The Cold Smell of Sacred Stone

by George C. Chesbro

  Tommy Carling laughed good-naturedly. “What national security implications?”

  “For one thing, we’re talking very serious behavior modification. Want to quiet some dissidents, calm down some political prisoners—or maybe pacify an entire population, for that matter? Sprinkle a little NPPD on their cereal every morning. I’m not being facetious.”

  “I can see that,” Carling said evenly.

  “Also, you have what you’re looking at down there on the swings.”

  “An empath fixated on alleviating human suffering? You think our intelligence services, or anyone else’s, would be interested in that? We should all be so fortunate.”

  “I’m talking about imprinting. What you see isn’t necessarily what you would have gotten in different circumstances.”

  “You’re losing me again, Mongo.”

  “Garth was thrown into a profound depression as a result of NPPD poisoning; Slycke thinks it literally erased all sorts of emotional valences and connections to things in the past. He came out of it when I stimulated him with music which had very strong emotional associations to human suffering, and the need to do something about it. So Garth winds up thinking about nothing but alleviating human suffering. Now, what would have happened if I’d imprinted Garth in some other way?”

  “Yes,” Carling replied quietly. “Your point is well taken.”

  “The NPPD wiped out, or repressed, a major part of his personality, and I unwittingly helped to give him a new one. I hate to think of what would be happening with Garth now if I’d imprinted him with something deeply associated with rage, or hatred. Now, I’m not saying anything to you that hasn’t already occurred to the strategic types of personnel I mentioned earlier. I absolutely guarantee you that a lot of wheels are turning in the heads of people who don’t give a shit about Garth as a person, and I don’t want Garth to get crushed in the gears. I don’t want him used, and I have to do what I think is in his best interests.”

  It was certainly true that I didn’t want Garth to be used as a guinea pig—firsthand by the D.I.A., or secondhand by the K.G.B. But it was also true that Garth was simply talking too much, about things he shouldn’t be talking about at all, and that was information I couldn’t share with Tommy Carling, or anyone else. It was certainly a convenient irony that Charles Slycke and the rest of the staff at the clinic should dismiss Garth’s stories about Orville Madison and the Valhalla Project as the fantastic delusions of a madman, but the fact that Garth wasn’t believed when he told the simple truth about things which obviously still troubled him very deeply could only complicate his therapy.

  If Garth’s little tales got out—which they certainly would if the K.G.B. had ears in the clinic and they decided to do some serious digging for facts—and if he was believed, Mr. Lippitt, Veil, and I could end up in prison for a very long time, and the administration of Kevin Shannon would fall.

  A third horn on the head of my curious, and increasingly ugly, dilemma.

  “You seem to know a lot about intelligence work, Mongo,” Carling said in a neutral tone.

  “I know a lot about the kinds of people in whose heads those wheels are turning; they relate best to scenarios, not people.”

  “But, in the end, you still have Mr. Lippitt to protect Garth’s interests.”

  “Mr. Lippitt might not agree that the agency’s interests and Garth’s aren’t the same. Besides, he’s only one man; he’s a powerful man, but there are a lot of powerful men in the intelligence community. He’s in Washington, not here, and he could die—or be dismissed—tomorrow.”

  “Assuming these so-called strategic types are thinking what you say they’re thinking—”

  “They are.”

  “Then there would still be problems, even if you did take Garth out of here. The interest of these people wouldn’t stop just because he wasn’t here; if anything, they’d just get very nervous. How would you protect Garth from that … continuing interest?”

  “I’d just take him home and lock the door,” I said, only half joking.

  Carling sighed, lit a third cigarette. “Some of your points are good, Mongo, but I still think the doctors here are doctors first, and agency employees second. They would resist pressure from those strategic types. Maybe you’re being just a bit paranoid.”

  “That could be, and if so there’s no harm done by talking to you. I have to deal with scenarios, too.”

  Tommy Carling was silent for some time, and together we watched Garth talking with the old man and woman down by the swings. I wondered what they were talking about.

  Carling finished his cigarette, tossed it away. “Mongo?”

  “What?”

  “I’m supposed to report on anything we discuss. It’s a rule covering all conversations with visitors.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” I said evenly, still watching Garth. He had said something to make the old woman laugh. “I understand that this is a D.I.A. clinic, not the Mayo. I’m glad I talked with you, because it’s helped me to clarify a lot of my thoughts and focus my thinking. I don’t care what you tell Dr. Slycke, or anyone else. I told you; I won’t be giving them any new ideas, and it may be just as well that they know what I’m thinking.”

  “I don’t think I’ll report this conversation.”

  “Do what you think you have to do, Tommy. In the meantime, I’d like to ask for your personal and professional opinion on something.”

  “Which is?”

  “Should I discuss any of this with Garth? In particular, should I discuss with him the possibility of his going home?”

  “You’re Garth’s brother, Mongo; even more germane to this situation, you have a Z-13 badge. You can talk about anything you want, with anyone you want, any time you want.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question, does it?”

  “Mongo, I’m truly flattered that you should ask for my advice on something which is so important to you—but I can’t give it to you. It’s clearly a medical question about something that could have a large bearing on Garth’s state of mind, and I wouldn’t feel right about advising you. I can’t take the responsibility. That’s a question you’ll have to take up with Dr. Slycke—if you care to.”

  “All right. I understand.”

  “I will say that, despite the concerns you’ve brought up, I still believe this is the best place for Garth—without question. What you’re witnessing now could be just one more phase Garth is going through. You don’t know what may happen, how he may be acting tomorrow, or the next day. As you pointed out, you might only have to bring him back here, anyway. What would happen if he suddenly turned violent, or uncooperative, and you couldn’t handle him? We’re an hour away from the city—when there’s no heavy traffic. This clinic is still a government installation, and the results of all tests done on Garth—even the description and causes of his condition—are highly classified. Nobody here will share any information about Garth’s condition or NPPD with any other hospital. I think you’d be shouldering a very heavy responsibility if you decided you wanted to take him out of here just yet—assuming he would want to go, which may be a very large assumption.”

  “Thanks, Tommy. I’ll bear all that in mind.”

  When I did broach the subject of going home with Garth, he gave no indication that he cared one way or another what was done with him. Indeed, I couldn’t even be certain he was listening to me; he was playing his Walkman so loud that I could hear Siegfried’s Funeral March, from Götterdämmerung, clearly through the earphones.

  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 Walküre; 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.”