Brian Evenson - Last Days

At a little distance was a guard, strolling casually, but Kline faded into shadow and let the man live. He approached the gate slowly but it was still as deserted as it had been when he'd left it, the dead still comfortably dead in the places they had fallen. Hadn't it been two hours since he had gone in? he wondered, and then wondered if this was a trap. He walked out with his neck prickling, waiting for the shots to come.

But they didn't come. He walked slowly and carefully out the gate without any trouble and then made his way down the road, weary now. He dumped the bullets from his pockets into the dust of the road, letting them go one by one. He passed where he had hidden his car at first, but then backtracked and found it, threw the head in, got in, drove.

He stopped at a closed gas station with a payphone at one end of its lot. The ashtray of the car was crammed with loose change and he took all of it with him. Calling the operator, he mentioned a town, asked to be connected to the police station.

"Second precinct," said a voice.

"I'm looking for Frank," he said.

"Frank who?" the voice asked.

"The detective," he said. "He told me to call," Kline said. "It's regarding those mutilates."

" That Frank," said the officer, "Frank Metterspahr. He's still in the hospital. Why don't you tell me about it?"

"Has to be Frank," Kline said. "I'll call back," he said, and hung up the telephone.

He immediately dialed the operator again, gave the name of the town again, asked to be connected to the hospital.

"Which hospital?" she asked.

"The biggest one," he said, and then waited impatiently to be connected.

When they answered he claimed he was a florist, that he was at the other hospital across town with a heap of flowers for someone named Frank. Matterball or something like that, couldn't quite read the card. Had he gone to the wrong hospital?

"Yes," she said. "He's right here, intensive care, fifth floor. But isn't it a little early to be delivering flowers?"

Well, yes, he admitted, and looked out the phone booth and at the sky caught somewhere between night and morning. But there were a lot of deliveries today and generally they'd just leave them at the desk to be taken up later, would that be all right?

He had hung up the telephone and was on the way back to the car, when it began to ring again. He looked at it awhile, then went back to answer it.

"You're the guy called earlier?" said the voice. "Looking for Frank? I'm the officer who talked to you?"

"Yes," Kline said. "That was me."

"I just talked to Frank," the man said. "He said to tell you to tell me whatever you know."

"Only to Frank," Kline said.

"All right," the man said smoothly. "That's okay too. Why don't you stay there and we'll come get you and take you to him?"

What would an informer do? he wondered.

"Frank promised me money," he finally said. "Two hundred dollars."

"Fine," said the officer. "We'll back up whatever Frank promised."

"All right," he said. "I guess that's all right."

"So stay there and we'll come get you," said the officer.

"You'll bring the money?"

"Yes," the officer said.

"All right," he said. "I'll be right here. I'll be waiting."

Hanging up the telephone he got into the car and drove away as quickly as he could.

He managed to force a service door with the blade of the cleaver, the gap between metal door and metal frame being too big, and made his way up a back stairwell. An alarm started when he opened the door but immediately stopped again when he closed it. He hurried quickly upward.

The door to the fifth floor was unlocked. He put Borchert's head down and slowly cracked the door open, saw a deserted hall, every other light extinguished. There was, at the far end of the hall, a nurse's station, the nurse asleep but sitting up, nodded off.

Propping the door open with his foot, he picked the head back up, made his way in.

He went into the first room he saw, found it to contain two beds, both empty. The next one contained an older lady, asleep or unconscious, her bed lamp still on, a tube snaked down her throat, flakes of blood in her hair. He went out. The nurse at the desk was awake now, but not looking his way.

He slipped across the hall and into a third room, found both curtains drawn. He opened one, found a man, his hands strapped down, his head covered in bandages that blood had seeped through, unless it was mere shadow. The man's eyes were the only thing moving, rolling madly in his sockets and then suddenly focusing sharply on Kline. The man made a strange muffled sound and shifted his head slightly and Kline saw that yes, it was not just shadow, but blood. He pulled the curtain closed.

Behind the second curtain was Frank, asleep. One arm was out on top of the blankets, the other was missing, amputated between the elbow and the shoulder, dressed and wrapped. Kline scooted a chair toward the bed. With his foot he pulled the curtain closed. Holding Borchert's head in his lap, he waited for Frank to wake up.

After a while he realized that something wasn't quite right. Frank was too still. Fleetingly he thought Frank was dead, but no, he was breathing. And then he realized what it must be.

He reached out, prodded Frank's dressings with a finger.

"I can tell you're not asleep," he said.

"Never claimed to be," said Frank, his eyes slitting open.

Kline smiled. They both stared at one another.

"Why are you here?" asked Frank finally. "To kill me?"

"I want to turn myself in," said Kline.

Frank laughed. "This isn't a police station," he said. "Why come here?"

"I thought I owed it to you," said Kline.

"What exactly do you want to turn yourself in about?" asked Frank.

"This," said Kline, and lifted up Borchert's head.

"Good God," said Frank. "What the hell did you bring that in here for?"

"Evidence," said Kline.

"I don't particularly want to see it," said Frank. "Why don't you put it on the nightstand?" he said. "Or, better yet, on the floor."

Kline put Borchert's head on the floor, against the bed's leg.

"What was that exactly?" asked Frank.

"Borchert," said Kline. "Leader of the mutilates."

"He owes me an arm," said Frank. "I'm glad he's dead."

"He's not the only dead," said Kline.

"Who else?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Not names," said Kline. "A few dozen people. More or less. I killed them."

"Mutilates?"

Kline nodded.

"How many left?"

"I don't know."

"Jesus Christ," said Frank. "Talk about an avenging angel. And now you've decided to turn yourself in?"

"That's right," said Kline.

"Why?"

"So I can be human again."

"Buddy," said Frank. "Look at yourself. You're covered head to toe in blood. You're never going to be human again."

Kline looked away. He looked at the head on the floor. When he looked back, Frank was still staring at him.

"So now what?" Kline said.

"Now what? You want to turn yourself in, go down to the police station and do it. Don't come around here with your bag full of heads expecting me to do something about it. What do you want? Sympathy? Understanding? Hell if I'll be part of it."

"I only have one head," said Kline.

"Last I saw you had two," said Frank, "the one you're wearing and the one you're carrying. That's one head too many. Maybe in your case two too many. How the hell is it you're not dead?"

Kline shrugged.

"That's it?" said Frank. "You come in carrying a head and say there are a few dozen more where that came from and when I ask you how it is you're still alive all you can do is shrug?"