“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.
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…”