“He’d primed them to go off beforehand,” Veil said quietly, “and one or more of the patients in that unit blew up in his face. One of them got hold of Slycke’s keys and—fortunately for you—opened up the whole place. Then the nurses came back and saw what was happening, but they were too late to save Slycke—or themselves. You were lucky Baker felt he had to make a special, ritual sacrifice out of you, or you’d have been killed right away, like the others.”
“I don’t understand why Garth didn’t try to help me,” I said, looking away from the two men.
“You don’t know whether or not Slycke medicated the nonviolent patients,” Veil said quietly. “He may have doped everybody up, and Garth slept through it all.”
“Then where is he now?”
“There’s no sense in speculating on what he could or couldn’t have done until we find him, Mongo,” Lippitt said. “And we will find him; or he’ll turn up on his own. How far could he have gone?”
PART II
Missions of Mercy
14.
About thirty-three miles, depending on construction detours.
I was out of the hospital two days later. There was no word on Garth or Marl Braxton. There was also no sign of Tommy Carling; I made it my business to check on his apartment in the staff quarters, and he was gone, the apartment stripped of his personal belongings.
There seemed nothing more to be done in Rockland County, so I moved back into Garth’s apartment in the city—which by now seemed as much my home as his. I called my parents every few days, even though there was nothing to tell them; they had not heard from Garth, either.
As first the days, and then the weeks and months, went by, I tried to accustom myself to the strong possibility that my brother was dead, perhaps killed by Marl Braxton during one of the fallen D.I. A. operative’s psychotic episodes. Then, on a bitterly cold afternoon in mid-fall, a Wednesday four months later, while I was standing in the express line in a Gristede’s supermarket, I found a grainy picture of Garth staring back at me from the front page of one of the lurid, always ridiculous, tabloids sold at the checkout counter. With trembling hands I lifted the paper out of the rack, stared in disbelief at the photograph and the blurb under it. Disbelief and a growing disorientation. I felt as if I had been struck, or drugged again, and for a moment I feared I would loose consciousness. Slowly, I became aware of a kind of Greek chorus of cursers in the stalled line behind me, and when another cart “accidentally” banged into mine I snapped out of it. I pushed my cart ahead. Then I flipped to the two-page spread and blaring but skimpy text inside the newspaper, cursed aloud when I could not find what I wanted.
Leaving my groceries in the shopping cart, I dropped two dollars on the checkout counter, then ran the three blocks back to the apartment. I was just reaching out to pick up the telephone to call the editorial offices of the tabloid when the phone rang. Irritated, I snatched up the receiver.
“Yeah?”
“Frederickson, this is Sergeant McIntyre.”
“Ah, yes, Sergeant McIntyre,” I replied tightly, still fighting a sense of disorientation and dizziness, trying and failing to mask the deep scorn and anger I felt. “Perchance, would you be calling to fill me in on what the massive forces of the NYPD have been doing in their attempt to find a missing colleague?”
There was a prolonged silence on the other end, and I half expected Sergeant Alexander McIntyre, who had been in Garth’s precinct and whom I considered a friend, to hang up on me. “You’ve seen The National Eye,” he said at last in a flat voice.
“As a matter of fact, I just picked up a copy at Gristede’s. There’s nothing like going out for a few groceries and finding out that the brother you’d feared dead has become a local celebrity, of sorts. McIntyre, can you explain to me how, with a Missing Persons report in the hands of the NYPD, I end up finding Garth’s picture on the front page of a Goddamn fish wrapper like The National Eye? You worked with him for twenty years! What the hell’s the matter with you people?! What the fuck have you been doing for the past four months?!”
“Just hold on a minute, Frederickson.” McIntyre’s voice had grown cold, hard. “New York City, in case you haven’t noticed lately, is a very big place which is easy to get lost in—if that’s what you want to do. Also, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the midst of a crime wave caused by a crack epidemic; we don’t have a lot of resources to look for a grown man who’s just happened to have dropped out of sight. If their picture isn’t on a milk carton, we don’t spend a lot of time looking for them. We thought from the beginning that there was something not quite right about that MP request, and we kind of filed it away; we figured if Garth and this other guy they were looking for wanted you to know where they were, they’d have told you. Like I said, your brother’s a big boy.”
“Okay,” I said curtly. There was no percentage in arguing with the other man.
“One of the uniformed officers in the precinct saw the picture, and he recognized Garth. That’s why I’m calling you.”
“Okay. I appreciate it, Sergeant.”
“Did you read the story about Garth and the other guy in the picture with him?”
“The story was long on horseshit and short on facts. It didn’t tell me what I need to know. Where the hell is that place Garth is supposed to be living?”
“There was a cop on the scene when that incident happened; he didn’t recognize Garth, and he didn’t know there was an MP blip floating on him.”
“I don’t care about that crap, McIntyre. Where is he?”
“It’s a big, converted bathhouse down in the Bowery—five blocks south of St. Mark’s. The city shut it down when the AIDS scare first started. You’ll recognize it right away by all the people hanging around it.” McIntyre paused, and when he spoke again, his tone had become softer. “Like I said, there was a cop on the scene when that business happened—and the cop drew the photographer. A report was filed, and maybe I can let you see it if you’re interested; you stop around, and I’ll see what I can do for you. I can understand how you’d be pissed, and maybe we could have done a little more than we did. Don’t quote me.”
“Thanks for the offer, Sergeant, but I’m not really interested in that nonsense. See you.”
“Frederickson?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell’s the matter with Garth?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I replied carefully.
“The way he’s acting … it’s why the Missing Persons report was filed, right?”
“Right.”
“Is he crazy?”
“Aren’t we all?”
“He’s sure got some funny stories to tell.”
“Yeah.”
“He told me he killed Orville Madison. Can you believe that?”
“You’ve talked to him in person?”
“He was—is—my friend. After I heard about the newspaper story, I drove down to check out the situation. I called you before, but you weren’t in. I didn’t want to just leave a message on your answering machine.”
“Why didn’t you bring him in, Sergeant?”
“On what charges? He was reported missing, and now he’s not missing anymore. There’s definitely something the matter with Garth’s head, Frederickson; you wouldn’t believe the collection of people he’s got down there in that mission of his.”
“Mission? I thought you said he was living in a bathhouse.”
There was a pause, then: “You’d better go down and see for yourself, Frederickson.”
That was precisely what I intended to do. I thanked McIntyre again, hung up.
I took the subway down to the Bowery, went up to the street, and walked five blocks south, until I came to a large traffic circle. Darkness had fallen, and I stood across the street, huddled against the cold in my parka, watching the proceedings on the opposite side of the circle, in front of a building of freshly scrubbed stone which took up half the block. There appeared to be a lot of constru
ction going on inside and on top of the building, where the roof seemed to have been torn away, but business was obviously going on as usual. It was eerie, seeing the huge symbol painted above the entrance—four interlocking rings, skewered by a great knife with a jewel-encrusted handle. Valhalla and Whisper. I wondered if the logo had been designed to Garth’s specifications, somehow doubted it. Unless Garth had changed once again, my brother certainly wasn’t into symbols of any kind.
A line of bedraggled people snaked down the street and disappeared around the corner. The men and women, some cloaked only in rags and pushing rickety shopping carts or carrying shopping bags filled with their personal belongings, patiently shuffled forward, waiting their turn to be ushered into the bathhouse. A number of well-dressed people—young and old, black, brown, white, and yellow—moved up and down the line, clasping hands, occasionally hugging the bag people, evidently offering hope and encouragement. All of the aides wore green jackets or headbands—sometimes both—emblazoned with the rings-and-knife logo.
Tommy Carling, still wearing an earring and his long, blond hair in a ponytail, was there, wearing a green jacket. He was standing near the entrance, talking with a woman who also wore a green jacket, along with a black nun’s cowl that fell over her shoulders.
There was no sign of Garth, and I assumed he was inside the building.
As I stood in the night shadows and watched, a television news truck pulled up to the curb in front of the entrance. A well-known local news reporter, accompanied by sound and camera men, got out and went up to Carling and the nun. The reporter said something to Carling, who shrugged his shoulders and made a gesture with his hands that seemed to indicate the line of people. There was a conference between the three people, and then the nun turned and went into the building. Lights were set up, and the reporter and his team began walking down the line of people, interviewing those who were willing.
Five minutes later the nun returned with a short man with long, greasy black hair liberally streaked with gray, who walked with a slight stoop. Even from where I was standing, I could see the ugly red and white scars on the man’s face, and he wore dark glasses—which he slowly and dramatically removed as the lights came on, the camera focused on him, and the reporter stepped up to him with a microphone.
That, I thought with a grim smile, would be Harry August, obviously a con man par excellence. Untold numbers of readers of The National Eye no doubt believed that my brother had cured Harry August of total blindness, and now the credulity of a broader television audience was to be tested; there was no doubt in my mind that a lot of them would believe it too. As my mother was fond of saying, some people will believe anything.
I waited across the street for more than an hour, but still saw no sign of Garth. People continued to file into the building, and very few came out; those who did were dressed in clean clothes, looked as if they had washed, and walked considerably straighter. Finally the line of people began to thin out and shorten, and Carling seemed ready to take a break. He stepped over to the curb, lit a cigarette.
Now I stepped out of the shadows and walked quickly across the traffic circle. Carling saw me coming, flicked away his cigarette, and held out his hand.
“Mongo!” Tommy Carling said brightly.
“Where’s my brother, Carling?” I said coldly as I stepped up on the curb outside the entrance to the bathhouse, ignoring the other man’s outstretched hand.
Carling shrugged, then made the same gesture I had seen him make earlier with the television reporter. “I don’t know. He’s not back yet.”
“Back from where?”
“He’s walking the streets with Marl and a few of the Guardian Angels; they’re looking for more people to take in for the night.”
“Marl? Braxton’s here?”
The male nurse nodded.
“Braxton’s dangerous, Carling. You told me that yourself; you said he was the most dangerous man in the clinic. You’re supposed to be a Goddamn mental health professional. What the hell are you doing parading around with this freak show?”
“Freak show, Mongo?” Carling said softly.
“I’m not talking about these poor people, Carling, and you know it! I want to know why you let my brother go off walking the streets with a potential killer!”
“Marl isn’t dangerous any longer, Mongo,” he replied easily. “Except, perhaps, to anyone who tried to harm Garth. That hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t believe it ever will. Marl is Garth’s protector, not his enemy.”
“Carling, you son-of-a-bitch, why couldn’t you at least have picked up a phone and told me that Garth was with you, and that he was all right?”
The big man with the ponytail flushed slightly, dropped his gaze. “I guess I should have,” he said softly.
“You’re damn right you should have! How the hell do you think my parents and I have felt all these months, not knowing whether Garth was dead or alive?”
“I … wasn’t sure what your attitude would be, or what might happen if the D.I.A. got hold of him again. I knew … what Slycke was planning to do, and I just couldn’t let that happen. If there was any chance that Dr. Slycke might somehow still manage to—”
“What the hell are you talking about? Slycke’s dead.”
Tommy Carling looked at me, his mouth slightly open. He shook his head, swallowed. “What did you say?”
“You didn’t know?”
“That Dr. Slycke is dead? Of course not. How did it happen? When?”
“Is there someplace we can talk?”
Carling nodded, then gestured toward the entrance to the bathhouse. I followed him inside, through a group of bag people who were still clustered at the entrance. I stopped just inside the entrance and looked around, stunned by what I saw.
The interior of the building, that part which I could see, was huge; with all of the interior walls gutted, the space I found myself in looked as big as an airplane hangar. There was a lot of scaffolding spiderwebbing the interior space, and anchored to a stone balcony which went all around the hall. The entire roof of the building had been removed, and was now covered with layers of heavy plastic sheeting. Everything looked spotless—scrubbed where it was stone and freshly painted where it was wood. The line of people outside led directly to a long, gleaming counter where stew was being served out of huge, steaming cooking pots by men and women in green, logo-emblazoned jackets or headbands. People ate off paper plates in one section of the vast hall, while in another people rested in neat, tightly packed rows on air mattresses, covered by khaki army surplus blankets which looked new. At the far end of the hall, men and women wearing pale brown robes and paper slippers, with towels draped over their shoulders, emerged from two sets of swinging doors which exuded faint wisps of steam. The men and women filed behind separate partitions, emerged dressed in clothes that were obviously used, but clean. Then they left, or went to get food, or went to rest on an air mattress and blanket, which were being distributed by the nun.
Music, unobtrusive but still clearly audible, filled the hall, piped in through at least a dozen loudspeakers hanging from the stone balcony. Siegfried.
Men and women who were either doctors or paramedics moved quietly among the people on the air mattresses, checking throats, answering questions, listening to heartbeats, occasionally giving out something from the black leather bags they carried. Like the other workers, the medical people wore the distinctive green jackets or headbands.
There was a strange odor in the air, rising above all the other odors, which caught my attention, but which I could not immediately identify. Outside the building, there had been the smell of the streets and unwashed bodies; inside was the smell of soap, disinfectant, steam, paint, washed stone, medicine, plastic, coffee, hot food—but the smell that had caught my attention was none of these. I found the odor vaguely ominous.
“What the hell?” I murmured.
“Are you impressed, Mongo?” Tommy Carling asked quietly.
“Who runs
this place?”
“Everybody; nobody.”
“Who owns the building?”
“It belongs to Garth; the deed is registered in his name.”
“Oh, yeah? Not bad for a guy who’s never had more than two thousand dollars in the bank, and who hasn’t even been bothering to pick up his disability checks.”
“The money comes from many sources, Mongo. God provides. Shall we go someplace where it’s quieter?”
I followed Carling across the hall, through a maze of pipe scaffolding, through a door and into a medium-sized office. Like everything else, it had been freshly painted. There was a desk, and a couple of chairs. The entire wall behind the desk was covered with a rendering of the rings-and-knife logo. Siegfried was playing here, too.
“You mind turning off that music?”
Carling sat down behind the desk, turned a rheostat on the wall; the music grew softer, but continued to play. “It always plays,” Carling said simply, motioning for me to sit down in one of the straight-backed chairs. “We prefer it that way. We’ve learned from Garth to let that music serve to remind us of all that needs to be done; it focuses the concentration.”
“I find it distracting.”
Carling shrugged. “Yes, well; there’s the difference, I guess.”
“What difference?”
“Between you and us.”
“How does God provide, Tommy?”
“You seem fixated on financial questions, Mongo.”
The Cold Smell of Sacred Stone Page 19
