Martin smiled. “Damn, Ethel, I like you.”
“Then prove it by keeping your word.” She started back to the nurses’ station. “Okay, I’m gonna buzz you out.”
“Thanks.”
He was out the door and into the night before it occurred to him (and probably Ethel, as well) that he hadn’t promised her anything one way or the other.
Okay, as moral loopholes went, it was fairly underhanded, but he took it.
Now, the question of the moment was: where did Dr. Hayes park his car? He had maybe five minutes before Ethel called the ER to check on him, tack on another three if she called the police right away, which, being irked, she would undoubtedly do, so . . .
It was not in the first place he checked: The Center’s parking lot.
It was, however, in the second place he looked: across the street from The Center and down a little ways.
Looking over his shoulder, he froze when he saw Ethel’s face peering from the small square window of The Center’s door.
Shit, shit, shit!
He took off running, looking back in time to see Ethel’s face move away from the window. The throbbing ache in his head wasn’t helped any by his running—every time his foot hit the ground, it sent shockwaves of near-blinding pain into the center of his skull—but he managed to make it to his car, unlock the door, and start the engine before he caught a peripheral glimpse of someone very large and very male and very strong in a very white uniform running out of the ER and directly toward him.
“I’m sorry, Ethel,” he said.
Then floored the gas pedal and tore away in a smoking squeal.
7
Once the most exclusive and expensive hotel in Cedar Hill, the last fifty years had seen the Taft slide not-so-slowly into disrepair and decay (as had many of the buildings in this unpopular area near the East End), becoming nothing more than a glorified flop-house where those who’ve reached the end of their rope could crawl into poverty’s shadow and just give up. Martin thought it looked like some mangy, dying animal left by the road. The rusted fire escape twisted around the exterior like a piece of barbed wire, and were it not for the low-wattage lights seen in a few of the dirtier, cracked, and duct-taped windows, you’d swear it was an abandoned ruin waiting for the wrecking ball to put it out of its misery.
He stood at the front doors, readying himself for whatever waited inside.
He’d left his car three blocks away, in the city’s only parking garage. It had cost him all the money he had to get through the gate, but at least it wasn’t on the street and in easy view of any cops who might cruise past; he supposed he ought to count himself lucky none had driven by while he was walking over here: the last two things he’d done before leaving his car was tear off one shirt sleeve to use as a makeshift bandage for his head (the knot had begun bleeding—not a lot, but just enough to start dripping into his eye), and taken a crowbar out of the trunk, sliding it up his coat sleeve. A full half of the serious crime committed in Cedar Hill occurred in this area, and he wanted to be able to defend himself if it came to that.
Martin, however, could not see himself; some of the blood from the wound had spattered onto both his shirt and coat, had even left a thin trail down the side of his face; the bandage around his head was ragged, too tight, and already stained with fresh blood that was also soaking into stray strands of his hair; his face was far too pale (he did have a minor concussion, though he didn’t know it), and his eyes appeared to be sinking farther and farther into the dark circles around them; add to this the manner in which he walked—fast and hard, a man in a hurry—and that even a nearsighted ninety-year-old grandmother could tell he was carrying a crowbar up his sleeve, and you had a picture of someone you did not. Want to. Fuck with.
Martin pulled in a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. It was lighted (as were all of them) by naked bulbs that hung too low and cast too many shadows.
He shook his arm, letting the crowbar drop a little farther into his grip, and started up the groaning stairs. Christ, he’d almost swear he could hear the rats gnawing at the woodwork, or roaches scuttling across dishes left too long unwashed.
Somewhere outside, in back of the building, a trashcan was knocked over.
He hurried his step.
If the looks and sounds of the place weren’t bad enough, the smells made up for it: rot, filth, the ghost of recently-mopped vomit, the sickly sweet aroma of urine and old human feces, all of it mixing with the thin mist rising from the outside sewers that added its own olfactory panache to the evening.
He began breathing through his mouth so as not to gag.
He hit the fourth-floor landing and stepped into something moist and spongy, but didn’t look down to see what it was.
All he could see was the door a few feet away from him.
401.
He approached it, raised his hand to knock (out of habit), then tried the knob.
Locked.
He pulled the crowbar from his sleeve, tried to reach the bulb hanging nearest him with his hand, couldn’t, so stepped back, jumped up, swung the crowbar, and shattered the damn thing.
Hitting the floor, he hunched down in the new shadows and waited for someone to come investigate the noise.
No one did.
Of course not; no one would, not here.
He rose up and pressed his shoulder against the door, forced the hooked end of the crowbar into the jamb, tightened both hands around it, and yanked back.
The doorjamb splintered apart in a shower of semi-soft flakes and the sound of a rotten tooth being torn from infected gums. Not looking to see if anyone was watching, Martin stepped into the room and closed the door behind him; it wouldn’t latch (he’d taken care of that for good), so he looked around, saw a crate stuffed with books and newspapers and painting supplies, and dragged it over to hold the door in place.
He then heard something from elsewhere in the room; the pulling in of a deep, slow, ragged breath, thick with mucus, that made a sickening rattle-wheeze-pop! at the end, an equally terrible sound when exhaled.
He walked toward the nearly used-up old man lying in the shabby, half-broken bed, his body covered by tattered blankets.
No, not just some old man—Bob.
This was him.
It was really him. Martin recognized him from that day outside DeVito’s; his face was all but collapsed now, barely more than a skeleton covered in a tissue-thin layer of flesh, but it was him.
A hundred different questions came to him simultaneously: how long had Bob lain here in this condition? How had he managed to keep himself alive? How long had he lived here, anyway? Didn’t he have any friends who might have come by to check on him?
Martin realized he was wasting time—Bob couldn’t last much longer, no way—but he had no idea what he was supposed to do, what he was supposed to look for or find here, so he fumbled in the dark until he found the small desk lamp attached to the head of the bed and snapped it on.
It was only a forty-watt bulb, but that was all it took.
Dear God, he thought. No one should have to die like this.
It wasn’t just that Bob’s skin had the grey pallor of spoiled meat, or that his hands had locked into shapes that more resembled talons; it wasn’t even the smell of him—dried blood, ruined bowels, the mold from the sheets and the blankets, something both pungent and moist that could only have been a freshly-burst infected bedsore—no; these were bad enough, sure, because goddammit no one should have to endure a death this cruel: it was, simply, that Martin Tyler was looking at the crystalline image of his very worst fear: that he was going to end up old, sick, alone, and forgotten, living out the remainder of his empty days in some dim little shabby room with no one to talk to or care whether or not he woke every day to the promise of more loneliness, feeling like his life had amounted to nothing.
No one deserves to die like this.
Bob pulled in another terrible, thick, rattle-wheeze-pop! breath
(the Death Rattle, Martin remembered a nurse using the term during his dad’s final hours; the Death Rattle), then sank farther down into soaked-through mattress.
“Hi, buddy,” said Martin. Whispered. Wept.
He found a rickety wood-backed chair that he pulled over next to the bed and—after testing it to make sure it would support his weight—sat down.
“Long time no see,” he said.
. . . rattle-wheeze-pop!
“I wish I remembered more about you, I really do. I’m sorry. I—Christ, I’m not even sure you can hear me. When each of my folks died, near the very end, one of the nurses told me that they could still hear me if I wanted to say something to them, tell them I loved them or say good-bye, and as much . . . as much as I wanted to believe that, I couldn’t bring myself to say a goddamn thing. I just sat there and watched them die. And even then it felt like . . . because I didn’t talk to them . . . it felt like I was failing them one last time.”
. . . rattle-wheeze-pop!
“I don’t think I can do this again, Bob, I really don’t. But I can’t think of what else to do. I don’t know where to go from here, can you understand that? Jerry didn’t have the chance to tell me. I’ve gotten this far but from here on . . . I’m winging it.”
. . . rattle . . .
“So I’m going to sit here for a minute while I try to think of my next move and keep you company, all right? I think maybe you’d like that. I hope so, anyway. I think maybe you didn’t have a lot of company, and you would’ve liked some.”
. . . wheeze . . .
“I’m sorry that you were so lonely that spending twenty minutes with me was a high point in your life. I wish I’d known that. I’ve never been anyone’s high point before.”
. . . pop!
“If it helps, that watercolor I bought from you is my prize possession. I really love that picture, you know? You were good; you were really good.”
. . . rattle . . .
“I’ll remember you, I promise. Even if no one else does, I will. Does that count for anything?”
. . . wheeze . . .
“I’m going to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone, if that’s all right, since we’re here like this, just you and me. All my life, I’ve
(been half in love with easeful death)
felt lonely. Even in a crowd of people, or with people I know, even the few times I’ve had girlfriends, I’ve felt that way. I’ve spent so much time looking back at the bad things, or imagining the good things ahead that never get around to happening, that I’ve . . . I’ve missed out on most of my life. You ever feel like that? Like you’ve
(Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme)
been living just outside the frame of the movie, except it’s in the frame where all the real living is happening?”
. . . pop!
“Ah, well, shit. My head really hurts, and I’m tired, and I’m scared right down to the marrow of my bones. And I sound like a whiny little kid. I’m sorry.”
He reached out touched one of Bob’s hands, gently stroking its surface; it felt rock-hard, clammy, a brittle used-up echo of something grand that once was.
“Why couldn’t I talk to my folks like this, at the end?” And son-of-a-bitch if that didn’t open the goddamn waterworks again. Martin didn’t fight it; he just leaned down his head and placed Bob’s hand against his lips, kissing it once, not too quickly, then pressed it against his forehead as he cried, and once he almost lost his grip but managed to grab hold before Bob’s hand dropped back down and—
—and Bob was holding something.
Martin slowly turned Bob’s hand around—wincing at the sound of the frail bones cracking—and moved it a little more toward the light.
Bob was clutching a piece of paper that had been wadded into the size of a lime.
Carefully working it free of Bob’s frozen grip, Martin smoothed open the sheet of stationary.
Hello, Dipshit, read the salutation.
Martin almost grinned. “Hello yourself, Jerry.”
The letter continued:
Since you’re reading this, then Gash woke up before I could finish telling you what you need to do.
Yes, I figured that you’d end up holding Bob’s hand; cop to it or not, you’re a hand-holder; held your dad’s hand, held your mom’s, it only stood to reason . . . .
Second floor above what used to be DeVito’s; first room on your left at the top of the landing. Bob’s old apartment many years ago. The painting is there, so is the key to the museum. You’ll know the key when you find it—or when it finds you. There’s a flashlight under the bed, you’ll need it.
Be careful; once you’re inside, Gash will know and he’ll come looking. Make damn sure he doesn’t spot you—and more important than that, make sure you don’t see him. It, actually. Trust me on this: you lay eyes on that thing, you’d sooner rip them out of their sockets than have to look at it a second time.
The exhibit you want is called Rights of Memory. In it, you’ll find a piece entitled As Was, As Is. Smash the case, and take the piece out of the museum. Once you’ve gotten out, destroy it—and don’t let your heart or hand be swayed by its appearance, that’s what Gash wants.
This piece is the disease; it is the physical form of the Alzheimer’s that is killing Bob; Gash is what the Alzheimer’s is becoming. As long as he and it are in the same place, the process can’t be stopped. He’s been using other pieces from inside the museum to build himself; when Bob dies, he will ingest As-Was and be complete. It is the single most powerful source of his strength; destroy it, and he’s toast.
No, this won’t save Bob, but it will stop Gash and buy the rest of the Substruo time to repair the foundation while they wait for Bob’s replacement to come of age.
Then there’s one last thing that you’ll need to do, and it’s going to take nerve.
Here Jerry had drawn an arrow at the bottom of the page. Martin turned over the letter and read the two short lines written there.
“Oh, no . . . .”
From the bed, Bob released another rattle-wheeze-pop!
Martin looked at him. The gaps between each breath were growing longer.
And Martin knew what this meant; he’d known it with Dad, known with Mom.
There was maybe an hour left; probably less.
He grabbed the flashlight from under the bed, rose from the chair, leaned down, kissed Bob’s forehead, whispered, “Good-bye, my friend; I will keep you in my heart always,” then walked across the room, kicked aside the crate, wrenched open the door, and ran.
And ran.
And ran.
Hitting the street, he kept running, the crowbar hanging from his grip, not giving a good goddamn if anyone saw him or not.
He would not be stopped.
Regardless of what he had to do, he would not be stopped.
He stuck to the side streets and alleyways.
Six minutes after he’d said good-bye to Bob, Martin emerged half a block from West Church Street.
He would have to be out in the open now; if the cops were going to spot him, it would be between here and DeVito’s.
The area of the square where he’d emerged was once again swarming with classic cars . . . and police cruisers. Like the first night, the cars seemed to be going a little too fast, showing off, but the cops seemed to be enjoying it as much as the spectators.
Good, just keep watching the show . . .
Sliding the crowbar back up the sleeve of his coat, he lowered his head and started crossing the street—there were a lot of spectators tonight, the streets were lined with lawn chairs—and was just turning the corner onto West Church when a little boy sitting a few feet away from a foot-patrol officer shouted: “That guy’s all bloody!”
The officer turned in Martin’s direction, saw the way he looked, and began approaching him while simultaneously talking into the microphone of his portable communications unit.
Martin shook his arm, letting the cr
owbar drop back into his grip.
Only if I have to . . .
Then turned and continued walking away.
After a few yards, he turned and looked behind him.
The officer was at the corner, finishing speaking into his mike, looking right at him.
Martin tightened his grip on the crowbar.
And then a grotesquely wonderful thing happened: someone in a souped-up ’67 Chevy hit the gas to beat a yellow light, didn’t make, and broadsided a Bentley that in turn spun around and slammed into the front end of a ’74 Ford Mustang. The collision wasn’t bad enough to seriously injure any of the drivers or passengers, but it created one hell of snarl.
The officer following Martin spun around to see what had happened, then ran out into the street and started directing traffic around and away from the accident.
Martin wasted no time; he sprinted down West Church, crossed at the deserted intersection, and ran to the front of the Tae Kwon Do studio. To the left of the display window
(used to be so many books there)
was a dilapidated-looking puke-green door. Martin put his shoulder against it, worked the curved edge of the crowbar between the door and jamb, and forced it open.
Could have a whole new career as a burglar waiting for you.
He all but threw himself into the small area at the bottom of the stairs, yanking the door closed and whispering a silent hallelujah when it stayed in place.
He took a few seconds to catch his breath—I’m gonna quit smoking I swear to God I’m gonna quit—then realized that by closing the door he’d plunged himself into near-total darkness.
He fumbled the flashlight from his coat pocket and turned it on; the beam came alive with churning dust motes, wriggling a bright path up the two dozen or so stairs that led to the second floor.
Martin began to climb, the stair boards creaking and groaning under his weight. He seemed to be making a habit of climbing up noisy stairs.
Cages & Those Who Hold the Keys Page 9
