Adler filled the void, "Young Peter was going to say that in the months Hrubek's been with us he's been a model patient. He sits quietly, doesn't bother anyone."
"He's like a vegetable."
A wet laugh burst from Haversham's throat. He said to Grimes, "Vegetable? Was a dog a minute ago. Must be getting worse. Tell me now, what kind of crazy is he exactly?"
"He's a paranoid schizophrenic."
"Schizo? Split personality? I seen that flick."
"No, not multiple personalities. Schizophrenic. It means he has delusions and can't cope with anxiety and stress."
"He stupid? A retard?"
The professional in Adler bristled at the word but he remained placid. "No. He's got a medium to high IQ. But he's not calculating."
The captain snickered. "He'd have to be kinda sorta calculating, wouldn't you think? To get clean away from a hospital for the criminally insane."
Adler's lips vanished momentarily as he turned them inward in contemplation. The taste of his wife returned and he wondered if he'd get an erection. He didn't, and he said to Haversham, "The escape was the fault of the orderlies. They'll be disciplined."
"Seems to me, they have been. At least the one with the broken arm."
"Listen, Don, can we do this one quietly?"
The captain grinned. "Why, scared of a little publicity, Mr. Three in Two Years?"
Adler paused then spoke in a low voice that barely broke above the ghostly wail that still filled the halls. "Now, listen to me, Captain. You quit jerking my chain. I've got close to a thousand of the most unfortunate people in the Northeast in my care and money to treat about one quarter of 'em. I can--"
"All right now."
"--I can make some of their lives better and I can protect the general populace from them. I'm doing the fucking best I can with the fucking money I've got. Don't tell me that you haven't had troopers cut back too."
"Well, I have. That's a fact."
"If this escape becomes a big deal some prick of a reporter's going to run with it and then maybe there goes more money or maybe the state'll even look into closing down this place." Adler's arm swept toward the wards filled with his hapless charges--some asleep, some plotting, some howling, some floating through nightmares of madness or perhaps even dreaming dreams of sanity. "If that happens then half those people'll be wandering around outside and they're going to be your problem, not mine."
"Simmer down now, Doc." Haversham, whose law-enforcement career like most senior officers' was informed more by his skills at self-preservation than detection, said, "Tell me the God's truth. You say a low-security patient wandered away, that's what I'll go with. But you tell me he's dangerous, it'll be a whole different ball game. What's it gonna be?"
Adler hiked up his waistband. He wondered if his wife was at home masturbating as ardently as Billie Lind Prescott. "Hrubek's half-comatose," Adler spoke directly into the eyes of Peter Grimes. The young assistant nodded numbly and added, "He's stumbling around in a daze like a gin-drunk fool," and wondered what on earth possessed him to say that.
"Okay," Haversham said with finality. "I'll send it out as a missing-patient notice. You got some fellow wandered off and you're worried about his welfare. That'll make sure it's not scanner-feed. These boys and girls they call reporters round here won't even notice it, not with a storm gonna take off roofs."
"I appreciate this, Don."
"Now let me ask. You got some bucks to spend?"
"How's that?"
"There's somebody I'm thinking might be a help. But he ain't cheap."
"We're a state hospital," Adler said. "We don't have much money."
"That may be true. But one thing you do have is an escaped nutzo who happens to look like Attila the effing Hun. So, what about it? You gonna hear me out?"
"Oh, by all means, Captain. By all means."
A cold and anxious Michael Hrubek stood on broad, naked feet in the center of a large rectangle of ruined grass. His hands gripped the waistband of his muddy and dew-stained shorts, and he stared at the shabby building before him.
The small shop--taxidermy, trapping and hunting supplies--was surrounded by chicken wire suspended from rusted posts with Baggie twist ties. Much of the mesh was squashed to the ground in a way that for some reason depressed Hrubek profoundly.
He had run all the way from the site of the attack on the orderlies to this cluster of lights, ghostly in the fog: a truck stop, which contained this shop, a diner, a gas station and an antique store. Positive he was being pursued by the Secret Service, Hrubek wanted to keep moving. But, as he'd announced aloud to himself, a naked man'd be "too damn obvious. Make no mistake about that."
He'd then noticed a window in this outdoors shop and that had decided the matter.
He now stood in the exact spot where he'd been frozen in place for the past few minutes, gazing into the store at seven tiny animal skulls, boiled and bleached white as clouds.
Oh, look there. Look at that!
Seven was an important number in the cosmology of Michael Hrubek and he now leaned forward, counting them aloud, and enjoying the sound of the numbers in his mouth.
Seven skulls, seven letters, M-I-C-H-A-E-L.
Make no mistake, he thought. This is a special night.
Much of Hrubek's thinking was metaphoric and the image now occurred to him that he was waking up. He liked to sleep. He loved to sleep. Hours and hours in bed. His favorite position was on his side with his knees drawn up as far as his massive legs and thick chest and belly would allow. Most of his waking hours too were a type of sleep--a slippery succession of chaotic dreams, a jumble of disconnected faces and scenes that fished past him, products of both his troubled mind and various medications.
Awake!
He bent down and in the dirt at his feet wrote with his stubby finger: i as I am AWakE tonIght. AWakE!
He made his way around the store, noting a sign that said the owner was on vacation. He kicked in the side door and entered. Avoiding a tall black bear, mounted in a rearing position, he made a circuit of the shop. He inhaled deeply and smelled musk and boiled game flesh, his hands shaking with exhilaration. He noticed shelves containing clothing and he rummaged through the piles of shirts and coveralls until he found several items that more or less fit. Then socks, and finally an Irish-tweed cap that he liked very much. He placed it on his head.
"Very fashionable," he whispered, looking into a mirror.
Hrubek continued searching until he located a pair of engineer's boots and struggled to pull them on. They were tight but not painful. "John Worker," he muttered, running his hands over his clothes with approval. "John Worker." He poured cleaning fluid onto a rag and scrubbed hard at his face to remove the blue ink from his cheeks and forehead.
He solemnly placed the seven skulls into a green canvas backpack he found in the shop. Then, keeping a suspicious eye on the rearing bear, Hrubek crossed the floor to the sales counter, where he'd noticed a display of cellophane packs of beef jerky. He ripped them open with his teeth, one after another, and chewed down the salty meat, all eight packages.
He was about to leave when he glanced down, beneath the counter, and his face broke into a huge grin.
"A present from Jesus Cry-ist our Weeping Lord."
The pistol was a long-barreled Colt revolver. Hrubek lifted it to his face and smelled it and rubbed the cold blue metal on his cheek, grinning like a boy who'd just pocketed a ten-dollar bill. He put the gun in his backpack and, once more sizing up the bear, slipped from the door.
A wedge of light suddenly filled the grass, accompanied by the clatter of an aluminum door. Hrubek stepped quickly into a large open shed behind the shop and pulled the pistol from the backpack.
A man's voice cut through the night, "You left it out there, you go pick it up. It's rusted, I'll tan your hide, young man."
The man was speaking from a dingy but brightly lit one-story house from whose chimney drifted wood and trash smoke. It was about thirty ya
rds from the shop.
A boy, about eight or nine, walked sullenly past the shed. Without looking inside he disappeared behind the shop. A moment later he started back toward the house, holding a long hammer close to his eyes, inspecting it and scratching hopelessly with his thumbnail at dots of rust.
A noise nearby startled Hrubek. A fat raccoon was in the shed, scuttling over the concrete floor. It hadn't seen him and was nosing obliviously among garbage bags. The boy had heard the scratching of claws on concrete and stopped. Holding the rusted hammer like a club he stepped to the shed door and peered into inky darkness.
Hrubek's heart began to pulsate violently as he wondered what to do if the boy confronted him. What will I tell him? I know--I will tell him that I am Will-i-am Tell. I will shoot him in the head, Hrubek said to himself, and tried to control his panicked breath. The raccoon paused cautiously as it heard the boy's footsteps. Its head turned and, seeing Hrubek, the animal tensed. Baring its fangs it panicked and leapt at the madman's leg. In a short portion of a second Hrubek lunged, seizing the big animal by the neck. Even before the needlelike claws lashed out, Hrubek snapped its spine with a quiet pop.
Nice try, he thought. No such luck.
The animal quivered once and died.
The boy stepped closer to the doorway and listened. When he heard nothing else he walked slowly back into the house. The backyard spotlight was extinguished.
Hrubek calmed as he absently stroked the fur of the raccoon for a moment then arranged the animal very carefully on its stomach with its rear legs and tail spread out behind, its front paws reaching forward. Salivating with lust Hrubek picked up a screwdriver from a workbench and drove it deep into the back of the animal's skull. Then he extracted the tool and threw the limp corpse into the corner of the garage.
As he was about to leave he looked above his head and saw a row of six animal traps hanging from pegs.
Well, look at this. More presents . . . These'll slow 'em up, make no mistake!
Slipping three of the traps into his backpack, Hrubek stepped outside. He paused in the middle of a dusty patch behind the shop and smelled his hands. Mixed with the gasoline was a musky scent from the raccoon. He held his fingers close to his face and inhaled this smell on the wood-fire-laden air, deep, deep, so deep that his lungs hurt. As if the air overflowed into his groin, he went almost immediately erect. He guided his penis out of his overalls and stroked himself absently, using the slick blood from the screwdriver to lubricate the motion. Eyes closed, he swiveled his head sideways, keeping time with his right arm, feeling the pitch intensify, growing more and more dizzy as he hyperventilated.
He moaned an unearthly sound as he ejaculated, amply and hard, upon the dark earth.
Hrubek wiped his hands on the grass then he adjusted his Irish hat square on his head. Slipping into a stand of bushes he crouched down and made himself comfortable. There was only one more thing he needed right now and he knew in his heart God was about to send it to him.
Owen Atcheson pulled a large pile of burlap bags from a shelf in the greenhouse. They'd made good progress on the shoreline and had already built up one lowlying portion of lawn with several feet of sandbags. His muscles ached and he stretched hard, thinking of a meeting he had scheduled for tomorrow, his trip later in the week.
He glanced outside and saw Lis, beside the lakefront, filling bags with sand.
Moving silently down the aisle he passed plants whose names he neither knew nor cared to know. A timed watering valve clicked open and filled portions of the greenhouse with clouds of mist that obscured plants and the stone bas-reliefs that hung on the brick.
At the far end of the space he stopped. Portia looked up at him with her hazel eyes.
"I thought I saw you in here," he said.
"First aid." She pulled her skirt high, turning away from him and revealing on her thigh a small smear of blood a foot above the back of her knee.
"What happened?"
"Came down for a new roll of tape. I bent over and a fucking thorn got me in the ass. Part of it's still in there, I can feel it."
"Doesn't look too bad."
"Doesn't it? Hurts like hell." She turned around and looked him up and down then gave a short laugh. "You know, you look like a lord of the manor. Very medieval. Sort of like Sir Ralph Lauren."
Her voice seemed laced with mockery but immediately she smiled in a way that seemed to include him in a private joke. Her face contorted as she dug into the tiny wound with a fingernail lacquered red as the blood that dotted her skin.
Four silver rings were on each hand and a complicated spiral earring dangled from one lobe. The other was pierced by four silver hoops. Portia had refused Lis's offer of more practical clothing. She still wore her shimmering gold-and-silver skirt and loose blouse. The greenhouse was chill and it was clear to Owen that she wore no bra beneath the satiny white cloth. He scanned her figure briefly, reflecting that while his wife with her boyish figure might be called striking or handsome, her sister was a purely voluptuous creature. At times it amazed him that they shared the same genes.
"Let me look at it," he said.
Again, she turned her back and lifted her skirt. He clicked on a table lamp and shone it on her pale leg, then knelt to examine the wound.
"Would it really float away?" she asked. "The greenhouse?"
"Probably."
Portia smiled. "What would Lis do without her flowers? Do you have flood insurance?"
"No. The house is below flood level. They wouldn't write the policy."
"I don't imagine the rosebushes'd be covered anyway."
"It depends on the policy. That's a bargained risk."
"Once a lawyer always a lawyer," Portia said. He looked up but again could not tell if she was taunting him. She continued, "That porch Lis mentioned? On this part of the yard? I think she's wrong. I don't think it got washed away. I think Father tore it down to build Mother the greenhouse." Portia nodded toward a display of tall orange-red rosebushes. "Lis acts like it's a holy site. But Mother didn't even particularly want it."
"I thought that Ruth lived for her flowers."
"That's the way Lis tells it. But nope. It was Father who insisted. My own theory is that it was to keep her, let's say, occupied while he was away on business."
"Your mother's name and 'mischief' aren't words I'd ever put together." Owen dabbed away a dot of blood and peered into the wound.
"One never knows. Still waters and all. But then, was Father paranoid, or what?"
"I wouldn't know. I never liked him very much."
"Ooo, that hurts," she whispered as he probed, and lowered her head. "When we were young we had Sunday dinner on that old porch. Two p.m. sharp. Father rang a bell and we had to be there on the button. Roast, potatoes, green beans. We'd eat while he lectured about literature or business or space flights. Politics sometimes. Mostly he liked astronauts."
"It's really in there, the thorn. Just the tip. I can see it."
"Hurts like hell. Can you get it out?"
"I've got some tweezers." He pulled out a Swiss Army knife.
She dug into her pocket and handed him a Bic lighter. "Here." When he looked blank she laughed and said, "Sterilize it. Living in New York you learn to be careful about what you put into your body."
He took the lighter and ran a flame over the end of the tweezers.
"A Swiss Army knife," she said, watching him. "Does it have a corkscrew on it, and everything? Little scissors? A magnifying glass?"
"You know, Portia, sometimes it's hard to tell if you're making fun of somebody."
"It's probably my abrasive big-city attitude. It gets me into trouble sometimes. Don't take it personally." Portia fell silent and turned away, lowering her face to a rosebush. She inhaled deeply.
"I didn't know you smoked." He returned the lighter to her.
"I don't. Not cigarettes. And then, after we'd have our dessert, which was accompanied by . . . ?"
"I have no idea."
/> "Port."
Owen said he should have guessed.
"Do you like port, Owen?"
"No. I don't like port."
"Ow, Jesus, that hurts."
"Sorry."
He put his large hand on the front of Portia's thigh and held it firmly as he pressed the tiny blade of the tweezers against the base of the thorn. "Keep your hem up, so it doesn't get blood on it." She hiked her skirt slightly higher and he caught a fast view of the lace trim on red panties. He pressed harder with the tweezers.
Her eyes were closed and her teeth seated. "No, I can't stand port either but I am an expert on the subject. I paid attention during dear Father's dinnertime speeches. Nineteen seventeen was as good a year as the benchmark year. . . . Which was?" She raised a querying eyebrow. When he didn't respond she exhaled against the pain and said, "Why, 1963, of course. I thought all of you upper-crust gentlemen farmers knew that."
"I don't like to farm any more than I like port."
"Well, garden then." He felt her thigh quivering in his hand. He gripped it tighter. Portia continued, "A really good 1917 port has a bouquet that's reminiscent of tobacco. Sunday nights! After the port--and Father's lecture about port or NASA or lit-ra-ture or God knew what--and after our bolos levados and jam, we kids had nothing to do." She inhaled deeply, then asked, "Owen, I didn't really have to be here, did I? I could've signed everything in New York, had it notarized and mailed to you, right?"
He paused. "You could have, yes."
"So, what does she really want?"
"You're her sister."
"Does that mean I'm supposed to know why she asked me? Or does it mean she wants my company?"
"She hasn't seen much of you."
Portia laughed breathily. "You got that little sucker yet?"
"It's almost out." Owen glanced at the doorway at which his wife, if inclined to enter the greenhouse at this moment, would catch them at whatever it was that they were doing. He probed again with the tweezers, felt her shiver. She bit her lip and remained silent. Then he lifted out the thorn and stood.
Still holding her translucent skirt, Portia turned. Owen caught another flash of panties then held up the tweezers, the tip bright with her blood. "You'd think it'd be bigger," she said. "Thanks. You're a man of many talents."
"It's not too bad. Just a pinprick. But you should put something on it. Bactine. Peroxide."