Everyone Dies in the End

by Brian Katcher

  Sitting on one of the couches, a very old man stared off into space. Two younger men played ping-pong while a third watched, bobbing his head to some personal rhythm. At a desk by the door, a fat nurse read a soap opera magazine.

  Martin took me through a far door, down a freshly mopped hall, and past a set of swinging doors marked ‘infirmary.’ We came to a stop in front of another room, where Martin nodded to another white coat and motioned me inside.

  We were in a standard hospital room, divided in half by a white screen. Denton lay in the near bed, his back raised, his neck immobilized by a cervical collar.

  “Mr. Dubbs?” called Martin. “You have a visitor. Do you feel like seeing anyone?”

  Denton’s eyes moved toward me and he smiled. He tried to nod his head, winced, and gave Martin a thumbs up. Martin, after looking me over once more, left us alone.

  I pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. Denton looked awful. A greenish bruise was spreading beneath his collar. His right eye was streaked with red from a burst blood vessel. But he was alive.

  “Denton?”

  He made a slashing motion with his hand. Reaching over, he grabbed a notepad from his nightstand and began writing.

  The walls have ears. He jabbed a thumb at the screen next to his bed.

  As if on cue, a low, male voice from the other bed gurgled, “I’m Talking Tina, and I don’t like you very much.”

  I picked up the pen and wrote. Are you OK?

  Denton smiled. They say I won’t die. Apparently the attack made me immortal. He drew a smiley face. You’ve certainly stepped in it.

  For the second time that weekend I had to apologize for someone’s near murder. As I started to scribble my regrets, Denton stopped my hand.

  Bound to happen. Watch your back.

  “There was finally time! Finally time!” screeched the man in the next bed.

  Looking at the door to make sure no one was hanging around, I gave Denton a whispered Reader’s Digest version of the previous night.

  Denton turned the page. Something I have to tell you. Disturbing.

  “More disturbing than last night?” I said loudly. Denton shushed me and wrote again.

  Yesterday, I didn’t tell you everything.

  “IT’S A COOKBOOK!” screamed Denton’s roommate. Denton glowered. Without looking, he picked up an empty water pitcher and banked it off the ceiling. It fell on the man in the other bed with a thud.

  “Ow! Up yours, Denton! I wish you into the cornfield!”

  Denton continued to write.

  We may have underestimated our problems with Saberhagen.

  I grabbed the pen. Underestimated? What’s worse than dying?

  Denton looked up at me with his good eye and stared at me, almost sadly. Eventually, he wrote again.

  Something that WON’T die.

  Denton scribbled furiously on his pad, as his unseen roommate began to snore. I lied when I said I’d told you all I found out. Afraid you’d think I was crazy. Denton smiled, winked, and tapped the side of head with his pen.

  I shrugged, not bothering to deny my earlier doubts about Denton’s sanity.

  After I read the diary, I looked up Saberhagen in 1930s newspaper records and found out what I told you. That’s not all. Check the folder in the nightstand.

  I retrieved a manila folder labeled ‘tax returns, 2002-2005.’ I looked at my companion inquisitively, but he didn’t meet my eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead and I wondered if he was in more pain than he let on. I perused the contents.

  The first pages were newspaper photocopies, dealing with Saberhagen, his dodgy business dealings, and his obituary. It was all as Denton had told me before. I got the impression that whoever had written the articles very much wanted to call Saberhagen a thief, or worse. One especially vitriolic editorial implied that a business venture of Saberhagen’s, National Octagon, was nothing but a front for organized crime.

  I was distracted from my reading by Denton banging his hand on the railing of his bed. He had written something on the tablet.

  Check the date.

  I squinted at the photocopy…April 16, 1899.

  I looked back at the article. Sure enough, the editor was libeling a Peter Saberhagen, not Paul.

  “Denton, it’s the not the same guy.”

  Denton made irritated motions with his fingers. I returned to the pile of papers. The next article was Peter Saberhagen’s obituary. He had died in 1918, and was buried in Irontown Cemetery. Bit of a coincidence. Must have been a relation of Paul Saberhagen’s.

  The next pages were copied out of a book. The running title was History of the Civil War in Missouri and Kansas. An underlined paragraph mentioned that ten Yankee POWs had been executed without trial by a Colonel Saberhagen in 1864. The next page was a family tree, copied out of someone’s family Bible. I could barely make out a circled entry: Col. P. Saberhagen, CSA, ?-1865, buried Irontown Cem.

  I didn’t like where this was going. The following page was torn straight out of a book, apparently a junior high American history text. It was a chapter dealing with the slave trade. The illustration was of an advertisement for a slave auction in St. Louis. The date was 1833. The head trader was Pieter Saber-Jagen.

  The last page was an obituary for a Mr. Perry Saberhagen, died 1975. He had apparently been a major fundraiser for the John Birch Society, had lobbied congress to deport suspected Communists, and had been a founding member of The Moark Brotherhood (a paper-clipped note stated that the Brotherhood was associated with the KKK and was responsible for at least two lynchings in Arkansas). Mr. Saberhagen was buried in his hometown of Irontown, Missouri.

  I closed the folder and replaced it in the drawer. Repositioning myself so Denton could make eye contact, I wondered where to begin.

  “Denton, you’ve done your homework. But it doesn’t prove anything. Who’s to say these guys aren’t related? That Irontown isn’t a family plot?”

  Denton groped for his notebook. In a town where no one has lived since 1850? Coincidence?

  I took a few moments to ponder what he was saying. “So what are you telling me? That this Saberhagen guy never dies? That he’s the one who’s chasing me?” Denton was obviously delusional.

  I’m not sure if he’s the one. But five guys with the same name all buried in the same abandoned town, for over 130 years?

  “This is dumb,” I whispered. “If he doesn’t die, why do they bury him?” If it hadn’t been for the very real attempts on our lives recently, I wouldn’t even bother trying to reason with this mental patient.

  Denton’s pen hovered, as he stared at the ceiling for a moment. I don’t mean he doesn’t die. I mean he won’t stay dead. Every 30 years or so, he comes back. Don’t know how or why, just does.

  “So he’s what? A zombie? A vampire?”

  Don’t know. Something powerful. 3 of the last guys who crossed him ended up dead or vanished. His people are trying to kill us. Denton began massaging his cramping wrist.

  “I can’t accept this whole undead explanation. If all these Saberhagens had something to do with each other, maybe they just changed their name. Maybe they’re part of some criminal organization or something. ‘Saberhagen’ might be some kind of code name for their leader.”

  One way to find out.

  “What?”

  Go to Irontown, or where it used to be. Check out his grave. See if his plots undisturbed.

  I stood up. “You’re forgetting one thing, Mr. Dubbs.”

  He looked at me questioningly.

  “I don’t want anything more to do with this shit!” I hollered. Denton’s bloodshot eyes opened in panic, but I continued. “I don’t care who can hear me. I hope they can hear me. I want out! No more investigation, no more attempts on my life! It’s over.”

  Martin stuck his head in the room. “Everything okay in here?”

  Denton waved him away and began writing again.

  The time for getting out passed us both by. How many times ha
ve you been attacked this week? 2x?

  I couldn’t make eye contact. “Three.”

  Surprised you’ve survived this long. They’re after you, and saying pretty please won’t make them stop.

  “It’s all I got. Sorry Denton, all I care about is my own hide.”

  Aren’t you curious?

  “Nope.” I thought back to my plans of a cushy job at a big newspaper. I wasn’t ready to abandon the life I’d worked so hard to achieve.

  Denton tried to write something else, but I refused to read it. “Bye, Denton.” I moved towards the door.

  “Shee….ma…” It was the first time Denton had called me by my first name, and it sounded as if someone had forcibly extracted the word through his nasal cavity. I turned to find him painfully trying to gasp something through his maimed windpipe. I sat down again.

  Do you want to end up like me?

  “I almost did.”

  I don’t mean being attacked. Walk out of here, try to live your life. Go to the police, I did. And then someone finds a kilo of coke in your trunk. Or some sweet little girl tells them how you raped her in her in the back of your car. Who will believe you then? They don’t have to kill you. Just turn you into someone no one will ever trust.

  The idea horrified me. What if Denton was telling the truth about why he was in the hospital? He could shout about Saberhagen for years, but no one would believe him. And if these guys, whoever they were, were truly as powerful as they seemed, then they could do the same thing to me.

  “Denton, what the hell am I supposed to do?”

  Irontown. See if the grave’s undisturbed. If it looks normal, then just be careful and hope this all blows over.

  “Sorry. Last time I took a drive in the country, someone tried to shoot me. I can’t help you.” I tried not to think of the directions to a certain grave that I had taken out of a dead man’s car. For whatever reason, the people who’d been chasing me were interested in an abandoned cemetery as well. But I wasn’t about to find out why.

  Denton rolled his eyes in a disappointed manner and I got up to leave. “Denton, will you be okay here?”

  Yes. Martin and the crew have got my back. At least for now. Be careful.

  * * *

  Martin walked me down the hall. “Were you two all right in there? I thought I heard yelling.” The orderly looked at me with obvious distrust.

  “Just clowning around. Listen, do you have any clue who jumped him last night?”

  We paused at the door to the day room. “If I had any idea,” said Martin, contemptuously, “don’t you think I’d have told the police?”

  We walked into the day room. It was more crowded, with both patients and visitors milling around and talking. I noted that it was not always easy to pick out who was who.

  Martin stopped me just before I passed into reception. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but I don’t trust you. You’d do well not to come around for a while, you dig?”

  I had enough of this BS. “Ah, Nurse Ratched, we just want to watch the baseball game,” I told him with a smirk.

  To my surprise, the room fell dead silent. Other than a gasp from the nurse and the click of the ping-pong ball rolling across the floor, no one made a sound. Inmates and visitors began glaring at me.

  Martin shook his head. “I think you’d better leave.”

  – Chapter Twelve –

  Targeted for death by some weird cult and the only one who believed me was locked up in a mental ward and believed in vampires. Splendid.

  On top of that, my ribs were still hurting, that lumberjack breakfast was starting to repeat on me, and I was stranded in Fulton.

  The last one was easily remedied. I knew someone who’d give me a ride. Turning on my phone, I had ten calls from an unfamiliar number. I dialed it, and wasn’t surprised when Benny, my floor advisor, answered.

  “Mr. Schultz, this is Sherman Andrews. I’m stuck in Fulton, can you pick me up?”

  There was a pause. “Where are you? I hope you can pack quick, you’re kicked out of the Scholars’ Academy as of today.”

  Benny arrived at a mere thirty minutes later, barreling out of his Dodge like an asthmatic rhino. My staying out all night apparently hadn’t set well with him, and he was no longer pretending we were pals.

  “Just what the hell were you trying to pull?” he bellowed, as soon as we sped off. “Did you think I was just kidding about curfew? Did you think it applied to everyone but you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry?” I half-expected the steering wheel to bend under his grip. “If you hadn’t given me a fake number for your father, your ass would already be at home.”

  “Fake?”

  “I tried to call him, but got some plumbing service.” He snorted, disgusted.

  “That’s Dad. But he’s out of town.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Sherman, I’m surprised at you, I thought of all people…”

  I muted the lecture. I wondered how sanctimonious he’d feel if the cops had been scraping L.J. and me out of some train wheels.

  “I was up all night wondering if I should call the police. So what was so important? A party? Some girl?”

  That did it. On top of everything else, I was in no mood for a lecture on responsibility.

  “Mr. Schultz, did you happen to notice that you picked me up in front of a mental hospital?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was there for my, erm, uncle Denton.”

  He looked away from the road to glare at me. “They have all-night visiting hours, do they?”

  My mind rattled as I tried to think of a convincing lie (which would be much less bizarre than the truth).

  “I was not visiting. I was trying to keep him out of jail. Again.”

  Benny didn’t say anything, so I continued, composing as I spoke.

  “Uncle Denton has schizophrenia. Hard core. He takes medication, then thinks he doesn’t need it, and gets in trouble. Last night he wound up going into a stranger’s house in the middle of the night. Wandered into a twelve-year-old girl’s room. Mom’s in California and Dad won’t talk to Denton since the divorce, so guess who had to deal with this. I spent all night convincing the girl’s seven-foot-tall father, some redneck cops, and a psychiatrist who barely spoke English that my uncle wasn’t some kind of marauding child rapist.” I was so caught up in my story, I actually managed to feel indignant. “I’m sorry if you had a bad night, but mine was worse.”

  We drove in silence for a mile. “You could have told me,” he said, eventually. “I could have helped.”

  “Mr. Schultz?” I said, in a high pitched, whiney voice. “Will you come to Fulton to help keep my uncle off the sexual predators list?”

  He hung his head a little. I felt guilty for blowing smoke. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. By the time everything was over, I figured you were in bed.”

  “Well, I wasn’t. Sherman, by all rights, I’m supposed to send you home. Family emergency or not, you can’t wander off like that. But…Jesus. I never thought I’d say this, but I’ll let it slide. This time, and this time only.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I managed to get about fifteen minutes of sleep on the way back.

  I was upset to see that something was taped to my dorm room door. Upon closer inspection, it proved to be a student health pamphlet about herpes. Someone, probably Aaron, had written across it in big letters: Hey, LJ, here’s that info you wanted.

  I was too tired to even throw it away. Thankfully, L.J. was not in the room, though his guitar was gone, showing that he’d made it back safely. I owed him a huge explanation, and I wanted to avoid that.

  What day was it? Sunday? It didn’t matter. I’d take a short nap, shower, and head to the police station, hopefully not dying on the way. I’d thought about it and it was my only course of action. Whoever these people were, they were going to catch up with me one of these days. I’d only escaped before due to dumb luck.

  I carefully place
d my notes about Gowen in my stolen attaché case. In an hour I’d go downtown and explain everything.

  Of course, tales of cults and murders don’t mean a lot when you don’t have any evidence to back it up. Denton could explain things better than I could, but I knew the odds that he’d be taken seriously.

  Plus, there was the matter of the train accident. A guy had died, and leaving the scene of a fatal wreck was a pretty serious crime. I didn’t want L.J. to get in trouble. I could say I’d been driving, but I didn’t have a car.

  As I thought about how to leave out my roommate’s involvement, I noticed something on my bed. An envelope. It was from the Journalism School. I wondered what Mr. Hopkins had sent over that he couldn’t have e-mailed.

  I opened the letter. It was printed on Mr. Hopkins’s personal stationery, signed with his name, and certainly not from him.

  Mr. Andrews,

  I must say that your interview with Mr. Smith went smashingly. He is an expert in his field, and I think he was crushed that he couldn’t spend more time with you. Rest assured, I’ve arranged a follow up interview with one of his associates.

  At this point, you may be thinking of speaking to Mr. Kopp. I urge you to hold off on that. Mr. Kopp has a way of complicating matters. If you choose to proceed with that interview, I’ll have someone drop his contact information off at your home address.

  Here, one of my father’s business cards was stapled to the paper.

  I will be in touch shortly.

  I crumbled the letter, furious. So if I went to the police, they’d not only go after me, but my father. Those sons of bitches…

  I kneaded my eyeballs. I felt sick, depressed. Everything was closing in. They knew my every move, they were one step ahead of me. And I didn’t how or why. I couldn’t talk to the authorities. And I couldn’t hang around here. I was down to my last option.