Nevada Barr - 13 1/2

“Ah,” Clyde said.

Through the skin on Clyde ’s bald head, Dylan could see the gears in his brain working that one over. An impulse close to kindness-a sensation pretty much alien to Dylan-hit, and he wanted to explain but couldn’t; he’d forgotten whatever the hell they were talking about.

As Clyde helped him get back into the bed without toppling onto it face first, Dylan chanced the question he’d been avoiding since resuming this twisted brand of consciousness: “Did I kill anybody?”

“Nobody that matters,” Clyde said.

A stab of fear so visceral it caused him to clutch at his gut flashed through him. Clyde saw it. “No, kid, you didn’t kill anybody. You didn’t kill anybody at all.”

Relieved, but still shaking, Dylan lay back on the pillows. “You have to cuff me again?”

“I got to.”

Dylan put his arms in the leather cuffs, palm up so Clyde could find the buckles more easily. “Is Dr. Kowalski okay?”

The orderly chuckled, a whispery winter leaf sound. “Nope. The warden threw his scrawny ass out in the snow. Fired him. Warden Cole doesn’t hold with that kind of thing, not without the proper whatnot. Like he’s always saying.”

Clyde didn’t have to voice it; Dylan had heard the warden on the subject a number of times. In juvie, it was surprising how many experts wanted to use the inmates-all in the name of helping them, of course.

“These are not guinea pigs,” the warden was fond of saying. “They are boys. Real live boys.”

If Pinocchio had known what it was like, he wouldn’t have been so hot to trot on the real-live-boy thing, Dylan thought as he drifted back into the black drug place that sufficed for sleep.

When he woke again, he wasn’t alone. It was full dark outside, and a single lamp burned on the little table bolted to the floor by the hall door. Two hands held onto his right wrist. He opened his eyes the barest slit. Phil Maris, his algebra teacher, was holding his wrist; his head was bowed as if in prayer. Phil was slender and short, maybe five-eight. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail. The warden let him get by with it because, under the radical trappings, Phil was a good, solid, Midwestern boy and an excellent teacher. Dylan closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the comfort of the man’s touch. Phil was nearly thirty and still unmarried, but he wasn’t queer. You didn’t spend four years in Drummond without figuring out who wanted to jump your bones. Phil was as straight as they came.

“I am so sorry, man.” Phil had sensed Dylan was awake.

“He mind-fucked me bad,” Dylan said, and was shamed by the nearness of tears in his voice.

“Hey, man, you know better than that.”

Phil never let the kids use that kind of language in his presence. He said four-letter words only served to let others know you were too stupid to come up with something better suited to human discourse.

“I’m sorry about the acid,” Phil went on. “I never should have dropped with you. I don’t do that stuff anymore. I’ve seen too many burnouts.”

“If I hadn’t dropped with you, I would never have found my way back from this trip,” Dylan said truthfully. “Kowalski, Doctor Kowalski, was taking me some bad places. Real bad places.”

“He said you flipped out and tried to kill him.”

“I guess.” Kowalski would have told them what he thought would get him off the hook. Dylan didn’t bother to defend himself. Matricide, patricide, killer of little girls versus The Doctor; nobody would believe him.

“Promise me you won’t do it again.”

“Flip out?”

“Drop acid.”

Phil asked Dylan for the promise as if he thought Dylan would keep it. Dylan promised. He would keep it. Not only because he’d been offered the chance but because the acid had pushed him too close to the edge.

“Jesus,” Phil said, and dropped his head as if talking to the man himself. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”

Dylan said nothing. Nobody could get him out of Drummond. From here, he went to the state pen. Still, he appreciated the sentiment.

For a long moment neither of them said anything. Dylan was watching the walls. For the most part they were staying upright. There were things at the rim of his consciousness, nasty acid things, but they were not coming forward at the moment.

There’d be flashbacks from this one. He could feel them like storms building just over the mountains of his mind.

“Dylan, you’re a good kid. A smart kid. In here, you’ll end up garbage. No kidding. Garbage. If you don’t fight like a panther the doctors will make you crazy, or the crazies will make you like them. These boys-most of these boys-never had a chance. They lie because they have no idea what the truth is. They steal because they can’t picture tomorrow, so what the heck, take what you want today. You could be different, but you’ve got to get out. You’ve got to have a place to go that’s sane.

“A safe place,” Phil said. “Are you up to building?” Phil taught all the math sciences: algebra, trig, geometry, calculus. Trigonometry was his favorite, and he often set Dylan to building something in his mind. That skill had been the foundation of the walls he’d made to contain his evil.

“I’ve got a safe place,” Dylan said. Phil was the only one he’d told about the fortress in his head where the beast was caged.

“No, man, a beautiful place, a good place. A garden maybe. Yeah, a garden.”

Dylan had never considered a place of peace, of beauty. The idea warmed him and, in Drummond, in January, the cold bones of winter broke brittle in the soul.

“I don’t know how to… ” he began and faltered because the tears wanted to come back into his voice. When he’d frozen them, he went on. “I mean, shit, man, what do I know about gardens?” What did he know about beauty, was what he’d been going to say, but it sounded like such bullshit in his brain he didn’t.

“We’ll do it from pictures. How hard is that? Come on, man. Do it. You got to do it or you’ll die here,” Phil pleaded. “We start with dirt. Jeez, man, you know dirt, don’t you?”

“Dirt.” Dylan closed his eyes to please his friend and teacher. He and Phil picked a place with gentle rolling hills, like those that could be seen from the third-floor windows. They laid out a wandering path. That was enough; it was a start.

The door opened, and a guard stuck his head in. “Got a visitor.” Dylan returned from the survey of his interior garden. Visitors were never allowed in any deeper than the reception area.

Surprises in Drummond were not a good thing.

This one was. Rich pushed in behind the guard. Time was screwed by acid, but it seemed to Dylan as if he stood too long staring at him and Phil. He felt the warmth of Phil’s hands leave his wrist and, in the drug residue, he saw the warmth flit away, gold and fragile.

“You two look cozy,” Rich said with a smile.

“Hey, brother,” Dylan said. “This is Phil, my math teacher. I’ve told you about him.”

“Yeah.” Rich shook hands with Phil Maris and took his place by Dylan’s bedside.

The math teacher stood awkwardly for a second, then left with a “Later, Dylan.”

“Phil’s a good guy,” Dylan said. “He’s about all that keeps this place from being hell.”

“I’m glad you have somebody you can talk to,” Rich said, but he didn’t seem all that thrilled. “How you doing, brother? One of the guys bribed a guard and called me. I had to raise holy hell to get in. Sara pulled some serious strings. They manage to completely fry what little brain you’ve got?”

“’Fraid so,” Dylan said. “Goddamn fucking weird. Kowalski’s crazier than the kids he works on.”

“No shit. The warden said he’s history.”