Clown in the Moonlight (20 page)

Another moment passed before Pace noticed he'd stopped and Dr. Brandt had continued walking and was way ahead of him standing at the corner, staring back.

There were always eyes on you, and then they went and wrote on your chart that you were paranoid.

He caught up and said, "Sorry, shoelace was untied."

"Let's go."

They continued on and the subtle tension between them grew thicker.
 
Maybe it was sexual in nature.
 
Perhaps he hated her for what she'd done to him, the things he couldn't fully remember.
 
Worse things than the needle in the neck.
 
His mind seemed to be made of flitting images, clips of a history that warned him not to delve too deep.
 
Funny how your head tried to protect you, to keep you outside your own skull.

Three blocks away, the train station loomed through the gray afternoon.
 
It was so close to the hospital because back in the early forties they used to route thousands of shell-shocked vets to Garden Falls from all across the country.
 
There were plaques and photos all over the hospital showing guys fighting in the Pacific Theater, holding up American flags, getting decorated by Eisenhower.

She was going to hit him with a trick question soon.

She carried an umbrella but hadn't opened it yet.
 
What the hell did that tell you about her?
 
What symbol did you take away from it?
 
That she thought she was dirty and needed to wash herself clean?
 
Water is a birth sign—did she want children?
 
He could imagine what the psych books would say.
 
If it was Pace standing there with the folded umbrella in a downpour, you could bet your disability check the doctors would have something to say about it, happy as hell to see such a display.
 
Like spotting the pervert who keeps forgetting to zip his fly.

 
She kept talking and he answered by nodding and uhm hmming.
 
She explained to him what would be necessary for him to stay healthy.
 
How often he needed to take his pills, how the halfway house would be run.
 
He would have to be in by seven p.m. every night, before dark.
 
He couldn't drink.
 
The job they'd found him was some kind of factory work in a fish cannery.

She talked non-stop the whole way to the station.
 
She kept looking back over her shoulder, checking all around, and he started doing the same thing.
 
Now what was the matter?
 
The streets were empty.
 
Nothing but a couple of colorless motels and closed shops lining the road.
 
Just enough of a burg for the families of the patients to buy the necessities for their ill children, schizophrenic wives, bipolar husbands, over-tranqed parents.
 
You had to wonder about a town whose main source of income was the import of psychotics.

Dr. Brandt made a joke about the factory where he'd can the fish.
 
It wasn't funny.
 
He heard himself responding to her animatedly, and even with some sardonic humor. It struck him as funny and he hacked out a guffaw.
 
A low, flat sound almost evil in its implication.
 
She turned her head and looked at him, and he smiled pleasantly.

The trick question, here it was.

"Will, what's the first thing you're going to do when you get to the halfway house?"

This one you had to be careful with.

You couldn't say get laid, get drunk, get high, take a shit, call some friends from the time before you were sick.
 
You couldn't tell her you wanted to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling until the roof peeled back and you saw a hundred faces peering down at you.
 
You couldn't admit to your rage.
 
You couldn't go chat with the other lunatics and plan the revolution.
 
Couldn't mention Jane, say how he wanted to see her grave, wail and rip out chunks of weeds from around her headstone.
 
Come back and teach Ernie a few manners.
 
Kill anybody in the Ganooch syndicate he'd missed before.

"Will?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me what you're going to do."

Her voice had a shrill, anxious quality to it, but he sensed it had nothing to do with him. She was nervous all right, but about what?
 
A flicker of fear filled her eyes and then dispersed.
 
Her smile was rigid and sexless.
 
He got the feeling she was asking questions that didn't matter to her.

He said, "Introduce myself to the administrator of the house, have an early dinner, read the newspaper and catch up on the sports scores"—sports were okay, current events weren't—"and get a good night's sleep before work in the fish cannery tomorrow.
 
I've got to be there nine a.m. sharp."

It was a good answer.
 
You couldn't say you were going to sit on the bed and read the Bible all night, even if you really were.
 
There was too much of a chance that they'd think you might start hearing the voice of God coming out of the paperboy's ass, run around shooting people in their naughty bits.

Again, the flash of disappointment in Dr. Brandt's expression even though he knew he'd given her what she wanted.
 
She nodded sadly, her wet hair flapping around her shoulders.

Christ, if they didn't beat you with the meds then they went and did it with this vague look of shame.
 
He was obviously doing something wrong here, but he couldn't figure out what it was.

"Do you miss teaching?" she asked.

"Teaching?"

"You remember.
 
We've talked about this.
 
You used to be a high school teacher.
 
You taught twelfth-grade English literature."

"Yes, I know.
 
And no, I don't miss it.
 
Not much."

When they got to the train station, the place was empty.
 
Water puddled around them on the tile floor as she visibly relaxed and even allowed herself a relieved smile.

He grinned back at her feeling very stupid.
 
What the hell, let's stand around and be happy, tomorrow I start canning fish for the rest of my life.
 
The joy can't be contained.

She took his hand and squeezed.
 
He tightened his fingers around hers and thought about how weak he'd become, even if he had broken Ernie's nose and hadn't quite seen it.
 
Once his hands had been strong, he thought.
 
Almost unbelievably so.

Perhaps it was true.
 
These fists weren't entirely his anymore.
 
Maybe they never had been.

Dr. Brandt led him over to the automatic ticket booth and she started punching numbers and feeding bills into the machine.
 
He wondered if he should pay, but he didn't know if he had a wallet or any money on him.
 
He stuck a hand in his pants pocket and pulled free a folded piece of paper.

The note, written in a ornate cursive handwriting, read:

Don't take any more of your medication, no matter what they tell you.
 
Protect Doctor Brandt, she's in danger.
 
They all are.
 
Remember Cassandra and Kaltzas and Pythos. The dead will follow.

Dr. Brandt couldn't get one of the bills to work in the machine.
 
It kept spitting the dollar back out at her.
 
Her fingers trembled.
 
"Oh, damn."

"Flatten it."

"It is."

"Uncurl the edges," he said.

"They are."

Pace shrugged.
 
That was about it so far as his ability to help went.
 
He wasn't sure where they were going, which button she intended to push for the tickets.

Where did they can fish?
 
He'd never seen a fish cannery before.

The things you had to worry about, one second to the next.
 
Didn't they have robot slaves to do that sort of shit yet?

A scraping sound drew his attention to the left.

He turned and, shoving his hair from his eyes, watched as three figures rose from the corners of the waiting area.
 
A girl scuttling out from beneath a distant bench, two men unfolding from behind the ATM across the station.
 
Even muggers would never lower themselves to hide in such spots.
 
Nobody in their right minds would.

He tapped Dr. Brandt on the shoulder and she said, "The edges are uncurled!"

"Don't worry about that now."

"I hate these stupid things."

"Forget that."

For a moment the station seemed filled with people.
 
A cacophony of voices and noise erupted around him. Pace bit back a yelp and steadied himself against the side of the ticket machine.

The benches and aisles suddenly overflowed with people and animals.
 
Wings flapped past, brushing his neck.
 
A dog howled forlornly.
 
A woman with blue skin and obsidian eyes began writing flaming runes in the air.
 
A nun was running around with a yardstick screaming, "Don't eat paste!"
 
Kids laughed.
 
An Indian with lengthy braids twirled a pair of six-shooters and aimed here and there, practicing taking the tops of skulls off.
 
There were others Pace couldn't focus on, who moved in and out of his vision, shifting and fluctuating.
 
Blurred colors and activity swept across the station, through his head, and appeared to reach some kind of a peak as he went to one knee, then stopped altogether.

Dr. Brandt couldn't handle wrestling with her dollar bills anymore and started checking the bottom of her purse for coins.
 
"Maybe I have enough change."

"Really, that doesn't matter anymore."

The three figures that had climbed from their hidden corners continued forward, faces unclear as they approached.
 
His eyes were focused, everything else was distinct, except for their faces.
 
They came at him sort of frolicking, what they used to call gamboling when people would do that sort of thing.
 
Silently easing nearer.
 
Features dim and clouded, but their names somehow known to him.

Pia.

Faust.

Hayden.

The closer they got, the more obscured their features became.
 
Pace stepped out in front of Dr. Brandt.
 
Change fell to the floor and she said, "Will?"

"I think we should leave."

"What?"

"The fish cannery is going to have to do without me."

She turned and the three figures slid past him and were on her.
  
Pace thought, This is why she was afraid, she must've been expecting this.
 
He shook his head.
 
But if that were true, then why didn't she let Ernie escort her?
 
Why didn't she just give me a train ticket to the halfway house and drop me off at the curb?

Dr. Brandt let out a shout—a strangely feminine sound that was part annoyance, part indignation.
 
He threw a wild punch and missed all three of the intruders, no easy achievement considering how close they were to him.
 
Somebody took one of his wrists and somebody else took the other.

"My God," Pia said.
 
"He's so slow."

"He's not going to be any good to us in this state," Faust said.
 
"Our father who art inhibited."

"He can hear you just fine though," Pace told them.

Hayden twisted Pace's arm.
 
"There was a time when nobody could put a hand on you, if you didn't want it there."

"When was that?" Pace asked, genuinely curious.

"You were stupid to let them do this to you."

"I think I might have to agree."