her attention absorbed in a paperback, ignoring the ramblings of a male nurse who’s draped over the counter like a coat. Both are head-to-toe in white.
Across from me are a set of closed double doors with frosted panels set into them. Large lettering announces what lies beyond: “Ward A.” To my right, a similar set of doors: “Ward B.” I assume behind me, where I came from, are offices, meeting rooms, and spaces where family members discuss treatment plans with doctors. Doctors like Galdini. The late Galdini. Motherfucker. Yeah, he was a motherfucker. I think it was Gandhi who said, “I shall not weep for you because you’re a cunt.” Man, he was all over this revenge shit. A visionary.
As I stand there, wondering how the hell to get out, I see it. On the other side of the corridor I’m hiding in—a mere four feet away—is the answer. A red panel with “FIRE” in white lettering on it. I slowly reach out for the panel, hoping no one sees me, and yank it down.
Bells ring across the facility. Moans and cries pulse from behind the ward doors. The beasts are awake.
I hear scuffling of feet, confusion. I dart out from the corridor into the waiting area. Both nurses are standing, each expecting the other to act. Fight, flight, fright.
“Get in there!” I yell, pointing to somewhere behind me. “I’ll wait for the fire truck!”
They hesitate, unsure of their actions.
“Go!” I yell.
They evacuate the area as quickly as I do. As they swipe into the wards, I burst through the double doors, jump down the concrete steps two at a time, and skid to a halt in the gravel at the bottom. I fumble the keys out of my pocket and frantically press the button on the fob. A flash to my left catches my attention, and I run toward it—a green sedan.
I slide into the driver’s seat and key the ignition. The engine bursts to life. I’m bathed in the soft instrumental glow, the tachometer needle jumping. I look over to the passenger side.
“Where to?”
She mouths some words. I take them to mean, “Just get the fuck out of here.”
“Fair enough,” I reply. “We’ll figure that out on the way.”
Chapter 38
The vehicle hugs the curvature in the road as I drive through the main gate—an eight-foot wrought iron fence. It sways and creaks as we speed past it. A large sign indicates the name of the place, which we’re bolting away from like a pack of wild horses: “Brennan Fields Psychiatric Facility.”
The tires kick up gravel as we speed away, rocks hitting the undercarriage as if we’re under attack. Large trees on either side of the road come together to create a continuous arch. The moon dances between missing foliage. I can’t see anything beyond the wide angle of the headlights—nothing aside from darkness.
We follow the road, because there’s no other route to follow. No turnoffs, no driveways, no entryways, no intersections. It’s like the facility we just left was the end of the line. Maybe it was the end of the road for me, and I wouldn’t have been able to do that without her.
I look over. She smiles. Her pale skin is tight across her face. She’s like a porcelain doll, and she has me in her trance. Then she holds up a hand and points at the windscreen. What is it? What are you trying to tell me?
Turning to look, I jam my foot on the brake and lock my arms against the steering wheel. I fight the urge to clench my eyes, to hide from the impending impact. The car decelerates quickly, alternating between skidding and rolling as th
e anti-lock braking system kicks in.
Dirt and dust cloud the car and billow in front of the headlight beams. I spot a sign through the fog. Left to the coast. Right to the city. I don’t know which city, or how close the city may be. Both facts are excluded from the signage, which I guess makes it a poor marker.
The flutter in my chest subsides with resounding ease. I look left, then right. In both directions, the road curves around out of sight, swallowed by the night. The rear-view mirror is lit up with the red glow of my brake lights, allowing me to see the last few feet of the road before that, too, melts into darkness. I half expect a glowing set of eyes to approach out of the gloom to come and get us, but there’s nothing. No reason to suspect we’re being followed, that a hunter is following our scent.
I look at the sign. “Which way?”
No response.
“We can make a run to the coast, hit the border, get the as far away from this place as possible.”
No response.
“Or I guess we could try and figure out what the hell is going on.”
No response.
“What do you think?”
I look over, but there’s no one there.
“City it is,” I say to myself. A gut feeling. Maybe it was some strange connection, or maybe it was a coincidence. Underlying all of that was the fundamental pull to find out what Galdini and Kolton want from me. I’ll have to check with the others.
The car negotiates the smooth surface with ease, the speedometer needle peaking near maximum speed. Eventually, tall, lit-up buildings rise out of the ground. The city is very much awake, even at this early hour. It’s a beacon on the stormy seas, an oasis in the desert, or any other metaphor you wish to use. A massive blob of light petering out into specks that resemble stars—unnamed constellations orbiting the city center.
Wide streets. Neon signs. Pedestrians marching between buildings—some entering, others leaving, none paying any attention to us. I need to dump the car, so I pull into a multilevel parking garage. I take a ticket, knowing full well I have no intention of coming back for it.
Cars dot each level, but I keep spiraling up. I find a space between two large trucks that dwarf the car, like a pair of nurses looming over a subdued patient. What? Too soon? If someone comes looking for the Mercedes, I want them to have to work for it.
I kill the engine and the vehicle falls silent. I look over the car for anything of value, anything I can use. Some change in the center console. In the glovebox I find some chocolate bars and a gun. At first, that’s all I think it is; however, the more I handle it, I realize it’s a Beretta 92FS. It feels very natural in my hands.
With the gun tucked into the back of my pants, I locate an exit and descend the concrete steps. The garage door squeaks as I push it open and step onto the street next to the entrance. People walk past me, caught up in their own little worlds. A man wearing a white cowboy hat, sporting a healthy white moustache, pushes past my left. An Asian couple in brightly colored silk robes rush past my right.
Between the bodies, I see a sign for lodgings. Unlike its brothers and sisters, this building has no neon signs—not even a catchy name. It states on a dirty, sun-beaten sign it has cheap accommodations where belongings are safe. It looks derelict. Some of the windows are boarded up, and others are lit with a dull orange glow. The brickwork is patchy and uncertain.
On the adjacent street corner is a hotel with so many levels, I can’t see the top. Out front, in the wraparound driveway, a valet is swapping car keys for a ticket. The glass-walled restaurant that takes up the majority of the ground floor is hosting silent festivities. It seems like a great place to blend in, to disappear.
And that’s exactly why I check both directions before marching across the street to this dump across from me.
Chapter 39
I force the creaky door open against its will. A bell above the door sounds as I step inside. The air is thick and musky—the interior dark and dated, somehow repelling the outside world. A shield. A cave. An old chair sits pronounced in the corner, its aging leather torn and tattered. A threadbare runner lines a stairway to my left. Some of the balustrades are missing. In front of me, a desk sits empty.
I approach and ding the bell. It clunks, the joy of its high-pitched ring having left it a decade ago. I look around the square lobby while I wait. Dull-colored paintings line the wall. They appear to be city motifs—perhaps this city, maybe another. The yellows are humbling, the browns disgraced. The gold-painted frames are worn and chipped.
I turn back, and there’s someone standing there. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, with a look of shock or disbelief written on his face. I’m pretty sure I’m not a ghost, although maybe I am, and all of this is some kind of transition point. Certainly would explain a few things. His eyes are wide; a cigar hangs from his lips. His deeply tanned skin suggests Native American or Arab. Maybe both. Perhaps neither.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. I look down at his name tag—bold silver letters on a black background, the badge itself crooked on a shirt that is the color of cold gravy. “Frank?” I add.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, his voice concealing his cultural lineage, whatever it is. The cigar falls from his lips and he catches it awkwardly. It dances on his hand and he fumbles it to an ashtray. “It’s just that I wasn’t expecting the likes of you...I mean, any, really, any visitors tonight.”
“Well, I need a room.”
His eyes dart over my shoulder and then back to me. “Su—sure.”
He looks at me in silence. The awkwardness grows as we stare, each waiting for the other to begin.
“For a night,” I venture.
“A night?”
“That’s what I said. Actually, better make it a week, just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“I don’t know? What business is it of yours?”
He threads his thumbs into his suspenders and runs them from his nipples to his pants.
I lean on the counter. “Can I speak to the manager?”
“I’m the night manager,” he grumbles, an air of disgruntled authoritarianism in his voice.
“Well, then, can I speak to the day manager?”
He sighs. “I’m also the day manager.”
“Why didn’t you just say you were the manager then?”
He ignores the question. “Is there a conference in town I should know about?”
“Conference?”
“You know, medical conference?”
I follow his gaze downward, to my chest. It’s then I notice I’m still wearing the coat I took from Galdini’s office. “Ah,” I start. “No, just fancy dress.”
When I look up, his eyes aren’t on mine—he’s concentrating on something over my shoulder. He is motionless, breathless, his eyes narrowed. I turn to follow his gaze. The front door is open. Rain pelts down just beyond the entrance, smacking the pavement with brutal force. A lightning strike and thunderclap combine to light up the scene and shake the foundations of the hotel. The sound reverberates and continues to echo around the room before petering out into a low rumble.
I turn back. His eyes are wide, his mouth stuck open, his skin pasty white. The lightshow outside seemingly has him trapped.
I click my fingers. “Hey, Frank. Can I grab that room?”
“Yeah,” he says, finally making eye contact. “I’m going to get you to sign before I can check you in.”
“I’ll pay at checkout...if that works for you?” I hope it does.
His eyes narrow. “You don’t...you’ve never...you don’t remember...” He seems incapable of finishing a sentence. He’s now inspecting me, acutely running a beady eye over me. “You don’t know me?”
I shrug. “Should I know you?”
He shrugs in reply.
With his staring eyes locked to mine, he lifts an old, weighty volume from his side of the desk and drops it in front of me. It lands with a thud, causing a groan to emanate from the desk. The leather crac
ks as he peels back the cover and finds a blank page.
“Just your name,” he says.
“Where?”
“Anywhere,” he replies. “Makes no difference.”
I scrawl “Sloan Jates” across the page.
“Aha,” he says. “That explains it. Explains a lot.”
He slams the ledger shut and throws a key on top. It’s an old-school metal key attached to a rectangular piece of metal that’s engraved with my room number. “Third floor,” he says.
“Is that your best room?”
“It’s a room.”
Good enough.
He tries to smile but fails. “Well, best you get yourself settled in instead of hanging around here in the lobby.”
I take the key. “Thank you for the hospitality.”
He turns. “Third door on the left.” After a brief interlude, he repeats himself, articulating his last word. “The left.”
The floor panels creak as I begin to make my way to the room.
“Best you take care of yourself,” he calls out. “I don’t want no trouble in here. Not tonight.”
“Why would there be trouble?” Now I’m curious. I turn to get a response, but there’s nobody behind the desk.
Chapter 40
He was right—it is a room. Maybe over in the hotel across the street, the rooms have a spa bath, balcony, and free minibar. Definitely pay television with some porn thrown in for good measure. My lodging has none of that. In fact, it has decidedly less than none of that.
I investigate the bathroom. The tub has markings, and I can’t tell if they’re rust or blood. The faucet drips nauseatingly into a basin that used to be white. A family of cockroaches roam behind the toilet, scattering as soon as I find their hiding place. None of this is appealing as you can imagine. Almost as if it’s designed to repulse people, to purposefully push clientele away.
The Humanist Page 20
