John Katzenbach - The Madman

Rain spit on Francis's face, seemingly contemptuous of what had happened. Or perhaps, Francis thought, as if determined it could wash away the past hours. He was unsure. A wild wind bent a nearby tree back and forth, as if it were shocked at the procession passing by in the middle of the night.

Big Black was in front, the Angel's body tossed over his broad back like a misshapen dark duffel bag. Right behind him, Little Black quick marched through the night, two shovels and a pickaxe in his arms. Francis brought up the rear, hurrying when Little Black urged him forward. Behind them, Francis could hear the arrival of the ambulance in front of the power plant, and on a distant wall he could see the reflection of its flashing red emergency lights. A black security car had pulled in, as well, and its headlights carved a white arc out of the deep midnight world. But the three of them were out of the direct line of sight, and maneuvering through the darkness, using the weak residue of light to find their way deep into the corner of the hospital grounds.

"Be quiet," Little Black said, although this was an unnecessary admonition. Francis looked up into the midnight sky above, and thought he could make out rich seams of ebony, as if some painter's hand had decided the night was not dark enough, and had tried to add even greater streaks of black.

When Francis looked back down, he immediately saw where they were heading. Not far away was the garden where he'd planted flowers at Cleo's side. Now he was at her side, once again. He followed the Moses brothers past the rickety metal link fence into the small cemetery, where Big Black grunted and swung the Angel's body to the ground. It thudded, and Francis thought he ought to feel sickened by the noise, but that, to his surprise, he wasn't. He looked at the man and thought that he might have passed by him in a corridor, in a dining room, on a pathway or in the dayroom a hundred times when he was alive, and never known who he really was until that night. And then, he shook his head in contradiction and thought this couldn't possibly be true, that if he'd ever once looked directly into the Angel's eyes, he was certain that he would have seen there what they had seen that night.

Big Black seized one of the shovels, and stepped to the side of the small mound of freshly dug dirt that marked where Cleo had been laid to rest the day before. Francis stepped to his side, took up the pickaxe, and without saying a word, lifted it above his head, and sunk it down into the moist ground. He was a little surprised at how easily they were able to carve away the soft earth of Cleo's grave. It was, he thought, as if she'd been expecting their arrival that night.

Behind them, out of sight, paramedics were fighting hard for the second time in the past few hours. It wasn't long before all three of them heard the urgent sound of the ambulance starting up, then racing across the mental hospital grounds, heading fast toward the nearest emergency room, precisely as it had done earlier, at the same breakneck speed, following the identical bumpy path.

As the noise of the siren faded, they were left with simply the muffled sound of their shovels and the pickaxe assaulting the muddy ground. The rain continued, soaking them thoroughly, but Francis was barely aware of any discomfort or even the suggestion of cold. He felt a blister forming on his hand, but ignored it, as he swung the pickaxe over his head time and again, and felt it bite into the earth. He had gone someplace well past exhaustion, into a locale dominated by what he knew he was trying to do that night and understanding that whatever chance anyone had, it would rest beneath the ground.

Francis was unsure whether it took an hour or longer to dig through the earth down six feet, to where the dull steel of the cheap coffin that held Cleo's body was finally exposed. For an instant or two, raindrops seemed to beat a drummer's tattoo against the lid, and Francis oddly hoped that the noise hadn't disturbed the queen's sleep.

Then he shook his head and thought she would like this. Every empress deserves a slave in the afterlife.

Big Black wordlessly tossed down his shovel. He looked at his brother, and Little Black joined him in lifting up the Angel's body by hands and feet. Stumbling a little, sliding in the muddy ground, the two attendants maneuvered over to the side of the grave, and then, with a push, dropped the Angel down upon the coffin top, with a muffled thud. Big Black looked up at Francis, who was standing at the edge of the hole, hesitant, and this time the attendant said, "No need to say a prayer over this man because there ain't no prayer in this world strong enough to do him any good where he's heading."

Francis believed this to be true.

Then, without hesitating, the three of them picked up their shovels and the pickaxe, and quickly began to fill in the grave, just as the first tentative dawn light began to creep over the far horizon.

And that was it, then.

I curled up, rolling myself into a ball, at the base of the wall.

I shivered, trying to shut out the chaos around me. From someplace miles away, I could hear shouts, and a great banging, as if every fear and doubt and ounce of guilt I'd concealed over all these years were beating against my door, threatening to burst the hinges and crash inside. I knew that I owed the Angel a death, and he was there to claim it. The story was told, and I didn't believe I had any more right to live. I closed my eyes, and as I heard loud voices and urgent shouts cascade down upon me, I waited for him to take his revenge, expecting any second to feel the ice of his touch. I squeezed myself into as small and insignificant a parcel as I could, and I heard footsteps racing frantically in my direction, as I calmly, sadly, waited to die.

Hello, Francis."

I squinted at the sound of a familiar voice. "Hello, Peter," I replied. "Where am I?"

"Back in the hospital," he responded, grinning, his old devil-may-care flash in his eyes. I must have looked alarmed, because he held up his hand. "Not our hospital, of course. That one is gone forever. A new one. Quite a bit nicer than the old Western State. Take a look around, C-Bird. I think you'll see that the accommodations this time around are significantly improved."

I slowly pivoted my head first to the right, then the left. I was lying on a firm bed, and I could feel crisp, clean sheets beneath my skin. An intravenous tube dripped some concoction into a needle stuck into the flesh of my arm, and I was dressed in a pale green hospital Johnny. On the wall opposite my bed there was a large and colorful painting of a white sailboat being driven by a stiff breeze across some sparkling bay waters on a fine summer's day. A silent television set was hung by a bracket from the wall. And my momentary survey discovered that my room had a window, which gave me a small, but welcome view of an eggshell blue sky with a few wispy high clouds, which seemed to me to be curiously like the afternoon in the painting, repeated.

"See?" Peter said with a small wave. "Not bad at all."

"No," I admitted. "Not bad."

I looked over at the Fireman. He was perched on the edge of the bed, near my feet. I looked him up and down. He was different from the last time

I'd seen him in my apartment, when flesh had hung from his bones, blood had streaked his face, and dirt had marred his smile. Now he was wearing the blue jumpsuit that I recalled from the very first day we'd met, outside of Gulptilil's office, and he had the same Boston Red Sox cap pushed back on his head.

"Am I dead?" I asked him.

He shook his head, a small smile flitting across his face.

"No," he said. "You're not. I am."