The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone m-6

by George C. Chesbro

  "What about the others?"

  "The same-crazy and dangerous; but more obviously crazy and dangerous. They're all under heavy medication, so there shouldn't be anything to worry about. Still, it can get hairy in the secure unit, and you can pass if you feel uncomfortable."

  "What? Not complete the tour? I'll stick with you."

  Carling turned a key on his ring in the lock, and I held the door open while he wheeled the cart through. When I released the door, it sighed shut, locked with an audible click.

  It appeared that this section of the fourteenth floor had been extensively remodeled to meet the needs of the secure unit; there was lots of open space, making the sections of the clinic I had already seen seem relatively cramped. Individual rooms, without doors, radiated off a huge, circular commons area which contained a large projection TV, game tables, a music system with half a dozen sets of earphones, a mini-library stocked with a few hundred books, current newspapers and magazines, and a work-study area complete with word processing equipment.

  "Depending on tension levels, the other patients are allowed in here a few at a time to socialize or use the equipment," Carling said as we headed across the commons area toward three men who sat in armchairs beside the barred windows. "But these men don't come out."

  "I'm impressed," I said, and I was.

  "Meds time, gentlemen," Carling said cheerfully as he brought the cart to a stop a few feet away from the men.

  "Remember, we don't call this place Club Med for nothing; a pill a day keeps the nasties away."

  Two of the men took their pills without comment, washing them down with orange juice, then walked away. Carling signed the cards, then held out a cup filled with a purple liquid. "Down the hatch, Mama," the nurse continued easily.

  The third patient, a rangy man wearing rubber thongs, cut-off jeans, and a tank top with camouflage design, made no move to take the cup, and I hoped nothing in my face or manner betrayed the revulsion I felt when I looked at him. Suddenly I found myself taking comfort in the fact that there were five other white-coated male nurses, all reassuringly big and burly, standing or sitting around the area.

  The marks on the man's face and shaved head hadn't been applied in any tattoo parlor; the dye-stained, ragged scars were obviously self-inflicted, probably with a razor blade. Circling his head was a crown of thorns, complete with scar-puckered drops of blood extending down over his shoulders, chest, and back, JESUS, in red-stained capital letters, was carved into his left cheek, SAVES into the right. The man was looking directly at me with bright, slightly unfocused green eyes, and it had been a long time since I'd seen as much naked hatred in a face.

  "Mama?" Carling continued in a low, hard voice which had lost all traces of its lisp. "What's up, Mama? Talk to me.”

  "I'm not sure I want to take my medication today," the man called Mama said in a low, guttural voice that was close to a snarl. Rage mingled with the hatred in his eyes as he glared at me, and the muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched.

  Something about me was seriously upsetting the man, and I wasn't sure whether walking away would pacify him or enrage him even more. Consequently I remained very still, dropped my gaze, and stared at the floor in what I hoped the man would take as a gesture of passivity; but I made sure I kept him well within my range of peripheral vision. If he got tired of talking and nasty faces and made a move for me, I was prepared to drop him with a kick to the groin or the side of the knee.

  "You suit yourself, Mama," Tommy Carling said in the same low, hard voice. "Nobody's going to force you to take your meds, and you know it. But you also know what's going to happen if you don't take it. By noontime, you'll be hopping around inside your skin. Then you'll want to calm down, but you won't be able to; you'll ask for your stuff, but by then it will be too late for oral medication, pill or liquid. You'll get belligerent and want to fight. You'll throw some furniture around. You'll be confused, and you'll get very threatening. That's when we'll have to take you down, put you in a camisole, and stick a needle in your ass. You'll end up in the Critical Care room for a minimum of twenty-four hours, trussed up in that camisole and lying on a mat. You know it's going to happen, Mama, so why don't you just take your meds now and save us all a lot of grief?"

  "Why the hell did you bring a dwarf in here?!" the man shouted, half rising from the chair and clenching his bony fists. "God hates dwarfs! Dwarfs are evil, and God wants them all dead! I wouldn't be here if it weren't for dwarfs! You bring one in here, it's bad luck for all of us!"

  Ah, yes. It just didn't seem like a good time to try to point out all the sterling qualities of dwarfs, and so I remained still and silent-but ready, balanced on the balls of my feet.

  "Mama, I'm sorry," Carling said in a voice that had suddenly become soothing. The other nurses, who had hurried over as soon as the man had begun shouting, now stood shoulder to shoulder in a semicircle behind his chair. "This is something new, a view of yours I wasn't aware of. I didn't mean to do anything to upset you, and I'm going to make it right. I'm going to take this man out of here right now. When I come back, you're going to be calmed down, and you're going to take your meds. Okay?" Carling paused, inclined his head toward me, continued evenly: "Walk to the door; I'll be right behind you."

  I certainly didn't need any prompting-but as I turned to leave I found my way blocked by someone with a slim waist connected to a pair of massive thighs, very close. I hadn't heard anyone come up behind me, and I was thoroughly startled.

  "Take your medication, Baker, and stop this bullshit," a voice above me said curtly.

  I stepped back, looked up at the man who had spoken. The owner of the thighs and the deep, commanding voice was about the same size as my brother, six feet two or three. He obviously spent a lot of time in the gym, for his chest and heavily muscled arms bulged inside a short-sleeved knit jersey. He had a rugged but not unhandsome face, with a straight nose, pronounced cheekbones, and an ocher tinge to his flesh that made me think he might have more than a little American Indian in him. His eyes were black-bright, piercing. He had a full head of hair only slightly tinged with gray around the temples. The sharp widow's peak that extended low on his forehead gave him an elfin-or devilish-look. I put his age at around forty-five.

  "This is none of your business, Braxton!" Mama Baker shouted. His eyes had grown very wide, and both JESUS and SAVES were outlined in pink as he flushed. He continued to tremble with rage, but something else-respect, and perhaps fear-moved in his green eyes, and he eased himself back down into his chair.

  "It's the business of everybody in this unit, Baker, when your bullshit involves our privileges," the tall man with the piercing eyes said evenly. "The last time you refused to take your medication, it was less than three hours before you went apeshit. You busted up the place, and it took two months to get the television and stereo repaired."

  Marl Braxton paused, glanced at Tommy Carling, and held out his right hand. Carling handed a paper cup to the big man, who swallowed the two tiny pink pills in it without juice or water. "See?" Braxton said quietly to the man with the scar-shrouded head. "Nothing to it. This man you've been insulting is Dr. Robert Frederickson. I have no idea what he's doing here, but he should be treated as an honored guest. I mean, we wouldn't want Dr. Frederickson to think we're too crazy, would we, Mama? In any case, I wish to think of him as my honored guest. He's a most accomplished and interesting man, and I'd like to speak with him about many subjects. If he leaves prematurely because of you, Baker, I'll take personal offense. Now, calm down and take your medication."

  Mama Baker swallowed hard, and his knuckles were white where they gripped the armrests of his chair. "Are you threatening me, Braxton?!"

  "No," the big man replied mildly. "I'm asking you to do what you should be doing anyway. The rest of us don't care to suffer because of your stupidity."

  "What are you going to do if I don't?"

  "I'll do nothing. But there's always the chance that my maid of constant sorrows may
visit you one night."

  "Fuck you and your creepy maid of constant sorrows."

  "My maid of constant sorrows will most assuredly fuck you, Mama." Marl Braxton's voice, calm and quiet to begin with, had become softer-which only made it more chilling. "She'll really stick it to you. You won't like it."

  There was a prolonged silence during which Mama Baker glared at Marl Braxton, who calmly gazed back at him.

  "Give me the fucking stuff," Baker said at last.

  There was a barely audible, communal sigh of relief around the room as Mama Baker took a cup from Tommy Carling's outstretched hand, swallowed the purple liquid. He crumpled the cup and hurled it to the floor, then jumped out of his chair and stalked away.

  "Ah, yes, just another boring day at the office," Tommy Carling said as he picked up the crumpled cup and dropped it into a slot in the side of the cart. He nodded to the other male nurses, who then walked away to various sections of the commons area. "Mongo, meet Marl Braxton."

  "Mr. Braxton," I said, extending my hand.

  Marl Braxton stared down into my face, but made no move to take my outstretched hand. He continued to stare, and then he frowned slightly. "You're afraid of me," he said at last.

  I dropped my hand back to my side, said nothing.

  "No," the other man continued thoughtfully, after a pause. "Not afraid; but I make you nervous."

  "I'm a little strung out at the moment, Mr. Braxton."

  The man with the widow's peak and bright black eyes nodded toward Tommy Carling. "Our ponytailed friend here has been talking to you about me, hasn't he? Tommy really loves to gossip; I'll never understand how he got a security clearance. They must tape his mouth shut every day when he leaves here."

  "What would you like to discuss with me, Mr. Braxton?"

  "Please don't patronize me, Frederickson," Marl Braxton said evenly, and then sighed. "I'm just crazy; I'm not simple. I've read many of your monographs on the so-called criminally insane, and I found them most impressive. You're a professor, with a doctorate in criminology; you're an ex-circus headliner, a noted private investigator; you have a black belt in karate. I just wanted to talk."

  "Then let's talk. Maybe we can get some coffee, and-"

  "No," Braxton said curtly. "Not today; not when the air has been poisoned the way it has. Perhaps some other time."

  Marl Braxton turned on his heel and walked quickly away, disappearing into one of the rooms that radiated off the commons area. When I looked back at Tommy Carling, the male nurse's expression was thoughtful.

  "Well, now you've met Marl Braxton," he said dryly.

  "This Mama Baker was afraid of him."

  "Oh, yes. Baker's real name is Marion, incidentally, in case you're interested. He insists everyone call him Mama, and we oblige. Anyway, there's a pecking order here, just like there is in all groups."

  "And here, Marl Braxton is at the top of the pecking order."

  "You've got it."

  Suddenly, I heard the door to the unit bang open. I turned, saw the director of the clinic, his face flushed with anger, hurrying toward us. Dr. Charles Slycke was a man in his late fifties or early sixties, and most of the time acted like an extremely stressed individual in need of a good psychiatrist-at least that's how he seemed to me. He was a couple of inches under six feet, overweight but not obese, with thinning gray hair that stuck out at odd angles from his head and watery gray eyes with dark pouches under them. At the moment, those eyes were flashing with anger-and, I thought, perhaps just a touch of insecurity.

  "What is this man doing here?!" Slycke snapped at the male nurse.

  "Sir, he has a Z-13 identity badge, and I just thought-"

  "I'm well aware of what kind of badge he's wearing, and I don't care what you thought! Sometimes you go too far, mister! Do you think this is some kind of a game?!"

  Carling shook his head. "I don't know what you mean, sir," he said evenly.

  Slycke sucked in a deep breath, took a step backward, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his checked sports jacket. "Did he ask you to bring him into the secure unit?"

  "No, sir, but-"

  "Excuse me, Doctor," I said to the psychiatrist in what I hoped was a properly soothing and thoroughly deferential tone. "There seems to have been a misunderstanding, and it's my fault."

  Slycke continued to ignore me as he glared at Tommy Carling. "Why wasn't I even informed that this man was in the building?!"

  "Sir, with his Z-13, I didn't think-"

  "That is correct! You didn't think!" "Excuse me, Doctor," I said a bit more forcefully. "I apologize for any inconvenience or trouble I've caused, and I'll try to make certain it won't happen again. I'll be more than happy to follow any procedure you want to lay out. Mr. Carling was just trying to be-"

  "Come with me, Frederickson," Slycke snapped, abruptly wheeling around and heading back toward the door, which was being held open by two nurses. "We have to talk."

  4

  Feeling like nothing so much as an unruly student in tow behind a stern principal, I dutifully followed Charles Slycke out of the secure unit and back to his dimly lit office, which was off a small foyer leading to the fire stairs. I sat down in a chair without being asked as the portly man went behind his scarred wooden desk, nervously ran both hands through his unruly hair, then sank down in a leather swivel chair and opened a thin, pale green folder. He seemed highly agitated, and I strongly suspected that his distress sprang from a lot more than his having found me in the secure unit.

  "Frederickson," the director of the clinic mumbled without looking up, "this is your brother's file I have here. I'd like to ask you a few questions about his medical history."

  "I'll be happy to answer your questions, Dr. Slycke, but I filled out an extensive set of medical questionnaires on Garth yesterday. Don't you have them in the file?"

  Now the other man looked up, fixed me with his pouched, rheumy eyes. "Are you certain there's nothing you've left out?"

  Nothing that Slycke would believe, and nothing that would be of any use to him; the formula for, and all samples of, the serum that had twisted everything in us but our minds horribly out of shape during the Valhalla affair had been destroyed in a volcanic explosion in Greenland. If and when Garth regained consciousness, he might well feel the need to talk about our experiences; until then, there was nothing I could say about Valhalla that could serve as anything other than an unnecessary distraction.

  "No," I replied. "He had the usual childhood diseases, tonsils and appendix out, and a few broken bones. You've got it all in the forms I filled out."

  Slycke closed the file and pushed it to one side, then folded his hands on top of the desk and studied me. For the moment, at least, he seemed to be holding his hostility toward me in abeyance. "We've found a curious anomaly in your brother's blood chemistry, Dr. Frederickson, and I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the matter."

  "What's the anomaly?"

  "He has some very strange antibodies which aren't listed in any reference book; their chemical makeup is quite unlike anything the medical profession has ever seen. Are you sure your brother never suffered from some peculiar affliction? Perhaps he picked up a tropical disease while he was traveling, or in the service?"

  "Not that I'm aware of. You can always check his service medical records, but I'm sure he would have told me about anything like that. Does it make a difference? We know he suffered his breakdown after he was poisoned with NPPD."

  "Frederickson, your brother seems to possess antibodies in his blood for a disease that doesn't exist."

  A disease called the Valhalla Project, I thought, now mercifully banished from the face of the earth-except, obviously, for antibodies left in Garth's blood. And mine. "Could the existence of those antibodies-or whatever caused the antibodies-have something to do with Garth's present condition?"

  "That's impossible to say until we know what it is we're looking at. It's somewhat perplexing to discover, in your brother's case,
that we're dealing with not one, but two unknowns; the effect of nitrophenylpentadienal ingestion, combined with what may be long-term, lingering effects from whatever disease caused those antibodies."

  "I can't explain it," I said. "Maybe the antibodies are a reaction to the NPPD in his system."

  Slycke shook his head impatiently. "There are many things about nitrophenylpentadienal we don't know-it may or may not have a long-range toxic effect on internal organs, and it may or may not be able to penetrate the blood-brain barrier. However, since it is an inorganic chemical, it cannot possibly create antibodies. Your brother was definitely exposed to some kind of exotic disease at some time in the past."

  "I'm sorry I can't help you, sir."

  "Your brother is in a profound catatonic state, Frederickson, and it's not going to be at all helpful to him if you play games with me."

  I stiffened in my chair. "Games?"

  "I require your full cooperation, and it would be most troubling to me if I thought. . you were keeping something from me I should know."

  "Look, Dr. Slycke," I said carefully, "I've sensed your suspicion and hostility toward me from the moment we met, and I don't understand it. I don't want to interfere with clinic procedures, and I certainly don't want to upset anybody. All I want is to be with my brother, regardless of whether or not he knows I'm there. Is that so difficult to understand? What's the problem?"

  "Your brother isn't in the secure unit. What were you doing there?"

  "I was just looking around," I said with a shrug. "As a matter of fact, I'm very impressed with your operation. You should be commended."

  "Why were you looking around the clinic?"

  "No particular reason," I said, seeing that flattery was going to get me nowhere with Charles Slycke. "I was just curious."

  "Did you ask Mr. Carling to take you there?"

  "Look, Doctor," I said after a moment's hesitation, "I don't want Mr. Carling to get into trouble because you're peeved with me. I've watched him working with Garth, and I've very pleased. He seems to me an excellent nurse. When he invited me to accompany him on his rounds, he was just trying to be friendly and courteous. Where's the harm in that?"