George Chesbro - The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone

"There is no prognosis-not yet. Nobody's ever been poisoned with NPPD before, so Garth's the test case. Since there is no standard treatment, everything now is a wait-and-see show."

Veil shook his head, then reached down, gripped my shoulder, and pulled me out of the trench. "That's deep enough, Mongo. Let's put him under."

Veil grabbed hold of one of the corpse's splayed arms. I took hold of the other, and we dragged Henry Kitten down off the mound of junk, into the shallow grave. Together, we poled and kicked dirt over the body, then piled up refuse over the site.

"I'm ready for my Scotch," I said when we had finished.

* * *

Our clothes and bodies reeked of death and garbage. Fortunately, because Veil and I often worked out together in his loft, I kept a spare set of sweats there. I stripped off my clothes and threw them away; then, while Veil showered, I soaked in a hot bath, taking care to keep my bandage dry. Afterward, I toweled off, dressed in my clean sweats, and joined Veil at the kitchen table, where he had a tumbler of Scotch over ice waiting for me.

Veil said, "Since you've quit teaching, I assume you'll be spending as much time with Garth as possible?"

I sipped at my drink, nodded. "Yeah. The hospital's a little more than an hour's drive from lower Manhattan, depending on the traffic."

"Oh, I know where it is, all right," Veil said softly. "I spent time there, as a kid. Didn't you find that out?"

"I wasn't sure it was a subject you'd appreciate me bringing up."

"Thanks, but it doesn't bother me to talk about it. The staff in the children's division saved my life and mind in a dozen different ways."

"I could commute from Garth's apartment, but I don't want to. Lippitt arranged for me to get a small apartment in a staff dorm they've got there, and he gave me keys and a pass that will get me into the clinic any time I want; I intend to take full advantage of the privileges. I want to be at Garth's side until this thing is resolved. . one way or another. Until they tell me Garth is going to stay a vegetable, I want to stick close in case he needs me."

Veil nodded, then studied me as he sipped the tea he had brewed for himself. "Any other plans at all?" he asked. "Will you do any work? What about your P.I. practice?"

"Shut down, at least for now. I don't have any cases pending, and anything that comes along I'll refer to some of my colleagues. I've got enough money put away so that I don't have to do anything if I don't want to, at least for a while. I've been giving some thought to working at the Children's Hospital there. There's a whole separate facility, which they didn't have when you were there."

"Teaching?"

"Yeah. The school's right there in the hospital. I'm not certified for teaching emotionally disturbed children, but you don't need certification to substitute, and I've been told they have a hell of a time getting substitutes. If they want me, they've got me."

"You'd be great teaching those kids, Mongo," Veil said, his voice low and serious. "Forget certification; with disturbed kids, it's the singer, not the song. You've got a great voice."

"Thanks. We'll see."

Veil smiled thinly. "Then again, teaching at Rockland Children's Psychiatric Center won't exactly be like teaching at the university, Mongo."

"You don't say?"

"You don't get admitted into RCPC unless you're either homicidal or suicidal-sometimes both, which was my case. It's bottom-line work. You'll be dealing with some very sick puppies there-and not a few of them will be dangerous."

"So I've been told."

"I think it's a great idea for you to teach there while you're looking after Garth-but I want you to know what you're getting into."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"What about Prolix, Mongo?"

"What about it?"

"Who's continuing that investigation-the D.I.A. or the police?"

"I really don't know. I didn't think to ask Lippitt, and I'm not sure the NYPD would welcome inquiries from me."

"I thought your problems with the city cops had all been smoothed over."

"Maybe," I said with a shrug. "Maybe not."

Veil was silent for some time, sipping his tea. Finally he leaned back in his chair, ran both hands back through his long, yellow hair, fixed me with his blue eyes. "My relationship with the NYPD is about the same as it's always been-a lot of cops dislike me intensely, but not all. I may be able to find out a few things, if you want me to. I can do it, and still keep a low profile. It's up to you."

"Veil, right now I'm not thinking about anything but seeing that Garth gets better. Sure, I'd appreciate any information you can give me-but not if it's going to get you into any trouble."

Veil nodded slightly.

"I've got to go," I continued, draining off the Scotch and getting to my feet.

"Stay the night, Mongo. You came close to getting killed earlier, and you've got a hell of a nasty cut on your forehead. It's not a good idea for you to drive all the way up to Rockland, which is where I assume you're going."

"Yeah. This is Garth's first night in the clinic, and I want to be with him when he wakes up in the morning. Thanks for the invitation."

"From what you tell me, Mongo, he won't know whether you're there or not."

"Nobody seems to be certain what Garth knows or doesn't know, what he sees or doesn't see. Remember; his EEG is almost normal. I want to be there, Veil."

Veil nodded again. "I understand. I still think you should have a plastic surgeon look at that cut as soon as possible."

"I'll stick with what I've got. Thanks for the sewing job."

"Thanks for the rescue job."

I wrote down my new address and phone number for Veil, and left. As I drove off, I glanced off to my right, into the dark alley where the Archangel affair had ended at last. For everyone but Garth.

The Rockland Psychiatric Center complex covered hundreds of acres, and was virtually a city unto itself, with its own locksmith shop, fire and police departments; there was a summer camp in the woods beside a large reservoir, cornfields-now leased to local farmers-where patients had once been encouraged to tend crops, an outdoor swimming pool, small parks nestled among a myriad of tall, ivy-covered stone buildings which were, for the most part, designated by numbers. In many ways, RPC reminded me of an Ivy League college campus.

Many of the buildings were now unused; years before, with the best of intentions, the state had decided that many of its mentally ill but otherwise harmless patients would be better served by so-called community support services, and these patients had been released by the thousands from state hospitals. The problem was that there had been no adequate community support services, and the results of this decision could be seen in the surge of numbers of homeless, helpless men and women living on the streets of New York, and many other cities. In addition, many of the criminally insane at RPC had been transferred to various other institutions throughout the state. Consequently, a number of the buildings with bars on the windows were empty, although a few had been converted to staff residences and recreational facilities.

The Defense Intelligence Agency clinic was housed on the upper floors of Building 26, and that was where I headed at seven o'clock the next morning, walking the short distance from Building 18, where I had been assigned an apartment. An armed guard who had not been on duty the previous afternoon sat in a kiosk discreetly set back behind a row of trees, near the entrance to Building 26. The guard, who had a harelip only partially hidden beneath a bushy handlebar mustache, frowned when I handed him the plastic-shrouded, beige-colored identity card with my picture on it. He turned it over a few times in his fingers, as though he could not believe it wasn't counterfeit, then telephoned somebody. He recited my badge number, said something behind his hand which I couldn't hear, then listened for a few moments. Finally he hung up, handed me back the pass, and waved me on. I used the same pass card to open the magnetic lock on the entrance door, then clipped the card to my shirt pocket and took the key-operated elevator to the fourteenth floor. Two orderlies pushing a racked cart loaded with insulated food trays gave me a strange look as I stepped out of the elevator into a corridor, but they passed by and I was not challenged.