The Madman - Страница 77

"So," he said in a loud voice, "I'm here now. Don't anybody try to fuck with me."

As he projected this, it seemed a little foolish to Francis. And perhaps cowardly, as well. The only folks left in the dayroom were old and obviously infirm, or else lost in some distant and private world. Nobody who might rise to challenge the stocky man was available.

Despite his voices shouting caution within him, Francis took several steps toward the stocky man, who finally grew aware of Francis's presence and spun to face him.

"You!" he said loudly. "I thought I'd already dealt with you."

"I want to know what you meant," Francis said cautiously.

"What I meant?" The man mocked Francis with a singsong voice. "What I meant? I meant what I said and I said what I meant and that's all there is to it."

"I don't understand," Francis said, a little too eager. "When you said I'm the man you're looking for," what did you mean?"

The man brayed out loud. "Seems pretty damn obvious, don't it?"

"No," Francis said cautiously, shaking his head. "It isn't. Who do you think I'm looking for?"

The stocky man grinned. "You're looking for one mean mother, that's who. And you've found him. What? Don't you think I can be mean enough for you?" He stepped toward Francis, bunching his hands into fists, bending forward slightly at the waist, cocking his body like the hammer on a pistol.

"How did you know I was looking for you?" Francis persisted, holding his ground despite all the urgent entreaties within him to flee.

"Everyone knows. You and the other guy and the lady from outside. Everyone knows," the stocky man said cryptically.

There are no secrets, Francis thought. Then he realized that was wrong.

"Who told you?" Francis asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Who told you?"

"What the hell do you mean?"

"Who told you I was looking?" Francis said, his voice rising in pitch and picking up momentum, driven forward by something utterly different from the voices he was so accustomed to, forcing questions out of his mouth when every word increased the danger he was facing. "Who told you to look for me? Who told you what I looked like? Who told you who I was, who gave you my name? Who was it?"

The stocky man lifted a hand and placed it directly under Francis's jaw. Then he gently touched Francis with the knuckles, as if making a promise. "That's my business," he said. "Not yours. Who I speak to, what I do, that's my business." Francis saw the stocky man's eyes widen slightly, as if opening to some idea that was elusive. He could sense that any number of volatile elements were mixing in the stocky man's imagination, and somewhere in that explosive concoction was some information that he wanted.

Francis persisted. "Sure, it's your business," he said, changing his tone to a slow pace, as if that might help. "But maybe it's a little bit of mine, as well. I just want to know who it was that told you to single me out and say what you said."

"No one," the stocky man replied, lying.

"Yes, someone," Francis countered. The man's hand dropped away from Francis's face, and he saw electric fear in the stocky man's eyes, hidden beneath rage. It reminded him, in that second, of Lanky, when he fixated on Short Blond, or earlier, when the tall man had fixated on Francis. A total absorption with a single notion, an overwhelming tidal wave of a single sensation, all set loose deep within, in some reach and cavern that even the most potent medication had difficulty penetrating.

"It's my business," the stocky man persisted.

"The man who told you, he might be the man I'm searching for," Francis said.

The stocky man shook his head. "Screw you," he said. "I'm not helping you with anything."

For an instant Francis stood directly across from the stocky man, not willing to move, thinking only that he was close to something and that it would be important for him to find it out, because it would be something concrete that he could take to Lucy Jones. And, in the same moment, he saw the machinery of the stocky man whirling faster and faster, anger, frustration, all the ordinary terrors of being mad coalescing, and in that volcanic moment, Francis suddenly realized that he had pushed something just a bit too far. He took a step backward, but the stocky man followed him.

"I don't like your questions," the man said low and cold.

"All right, I'm finished," Francis replied, trying to retreat.

"I don't like your questions and I don't like you. Why did you follow me in here? What are you trying to make me say? What are you going to do to me?"

Each of these questions hammered forth like blows. Francis glanced right and left, trying to spot somewhere to run to, somewhere he might hide, but there were none. The few people in the dayroom had shrunk away, concealing themselves in corners, or else staring at walls or ceiling, anything that might help them to will themselves mentally to some far different place. The stocky man pushed his fist into Francis's chest and knocked him back a stride, slightly off-balance. "I don't think I like you getting in my face," he said. "I don't think I like anything about you." He pushed again, harder.

"All right," Francis said, holding up his hand. "I'll leave you alone."

The stocky man seemed to tighten in front of Francis, his whole body growing taut and stretched. "Yeah, that's right," he said, growling, "and I'm going to make sure of it."

Francis saw the fist coming and managed to just lift his forearm enough to deflect some of the blow before it landed on his cheek. For a moment, he saw stars, and he spun back trying to keep his balance, stumbling slightly over a chair. This actually helped him, because it threw the stocky man's second punch astray, so that the left hook whistled just above Francis's nose, close enough so that he could feel its heat. Francis thrust himself backward again, sending the chair slamming across the floor, and the stocky man jumped forward, this time landing another wild blow that caught Francis high on the shoulder. The man's face was red with fury, and his rage made his attack inaccurate. Francis fell back, hitting the floor with a breath-stealing crash, and the stocky man leapt onto him, straddling his chest, looming above him. Francis managed to keep his arms free, and he covered up, and started kicking ineffectually, as the stocky man started to rain wild, freewheeling blows down onto Francis's forearms.

"I'll kill you!" he cried. "I'll kill you!"

Francis squirmed, shifting right and left, doing his best to avoid the flurry of punches, aware only peripherally that he hadn't really been hit hard, knowing that if the stocky man took even a microsecond to consider the advantages of his assault, he would be twice as deadly.

"Leave me alone!" Francis cried, uselessly.

In the narrow space between his arms, deflecting the attack, Francis saw the stocky man rise up slightly, gather himself, as if suddenly realizing that he needed to organize the assault. The man's face was still flushed, but it suddenly took on a purpose and rationale, as if all the fury collected within him had been channeled into a single flow. Francis closed his eyes, yelled, "Stop it!" one last helpless time, and realized that he was about to be hurt severely. He shrank back, no longer aware what words he was screaming to make the man stop, knowing only that they meant nothing in the face of the rage steaming toward him.

"I'll kill you!" the stocky man repeated. Francis had little doubt that he meant it.

The stocky man let out a single, guttural cry and Francis tried to avert his head, but, in that second, everything changed. A force like a huge wind slammed into the two of them, crashing together in a frenzied tangle. Fists, muscles, blows, and cries all gathered together, and Francis seemed to spin aside, aware suddenly that the weight of the stocky man was suddenly off of his chest, and that he had been cut free. He rolled over once, then scrambled back to the wall, and saw that the stocky man and Peter were suddenly entwined, knotted together in a pile. Peter had his legs wrapped around the man, and had managed to pin one hand with his own gripped around the man's wrist. Words disappeared in a cacophony of shouts, and they spun together like a top on the ground and Francis saw Peter's face set in a fierce rage of his own, as he twisted the stocky man's arm toward some breaking point. And, in the same moment, another pair of missiles suddenly flashed into Francis's vision, as the white-jacketed Moses brothers launched themselves into the fray. For a moment, there was an orchestra of screaming, shouting anger, and then Big Black managed to grab the stocky man's other arm, while at the same time throwing his own massive forearm across the man's windpipe, while Little Black pulled Peter away, slamming him awkwardly against a couch, while the larger brother wrapped the stocky man in a stifling embrace.