The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone m-6

by George C. Chesbro

"You don't, huh? Funny, I'd have sworn you sounded depressed."

  "No. Depression is something which a person who has hope feels when that hope temporarily wanes. You're depressed."

  "All right," I said, fighting back tears. "I'll try real hard not to feel bad about you."

  "Good. That would only add depth to the ocean."

  "Garth, there's a kid over in the children's hospital who's totally convinced that he's Jesus. I told him he'd be a whole hell of a lot better off if only he'd stop going around telling people he was Jesus. He explained to me that he couldn't do that; it seems God insists that he witness to the fact that he's Jesus. You remind me of him."

  Garth raised his eyebrows slightly. "Why? Garth doesn't even believe in God or gods."

  "You used to."

  "God is part of the 'I,' and it's just another illusion-a very dangerous one. That illusion is a large part of the reason we're all going to die."

  "You still remind me of the kid."

  "Have you ever heard Garth claim to be Jesus?"

  "Both you and that kid are irrational; you refuse to think in a way that's in your best interests. You understand that you've been poisoned, and you understand that the poison has altered the way you think, the way you feel about yourself, and the way you perceive the world; yet, you seem quite willing to accept the changes as permanent."

  "Garth accepts things the way they are, and you call that irrational. What you really mean is that you cannot accept Garth the way he is-without his 'I.' "

  I started to say something, then turned in my seat when I heard a knock at the door. A male nurse I hadn't seen before leaned in the open doorway.

  "Dr. Frederickson?"

  "Yeah."

  "You told Tommy you wanted to speak with Dr. Slycke?"

  "Yeah."

  "Dr. Slycke can see you now, for a few minutes."

  "Tell him I'll be right with him," I said, then turned back to Garth. My brother had put his earphones back on, turned on the player, and was staring out the window with a distant expression on his face. "If you haven't already," I continued quietly, "and if you feel up to it, you might call Mom and Dad. They've been just a little bit worried about you."

  Garth didn't respond. I rose from the chair and, feeling as if I were trudging along the bottom of my own ocean of sorrow, walked from the room.

  9

  "What's the matter with my brother, Doctor?"

  Dr. Charles Slycke sat half in and half out of a harsh pool of light cast by a gooseneck lamp set off to one side of his desk. The psychiatrist looked tired; there was thick, black stubble on his puffy cheeks, dark shadows around the dark, puffy bags beneath his eyes, and his gray hair stuck out from his head at odd angles. Perhaps because he was obviously near the point of exhaustion, I didn't sense the usual hostility from him.

  "At this point, that's difficult to say with any certainty, Frederickson."

  "I'd appreciate your best guess," I said quietly. "Also, I want to thank you for agreeing to see me now. I know you're very tired, and I appreciate the fact that you're tired because of the many hours you've spent with Garth."

  "So have a lot of other people," Slycke responded with a slight nod. "Physically, you can see that he's made a remarkable recovery."

  "To all outward appearances, yes. Do your tests confirm that?"

  "Yes. Physically, he appears no worse off than anyone who has spent a couple of weeks in bed. However, there are still traces of nitrophenylpentadienal in his tissues and in his urine, which means that the drug is still in his system. That tells us that NPPD metabolizes very slowly-but it does metabolize. We may also surmise from his behavior that the chemical transits the blood-brain barrier and forms chemical bonds with the molecules of the brain. There's no indication that it's addictive, but like heroin, alcohol, or any one of a number of other drugs that transit the blood-brain barrier and form chemical bonds, it apparently has a profound effect on mood, perceptions, and behavior."

  "Doctor Slycke," I said, leaning forward in my chair, "I love the man in the room back there, but that man isn't anything like the brother I used to know. That man is a stranger to me."

  Slycke passed a thick hand over his eyes. "Your brother is showing marked tendencies of having developed a schizoid personality as a result of the chemical bonding I mentioned. The tests don't indicate any organic damage, but that doesn't mean there isn't any. He's developed a number of bizarre fantasies."

  "Like what?"

  "For one thing, he insists that he murdered the late secretary of state; he claims that he shot the man down in cold blood."

  Terrific. I could feel muscle tighten across my chest like a band of steel. "That is a bizarre fantasy," I said carefully. "When did he tell you all this?"

  "Early on. Once he decided to talk, he spoke quite freely."

  "Why would he tell you such a thing? I mean, what was the context of the conversation?"

  Slycke shrugged his broad shoulders. "He believes very strongly that the human race is doomed to extinction, perhaps in the very near future, but certainly within four hundred years. This extinction fantasy involves Dr. Siegmund Loge, the triple Nobel laureate who disappeared some years ago and is presumed dead."

  "Yeah. The name is familiar to me."

  "Dr. Loge was awarded one of his Nobels for inventing the Triage Parabola, a mathematical model that is very effective in predicting which endangered species are inevitably doomed to extinction, and which could most benefit from human intervention. The Triage Parabola has been most useful to zoologists and conservationists in helping them to make decisions as to how best to allocate their limited resources in trying to preserve endangered species. Part of Garth's fantasy is that Dr. Loge determined from his model that the human species itself is in imminent peril of extinction, and that he then embarked on some fantastic scheme to alter human DNA-not only in future generations, but in people now living. Of course, the human species is far too complex ever to be accurately measured by a mathematical model."

  "Of course."

  "Garth further fantasizes that the two of you became involved in a protracted struggle with Dr. Loge because you'd been injected with some deadly serum Loge had developed. From what I can tell, these beliefs compel Garth to witness to the danger to our species, and to unburden himself of guilt for crimes he imagines he has committed. It's a remarkably rich fantasy-the one involving Dr. Loge-and it combines elements of classic Western mythology, as reflected in works like Wagner's Ring, or Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Obviously, your brother is very familiar with the Ring cycle, and its various motifs. Do you know if he's read Tolkien?"

  "I'm sure he has. Garth's quite a reader."

  "It wouldn't surprise me. Garth's fantasy comes complete with a great quest, giants, fearsome creatures, sentient animals, death and destruction; there's even a kind of magical sword-a knife, really-which he believes you found, and which you dubbed Whisper."

  "Garth has a remarkable imagination," I said dryly. "Now he seems to have turned it against himself."

  "We know, of course, the stories the music conjures up. Do you know of any real incidents Garth experienced which could form the basis for this kind of fantasy?"

  "Which one? Killing Orville Madison, or doing battle with Siegmund Loge?"

  "Either."

  "No," I said in a flat voice. Garth had certainly been downright chatty with the doctors who'd examined him during the day, and he was blithely letting a lot of ugly cats out of a lot of ugly bags. These cats had poisonous fangs and claws, and letting them loose wasn't going to do anyone any good. "What does the murder fantasy have to do with the end-of-the-world business?"

  "I'm not sure there is a connection. However, your brother insists that he shot Madison."

  "Everyone knows that Orville Madison died in a hunting accident."

  "Garth says that the hunting accident never happened, that it was a cover-up engineered by, among other people, no less than the president of the United States."

&nb
sp; "Well, certainly no one can accuse Garth of not casting his fantasies with the biggest names in show business."

  Slycke glanced up sharply at me. "Do you find this amusing, Dr. Frederickson?"

  "No, Dr. Slycke, I most certainly do not. I apologize if I sounded flippant. It's just my way."

  Slycke thought about it, apparently decided to accept my apology. "In Garth's mind, the murder of the secretary of state is somehow tied in with a search for an angel. This aspect of the fantasy isn't quite clear to me, and I'll have to listen to the tapes when I'm more rested."

  "What about his constant use of the third person when he's referring to himself?"

  "A loss of identity-diminishment of ego and the persistent feeling that one is living in someone else's body-isn't all that rare in certain schizoid types."

  "Didn't Garth explain his angel fantasy to you?"

  "Not exactly. He simply said that the two of you-yes, you're involved in this fantasy, also-were searching for an angel that the secretary of state wanted to kill. Garth had a lot of things to say about all sorts of incidents, but his method of telling them was. . well, perfunctory. He seemed to have a need to talk about these fantasies, but not to explain them in any detail; once he had said something, no matter how bizarre, that seemed to be the end of the matter. He resisted answering questions-another reason why I have to listen carefully to the tapes. I was hoping you might be able to shed light on some of these matters. Wagner's music is clearly connected to his quest fantasy, but it doesn't seem to explain the murder and angel fantasies. There must be some basis in reality for these fantasies."

  "I guess maybe I should listen to the tapes too, Doctor."

  "Surely you understand that records of conversations between doctor and patient must be kept confidential."

  "I'd just like to be helpful." And find out just how much, about how many things, Garth had told these doctors-one of whom could be a K.G.B. informant. Mr. Lippitt was not going to be pleased.

  Slycke grunted noncommittally. "Garth has also developed a most intense empathic facet to his personality. Indeed, it's the most powerful sense of empathy I've ever encountered. Most unusual."

  "Meaning what, Doctor?"

  "Your brother is obsessed with human suffering, virtually to the exclusion of everything else. Human misery is all he seems to think or really care about."

  "Garth has always been a kind and sympathetic man."

  "This is more than mere kindness and sympathy, Frederickson. This is empathy — almost total identification. Any decent individual is sensitive to the suffering of others, but with Garth this goes a step-or many steps-further. With Garth, it's almost as if he not only imagines but actually experiences the suffering of others. This intense empathy clearly seems to be linked to the music of Richard Wagner-specifically, Der Ring des Nibelungen."

  "Yes," I said softly.

  "Yes?"

  "I can see that."

  "Can you explain why this should be? Does that music have specific associations for him?"

  "What does Garth say?"

  "Nothing edifying, since it's bound up in his quest fantasy. He claims that Siegmund Loge used that music to torture the two of you in some way."

  "The Ring has always had a powerful effect on Garth."

  "The anomalies in Garth's blood which I mentioned previously: Do you suppose the same unique antibodies would show up in your blood, Frederickson?"

  "I don't know."

  "Your brother says that both of you were tortured and infected with this strange disease. If that were the case, you would also carry those same antibodies."

  "Are you saying that you believe Garth's stories may be true?"

  Slycke shook his head impatiently. "Of course not. The point is that he believes them to be true, and I'm trying to establish whether there may be some basis in reality for that belief. His fantasies are highly complex and structured, and he holds to them with remarkable consistency."

  "Even if I did carry the same antibodies in my blood, it wouldn't mean anything, would it? It would just indicate that I'd picked up whatever Garth had had, but it was such a mild case that I wasn't even aware I had it."

  "But you don't recall Garth ever suffering from any exotic disease?"

  "No."

  "I hope you're not concealing anything from me that could be useful in the treatment of your brother, Frederickson."

  "I'm sorry I can't be more helpful, Doctor."

  "So am I, Frederickson, so am I." Slycke paused, rubbed his temples with his middle fingers, grimaced as if he had hurt himself. "You shouldn't have brought those tapes of the Ring to your brother."

  "I think I might agree with you. But that's a moot question now, isn't it?"

  "We're looking at symptoms; we still don't know the deep structure of Garth's psychosis, or the mechanics of what's causing it. We could speculate that one effect of NPPD poisoning is to wipe the mind clean of most emotions associated with people and events, past and present. In essence, the mind becomes a kind of emotional blank tape, and the result is a state of profound depression leading to a paralysis of thought, will, and movement which closely mimicks classic catatonia. But that blank tape can be imprinted-if a stimulus can be found that is powerful enough to pierce the profound depression. You pierced the depression, and imprinted the tape, when you played the Ring for him. But that's all you did; you didn't reawaken the whole person, or heal the real hurt. Indeed, you've probably compounded the injury."

  "Why do I get the impression that you're trying to make me feel bad?"

  "I'm trying to construct a psychiatric model of your brother's problem that I can work with, Frederickson. If you get the impression that you've made my work more difficult, and possibly endangered your brother's health, by taking unauthorized actions, it's a correct one. But what's done is done, and recriminations are useless. We have to go on from where we are."

  "I'm glad you feel that way."

  "Whatever experiences and feelings Garth associates with that music now form the core of his emotional being, and he behaves accordingly. As a result of that imprinting, Garth's personality is now focused almost completely on physical and emotional pain. You know, your brother actually suffers when he listens to that music."

  "So you told me."

  "Yet he won't stop listening." There was a faint note of disbelief in the psychiatrist's voice.

  "Maybe the music is the only thing that's holding him together," I ventured carefully.

  "Then he's holding himself together with barbed wire; eventually, that will shred him."

  "What are you going to do about it?"

  "I'm not sure, frankly, that there's anything we can do about it," Slycke said with a heavy sigh. "Psychiatry is very effective with neurotics, but-I'm sad to say-not so effective with psychotics. At the moment, your brother is definitely displaying psychotic symptomology. Usually, the best we can do with psychotics is to attempt to change their brain chemistry in order to alleviate their symptoms and allow them to function to whatever degree they're capable of." The doctor smiled thinly, without humor, and for a moment frustration and real pain moved in his eyes. "We dope them up."

  "I appreciate your candor, Doctor, and I'm beginning to understand why you. . come so highly recommended. All right, then, what about medication? Antidepressants?"

  "They might work to some degree," Slycke said thoughtfully, "but it's doubtful that they'd provide any significant or long-lasting relief for the sort of core personality disorder your brother is displaying. I may approach Garth on the subject; we'd need his permission to medicate. My guess is that he'll firmly reject the idea."

  "Nobody's going to dispute the fact that Garth is seriously disturbed. Why do you need his permission to medicate him? I'll give you permission, if you think it might help in any way."

  "You can't. He's now conscious, aware of his surroundings, not a threat to himself or others, and functions rationally within a construct of reality that includes this facility and his ow
n treatment. Even if correct therapy didn't dictate that he participate in a decision concerning chemotherapy, which it does, state law insists on it."

  "Then what happens now?"

  "We wait, and we continue to observe closely to see if more changes take place. Also, we hope. As long as traces of nitrophenylpentadienal show up in his urine, we know that the drug is continuing to pass out of his system as it metabolizes. If Garth's brain chemistry were eventually to return to normal-" Slycke paused, shrugged. "Who knows?"

  "You mean we may simply be waiting for him to get over one long, humongous hangover?"

  There was a quick smile, reflecting genuine amusement. Then it was gone. "I don't want to raise any false hopes, Frederickson."

  "You're not."

  "Your somewhat bizarre analogy may not be beyond the realm of possibility. We're just going to have to wait and see, and in the meantime deal with Garth honestly."

  "Thank you very much for your time, Doctor," I said, rising to my feet. "You've been very kind, and I appreciate your concern."

  "Frederickson. .?"

  Slycke had begun to shuffle nervously through some papers on his desk. Finally he looked up at me, said: "Mr. Lippitt really is a close personal friend of yours, isn't he?"

  "Yes, he is," I replied evenly. "Why?"

  The psychiatrist shuffled more papers. "Have you spoken to him, uh. . lately?"

  "No," I replied, my curiosity aroused. None of the former hostility, resentment, or suspicion remained in the psychiatrist's voice; it had been replaced by what sounded like anxiety, and not a little uncertainty. "I haven't spoken with Mr. Lippitt since the arrangements were made for placing Garth here."

  "I see," Slycke said quietly, then cleared his throat. "I thought. . maybe you had."

  "Is there some reason why you think I would-or should-have, Dr. Slycke?"

  Slycke looked at me sharply, and something dark moved in his eyes. "No," he said curtly. "Why do you say that?"

  "I know that somewhere you got the notion that I might be spying on you for Mr. Lippitt, but that was never true. It got us off on the wrong foot at the beginning, which is something I still regret. As I've said repeatedly, my only concern is that Garth get well; I don't care about anything else." I paused, wanting to choose my next words carefully. "Even if there were something funny going on here, I wouldn't want to know about it. That's not to say that I think there is; I'm just trying to make my priorities and position crystal clear."