Chapter 13: In Other Places
Lincoln groaned and rolled over in bed himself, only half-surprised when he bumped into someone there. He remembered the casino and being on a roll at the poker table; the rest was something wading through a foggy dream. He twisted his head around and readjusted the rest of his body, in the meanwhile catching sight of a thick tuft of short black hair resting on the pillow beside him. When he pulled the covers back, the naked figure lying beside him was obviously young, nude, and very much male.
It didn't come as much of a surprise.
The last couple of years had been strange. Not that he'd ever liked to be around people in general, but even his reluctance to see people he'd known well for years had begun to steer him in continuously unaccustomed directions.
He pulled the covers back across the stranger's shoulders and shifted his attention so he could examine himself. Sure enough...buck naked too. A familiar savage intuition crept out from its hiding place, and he quickly swung his feet to the floor, shivering violently. Christ, the room was an icehouse! He looked around, scanning the disheveled room; clothing was everywhere, across the bureau and trailing from the sink. A shirt hung limp from the lampshade where the bulb still burned weakly as if gasping for breath. An empty fifth of Jack Daniels sat amid a pile of cigarette butts and cheap, plastic motel glasses. In the corner appeared to be the remains of a champagne bottle. He glanced over his shoulder for another peek.
Where the fuck did he get this guy?
"Fuck me," he mumbled dryly. He licked his lips and craned his neck so he could see his face in the bureau mirror. Hell looked no worse.
He stood up, suddenly ridiculously self-conscious, and briskly hunted down his underwear. He eventually found them underneath the table, right next to another, thinner pair. As he moved, images began to filter back of the kid bent across the table. And him coming on from behind. He knew he was crazy, but the damnedest thing about it was he couldn't remember how this one had got going. Any guess was a good one.
He noticed the sun was hard against the heavy, tightly-drawn curtains, and the poker table suddenly popped back into his head. "Where the hell is my wallet?" he said. He pilfered through the melee until he saw his pant leg lying soaked in the doorway to the bathroom. He snatched them off the floor and soon found the small bulge of his wallet. He pulled it out and opened it.
He was amazed at the thin sheaf of bills within. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered, rubbing a hand across his face as tried to remember something, anything, that would shed light on this business. He'd been up several hundred dollars, he remembered that much, and now this?
"Fuck," he said, not so quietly this time. He stared at the sleeping figure snoring peacefully. Checked his watch. Ten minutes to ten. He briefly entertained the thought of beating the shit out whoever it was in the bed but didn’t feel he had the energy. Then, without another thought, he crossed the room and went into the shower.
He thought he heard the motel door shut as he turned off the water. He'd left the bathroom door cracked and wasn't sure if he was pissed or relieved. So he stood there, both hands on the knobs while he listened, straining. He decided to hope ‘Whoever’ had gone. He got out of the shower and toweled off, glad he couldn't see himself very well in the fogged mirror. Even though cold air rifled into the room from the cracked door, the water had been hot enough to leave a mark. He pressed the door back, and when he looked into the room the bed was indeed empty. The covers were thrown back as if in haste and the room was a few articles of clothing short.
Lincoln threw the towel down and walked over to the bed, naked but comfortable now. His pants were right where he'd left them, and as he sat down he slowly pulled them on, cursing himself like a dog. He felt like railing at the walls but didn’t. A maniac learned discretion, if that maniac wanted to stay out of jail. He went to the window and drew the curtains back, holding up his hand briefly against the glare.
Oh yeah, the Ramada. The view was legendary to him now since gambling had come to Mississippi: the long, soothingly-green slope to the Mississippi River with the bridge crossing at eye level. The water was angry today, random twirling circles of undercurrent surfacing here and there as if searching prey.
Lincoln smiled down at the day, even though his face scarcely registered the emotion. His features were too riddled, broken by years of abuse. Hard times had claimed him. He paused, thinking. He pulled the chord so the curtains clapped back together.
He surveyed the digs, shaking his head. How the hell did he keep himself together going from nook to crook like this? Together? a tiny voice asked. Do you figure sticking your dong up another man's ass is together? Again, he wiped a sweaty hand across his dry lips, tasting the salt and the whiskey. It fairly oozed from his pores. He could still smell it, by God, and there wasn't a drop to drink in the whole goddamn room.
Suddenly, he remembered his car. If it wasn’t parked outside he was in a world of shit. "You're gonna burn in hell, motherfucker," he admitted. Then, gazing down on all that green, with the way the river rounded the curve just so, it came.
The fucking Gook village...
He'd met Frederick Paol in 'Nam and they’d struck up a friendship solely from circumstance. They were frequently under fire and each man bore the strain with a savage personal rage. But as time went on Lincoln knew here was a man solid to the core…until that day at the Gook village.
He remembered they'd come in chasing some fucking nonsense and it really hadn’t been much to speak of. Just another burning rice-eaters' village. But then he'd seen the bodies; all the children heaped on the fire, the awful smell that hung as thick as wet leather in the air, then the shouts and gun fire. But for some mysterious reason, some weird stroke of the universe, Frederick Paol had been the only thing on his mind. Perhaps it’d been the shock of the situation, he still didn’t know. But he’d followed the man silently as they both stalked through the smoky pathways.
Lincoln knew that Frederick had not seen him that day.
He'd watched, mesmerized, as Frederick entered the thatched hut as fire ate the roof. And he'd seen the tiny girl, crying on the floor, cradling the old woman's head.
First, there'd been only utter silence, and then a wild rush of noise when Frederick began shouting profanity into the hut. And before Lincoln could blink twice, the little girl went flying away in a spray of blood and bone, the old woman’s head she’d been cradling rolling off in the dust. When the burst of gun fire subsided Lincoln had grabbed Frederick, pulling with everything he had to get the man out of the hut. And moments later when he had Frederick sprawled flat on his back, he knew Frederick didn’t register him at all.
Goose bumps rose along Lincoln's arms in the stillness of the empty motel room. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed out a loud burst of air. Of all the people in the world to start thinking about, why the fuck did it have to be Frederick Paol?
He put on his shirt, thinking. Even so, it was weird that Frederick was about the only one he'd kept in touch with since 'Nam. They possessed a sort of brotherhood.
And the last time they’d spoken, Frederick had talked about bringing that goddamn Franklin on the run. Totally out of character, just like the episode at the Gook village.
But since the talk there'd been a plague of sorts set against him in his dreams. As if he didn’t have enough shit to worry about. And of course, right about then his own mysterious inner voice spoke up asking whether it was unsettling enough to take another man to bed with him. He crooked his mouth into a scowl and checked his watch for the second time.
11:17.
Check-out was noon. He began rummaging around for anything in danger of being left behind.
William Franklin sat outside by his octagon-shaped swimming pool, sipping on a gin martini even though it was not yet noon. Usually, morning drinking was not his thing, but not today. Thoughts of Samuel were working deep in his mind. There had been no word at home or the warehouse, and even though they were not due in until some
time tonight, he couldn't help but feel a pall of shifting doom pressing down upon him. The tropical storm had him worried (even though the course had changed), but it wasn't the foremost concern on his mind. There were other darker things that raised their heads. He flexed his fingers and reached for the cigarettes. From where he sat on the deck, he was high enough above his retaining wall to look out across the distance that bordered his private lot, across the wide park boulevard and concrete levee that waded down into Lake Ponchartrain. There were several skiffs meandering around out there and he tried to relax watching them. But it was no use. This tension had his muscles in knots, and the martini did little to smooth them out.
He took another sip of his drink and rubbed a hand across his lips. Clenched his teeth.
He should not have let Samuel go. He knew that now, but he'd felt his hands were tied. The Old Man had been expected (had in fact shown up yesterday) to pay his bi-monthly trip to the warehouse to peer through the books. Inside, William knew why he'd not interfered with Samuel's urge to go on the run. It was best to keep the two separated.
But he should have done something! But what? He hadn’t wanted the Old Man close to Samuel because it was clear he was having one of his ‘spells.’ The Old Man would have noticed the unmistakable signs in Samuel's eyes and it would have only caused more trouble. He was getting old, sicker by the day, and William felt it was his duty to steer away potential storms. The Old Man’s political ties were invaluable, so by Samuel being out of the way it had proved easier, but William had noticed the way his father looked around, only questioning Samuel's whereabouts briefly.
'In Alexandria on business,' William had told him, but the Old Man hadn't been fooled. He was still filed sharp, honed down by his ruthlessness. There was too much of the same sickness that haunted the depths of his youngest son's soul for him not to notice something.
William scratched the top of his head and checked his watch again. A minute before noon. He looked into the glass as if making up his mind whether to go on and then polished it off with a swallow.
He should have tried, anyway goddammit! It was all very clear to him now but it meant nothing in hindsight. Regardless...he had to admit the truth: it was easier when Samuel was out of the picture. William could feel the many monsters lurking beneath the thin, veneer-mask of his brother’s face. The past two weeks had been hell, although he'd tried not to let on. William needed the shipment to please the bunch in Algiers, and Samuel’s constant presence put added pressure on him. A downswing was inevitable; the increased silence, lonely brooding. Nothing could stop it, only money could slow it down, but there would come a day when nothing would help...
Maybe subconsciously he applauded Samuel's decision; the washing relief halting any aversions William had felt about Samuel going on the run; better to let someone else contend with him. Fuck it. Yes, of course, but what was the saying about a brother's keeper? Well, fuck that too.
Nervously, he checked the watch again. Another couple of minutes had rolled past. It was finally the afternoon and he had the hope the second martini would go down easier than the first.
He took the wet glass from its spot on the lawn table, and shook out the final drops, spotting the whitewashed concrete. The drops reminded him of blood, and he stood up, skirting the side of the swimming pool and walking around to the sliding-glass door. The nineteenth-century English bar waited against a back wall and he pulled the well-oiled and balanced door back easily. Inside, the tiles were cool on his feet and he actually eased a little as he ran his hand along the deep, mahogany wood when he got to the bar. He'd had the whole ensemble imported from England five years ago from some arsonist-struck pub on the outskirts of London. And even though it had taken special pains and an incredible amount of money, he felt it had been worth it.
He leaned over to peruse his cashe of liquor. A minute, throbbing had begun behind his left eye. He reached over past the Tangeray for the Absolute. This time a mere splash of Vermouth would suffice. He speared three Anchovy-stuffed olives with a tooth-pick and plunked them down into the swirling depths of his drink.
He tasted it delicately, found the vodka did go down easier than the gin. He decided a little music and indoor lounging would probably take off the sour edge he was experiencing, so, leaving the drink on its coaster at the bar, he walked back to the sliding-glass door and pushed it shut.
In the private room where Sarah Franklin was expensively incarcerated it was grave dark. In the uncertain times when she breached the wall of her catatonia she would scream if even the tiniest crack of light issued through the thick, blacked-out glass. If nothing was done it would drive her to apoplexy. Early on, when these fits had been much more frequent, the administration had telephoned William Sr. about these strange, inexplicable bouts of lunacy, and he'd told them to buy a gallon of the blackest paint possible and to lay it on the windows, thick. 'The way she'd had it at home,' he'd told them, his voice icy and distant over the line.
For the last twelve years, Sarah Franklin had been institutionalized here at this private facility five miles outside Alexandria in central Louisiana. The important staff knew she was not the only member of the Franklin clan to be classified mentally unstable. Her son had done time in the Mississippi State Hospital in Jackson under similarly suspicious circumstances, and the doctors who'd had the authority to examine both case files noticed a propensity in both for extended periods of silence, punctuated by terrible fits violent. Always grotesque and sexual. Unpredictable. But on top of this terror, Sarah Franklin bred a bloody malevolence deep behind her vacant, staring eyes. And even though state records concerning Samuel Franklin read that he'd been able to break the cycle, most of the workers in Pineville were glad they didn't live in New Orleans.
It was almost six o'clock and Rebecca Dennis, the ward nurse, was staring at a magazine she wasn't reading and thinking about the woman down the hall. She'd made her rounds no more than thirty minutes before and could not seem to find the necessary distance to get back to the magazine. She was thinking about the slot, the one cut into Sarah Franklin's door and worked with a little, metal handle. When opening this device the hall lights had to be turned off or the awful wailing would start, rising and falling for hours before gradually dying down to discordant grunts.
There was a black light anchored to the wall in what she thought of as the creature’s den. It shed a little light when you had to enter. But only a little.
When Rebecca had checked last, the old bitch had been all right, unfortunately. Just staring away into nothing through the blacked-in window.
The memory brought a chill to her spine. She had a brother living in New Mexico who happened to be a Baptist preacher. He'd come to believe, many years back, that his destiny lie in selling his modest home in Atlanta, and giving up a pastor-ship of eleven years to rove about in the desert wastes, providing missionary work in the Indian reservations. Drenched in alcohol, depression and contempt, they made hard targets for Christ, but John had felt it his duty. Shortly after reaching his destination five years before he'd called Rebecca in the middle of the night, his voice hoarse and fevered.
'There are spirits here,' he'd told her in a husky whisper. ‘The Navajo have a spirit they call a Skinwalker, some sort of demon or ghost, that’s supposed to terrorize people in the desert at night. It's not a new creation, but the terrible thing about it, and I swear this to you Becky, coming home from the store tonight in my pick-up, something kept pace with me alongside the highway. Something vaguely human running on two legs with eyes as red as cherries...'
Within the hospital's sterile white walls Rebecca picked at the memory, the hairs prickling along her arms as John's voice came back fresh over the space of time. It seemed to start at her spine and radiate slowly outwards like a malignancy. She'd never forgotten the shaking voice on the other end of the line, or of the hour or trepidation as her brother poured his fear across the miles.
She felt a sudden urge to go to the bathroom. Smoking was no
t allowed in the hospital, but many of them got away with it behind stall doors. She felt in her coat's shallow pocket, relieved to find she'd not left the pack of cigarettes in her car when she'd clocked in that day. She really shouldn't leave the desk unattended but with the memory pressing close against her… Why, she could still see in her mind’s eye the vague form keeping perfect time with her brother's pick-up, rushing through the night. She saw the cloven hooves kicking up the dark, desert sand as the still chest kept no rhythm with the wildly running legs, only eyes that burned endlessly sideways, peering into the cab of the truck--
Yeah, she’d have that cigarette.
Because she knew what had brought on the memory. It was that goddamn woman. No one else in the whole damn place made her feel like the witch down the hall did, so thank God she didn't have to attend her very often. Just a quick peek every once in a while. Rebecca had only seen the woman's husband come to visit once, and was glad of it. His spookiness had not been as pronounced as his demented wife's, but it was there; seeming to breathe far down in his bones and leak out when people were least expecting. His eyes had an edge of madness to them (like the Skinwalker's, she imagined), and she was glad she'd never had to change the bed sheets or any worse thing in his sick wife's den. Rebecca felt sure the whole damn bunch of them would be gladly welcomed into the deepest pit of Hell, and she secretly wished that the inevitable would speed itself along.
She went around the counter and walked swiftly down the corridor to the Women's bathroom. Nurse Cutrer was on duty somewhere in the hospital and would probably make her rounds soon, but to Rebecca at this juncture, that fact was not enough to keep her from the stall. She needed a cigarette and she needed it now. If she caught hell while avoiding Hell, well then, that was just something she'd have to take. Her fingers itched nervously for the sweet relief of the nicotine as she opened the bathroom door and slipped inside.