I was nodding now, my nose an inch from the table. I drew, drew from inside.
something important, yes, almost there, draw the beast, finish the piece, complete it—eye-for-eye—draw the letters-not-letters, shade it, make it real—killer of loved ones—a test of your mettle, make it metal— haunted for all your days—now meddle, meddler, welder, weld it, put it together—
I yanked my sweaty face away from the sketch pad, gasping. Rachael and Eye watched me, speechless. Despite their familiarity with this part of me, their expressions were both distracted, worried. I grabbed my glass of beer and gulped a mouthful. It was gloriously cold.
I looked at my art.
The bear-beast’s head hadn’t changed… but something had grown from its neck. The remainder of the page was filled by two large, shimmering metal rectangles. Rune-like letters glinted from their centers.
“Dog tags,” Rachael whispered, understanding.
I nodded. Yes. Oh, yes.
Oh, no.
“What if Alexandrov is still alive?” I asked. “What if he’s been killing them all along?”
20
I barely remembered showering and dressing the next morning. Every element of the morning ritual—pedaling my Cannondale to the subway station, the rumbling ride on the LIRR train, chaining my bike outside The Brink, morning coffee, coworker conversation, elevator ride—it all streaked by like a traffic time-lapse video, all forgettably anonymous and unimportant. I did not visit my other patients this morning. I had a single purpose. Richard Drake.
I strode down the hallway of Level 5, taking a heartbeat to appreciate the steady lights above. I spotted Emilio Wallace, back at his post by Room 507, and waved. He raised a hand and made a half-hearted motion in return. The gesture reminded me of the ubiquitous robotic wave of a pageant contestant. He wasn’t smiling.
I repressed a shiver as I slowed my pace and drew closer. The hallway’s strobing mania may have disappeared, but Emilio appeared to have inherited it. His eyes blinked and twitched like a paranoiac’s. Black Samsonite bags hung above his cheeks. He hadn’t shaved. His lips trembled; he alternately pressed them together and blew air from them, sputtering nonsense.
I stared up at him. It was incomprehensible, whatever had happened to my friend. Emilio’s massive shoulders were unnaturally tight, kicking well past his collarbone. The man’s meaty hands seemed electrified, grasping at nothing, fingers playing invisible notes on a piano.
“Emilio,” I whispered. “Oh my God, man. Are you… feeling okay?”
His chisled face crumpled, then twisted into a spasmodic smile. The flesh around his bloodshot blue eyes crinkled. His capped teeth chittered. I wanted to hug the man. I wanted turn and run.
“Fffff. Fuh-fuh-fuh.” He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating. It was heartbreaking. “Fuh-fine. Juh. Juh.”
“Just?” Just?”
He barked a laugh, nodding enthusiastically. The sound echoed in the empty hall. “Just. Just chillin’.” His crazed smile eked even wider.
“Dude, come on. It’s me. Zach. You know, ‘Yo, Z.’ We’re buds. What happened”
“Ffffollowed me,” he said. “Huh-huh-home. Huh-haunted. Haunted… housssse.”
I felt the blood leave my face.
“What followed you”
Emilio glanced past us—right, left, down the hallway—and leaned down, as if to tell me a secret. His wild eyes widened. He tittered.
“Thh.” His voice was a conspiratorial whisper. “The vuh-vampire.”
He was sick. No question. Absolutely none.
“You should go home,” I said.
“Home is where the sssstart is,” Emilio said. His face devolved into a bitter, saddened sneer. His voice was a low rumble. “Sssstarts there. Whi-whispers. Ink on the wuh-walls. Sluh-sliding across the walls.”
I took a step backward, and immediately hated myself for doing it. Emilio didn’t notice.
“Vacation,” I heard myself say. “Get away from this place, man. Take a week, damn, take two. Far away.”
“Need the muh, muh—”
“No you don’t, not this bad,” I said. “You should really go. Like, now. Think of your boys, man. You gotta be right—um—ah, fuck it. You gotta be right in your head for them. You gotta be their dad.”
He brightened… as much as his ticking muscles would allow. He nodded again, more slowly this time. More controlled.
I nodded back. “Okay, game plan, buddy. Let me in. I’ll be there for a bit, but when I come out, we’re going to the infirmary, getting you once-overed. After that, your ass is taking a holiday.”
“‘okay.”
“Katabatic,” I said. I gave him an encouraging smile. “Let’s do this.”
Keys jittered in trembling hands. Tumblers fell. Hinges shrieked.
I entered Room 507, for what I hoped would be the last time.
The room blazed white as I flipped the light switch. Richard Drake sat in his chair—I wondered, fleetingly, if he ever stood, or slept—and his eyes were open, blankly staring at the thing before him. The second chair. My patient had been busy, planned for company.
My gaze shifted to the wall on my right. Holy shit.
He’d been very busy.
It was another full-wall mural, drawn from the pastels I’d left, etched in the same incomprehensible, scratch-swirl style as its twin across the room. I pulled the cell phone from my pocket once more. The phone pinged, a new photo stored inside.
“It’s another amazing piece, Richard. It really is.”
“Don’t call me that,” Drake said. His voice had the inflectionless tone of an insomniac. “Go to hell. Go away.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“You won’t.”
“No. I can’t. Not built for it. But you’ve known that feeling.”
Drake’s eyes blinked slowly. “Yes.”
I sat down, watching him. His face was expressionless, inscrutable.
“I’m heading to my office soon, Richard. I’m going to fill out a form ahead of schedule—and for me, that’s something just short of miraculous—and I’m going to sign it. My boss will smile his peculiar elfish smile and say, ‘Very good, Zachary.’ My father will be furious. And your lawyer will do the Snoopy dance.
“You’ve sensed me spin and hustle these past four days, dribbling through my legs, trying to squeak past your defense. But you’re impervious. You’re a pro. And while I scrambled and fumbled and dug in, dug into your past, dug straight to Hell like you told me to, your tactic remained the same, Richard. You clutched to your sins and your guilt, convicting yourself, wrapping that black blanket tight.”
I sighed. The ancient chair beneath me sighed, too.
“You are not mentally competent to stand trial.”
Drake stiffened. His eyes widened slightly.
“I didn’t hear you,” he said.
“Yes, you did,” I replied. “I don’t know if that’s what you were gunning for—I don’t think so, but I’ll be damned if I’ll ever know. You’ve made sure of that. You’re a Gordian knot, Richard, and I just can’t find a sword sharp enough to cut through. The well’s dry. I’m out of gas. You’re so certain that your delusion is real, you’ve half-convinced me. You’re mentally ill. The key to freedom is in your hand—in your mind—but you’ve either forgotten about it, or you’ve chosen not to use it.