Something had connected with him.
Not merely the blade of the axe, but it must have been the tendril of darkness that clung to his wife’s ankles when she walked. It might have found its way inside the wound. Or something else did, I don’t know.
It occurred to me that he might actually be the closest thing I had on earth to a kindred spirit.
I looked to the slate again, and saw only the soup of numbers, bubbling as if they floated in a cauldron. I didn’t know what they meant. I didn’t understand what they were trying to say, not today. Maybe not anymore, at all. It was hard to guess, just like everything else.
But given all this uncertainty, perhaps Mr. Lorino could grant me some kind of direction or guidance. Does that sound awful? Trite? I guess it might. That’s what they do in the old stories, isn’t it—they seek out someone who’s crippled or maimed, as if some weird magic has found its way in through the cracks in their bodies or their souls. Nonsense, of course . . . except in this case, perhaps not. His was no ordinary injury, after all. It’s one I created. I cracked him open, and something came inside him. I am responsible for him, whether I like it or not.
I thought about calling for a ride, but decided instead that the air was fresh, the day was warm, and the fewer witnesses to my visit, the better. The distance to the hospital wasn’t great, and I was in the mood to think. Walking aids thinking. Doesn’t it?
Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
Mostly the thoughts I had were dark, unpleasant ones, regarding the likelihood that this was a terrible idea, a terrible mistake in the making. A thin sheen of guilt covered everything. I wondered if that wasn’t a mistake, too—if this was only some quest for forgiveness, and a selfish one at that.
But it was only a small amount of guilt, overshadowed easily by my curiosity and sense of desperate aimlessness. If this was a selfish quest, it was a selfish quest of an entirely other sort.
• • •
I reached the hospital and strolled inside.
I gave no thought as to how I might gain entry to Mr. Lorino’s quarters, and it may sound strange to relate, but no one asked me any questions. No one stopped me when I approached the nurse’s desk where the nun kept her paperwork and answered the solitary telephone. No one intervened when I reached for the sheet that logged visitors, and no one questioned my actions when I ran my finger down the columns, hoping to spy his name—yes, there it was, Gaspera Lorino, room 14B, and he’d received two visitors as of late. No one so much as blinked when I placed the clipboard back onto its proper spot, and left it there.
I turned to regard the room, and no one in the room regarded me back.
One large orderly exited a set of double doors, removing his smock at the end of his shift—replacing it with a gray sweater. He bade the nun a good morning and left the lobby. Another orderly arrived, signed himself in, and disappeared down the corridor through those same doors. Three young women sat in the waiting area, waiting for God knew what. A doctor came and went, his gleaming brown shoes tap-tap-tapping on the bright white and shiny black squares of the linoleum floor; the seats were seafoam green with bright metal armrests and the windows were frosted glass, threaded through with chicken wire to make them strong against thrown bricks or other forms of escape.
This was a hospital, wasn’t it? Certainly, but it was a prison, too, with doors that locked and windows with bars both big and small.
This was a destination.
This was a lobby. This was a man, standing in the midst of it, and no one saw him. Me. No one saw me, and I stood in the midst of it, right before everyone, and I might as well have been made of the low black fog that no one ever spotted except for me.
I took it as a sign. Not from God, because I didn’t really think God was speaking anymore (or not to me, probably not to anyone), but a sign from whatever pattern had sustained me this far, this long. Something was still working with me, coaching me forward, urging me to continue this awful path—and assisting me when necessary.
I think?
Or else . . . or else it’s something odder yet. There’s always the possibility (there’s always a possibility, another one, another two, another thousand) that this is a force of my own creation. This invisibility, for that’s what it is . . . it might be a skill I’ve acquired—like my ability to see the carnivorous black smoke. But if that’s the case, then how did I acquire it? And from whom?
It hardly seemed wise to stand there philosophizing, when I’d been handed all the information I needed in order to find Lorino. The very ease of it all suggested I was on the right path, or so I chose to assume.
(I choose many assumptions these days. I choose to believe in my own valor, in the righteousness of my acts, in my sanity, in the successfulness of my campaigns against the reverend. And I might be wrong about any of them.)
I pushed the swinging door and it gave way easily. I entered the chilly corridor of the hospital, and I walked along it—checking the doors for numbers, checking the faces of those I passed for some sign that I’d been seen. None of the doctors, nurses, nuns, or any other official person gave me a second glance.
One or two of the patients did, but none of them called any attention to me. More small blessings, or small gifts from the Patterns That Be.
Room 14B was halfway down and on the left.
It was unlocked, from the outside. Or rather I should say, when I put my hand on the latch, it unfastened and it let me come in. I do not know if it would’ve opened for anyone else who might wander up without a key.
Mr. Lorino was seated on his bed, his feet dangling over the side. His toes dragged upon the floor when he waved them back and forth—his cotton socks sagging low, and leaving small streaks of sweat that vanished as soon as they appeared.
He did not look up at me, but he knew I’d arrived. “Was it a good idea, do you think? Did the stars suggest it, or did the numbers?”
“I’m not sure.” I let the door slip shut behind me.
There was a chair positioned under a window, across from his bed. I took it, drawing it forward so that I could face him.
He looked up at me then. He was older than I recalled, but then again, I’d only seen him by the light of a streetlamp, the sort of light that’s kind to everyone. He observed, “You’re running out of good ideas.”
“I never had many to begin with.”
“That isn’t what I mean,” he said. He didn’t exactly frown, but his forehead wrinkled with concentration. “The good ideas you’ve been given . . . they’re drying up. Is that why you’ve come?”
“It must be.” I sighed, and leaned back into the chair. “Drying up, you said . . . that’s one way to put it.”
“You have a better one?”
“No. But to hear you say it . . . I’m all the more worried. I’d hoped it was my imagination.”
He nodded slowly, but at the same time, he spoke quickly. “Almost nothing is imagined. The numbers came, and you did your best. Now the messages come fewer and farther between, and you want to know what it means. You come here, you slip inside the fortress like a ghost, like the true ghost you are. Or no, that’s not what I mean. I am the ghost, summoned by the witch at Endor—and you, you are Saul upon the battlefield, casting about for some hint that all is unfolding according to plan. Some plan. Any plan. You want to believe that there’s a plan. I suppose you need to, given the task you’ve been assigned, and subsequently accepted.”
“Do you mind being my Samuel?” I asked him frankly. My voice cracked, a very little bit, when I added, “I have no one, you see.”
“I do not mind. You and I, we are bound these days.”
“I wish it were not so.”
“Wishes . . . well, I know. What’s the point of them? They can’t help, and might hurt. It’s done, that’s the sum of it. And you’re almost done, that’s the answer.”
I fel
t a warmth behind my ears. It crept down my throat, and blushed my chest beneath my shirt. “Do you mean . . . I’m almost done with the axe? I hope that’s what you mean. I’m sorry, but I’m not sure. I don’t understand.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. Of course you’re sorry—you’re human still, not like some of the others who’ve killed because the stars and the sea had conspired against them. And that’s why—” He sat forward, locking me down with those earnest eyes. “That’s why it’s not so bad, what happens next. Too much longer, and you would change too much. You’d lose yourself to the other side, or to the middle state. You’re losing yourself already, aren’t you? The first deaths were hard, and the last ones were easy.”
“Easier,” I corrected him, sounding more defensive than I’d intended.
“The next ones would be easiest of all, and on the other side of easiness is pleasure at a job well done. Beyond that lies anticipation for a task yet to be accomplished. Do you see what I mean?”
I did see, and that was the horror of it. He wasn’t wrong.
“I must stop what I’m doing before I enjoy what I’m doing. Is that somehow part of the pattern? That only a reluctant knight can perform the duty?” I was flailing about, and I believe we both knew it. “Will the numbers stop coming to me altogether? Or is it worse than that?” I had the . . . nerve? fortitude? courage? . . . to ask him the only question that mattered in the end.
“Worse, better.” He shrugged, as if these things were all the same. On some greater balance than my own life, perhaps they are.
But this was no greater balance; this was only my time upon the earth, and I pushed him for more. Even though I didn’t really want to hear more, because I already suspected where the conversation was leading. “So the numbers, the instructions . . . they will dry up. And what becomes of me then?”
He gave me a long, hard look. Then his gaze softened. “The numbers will not abandon you,” he assured me. “They have changed in nature, that is all. They will accompany you for all the rest of your days.”
I let out a deep breath. It almost whistled as it left me. “Are you certain?”
“Quite certain. Your place in this story, your role . . . it will change, that is all.” He patted me on the knee, a reassuring gesture that did its job, albeit somewhat weakly.
“That’s a relief to hear. I was afraid, you know . . . afraid that I would be compelled to kill forever.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure! What are you suggesting?”
“That all is right with the universe, and nothing more. I am glad you will not be compelled to kill forever. I am glad you will never take pleasure in that task, or any greater pleasure—no, satisfaction, and I beg your pardon—than you’ve come to feel already. I am glad your task will change, and I wish you well on your new path, when you find it.”
I wasn’t sure I believed him. Something about that eyebrow lift, and something about that softened look . . . it was a gaze of pity. He pitied me, and I did not like that—because I didn’t know why.
Maybe it was only the obvious. That’s what I tried to think.
I thanked him for his time then, and stood in order to take my leave.
He stopped me with a hand on my arm. In a whisper, but at that same nearly frenetic pace of speech, he told me, “I’ve never held it against you, you know. The pain, the loss. I could see, when I awakened . . . I could see how you did what you were forced to do, and I saw that it was for the good of us all. I saw the things that wait on the other side, or in the middle distance—that’s a more appropriate way to put it. I know why you do what you do, and I admire you for the courage it’s taken to bring you to your task, and to this room, and to where you will proceed next.”
“Thank you . . . ?” I said. I must’ve made it a question. I wasn’t sure.
“No, it is my thanks—mine—that I extend. As well as my apologies, for I cannot be of any help to you, not really.”
“No one can.”
“You’re right.” His grip loosened, and his fingers slid down to my wrist, then my hand. He held it lightly, like a child who needs no real direction but wishes for the parent to feel safe. “But that’s fine, or it will be fine. I wished to say that others will come and take over your duties . . . but that isn’t the case, not quite. Your numbers dwindle, they dwindle, they do. It is either very good, or very bad, now that I consider it.”
I drew my hand away, for his gentle stroking felt strange. “Now that you consider it?”
“Now that I’ve had more time to consider it, I should say, for I consider everything. Your numbers dwindle, perhaps, because there are fewer left who need to die. So the threat, you see . . . the threat will either be vanquished very soon—or it will find victory. Either way, either way . . .” He mumbled the rest: “Either way, there are fewer left who need to die ahead of the cosmic schedule. Fewer keys to be tried in that terrible lock.”
I was half afraid to extricate myself, but he did not take hold of me again—and did not bear me so much as a formal farewell as I left his room. I don’t think he even looked at me again. It was as if he’d fallen asleep upright, seated on the bed as he was.
Back into the corridor I moved like a phantom. I felt like a phantom, like smoke. I stepped out of the way of gurneys rolling to and fro. I dodged the nurses and the nuns with their trays of pills and their folders full of paperwork.
I veritably danced, as this was veritably a ballet of ghosts.
Back outside, and back into the sun I stepped. I shielded my eyes, for it seemed very bright—I don’t know why, for the interior of the hospital was bright as well. I can’t imagine why it pained me for those thick, muddy seconds while my eyes adjusted. But pain me it did, along with many other things. Poor Mr. Lorino. Poor me. Poor everyone, if the Chapelwood men have their way, and their god is allowed inside our world.
I began the return walk to my flophouse room, deep in thought. I didn’t realize how late it had become; that harsh, angled light was a result of afternoon toppling toward evening—and the air cooled as the hours stretched. I would be home before dark, certainly. I was not afraid. I was the thing other people were afraid of.
• • •
I’m not sure when I first noticed that my feet were cold.
The rest of me wasn’t cold. My face was flushed with exertion and the low sun’s blush, and even my hands—which often do run toward chill—were just fine, buried within my jacket pockets. If anything, I was almost a little warm. That’s why it surprised me. That’s why it snuck up on me, I assume.
My feet were cold, so I looked down at them, and I think there’s a chance, for a shattered fraction of a second, that my heart stopped.
• • •
My feet were cold, and they were hard to see. A dim gray haze laced with black filled the space between the sidewalk and my knees—a roiling, fluffy mass that moved thick as fog around my ankles.
If my heart stopped, it did so briefly enough that nothing else noticed, and my bodily processes continued at their usual rounds . . . but given a jolt of speed. My surprise and fear were shocking things, tandem things that set upon me like electricity.
I wanted to run, but could scarcely move. I wanted to scream, but could not open my mouth.
Yet I was not paralyzed, or held hostage by any weird mesmerism. I was only confused and frightened, or no . . . not confused. I knew precisely what the dark smoke meant: It meant I was marked.
But hadn’t I been marked already? Lo these many months?
No. Not like this. I had touched something on the other side, or in the middle distance, as Lorino put it. Yes, you touch these things and they touch you back—that’s the nature of everything, everywhere, I know. But this kind of mark?
I looked around the street and saw no one to consult, even with such a ridiculous question as, “Tel
l me, good sir, is there anything peculiar about my feet?” If anyone had been present, and if I had posed the query, it wouldn’t have mattered in the slightest—for I already knew the answer. I had known for ages that no one apart from myself could spy the sinister smoke.
I wondered if Lorino saw it.
Then, fast on the heels of that wondering, I wondered if Lorino had somehow caused the smoke—if this wasn’t his fault, in some regard. But no, that was a stupid thing to ask myself. Even if, in some roundabout way, the injured and hospitalized Italian had cast some spell upon me, pointing me out to the things on the other side of the veil . . . the blame came back around to me, anyway. Didn’t it?
But yes . . . yes, I think he saw it. Or he sensed it somehow, even before I was aware of it. His pity . . . that terrible pity in his eyes . . .
Oh, indeed—my task was drawing to a close. And indeed, it was better for me to cease my hacking ways now, before I came to enjoy them too much.
I felt a sharp stab of anger, and it must’ve come from the same place that provided my wicked, unconscionable pleasure at a job well done. It wasn’t fair. Not in the slightest. I was only doing what I was asked. I was only trying to save the world. And this would be my repayment? Death by some other instrument of the pattern, bringing balance around in his own way, driven by his own numbers—delivered in whatever fashion was particular to him.
Again I let my eyes dart around on the street. Again I saw nothing and no one to rouse any suspicion. There was no one to confront, no one to defend myself against. No one to attack, should that be called for.
It was the very opposite of being inside the hospital, where no one could see me.
I could feel my neck flushing, and my heart pounded loudly in my ears. How far was I from the safety of the flophouse room? Not a mile, I didn’t think. I looked at my feet again, and could scarcely see them; the smoke grew thicker, coiled tighter . . . or was it only in my mind? Were my legs any colder than when I’d first noticed the foul stuff’s presence? I started to run.
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