Without going into the reasons for my concern, I asked Charles Slycke what he thought of the idea of Garth's going home. He told me he would advise against it, and he gave the same reasons Tommy Carling had. It didn't surprise me. I tried to tell myself that my fears for Garth were ill-founded, and that I had no real choice but to leave Garth where he was, regardless of the fact that there might be a K.G.B. informant in the clinic, and regardless of the fact that Garth was continuing to chatter away about the Valhalla Project and the shooting of Orville Madison. I remained anxious and undecided.
That didn't surprise me either.
11
The next day, I met Tommy Carling in the corridor on my way to Garth's room.
"Garth's visiting in the secure unit," the male nurse said. "It looks like he's in a pretty heavy conversation with Marl Braxton, so he'd probably prefer that you go down there. Besides, I know Braxton would like to talk with you. It seems he's a fan of yours."
"What about Mama Baker?"
"Mama went off last night, and they had to put him in a camisole and give him a needle. He'll be in the Critical Care room all day, so he's not a problem. It's very quiet in there. That key you have will let you in."
"I'd rather not do that-use my key."
"Then just knock on the door. One of the nurses will let you in."
Just to be on the diplomatic safe side, I checked back with Slycke to make certain he had no objections to my going into the secure unit. The director of the clinic seemed very distracted, and he merely waved a hand at me in what I took to be a gesture of approval. I went out of his office and down the orange corridor to the secure unit, knocked on the thick Plexiglas door.
Marl Braxton was sitting with my brother at the far end of the huge commons room, near a bank of barred windows. Garth had his earphones around his neck and was leaning toward Braxton as he spoke, occasionally waving his arms for emphasis. The animated discussion stopped when I entered, and both men rose as I walked toward them.
"Dr. Frederickson," Marl Braxton said, extending a large hand. His large, piercing black eyes gleamed with pleasure. "Now I'll shake your hand."
"Then you'll have to call me Mongo," I replied, taking his hand. His grip was firm, the muscles in his hand and forearm sinewy and clearly articulated; the man with the glittering black eyes and pronounced widow's peak kept himself in excellent condition.
"I'm glad we can get together under more pleasant circumstances than when you were in here the last time. It's a real pleasure to meet you."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Marl. Anybody who has the patience to wade through my monographs can't be all bad."
"I find your work intriguing. I feel like the pieces you've done on the so-called criminally insane speak directly to me."
The man was smiling; since most of the research I'd done recently was on serial murderers, I hoped this was Marl Braxton's idea of a joke. I managed to smile back. "Are you keeping my brother entertained, off the streets, and out of trouble?"
"On the contrary," Braxton replied seriously. "It's been Garth who's been keeping a lot of people around here out of trouble."
"Hi, Garth," I said to my brother as Braxton went to get a chair for me.
"Hello, Mongo," Garth said easily, smiling. He was looking directly into my eyes, and he seemed perfectly at ease, but I noticed that-unlike Marl Braxton-I was once again competing with Richard Wagner; Garth had put his earphones back over his head and turned on the Walkman.
"How are you doing?"
"Garth feels fine, Mongo. Thank you. And you?"
"I'm fine. Uh, how was lunch?"
"Lunch was very good. Garth ate in the dining room here; Garth thinks the food in the secure unit is just slightly better."
Feeling decidedly uncomfortable engaging in this vacuous chitchat with my brother, I was relieved when Marl Braxton returned. I sat down in the chair he had brought me, and he sat down across from me. Garth sat, then shifted his gaze toward the ceiling as he listened to his music.
"Frederickson," Braxton said easily, "I was an admirer of yours even before Garth told me some fascinating things I hadn't known."
I looked at Garth, but couldn't tell whether or not he was listening to anything but Die Walkure; at the moment, he seemed to have opted out of the conversation. "Garth's been talking about me?"
"He's told me all about the horrors the two of you went through with Siegmund Loge and the Valhalla Project," Braxton said, his intelligent, expressive eyes suddenly flashing with excitement. "I'd certainly love to see that knife you call Whisper. Damascus steel. Incredible. It must be some weapon."
"Garth has taken to talking a lot since he got here," I said, looking at my brother with what I hoped was a most eloquent expression of disapproval.
"He also told me how he shot Orville Madison a few weeks back; blew his head off. What a son-of-a-bitch that guy was."
I said nothing, stared at the floor.
Braxton continued, "What's funny is that Slycke and the other shrinks around here don't believe him."
"But you do."
"I do," Braxton said with sudden intensity. "I know it's true, Mongo. All of it."
"Assuming it is true," I said in a low voice, looking up to meet Marl Braxton's gaze, "I think you'd agree those are stories he should keep to himself."
"Don't worry, Mongo; the patients are the only people around here who believe him. And we're crazy, remember?"
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Garth?" I said to my brother in a low voice. "Do you have any idea?"
"The world as we know it is coming to an end, Mongo," Garth replied evenly, in a clear, strong voice. "You and Garth know it, because Siegmund Loge taught us. Now others know it."
"Loge could have been wrong, Garth; the Triage Parabola is no crystal ball. Besides, he never said it was going to end tomorrow. The human extinction he predicted could be hundreds of years away."
"But it could end tomorrow, and the only way to change that outcome is to change ourselves-person by person, heart by heart. Lippitt, you, and Garth thought it was best to keep everything that had happened and that we had learned a secret, but we were wrong. We've already wasted years, and now there's no time left for anything but the truth-no matter what that truth might cost."
The words struck me, perhaps because of his intense manner of delivery, as probably the most coherent, focused thing Garth had said to me at one time since he'd regained consciousness. I knew I should probably feel encouraged, but I didn't. "Has it occurred to you what could happen to all of us if people did start believing you killed our late secretary of state? And remember that it was Lippitt who killed Siegmund-''
I abruptly stopped speaking when Marl Braxton quickly shifted in his chair in what I took to be a warning signal. I turned around just as Tommy Carling came up behind me.
"Time for therapy, Garth," the male nurse said brightly. "Dr. Slycke is waiting for you."
Garth immediately rose, walked off with Tommy Carling.
I started to rise, intending to leave, but Marl Braxton put his hand on my arm.
"Relax, Mongo," Braxton said in a curious tone of voice that sounded something like a plea. "Garth won't be back for at least an hour-maybe two, if he's feeling talkative. We don't get that much intelligent company in here. If you've got nothing better to do, I'd like to buy you a beer."
He hadn't been kidding about the beer. His room, radiating off the commons area just to the right of the entrance, was pleasant and spacious, decorated with prints of impressionist paintings. Bookcases, filled to overflowing with well-worn books and magazines, lined all four walls. In one corner was a small electric cooler, and from it he produced two frosted bottles of Coors. He opened one, handed it to me.
"We get a six-pack a week," Braxton continued, reacting to my somewhat surprised look. "That is, if we've behaved ourselves, and if alcohol isn't contraindicated by our medication. Since Garth has been coming around, the clinic has had to up its beer budget. There's just
something about the things he says and does that's very soothing."
"You find predictions of human extinction soothing?"
"It's soothing to know that there's a man alive today on the face of the planet who can prevent that extinction."
"Garth?"
"Yes. Your brother has a great gift."
"So I've been told."
"He is a great gift."
"I'd agree that he's become something else, and that's for sure."
Braxton looked at me oddly for a few moments, and he looked as if he wanted to say something. Instead, he finally nodded toward the one chair in the room. I sat down in it, while he sat on the edge of his bed. He opened his bottle of beer, sipped at it.
"This bottle of beer I'm drinking represents a heavy percentage of your weekly allotment," I continued. "That makes it taste even better."
"It's my pleasure to share it with you."
"Thank you."
Braxton drank some more of his beer as he studied me with his bright eyes. "Garth really does have a very calming influence on the patients here, Mongo," he said quietly. "He certainly does on me."
"You always seem pretty calm, Marl-at least to me. It's hard for me to imagine you losing control of yourself the way Mama Baker does. Why do you have to stay here in the secure unit? If you don't mind my asking."
Braxton smiled thinly. "I don't mind you asking-in fact I appreciate your candor in asking me about things which interest you, without worrying that I might be offended because I'm a patient in a funny farm. It makes me feel that you're comfortable with me, and I like that."
In fact, I felt far more comfortable with Marl Braxton than I did with Garth. The realization made me sad. "I guess I'm saying that you don't seem all that crazy to me."
"I take that as a compliment, and I thank you."
"It's just an observation, Marl."
"What you observe on the outside is not necessarily a reflection of what's going on inside."
"That's true of many people."
"With me … I don't act out. Not in here. But Dr. Wong-he's my therapist-understands what could happen if I were let out of here. He's the only person besides Garth who fully appreciates the relationship between me and my maid of constant sorrows."
"You've told Garth about your maid of constant sorrows?"
"Oh, yes. Garth knows everything about me."
"Your maid of constant sorrows is your madness?"
"No. It's personal, Mongo, and I don't want to talk about her with you."
"I'm sorry, Marl. I didn't mean to pry."
"Don't apologize; I told you I'd like you to feel free to ask me anything you'd like. When you ask me a question I don't want to answer, I'll just let you know."
I smiled, nodded. "Like I said; you don't seem all that crazy to me."
"You seemed a bit nervous when you first walked into the unit. You don't now."
"I was never nervous for myself. Frankly, I don't much like the idea of Garth hanging out in here. All of the patients in this unit, including you, are potentially violent. I'm afraid Garth could be hurt-if not by you, then by somebody like Mama Baker, who doesn't have your kind of control."
"If Garth had been in here last night, Mama wouldn't have gone off."
My response was to shrug.
Braxton smiled, continued: "Don't you think your brother can take care of himself? He certainly has in the past. In fact, he came within a punch or two of busting up Jake Bolesh and a jailful of deputies when Bolesh had you locked up in Nebraska. I believe that was just before Bolesh injected you with the stuff that caused your bodies to change."
"Obviously, Garth has gone through some radical changes," I said, ignoring the clear invitation to discuss Valhalla-while taking note of the fact that Garth had indeed been telling Marl Braxton all about it, in detail. "He's a bit mellower now, to say the least. If he was attacked, I'm not even sure he would make a move to defend himself."
"Don't worry. I'd never let anything or anybody hurt Garth. But he won't be attacked; it's not meant that he should be harmed."
Something in the other man's voice made me sit up straighter. "Why not?"
Marl Braxton set his half-empty bottle of beer down on the floor, then folded his hands in his lap. "Because Garth is the son of God."
I was sorry I'd asked, and I tried to cover my embarrassment by taking a long swallow of beer.
"Garth is the Messiah," Braxton continued evenly. "He's been sent by God to save us from ourselves."
"Oh," I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. And I couldn't resist adding, "Son-of-a-bitch."
Marl Braxton laughed loudly and easily. "All of a sudden I'm seeming a little crazier to you, aren't I, Mongo?"
"Yep. That you are."
"Well, at least you're not trying to patronize me by denying it. I can see that what I've said comes as a shock to you; it came as a shock to me when I first realized the enormity of just what it was Garth represented."
"It will come as a shock to my mother and father. Listen, Marl, I've got a flash for you. Garth doesn't even believe in God."
"I know that," Braxton said evenly, apparently unperturbed by my revelation. "Garth told me. It doesn't make any difference."
"It doesn't make any difference that the man you believe is a messiah doesn't even believe in God?"
Braxton shook his head, ran his hand back over his widow's peak. "Garth is still God's messenger, the Messiah, whether he chooses to believe it or not. Do you believe in God, Mongo?"
"I certainly don't believe in messiahs, or divine intervention. I consider them primitive notions-answers to human longing, fear, and suffering that have always been a big part of the problem. Garth's got one thing right; any help we get is going to have to come from ourselves."
"Can you see his aura?"
"Whose aura? Garth's?”
"So you can't. There's a blue-white light all around him; he literally glows with holiness. Eventually you'll be able to see it, as will others."
Marl Braxton paused and looked at me, as if waiting for a response. His casual assertion that my brother was some kind of divine messenger had indeed shocked me, precisely because he had seemed so rational up to that point. I did not want to begin to condescend to Braxton's insanity, or appear to be mocking him, so I decided it was best to leave the subjects of my brother's divinity and his blue-white aura alone. I said nothing.
"But you've certainly witnessed Garth's healing powers," Braxton continued.
"I'm not sure what you mean by 'healing powers.' "
"Oh, I think you do. You just don't want to talk any more because I've made you uncomfortable, and you're no longer certain how to deal with me. You shouldn't feel that way. Everyone around here has witnessed Garth's healing powers; they just don't understand where his gift comes from. Like you. It occurs to me that you're now caught in a curious kind of netherworld between this world of madness and the other world of madness you come from. Garth will tell anyone who cares to listen about the Triage Parabola and the Valhalla Project. They don't believe him, but you know that everything he says is true. The fact that Garth is the Messiah is obvious, and it's just as true as the things that were done to you by Siegmund Loge. But you can't accept it."
"You're confusing two different things."
"Am I? The kind of healing power Garth displays could only come from God; there's no one else on earth who can bring about the changes in people the way he does, with a few simple words or a gesture. I believe he's healed me; because of Garth, I believe I can now escape from my maid of constant sorrows and function away from here. I'm in no hurry to prove it, and I don't even intend to tell Dr. Wong. Garth's in no hurry to carry out his mission, and his time is my time."
"What's Garth's reaction to this belief of yours that he's the Messiah?"
Again, Marl Braxton laughed. "He says I'm crazy."
Suddenly I felt a wave of affection for the other man, and my unease fell away from me. It didn't matter what he bel
ieved; what he believed might be insane, in my view, but in my view it was no more insane than the religious fantasies of millions of other people around the globe. The only difference was that the others banded together and received tax waivers.
I grinned, cocked my thumb and forefinger like a gun, pointed it at him. "There you go."
Braxton stood up and stretched. "You want another beer, Mongo?"
"I'm still working on this one. Thanks."
"You know, the proof of what Garth is can be seen in what he says and does, but it's also easy to see a pattern in Garth's life over the past few years as God was preparing him for his mission."
"What pattern?"
"First, his trials at the hands of Siegmund Loge, and then his involvement in the hunt for Veil Kendry-Archangel."
"So he's told you all about Archangel, too," I said with a sigh.
"Yes."
"You know, Marl, I just happened to be slightly involved in those matters, too."
"Yes," Braxton replied easily, "but it's also now clear that your involvement was incidental to God's plan for awakening His son. You're not the Messiah; Garth is."
"Loge's Valhalla Project and the Archangel affair had nothing to do with each other," I replied, aware that I was probably crazy for carrying on such a crazy conversation with a bona fide, card-carrying crazy man. Yet, I not only found myself liking and respecting Marl Braxton, but increasingly curious about the pathology he was now clearly displaying. I remembered Chris Yardley, and my inability to convince him that it was in his best interests not to tell everyone he met that he was Jesus. Marl Braxton's pathology was different, inasmuch as his fantasy was projected onto Garth, but I was still curious to see what effect, if any, my rebuttals of facts and common sense would have on him. The fallen D.I.A. operative with the top-secret past was intelligent and articulate; as long as he didn't suddenly decide to try and hand me my head, I found I was perfectly content to sit and discuss his nonsense with him.
"The doors of perception-true perception-were opened for Garth at the hands of Siegmund Loge," Braxton patiently explained to me as he sat back down on the edge of his bed. "The naked truth of our situation was deeply implanted in him, and it exploded into full bloom in his consciousness when you brought him Der Ring des Nibelungen."
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