The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone m-6

by George C. Chesbro

  Slycke studied me for some time, his face a blank, then abruptly looked down at the papers on his desk. "Good night, Dr. Frederickson," he said tersely.

  "Good night, Dr. Slycke."

  After my talk with Slycke, I returned to Garth's room. I'd been concerned that some of the things I'd said earlier might have upset my brother, but I found him where I'd left him-contentedly sitting at the table, staring out the window and humming softly along with the music coming through his earphones. Siegfried. I sat with him for a half hour, until it was time to change the tape. Forcing myself to flash a big smile, I rose, patted him on the shoulder, and told him I'd stop by next day to see how he was doing. Garth said that would be fine, and then went back to listening to his music.

  Distracted, self-absorbed, and decidedly upset about Garth's condition and my possible role in causing it, I could easily have been killed if my knife-wielding attacker had been slightly more skilled and slightly less impatient. I was halfway back to the staff building, taking a shortcut around the back of the chapel, when a figure wearing a gray, hooded sweat shirt leaped out at me from behind the trunk of a huge oak tree. The man's right hand described an arc heading for my chest, and moonlight glinted off the six-inch blade of the hunting knife he held. I dropped to my knees; as the blade passed through the air over my head, I planted both hands on the ground, kicked up and back at the man's midsection. I missed his stomach and groin, but caught him solidly on the left hip. The man cried out in surprise and pain as he flew backward through the air and landed hard on his back. The knife landed on the grass in the darkness somewhere off to my right, and I decided not to waste time looking for it. I scrambled to my feet, darted back to where the man still lay on the ground, and kicked him in the head. Then I sat down hard on his chest. With my left hand I pulled back the hood, brought back my right with the index and middle fingers stiffly extended, ready to strike at his eyes or larynx. I stopped when I found myself looking down into the startled, frightened face of Dane Potter. Blood was running from his mouth. He coughed, turned his head to one side, and spat teeth.

  "You hurt me," the boy mumbled thickly, gasping for breath.

  "Just what the hell do you think you're doing, Dane?"

  "You're not allowed to hurt me! My parents will sue you!"

  "Dane, that's a really crazy thing to say to me," I replied, and stomped on his stomach as I was getting off him. He doubled up, turned over on his side, gagged, and threw up.

  When Dane Potter had finished being sick, but before he could completely catch his breath, I stripped his sweat shirt off him, used it to tie his hands firmly behind his back. I pulled him to his feet, gripped the folds of the sweat shirt, and dragged him backward along with me as I searched in the grass. I found the knife, slipped it into the waistband of my jeans. I also picked up his teeth-three of them-and put them in my pocket. Dentists can do wonders these days.

  "I want to go back to the hospital now, Frederickson," the boy wheezed over his shoulder in a kind of mewling, simpering moan. His breath whistled through the gaps where his teeth had been.

  "That's where you were headed before you decided to take this little detour and try to kill me, right?"

  "Frederickson, I-"

  "And that was you in the pickup trying to add me to the paint job on the bridge this afternoon, right? Don't try to bullshit me, Dane, or I'll kick out some more teeth."

  The boy swallowed hard, nodded. "I'm sorry, Frederickson. Please take me back."

  "In a few minutes," I said, dragging the limping teenager into the moon shadows at the rear of the chapel. "Maybe. Then again, maybe I'll break your arms first. I hate to think of what would have happened to me if you'd gotten your hands on a gun. That's your weapon of choice, right?"

  The boy's eyes were wide with pain and fear; I decided my words were having a therapeutic effect on him.

  "You can't do this," the boy whimpered, craning his neck back and spraying blood over me. "It's against the law; it's abuse."

  "If it's abuse you want, you big, stupid shit, I'll give it to you. What I've done so far is called reality therapy-and if I think the reality therapy isn't working, then I may really beat your ass. People have a right to defend themselves, Dane. If you want to be crazy and try to hurt people, don't be surprised or offended if someone hands you your head. This is the real world out here, my young friend, and you made the wrong move with the wrong person. You're extremely lucky you're not dead or permanently crippled right now, and I'm debating how I should drive that lesson home. What do you think? Should I knock out some more teeth, or just break your nose?"

  The boy bowed his head, sobbed. "Please don't hurt me any more, Frederickson."

  "I won't if you answer my questions and tell me the truth. Have you hurt anybody since you ran away?"

  "No."

  "Everyone thought you were long gone. What the hell are you doing here, and why did you try to kill me? I certainly don't think it's because you miss your desk. I never hurt you, and I even thought you and I were beginning to establish something of a working relationship."

  The psychotic teenager shook his head, sobbed again. "I didn't want to do it, Frederickson."

  "Then why did you?"

  "Marilyn made me do it. She said I had to kill you if I wanted to stay with her."

  "Dane, I really hope for your sake that this isn't crazy talk."

  "It's not crazy talk, Frederickson."

  "Who the hell is Marilyn?"

  "She's my woman, man," the boy replied, raising his head. His voice had become considerably brighter. "She's beautiful, man. She helped me escape and then took me to live with her. Man, we've been blowing dope and fucking like bunnies."

  I yanked on the sweat shirt, slinging Dane Potter none too gently up against the brick wall of the chapel. I anchored him there with my finger on his solar plexus. Now I could see that his eyes were cocaine-bright.

  "What horseshit are you trying to hand me, Dane?"

  The boy swallowed, grimaced, spat blood. "You hurt me bad, Frederickson."

  "Who's this Marilyn? Some old girl friend?"

  "Marilyn's no girl, Frederickson; she's a woman.'"

  "How old is she?"

  "I don't know how old she is."

  "But she's not a kid?"

  "No, man. I told you she's a-"

  "How'd you meet her?"

  "Two days ago I got a call down in the cottage. There was this woman on the line, and she talked in this low, real sexy voice. She told me she was dying to fuck my brains out; she actually said that. She told me she worked at the hospital, out in the records department at the front. She said I'd never seen her, but that she was always watching me. She said that she was in love with me, and she wanted to help me run away so that I could come and live with her. She told me she needed a big stud like me to keep her satisfied, and she wanted me around so she could fuck me any time she wanted. Recreation was showing us a movie that night, and she told me to slip out whenever I could and go down by the gym; the exit door there would be unlocked. That's what I did. The door was unlocked, just like she'd said it would be, and she was out there waiting for me in her car. Whooee! She drove me to her place, and we got right into bed. Man, I ain't never had a woman like that. And she had lots of coke-a whole pile of the stuff. We'd screw, blow some dope, then screw some more. Today, just after lunch, she said that I had to do something for her if I wanted to stay with her. I had to kill you."

  "Kill me?"

  Dane Potter nodded. "She drove me back here, and we parked and just kind of watched and waited. When you started walking off the grounds, she made me steal the truck; she said I should run you over first chance I got."

  "Nobody made you do anything, Dane. You were just afraid of losing your meal ticket and a piece of ass."

  The boy shook his head. "Marilyn's a spooky broad, Frederickson. Some of what you say is true, but it's also true that she kinda scared me."

  "Tsk. Tsk. Poor you."

  "When she
found out that I missed you, she was pissed. She said that I didn't deserve a real woman like her, and that maybe she should kill me. She gave me that knife. She told me you'd eventually be coming out of that building tonight, so I just waited. I really am sorry, Frederickson."

  "Why did she want you to kill me?"

  "She didn't say."

  "And you didn't ask?"

  "Hey, man, I was high-you know what I mean? I wasn't really thinking about anything except getting more of Marilyn's dope and back into her pants."

  "What kind of car did she drive?"

  "A Mercedes; a red convertible."

  "What does Marilyn look like?"

  "Tall, long blond hair. She's got these great long legs, and big tits."

  "Dane, what did the social worker you tried to rape look like?"

  "Now that you mention it, she kinda looked like. ." Dane Potter paused, frowned. "You know about that?"

  "Yeah. I know about that. I also know that you have a lot of sexual fantasies, most of them associated with violent acts."

  The boy blinked slowly. "You don't believe me?"

  "Where does Marilyn live?"

  "Somewhere around here. It's about a half hour away. She's got this beautiful house, and a waterbed with-"

  "Where around here?"

  "Hey, man, I don't know. It was night, and I had my hand up her dress all the time she was driving. I wasn't exactly looking at the scenery."

  "Do you think this story you're telling me gives you some kind of excuse for attacking me with a knife?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Let's start all over again, Dane. Begin with how you managed to get out of the hospital, and then tell me where you've been."

  "You don't believe me!"

  "Let's see if I've got this straight. A tall, beautiful woman with long blond hair, long legs, and large breasts who drives a red Mercedes convertible and lives in a big house with a waterbed lusts after you so badly that she helps you run away from the hospital so that you can live with her and have all the sex and dope you want. Then she says you have to kill me if you want the sex and dope to keep coming. Right?"

  "Right!"

  "How did you know I'd be coming out of the building? Or did you just happen to see me walking across the lawn and then decided to have a go at me?"

  "She told me where you'd be! It's the truth!"

  "Dane, let's just say that I enjoyed the account of your adventures so much that I want to hear it all over again."

  "Are you going to hurt me anymore?"

  "No, Dane," I said wearily. "I just want you to tell me the truth."

  The boy swallowed hard, shook his head. "I'm telling you the truth, Frederickson. Marilyn's waiting for me right now."

  "Where?"

  "Down the street. She's parked on the other side of the firehouse."

  "She's sitting there in her red Mercedes convertible waiting for you to go back with her to her house for more sex and dope."

  "Right. Go see for yourself."

  Keeping a firm grip on Dane Potter's belt, I marched him the two blocks to the firehouse, where we stopped and looked down the side street. The street was empty, as I'd been certain it would be. Dane Potter looked genuinely bewildered, as if he really had been expecting to see a blonde in a red Mercedes convertible waiting for him.

  "She left," the boy said in a tone of hurt and disbelief.

  "It certainly looks that way," I said with a sigh. Despite myself, I was beginning to feel just a bit guilty. Dane Potter had indeed come at me with a knife-but then, Dane Potter was a certified loony; I'd beat on him badly, and scared him probably more than I had to. The boy had done some bad things to a few people, but his file also indicated that a few people had done some very bad things to him. "I'm taking you back to the hospital now, Dane," I continued as I steered him around and headed back the way we had come. "You're going to tell the staff there exactly what happened here tonight; whether or not you want to tell them about Marilyn is up to you. Then we'll see if we can't find a dentist on call who'll be able to put your teeth back in your head."

  "Frederickson?"

  "What?" I answered curtly. Suddenly I felt so tired, emotionally and physically drained, that I could hardly keep my eyes open. Having a crazy teenager jump me with a knife had been an aggravation I hadn't needed.

  "Do you really think that business with the woman was all in my mind?"

  "You tell me, Dane."

  "I thought it happened."

  "Okay."

  "Now maybe I'm not so sure."

  "Talk it over with your therapist, Dane. He or she will help you try to sort it out."

  "What will happen to me?"

  "I don't know."

  "I don't want to go back to DFY."

  "If people thought you were responsible for your actions, you wouldn't have been sent to the hospital in the first place. It's your job to become responsible-listen to the doctors, study hard in school, and try hard to keep your head together. They just want you to get well. Me too."

  "Frederickson?"

  "What?"

  "I hope you believe me when I say I'm sorry I … did what I did. I really am."

  "Yeah. Thanks, Dane. That's really sweet of you. If I think about it long enough, I'll probably be sorry I kicked you in the mouth."

  10

  The next day, a Wednesday, I wasn't called to teach; I was called to answer a lot of questions from hospital officials and the police in connection with the attack on me by Dane Potter. I was asked if I wanted to prefer charges. I did not.

  Continuing anxiety concerning Garth's bizarre behavior combined with my tussle with Dane Potter the night before had left me feeling out of sorts, and I decided to give myself a break from tension for the rest of the morning. I read the Times over brunch, took a long walk, and then a nap. In the late afternoon I went to see Garth.

  My brother wasn't in his room. I waited around for a half hour, and when he didn't show up I went looking for him. I was on my way to the nurses' station to ask if he'd been taken for more tests when I passed the Day Room and saw Garth inside sitting at a card table and talking with three other patients. There was a deck of cards in the center of the table, but the men seemed more interested in their conversation than their game. Garth was dressed in new clothes; jeans, a wool plaid shirt, and moccasins. He had his Walkman clipped to his belt, but the earphones were hanging around his neck. I watched them for a little while, and saw that it was Garth who was doing most of the talking; the others were leaning forward over the table, apparently listening intently to whatever it was he was saying. All four men looked over at me as I came into the Day Room and walked up to them, and I had the distinct feeling that I had interrupted some personal, intense, private conversation.

  "Hi, Garth," I said brightly, feeling very much like an intruder.

  "Hello, Mongo," Garth replied easily. "How's your head?"

  "It's okay," I said, resisting the impulse to tell him that it was his head I was worried about. "How are you feeling?"

  My brother put the earphones back on his head, turned on the Walkman, and adjusted it to low volume. "Garth is feeling fine. Thank you."

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence, during which Garth and the other men simply stared at me. "I'm Bob Frederickson," I said at last to Garth's audience, smiling and extending my hand.

  One by one the men introduced themselves, shook my hand-and then turned their heads toward Garth, as if looking for direction. I expected Garth to excuse himself from the group and come back with me to his room to talk. Instead, he simply sat and stared at me, a curious half smile on his face. I tried a few conversational gambits, none of which produced anything more than perfunctory responses. I was growing increasingly uncomfortable.

  "I've interrupted your card game," I said as I rose to my feet. "You guys go ahead and play."

  And they did; whatever it was they had been discussing before I'd come in, they weren't going to resume the conversation while I
was there. Garth turned up the volume on his Walkman slightly, then shuffled the deck of cards and started dealing. I turned and left.

  After kicking Dane Potter's teeth out of his head, I thought the children's hospital wouldn't be too anxious to use me again. I was wrong. I got a call early the next morning asking me to come in and substitute for the English teacher. Dane Potter, his teeth surgically reimplanted and wired in place, was in one of my classes; he was properly subdued and respectful, and even joked with me a couple of times. Word of the incident had gotten around, and I got a lot of attention from all the kids in the hospital. I responded as best I could, but I was still feeling distinctly out of sorts.

  I felt as if a crucial decision I had never expected to have to make was being forced on me, and my dilemma was generating a good deal of internal pressure.

  After school I traipsed across the field at the back of the children's hospital toward the main complex-and was startled to see Garth, earphones on his head, walking down the hillside toward me, holding the hands of an old man and old woman who were determinedly, eagerly, shuffling alongside him. Garth was smiling; the old man and woman were smiling. Tommy Carling, a bemused expression on his face and looking like nothing so much as a chaperone or mother hen, was walking down the hillside about twenty yards behind the trio.

  Garth merely nodded to me as we came abreast, and then continued on with his two elderly charges, speaking to one and then the other. Both the old man and the old woman had rapt expressions on their faces.

  I waited for Tommy Carling, then fell into step beside the pony tailed male nurse. "I'm surprised to see Garth outside," I said.

  Carling shrugged his broad shoulders. "Why shouldn't he be? He's not violent, and he's given no indication that he's a threat to himself or others; if gentleness was radioactive, Garth would glow in the dark. Patients who aren't violent or too unpredictable are given outside privileges to walk around the grounds as long as they have a nurse, aide, or male relative with them."