Дж. Хатчинс - Personal Effects - Dark Art

“Young man,” Dad said. “It’s over.”

The whine behind me grew louder. Almost here.

“High Noon ain’t for another half-hour,” I said. “Pardner.”

My father growled and began his march down the hall. The elevator doors moaned open behind me and I stepped backward, not seeing the person inside the car as I entered, not really caring as I knocked that person aside, folders and papers swirling to the floor like parade confetti.

I punched the button for Level 5.

“YOU STOP, GODDAMNIT!” Dad said, running now. The policeman made to bolt, but Peterson’s roly-poly body jerked left, then right, trying to get out of the way, unintentionally blocking him. They looked like fevered, awkward new lovers, attempting a first kiss.

The voice behind me, in the cabin: “What the Christ?”

Dad, ahead: “STOP! IT’S OVER!”

The doors: Creeeeaaaaaaaaak.

Me, as they closed, as my father’s furious face was less than a foot away:

“Giddy-giddy.”

The metal box sighed and sank into The Brink.

“Taylor, what’s your malfunction?”

I spun around. Staring up at me was Dr. Nathan Xavier. His typically immaculately styled hair was now a tousled mess. His hands snatched at the papers that had tumbled from our impact. He saw my horror-show face and barked a horrified “yahh!”

“Hi there,” I said.

“Wha… What…”

I squatted low. My knees popped. Xavier flinched as if he’d been shot.

“Let me help you,” I said, and my dirty hands scraped for the papers, collecting them into a haphazard mess. I passed them over. Xavier’s bottom lip twitched and trembled, a pink caterpillar.

I propped my forearms on my knees.

“It’s good you’re here,” I said. The world around us creaked. “You and me should have a heart-to-heart. See, I’m tired. Tired of the games. You wanna gun for me? You want my patients? You want notches in your belt, the spotlight, the media leaving messages on your voice mail. Right?”

Xavier shook his head, aghast.

“Nnn—”

“Sure you do,” I said. I hunkered lower, leaning in. “You’re hungry, ambitious. You’re stuck in this shithole with the rest of us, and you want out, wanna move up, cruise around in your Corvette, live in your Dream House. I dig it. I’m not wired for it, but I dig it. But you listen to me, Doctor Xavier. If you’re gonna screw me over, be a man about it. Tell me. Or go through proper channels. Hell, have the stones to suggest a collaboration; it might be interesting. But don’t slither and scheme and think that I’m not gonna find out about it. And don’t think that I won’t get pissed off about it.”

I stood up now. My finger tapped another button on the elevator panel. I extended my hand to him.

“Do we have an understanding?”

Xavier grimaced at my grubby paw, at the filth under my fingernails. He pulled himself up on his own, ignoring my gesture. The elevator groaned and shuddered as it slowed.

A static-filled roar blared from beneath Xavier’s white lab coat. We both looked down, equally shocked by the noise.

“— ach Taylor must not be allowed access to Martin Grace’s room, ” my father’s voice barked from the Brinkvale-issued walkie-talkie.

“He’s en route via elevator. Say again: Zach Tay—”

“Aw, shit,” I said.

Xavier’s face went wicked. “Fuck you, Taylor,” he snapped, sidestepping around me, circling toward the doors. “You’re gonna be so fired after I’m done with you.”

The doors slid open. He turned around to check our location.

I snatched the radio from the man’s belt and gave him a quick shove. Xavier yelped, staggering into the hallway of Level 3.

He whirled around, fuming.

“I don’t think you’ll have the satisfaction,” I said as the doors began to close. “Level 3, more than halfway there now. I’ll probably be shitcanned by lunchtime. Meet me topside then. We’ll scrap in the parking lot then grab beers. My treat, pardner.”

Xavier gaped at me, his world turned upside-down.

“You’re mad,” he whispered.

The doors clanked shut. The elevator chugged on. I glared at the walkie-talkie in my hand, sweating. Seconds. I had seconds to come up with something. My Spock side had apparently taken a vow of silence.

And then the answer crackled from my hand.

“Belay that. Hoffacker, listen to me,” Peterson’s voice said. “Zachary has thirty minutes with his patient. You will permit him his …”

Unintelligible barks, off-mic. And then:

“… No, Mr. Taylor. Your meticulous paperwork says noon, and noon it shall be. Hoffacker, I say again: Let Zachary pass. One half-hour. ”

I smiled. Heard a manic titter escape my lips.

You’re mad, Xavier had said.

“We’ll see,” I said, “just how mad I can get.” _

The doors opened on Level 5. Max’s hallway was blissfully flicker-free. I strode past the nurse’s station, passing Annie Jackson, the victim of another double shift, and she called my name, waving her radio, wishing me luck with whatever I was about to do. I waved back and kept moving, now nearing Chaz Hoffacker and Room 507.

The guard’s arms were crossed. He gave a surly frown, flabby jowls sagging. He looked like a constipated bulldog.

“Would you feel any better about this,” I said, “if I promise to give ‘Ziggy’ another chance?”

Chaz harrumphed and unlocked the door.

I asked my anti-self for another shot of rabble-rouser indignation, one last trick up my torn sleeve, and stepped inside.

Room 507’s lights were on this morning—whether that was due to the impending transfer or Richard Drake’s nigh-catatonic state, I couldn’t tell. But gone was the ex-spook’s haughty pride and ramrod-straight posture. He sagged in his wooden chair, chin resting upon his chest. His graceful hands, usually folded in his lap, hung at his sides, boneless and swaying. His breathing was thick, sleepy sounding.

The living dead. Just like me.

I turned back to Chaz. “Did they medicate him?”

“What do I look like, Trapper John, M.D.?”

“Damn it, did they sedate my patient or not?”

The guard shrugged.

“Dunno. Don’t think so. Doesn’t look like he needs it.” Chaz closed and locked the door.

And then it was me and Drake and the murals on the wall.

I didn’t tug the second chair and place it in front of him, like before. I stood.

I snarled.

“You cold-hearted son of a bitch,” I said. “I told you I’d help you even if it killed me—and it nearly did. I went up to your boy’s house, just like you wanted me to. Found a letter with a photo, sent to that address a year after you’d abandoned your son. It shot down my pet theory. According to the U.S. government, Alexandrov is dead. Whatever else you wanted me to see is gone. Daniel burned them. Just like you wanted to burn me.

“It tore me to shreds. I couldn’t see in the dark, but the dark could sure as hell could see me. Which you probably expected.”

Drake wheezed something. Gibberish.

“And that leaves me with two options,” I said. “The first is the one you know oh-so-well, the one that pitted me and mine against your monster. Option one? You’re insane. You deserve to be doped up for the rest of your days, haunted by that fucking creature, tormented in your stupor. You think this is bad? You ain’t seen nothing yet, blind man. Yes. Insane. Unsound. Soft in the head.”

The patient gave a high moan. He shifted in his chair.

“That’s right, Richard. You’re not deaf. You heard me. You’re a bowl of soggy Froot Loops. You’re out of your mind.”