The Madman - Страница 28

"I think we should address the events of the other night," Mr. Evans said slowly. He was wearing reading glasses, which he let slip down on his nose, so that he peered over them, his eyes darting back and forth from patient to patient. Evans was one of those people, Francis thought, who would make a statement that seemed straightforward like the need to address precisely what was dominating everyone's thoughts but look as if he meant something utterly different. "It seems to be on everyone's minds."

One of the men in the group instantly pulled his shirt up over his head and clamped his hands over his ears. There was some squirming in the seats from the others. No one spoke immediately, and the silence that crept over the group seemed to Francis to be tight, like the wind that filled a sailboat's sails invisible. After a second, he shattered the quiet by asking, "Where's Lanky? Where have they taken him? What have they done with him?"

Mr. Evans looked relieved that the first questions were so easily answered. He leaned back on his steel chair and replied, "Lanky was taken to the county lockup. He's being held in an isolation cell there under twenty-four-hour observation. Doctor Gulptilil went over to see him this morning and to make certain that he's receiving his proper medications in the proper dosages. He's okay. He's a little calmer than he was before the" he paused "incident."

This statement took the assembly a moment or two to absorb.

It was Cleo who burst forth with the next question. "Why don't they bring him back here? This is where he belongs. Not in some jail with bars and no sunshine and probably a bunch of criminals. Bastards. Rapists and thieves, I'll bet. And poor Lanky. In the hands of the police. The fascist bastards."

"Because he's being charged with a crime," the psychologist said quickly. Francis thought him oddly reluctant to use the word murder.

"But I don't understand something," Peter the Fireman said in a voice low enough to make everyone in the room turn toward him. "Lanky is clearly crazy. We all saw how he was struggling, what's the word you like to use…"

"Decompensating," Mister Evil said stiffly.

"A real dumb-ass word," Cleo said angrily. "Just a real stupid, dumb-ass, goddamn completely useless bastard of a word."

"Right," Peter continued, picking up some speed. "He was really in the midst of some big moment. I mean, we could all see it, all day, growing worse and nobody did anything to help him. And so he exploded. And he was already here in the hospital for all of his problems, why would they charge him? I mean isn't that pretty much the definition of someone who didn't really know what he was doing?"

Evans nodded, but also bit his lip slightly before answering. "That's a determination the county prosecutor will have to make. Until then, Lanky stays where he is…"

"Well, I think they should bring him back here where his friends are," Cleo said angrily. "We're all he knows now. He doesn't have any family except us."

There was a general murmur of assent.

"Isn't there something we can do?" the woman with the stringy hair asked.

This comment also inspired a round of mumbled agreement.

"Well," Mister Evil said in a less-than-convincing tone, "I think we should all continue to address the problems that put us here. By working at getting better, perhaps we can find a way of helping out Lanky."

Cleo snorted in obvious disgust. "Goddamn wishy-washy stupid," she said. "Idiotic, dumb bastards." It was a little unclear to Francis precisely whom Cleo was referring to, but he didn't find himself disagreeing with her choice of words. Cleo had an empress's ability to cut to the crux of the matter, in a most condescending and imperious manner. Obscenities began to sprout throughout the group. The room seemed to fill with an unruly noise.

Mister Evil held up his hand, clearly exasperated. "This sort of angry talk doesn't do Lanky or any of us any good," he said. "So let's shut it off now."

He made a dismissive, slicing gesture with his hand. It was the sort of motion that Francis had grown accustomed to seeing from the psychologist, one that underscored once again who was sane and thus, who was alleged to be in control. And, as usual, it had the properly intimidating effect; the group slowly settled back, grumbling, into the steel seats, the small moment heading toward rebelliousness dissipating in the stale air around them. Francis could see that Peter the Fireman was still deep within the moment, however, his forearms crossed in front of him and his brow knitted.

"I think there's not enough angry talk," he said, finally, not loudly, but with a sense of purpose behind each word. "And I fail to see how it doesn't do Lanky any good. Who knows what might or might not help him at this point? I think we should be even more vocal in protest."

Mister Evil spun in his seat. "You probably would," he said.

The two men glared at each other for a moment, and Francis saw they were both on the verge of something a little bigger and more physical. Then, almost as swiftly the moment disappeared, because Mister Evil turned away, saying, "You should keep your opinions to yourself. Where they best belong."

It was a dismissive statement, and it froze the group.

Francis saw Peter the Fireman considering a response, but in that second's delay, there was a sound at the therapy room door.

All the heads turned as the door swung open. Big Black languidly moved his immense bulk into the room. For a second, he filled the doorway, blocking everyone's vision. Then he was followed by the woman that Francis had seen through the window at the start of the session. She, in turn, was followed by Gulp-a-pill and finally, by Little Black. The two attendants took up sentry like positions by the door.

"Mister Evans," Dr. Gulptilil said swiftly, "I am so sorry to interrupt the session…"

"That's okay," Mister Evil responded. "We were close to finishing anyway."

Francis had the radical thought that they were more at the start of something than the finish. However, he didn't really listen to the exchange between the two therapists. His eyes were locked, instead, on the woman standing just between the Moses brothers.

Francis saw many things, it seemed to him, all at once: She was slender and exceptionally tall, perhaps only an inch or so beneath six feet, and he would have put her age at just around thirty. Her skin was a light, cocoa brown, close in shade, he thought, to the oak leaves that were the first to change in the fall and her eyes had a slightly oriental appearance. Her hair dropped in a vibrant black sheen past her shoulders. She wore a simple tan trench coat, open to reveal a blue business suit. A leather briefcase was clutched in long, delicate fingers, and she stared across the room with a singularity of purpose that would have quieted even the most distraught patient. It was, he thought, almost as if her presence silenced the delusions and fears that occupied each seat.

At first, Francis thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and then she turned just slightly, and he saw that the left side of her face was marred by a long, white scar, that creased her eyebrow, jumped over the eye, then raced in a zigzag fashion down her cheek, where it ended at her jaw. The scar had the same effect as a hypnotist's watch; he couldn't pull his eyes away from the jagged line that bisected her face. He wondered for a moment whether it wasn't like looking at some mad artist's work, where overwhelmed by an unexpected perfection, the deranged painter had seized a palette knife and decided to treat his own art with utter cruelty.

The woman stepped forward. "Which are the two men who found the nurse's body?" she asked. Her voice had a huskiness to it that Francis thought penetrated right through him.

"Peter. Francis," Doctor Gulptilil said briskly. "This young woman has driven all the way out here from Boston to ask some questions from you.

Would you please accompany us to the office, so that she might question you properly?"

Francis rose, and in that second became aware that Peter the Fireman was staring equally hard at the young woman. "I know you," he said, but beneath his voice. As he heard the words, Francis saw the young woman focus on Peter the Fireman's face, and for just an instant, her forehead creased in a sudden touch of recognition. Then, almost as swiftly, it returned to its impassive scarred beauty.

The two men stepped forward, out of the circle of chairs.

"Watch out," Cleo said abruptly. And then she quoted from her favorite play: "The bright day is done, and we are for the dark…" There was a momentary silence in the room, and she added, in a hoarse smoky voice, "Watch out for the bastards. They never mean you any good."