Personal Effects

by J. C. Hutchins

  I nodded. I was tempted to point at the plastic plaque bolted to the door. Xavier had pissed me off. I was sleep-deprived and famished. I just wanted some time to myself, and to prep for my session with Grace.

  The man passed me his business card.

  “Roland Smith, from Lifeplan Medical Alliance,” he said. “I’ll take just a minute of your time. I’m here about Martin Grace.”

  I stole a quick glance at the card. An insurance rep. I’d dealt with a few of these company men before. They’re nice enough, but in the end, they’re here on behalf of my patients’ insurance companies—which means they want to ask questions about liability and payouts, things better suited for the Dr. Petersons of the world.

  “I’ve got a lot of people asking me about Mr. Grace these days,” I said. “If I gave every one of them a minute of my time—and honestly, people just say that, they want a lot more than a minute, don’t they?—I’d be here until next leap year.”

  “Hey, 02-29,” he said, smiling. “That’s my son’s birthday. Cool, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, and it was. But I wasn’t the guy Roland Smith needed to talk to. And I was hungry, for Pete’s sake.

  “Look, I know you want to know about Mr. Grace’s condition, but—”

  “How’s he doing?” Smith asked. His voice sounded concerned, but his brown eyes were inquisitive.

  “I can’t tell you that,” I said. “It’s a patient confidentiality issue.”

  Smith nodded. “Lifeplan Medical Alliance just wants to know his status, considering next week’s trial. You understand.”

  “I do, but we both know I’m in the clear here. You want to talk to an administrator about this.”

  “Yes, of course, but perhaps—”

  I tossed his business card on my desk, scooped up my Brinkvale-issued walkie-talkie and stood up. Smith stopped talking.

  “See this?” I said, raising the radio. “On the other end of this is a 260-pound security guard who used to be a pro wrestler. He loves his boys more than the world, but I bet he still gets a kick out of cracking skulls. You want me to call him?”

  Smith’s face had gone pale. He shook his head.

  “You’ll direct all formal inquiries to Brinkvale admin, then.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m glad we settled this,” I said. “Have a great day.”

  The insurance man left. I checked my watch.

  “Damn it all,” I muttered. Too late to head topside.

  I plopped into my chair, unwrapped my sandwich, and ate in silence.

  That afternoon, I was greeted by another B-movie discotheque light show on Level 5. The hallway’s incandescent bulbs still sputtered and stuttered like yesterday, still victims of ancient wiring and INSUFFICIENT FUNDS reports. My stomach churned at the darkness.

  I saw Emilio Wallace’s tall form directly ahead, about a hundred feet away, still standing watch by Room 507’s door. He waved at me. The flickering lights transformed the fluidity of his arm into choppy stop-motion footage. He walked quickly toward me, meeting me halfway.

  “Yo Z,” he said, and gave me a broad smile. His capped teeth looked disturbing in this light, like blinking Chiclets. He clapped me hard on the shoulder.

  I looked closer at Emilio’s face. His Superman chin was covered in a Brillo-pad of stubble. His eyes were a little wild, feral.

  “Hey man, you okay?” I asked. Above us lights buzzed on and off. “Dude. No disrespect here, but you look a little hellish.”

  “Heh, nope, none taken,” he replied. “It’s … it’s just good to see someone, you know. For hours and hours and hours, it’s been just me and Martin here—t-t-to the max.”

  “In the Max,” I corrected. “Martin … Grace? You guys been talking?”

  Emilio nodded. “Come on, Z … when was the last time we had anyone in Max? Gotta k-k-kill time somehow. It’s just been m-m-me and Martin, shootin’ the bull.”

  I nodded back, and shivered. Goddamn, it was cold down here.

  “G-good to see you, is all,” he said. “They gotta get these lights fixed. Mess with your head. Between them and all the OT, I been seein’ …”

  His voice trailed off. He looked up at one of the lights, then shrugged, helpless.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothin’,” Emilio said. He placed his large hand on my shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “Just need some sleep, that’s all. Damned good to see you.”

  We walked toward Room 507. Emilio asked about the paper bag in my hand; I told him it was for Martin Grace. I asked Emilio if he’d heard Grace playing on the electronic keyboard I’d left yesterday.

  “Nope, but I wasn’t here this morning. That was Chaz. Not sure if he heard anything. Didn’t mention it. Is it important?”

  We stopped a few feet short of Grace’s room.

  “Might be,” I said. “I’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t tell you if he got all Liberace on—”

  The lights above us suddenly flashed brighter and quicker than before. A bulb far down the hall—near the elevator—popped and shattered. Sparks and glass fell onto the cracked tiled floor. I gasped. A tiny shriek echoed from the nurse’s station. Emilio gave a low, appreciative chuckle.

  “I’ll call maintenance, don’t worry,” he said. “That’s the second one to go today. Listen. Like I said, if he doesn’t want to talk about it, you can always play back the CC tape.”

  I thought of Xavier and harrumphed.

  “The room’s vidcam.”

  “Roger,” Emilio said. He stepped over to the door, unlocked it. “Okay, get to work. Give a shout if you need me.”

  He tugged it open. The hallway’s light show flashed wicked shadows into the void beyond. I could see the dark outline of Martin Grace, still in the center of the room, still sitting in his wooden chair. I thought about Malcolm. I thought about improvisation.

  My hand slid into the inky blackness, fingertips groping for the room’s light switch. I found it. The room blew up bright, forcing me to squint.

  Martin Grace’s eyes were closed. His face, impassive. Dead.

  The lights outside the room stopped blinking. Now, there was perfectly steady, innocent incandescent light … everywhere.

  Martin Grace was grinning now. Grinning like a crazy person.

  I felt a bead of sweat trail down my spine.

  “Huh,” I heard Emilio say. I stepped into the room, toward my patient. The door closed behind me.

  Grace kept grinning.

  It was as quiet as a tomb.

  I stood still and watched the man closely, not speaking, wanting to defy his expectations. I’d done the predictable thing yesterday, had taken my lumps, learned my lesson. It was time to test Grace’s predictability now.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Taylor,” he said finally. His grin didn’t waver. “What’s in the bag”

  I wasn’t surprised by this. I’d expected it. Cool.

  “Something for later.”

  I placed the sack on the table by the door, next to the Casio. I dragged the other chair to the center of the room, and sat.

  “Did you relay my warning to Nurse Jackson” he asked. His voice was low and smooth, a night-drive radio DJ. “About her early date with the maker”

  “No.”

  Grace’s lined face slipped into a frown. “Ah. Well, I must say that doesn’t sound very gentlemanly,” he said. “Doesn’t sound like someone concerned with the fate of his fellow man. That’s why you’re here, after all, isn’t it? To make a—”

  His voice dipped low, dripped with condescension.

  “—positive impact on the world. To give something back.”

  I crossed my arms, knowing that my chair’s creaks would telegraph this. The man’s head tilted slightly. A ghostly, knowing smirk was now on his lips.

  “Behold the indignance of youth,” he began. “It’s no wonder the leaders of this great nation worry—”

  “Do you smell that” I asked.<
br />
  Martin Grace stopped speaking. I watched his nostrils flare slightly, his eyebrows rise, appraising. He said nothing.

  I leaned forward, placing my elbows on my knees. “You smelled the jam on my shirt yesterday, and that was only a smudge. Surely you smell this.”

  “What,” Grace said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Bullshit,” I replied.

  I was learning to pitch.

  Martin Grace’s face tightened. Twisted. Went crimson, like a cartoon. His knuckles flared white as he clenched his fists.

  “Just who do you think you’re talking to? Do you have any idea who in the FUCK you’re talking to”

  “I know who I’m not talking to,” I said. “I’m not talking to Martin Grace.”

  The man’s eyes opened. He stared at my face, his pine-green eyes burning hot and furious.

  “You know what I mean,” I said. “Don’t insult me by saying you don’t. Let’s get a few things straight, Martin. One: No, I do not know who in the fuck I’m talking to. But I’d like to know. I’d like you to tell me who you really are, not who you claim to be. I’d like you to work with me, get talking and playing on that piano, expressing—and helping—yourself, for God’s sake. Two: You were right yesterday. I’m not ‘like the others.’ You’re stuck with me, so lend me a hand here. I’m going to find out one way or another, I really am. I’ll keep digging.”

  Martin Grace spat at my feet, missing my sneakers by a half-inch.

  “Dig,” he whispered. “Dig all the way to hell. That’s the only way you’ll find me, maggot. I run the red show, the hellshow.”

  I had no idea what that meant.

  “Who are you” I asked. “Who were you”

  The man’s face smoothed over, went cold. At that moment, Martin Grace reminded me of my father.

  “You seem to think that if I see, everything will be all right,” he said. “‘Praise the Lord, it’s another Mr. Taylor miracle, he saved The Mole Man.’ That’s what they’re calling me now, you know that, don’t you”

  I didn’t. The smile on Grace’s face told me he knew this.

  He tapped his temple, drawing my attention to his open, sightless eyes.

  “But your mind doesn’t understand. Even if you save me, you’re not going to save me. You’re going to kill people … probably yourself. I’m doing you a favor. Protecting you.”

  “You know, I’m getting pretty damned tired of people trying to protect me,” I snapped. “The past is what it is. You can’t erase it no matter how hard you try, or how far you run. What are you so afraid of”

  Martin Grace’s head tilted slightly, as if he had heard something. He closed his eyes. He raised his head slowly, the light bulb above him illuminating his lined face. He was handsome and horrifying in the silence.

  “Oh, you know,” he said.

  The Dark Man, yes—but I shook my head. “I honestly don’t. You’re crippled by remorse for murders you didn’t commit. These visions you had, they have explanations, Martin. Roots from before, from before you were Martin Grace. If you tell me about your life, if we go down that road together …”

  I paused. Grace wasn’t listening. He was still smiling up at the ceiling.

  “I want you to find peace,” I said simply. “I want help you find—”

  “You know … what’s … here,” he said. “I know you do. I can smell it all over you, the thing I’ve smelled on myself every day for ten years now. You’re my midnight kin, my haunted brother, my tormented son. You’ve seen it, you’ve felt it, you know it’s here, been here all along, been close, hosting Black Mass in the corners of your mind, in the corner of every room, behind every closed door, under every bed—”

  “Knock it off, man,” I said.

  “—and you know it’s here—”

  “Stop.”

  “—right now. With us. Right. Now.”

  The light above Grace flickered. I gaped up at it, unbelieving.

  “I hate that sound,” the blind man said.

  The light buzzed again.

  I had a hand to my mouth now. I could feel the blood rushing from my face. I couldn’t help it. I felt slow and stupid, like a child. Frightened. I couldn’t stand, couldn’t think straight. Was it getting colder in here?

  “There’s not a single bulb in my apartment, you know,” he said. “Nary a one. Keeps things quiet. Keeps things sane. When I’m alone and I’m thinking about it, it does this. Plays with the lights. It’s not far, never far, is it”

  I looked over my shoulder, to the wall by the door. The light switch had not moved from its “on” position. The light above flashed more Morse code.

  “The Dark Man, Mr. Taylor. Can you see it” Grace’s voice purred. “Your friend outside certainly can. He’s been seeing it for a day now; it’s been prowling the hall like a panther, driving him mad.”

  Shadows splashed across the bare walls as the light went berserk. Could I see it? Christ, could I? Something black there, in the corner? An absence of … everything? Light? Something breathing, shoulders heaving?

  Was it real?

  Would you be mine? Could you be mine?

  “Emilio thinks it’s a vampire,” Grace whispered. He said this as if it were a wink-nudge secret between two friends. I shuddered. “But it’s so much worse than that. Don’t you agree”

  He spread his arms, a priest at the pulpit. The light continued to flicker. “This is where the Inkstain lives. You’re wise to be afraid of the dark. It hunts best in the pitch.”

  I’d made plans for today’s session. Wanted to rattle him, put a chink in his impenetrable suit of armor. This hadn’t been on the agenda—God no.

  “It’s in every exhale, every other heartbeat, every third eye blink, and you want me to set it free? No, Mr. Taylor. That would be unwise. Just do what your father wants you to do. Forget about the blind man, the lost love. Keep him buried in The Brink like he wants, if only for another week, so Daddy can bury him someplace worse. Father knows best. Forever and ever, amen.”

  And then the room went dark for a breathless, terrible moment.

  Something skittered in the blackness. Millipede feet.

  This isn’t happening, I told myself, this is the power of suggestion, bad wires, bad lights, bad, broken Zach, nothing more. There’s nothing else in this

  Skitter, from behind. Tktk.

  in this room goddamnit, just me and the blind man and

  The bulb flashed bright again, steady. Grace lowered his head and looked at me.

  I fought every urge to turn around, look for the thing that was never there. I took a deep breath, bit my tongue to focus.

  “What … what do you know about my father” I finally asked.

  The man chuckled. “Now who’s insulting whom, Mr. Taylor? If you’re curious, ask him, not me.”

  He lowered his arms.

  “Now are you going to tell me what’s in your bag of tricks before you leave … or will you be coy and make me guess? Because I assure you, Mr. Taylor, our session is over. You’ll stare at me and ask me question after question, and I’ll say nary a syllable. You may be stupid to think you can crack me … but you’re smart enough to know what I say is true.”

  And I did. My shoulders slumped. No improvisation from me, no history from him. No. Not in this room.

  But what about … outside this room?

  My eyes turned to the Casio piano by the door. Learn to pitch, Malcolm had said. I’d soon see if my patient had stepped to the plate last night. And tomorrow, I’d see if he’d play today’s game, too.

  I strode toward the room’s table. Grace smiled at the sound of the bag I’d brought today. It crinkled in my hands. I pulled out a long, flat, rectangular box, and a sketch pad. I flipped open the top of the box. “They’re pastels, Martin,” I said. “They’re more than a hundred here. And paper.”

  Grace laughed, a full-belly guffaw.

  “You’ve giving a blind man crayons? You’re the worst art therapist the world has—” />
  “You know, I knew you were going to say that,” I replied, and I had. The curve ball was in my hand, small, but finally there. I needed these unexpected maneuvers, if I wanted to evoke something from him, some expression beyond this game-playing. “You’re a one-trick pony, Martin Grace. Let’s see if you have the balls to evolve. Draw for me, blind man. I’ll come back tomorrow to see what you’ve created. We’re going to talk about it.”

  He opened his mouth to retort. I didn’t listen. I grabbed the Casio piano from the table and left the room.

  10

  “He knows,” I said to myself, walking the hallways of Level 3. “Somehow he knows when the lights are going to flicker.”

  I was still shaking from the beast I’d seen in Room 507. Either I was losing my mind, or Martin Grace was manipulating me. Neither prospect was good.

  “Yeah, gotta be it,” I murmured. “Uses it to scare me, throw me off-balance, gain control of the session. He’s shutting me down when I start to get personal.”

  My rational side—my personal Leonard Nimoy—spoke up.

  Why would he do that?

  “Because I’m close. Close to something. Something he doesn’t want me to know.”

  And what does that mean? Mr. Spock asked.

  “It means that’s my in. If I can’t get in the front door, I gotta squeak through a basement window. Personal. I’ve got to get personal.”

  So how can you do that?

  I turned the corner toward my office, hefted the Casio synthesizer in my hand.

  “I’m working on that,” I said. “Let’s see if he met me halfway.”

  I unlocked the office door and went to my desk. I placed the piano on its side.

  “Memory card,” I said, and smiled. I pushed a release and a tiny plastic rectangle popped from the device. Before yesterday’s session, I’d configured the Casio to record everything played on its keyboard.

  I launched the media player on my PC and slid the memory card into a small reader.

  “Did you get curious, you coldhearted sonuvabitch?” I said. “Did you get creative?”

  I held my breath as the contents of the card were accessed. An audio waveform appeared on the screen.