Monster

Chapter 28

We entered the main building. Milo got to the door first, throwing off Dollard's rhythm. Lindeen Schmitz was at the front desk, talking on the phone. She began to smile up at Milo, but a glance from Dollard stopped her.

We rode up to C Ward in silence. On the other side of the double doors, four inmates idled. I could see the nurses in the station chatting cheerfully. Laughter, shallow and grating, spilled from the TV room.

Dollard stomped to Peake's room, unlocked the peep hatch, flipped the light switch, frowned. He released both bolts and opened the door cautiously. A brief look inside. "Not here." Trying to sound annoyed, but puzzlement took over.

"How about that," said Milo. "He never leaves his room."

"I'm telling you," said Dollard, "he never does."

"Maybe he's watching TV," I said.

We went over to the big room, scanned the faces. Two dozen men in khaki stared at the screen. Canned yuks poured out of the box-a sitcom. No one in the room was laughing. Peake wasn't in the audience.

Back in the corridor, Dollard had flushed again. The rage of a dogmatist proven wrong. "I'll get to the bottom of this." He was heading for the nursing station when a sluggish, abrasive sound stopped him.

Swish swish… swish swish… swish swish… Like a snare drum bottoming a slow dance. Seconds later, Peake stepped out from around the left side of the station.

Swish… Paper slippers shuffling on linoleum.

Heidi Ott held his elbow as he stumbled forward, eyelids half-shut, each step causing his triangular head to bob like that of a rear-window stuffed dog. In the merciless fluorescence of the hallway, the bits of stubble on his head and face looked like random blackheads. The furrows on his skull seemed painfully deep. He was bent over sharply, as if his spine had given way. As if gravity would have pulled him down but for Heidi's grip.

Neither of them noticed us as she propelled him, whispering encouragement.

Dollard said, "Hey," and she looked up. Her hair was drawn back in a tight bun, her expression bland. Peake could've been any kind of invalid, she his long-suffering daughter.

She held him back. Peake swayed, opened his eyes, but still didn't seem to be aware of our presence. He rolled his head. His purple-slug tongue oozed out, curled, remained suspended for several seconds before retreating.

"What's going on?" said Dollard.

"Taking a walk," said Heidi. "I thought some exercise might help."

"Help with what?" said Dollard. His thick arms snapped across his chest, fingers digging into stout biceps.

"Is something wrong, Frank?"

"No, everything's great, terrific-they want to see him again. Be nice if he was where he's supposed to be."

"Sorry," said Heidi, glancing my way. "Is he on room restriction? I didn't hear about it."

"Not yet he isn't," said Dollard. "Go on, put him back." To Milo: "Do your thing, I'll be back in fifteen."

Arms still folded, he walked off.

Heidi smiled uneasily-a teenager embarrassed by Dad's outburst. "Okay, Ardis, exercise time's over." One of Peake's eyes opened wider. Bleary, unfocused. He licked his lips, extended his tongue again, rolled his shoulders.

"No one bothers to get him out," said Heidi. "I thought it might help with… you know."

"Verbal output," I said.

She shrugged. "It didn't seem like a bad idea. C'mon, Ardis, let's get you back."

She guided him across the hall to his room, led him to his bed, sat him down. He stayed exactly where she put him. For several seconds, no one said anything. Peake didn't budge for a while. Then the tongue-thrusts renewed. Both eyes fluttered, struggled to stay open, couldn't.

Heidi said, "Could one of you please turn off the light? I think it bothers him."

I flipped the switch and the room turned gray. Peake sat there, licking and rolling his head. The same reek of intestinal gas and charred wood seemed to press forward, a putrid greeting triggered by our entry.

Heidi turned to Milo. "Why was Frank so bugged? Is something wrong?"

"Frank's not in a good mood. So tell me, has Peake been talking at all since you taped him?"

She shook her head. "No, sorry. I've been trying, but nothing. That's why I thought some exercise…"

Peake rolled his head. Rocked.

Milo motioned us away from the bed. We moved toward the doorway.

Milo said, "So no elaboration on 'choo choo bang bang.' "

Heidi's eyes widened. "Does that actually mean something?"

Milo shrugged. "Let me ask you, did Peake ever mention anything else-like a name?"

"What name?" she said.

"Wark."

She repeated it very slowly. "Doesn't really sound like a name… more like a bark."

"So he might've blurted it and you would've thought it was just gibberish?"

"Maybe… But no, he never said that." She reached to tug her ponytail. Nothing there. Her hand rose to the tight bun. "Wark… No, he never said that. Why? Who is it?"

"Maybe a friend of Peake's."

"He doesn't have any friends."

"Old friend," said Milo. "Are you still taping?"

"I tried… when I could. Why's Frank so uptight?"

"Frank doesn't like being told what to do."

"Oh," she said. "And you've got him actually working."

"Frank doesn't like to work?"

She hesitated. Moved closer to the door, looked out through the hatch. "This may not be true, but I heard he got fired from some police department for sleeping on the job. Or something like that."

"Who'd you hear it from?" said Milo.

"Just talk on the wards. He's also a sexist-treats me like I don't belong. You saw his attitude-I mean, what's wrong with taking someone who never gets out for a walk? All the other patients are watching TV, it's not like anyone's getting neglected."

I said, "Has Frank been giving you other problems?"

"Basically what you just saw-attitude. Swig likes him, so he doesn't have to do too much scut."

She glanced back at Peake. He continued to sit and rock and lick air. "You're saying Peake actually has a friend? From his past?"

"Hard to believe?" I said.

"Sure is. I've never seen him make contact with anyone."

Milo said, "No mail?"

"Not that I know about. Same with phone calls. He never leaves his room."

"Till today "I said.

"Well, yeah. I was trying to help out. What's this Wark done? What's going on?"

"Probably nothing," said Milo. "Just working all the angles. You drill a bunch of wells, hope for a trickle every now and then."

"Sounds too slow for me," said Heidi. "No offense."

"Not like jumping off power stations."

She smiled. "Very few things are."

We left Peake's room and she locked the door.

Milo said, "Any idea where I could get a personnel list?"

"I guess in the front office. Why?"

"To see who else I should talk to."

"If it's about Peake," she said, "I'm the only one worth talking to. No one else pays attention to him, now that Claire's gone."

"How much time exactly did she spend?" I said.

"Hrnm. Hard to say. There were times when I was on shift when she'd be in there as long as an hour. Sometimes every day. Usually every day. She was like that-involved."

"With everyone?"

"No," she said. "Not really. I mean she spent more time with her patients, in general, than the other docs. But Peake was… she seemed to be especially interested in him."

"Speaking of her patients," I said, "we just met the men in the Living Skills group. Low-functioning, just like you said. Any idea what criteria she used to pick them?"

"We never discussed that. I was just the tech. Mostly I stood guard, got supplies. To be honest, the group never really went anywhere. Claire seemed to be… observing them more than training. The group only met seven times before she was…" Shaking her head. Stroking the bun. "Sometimes it just hits me. What actually happened to her."

"Do you have any background information on the men? What they did to get here?"

"Let's see… there's Ezzard Jackson-skinny black guy. He killed his wife. Tied her up in their house and burned it down. Same with Holtzmann-the old man you'd never think could do anything criminal. He cut his wife up, stored the pieces in the freezer, marked them the way a butcher would- flank, loin. Randall shot his parents-he was into some Nazi stuff, had some delusion they were part of a Zionist plot… Who else… The other black guy. Pretty. That's his name- Monroe Pretty. Killed his kids, four of them, little ones. Drowned them in the bathtub, one by one. Sam Paz-the Mexican guy-went bonkers at his brother's wedding. Shot his brother and his mother and a bunch of bystanders. All told, I think six people died. The giant, Chet Bodine, was living like a hermit. Killed some hikers."

So many madmen, so little time…

I said, "All except Chet victimized family members."

"Actually, Chet wasn't picked for the group," she said. "He found out about it, asked Claire if he could join. He was so verbal, she thought it might stimulate the others, so she agreed. Yeah, you're right. I never thought about it, but she must've been interested in family killers."

Milo said, "Any idea why?"

She pulled a bobby pin from the bun, slipped it back in. "To be honest, it probably doesn't mean that much. Lots of the guys in here have murdered family members. Isn't that what crazy people usually do when they freak? Like Peake, he started with his mother, right? At least, that's what Claire told me."

"What else did she tell you about Peake's crimes?"

She touched the tip of her nose. "Just what he did. His mom and an entire family. What does any of that have to do with Claire being killed?"

"Maybe nothing," said Milo. "So are you gonna keep working with Peake?"

"I guess. If you want me to. Not that I'm accomplishing much."

"Don't get yourself in trouble, Heidi. I appreciate whatever you do."

"Sure," she said, gnawing her lip.

"Is there a problem?"

"Like I told you before, I was figuring it was time to move on. Was kind of waiting until you got to the bottom of Claire's murder."

"Wish I could tell you it would be soon, Heidi," he said. "Meanwhile, as long as Dr. Delaware's here, he might as well give Peake a try."

"Oh, sure," she said. "Whatever."

The door closed after me with a pneumatic hiss.

I stood halfway between the door and the bed, watching Peake. If he was aware of my presence, he didn't show it.

I watched. He did tongue calisthenics. Rocked, rolled, fluttered his eyes.

Standing there immobile, suspended in gray light, I began to feel formless, weightless. My nose habituated to the stink. Keeping my eyes on Peake's hands, I edged closer. A few more minutes of observation and I thought I'd detected a cadence to his movements.

Tongue-thrust, curl and hover, lingual retreat, neck roll clockwise, then counterclockwise.

Approximately ten-second sequences, six repetitions per minute, played out against the constant rocking of his torso.

I took in other details.

His bed wasn't made. Looked as if it was never made. The hands rested on rumpled, sweat-stained covers. The fingers of the left hand were hooked in the sheeting, half-hidden.

Hands that had wreaked so much ruin… I moved to within inches of the bed, standing over him for a while.

No change in the routine. I kneeled. Bringing myself down to Peake's eye level. His eyes were glued shut. Strain-marks at the corners said he was pressing the lids together tightly. A few moments ago, with Heidi, they'd been half-open. Responding to that bit of stimulation? Withdrawing further, once returned to isolation?

I heard, a tapping from below. Looked down. His feet. Bare-the paper slippers had come off without my noticing.

Two thin white feet. Oversized feet. Unnaturally long toes. Drumming the floor, faster than the upper-body movements, out of rhythm with the tardive dance.

So much motion, but no flavor of intent-the inanimate dangle of a puppet.

All through it, his eyes remained sealed. This close I could see dry, greenish crust flecking the lashes.

"Ardis,"Isaid.

The beat went on.

I tried again. Nothing.

A few minutes later: "Ardis, this is Dr. Delaware. I want to talk to you about Dr. Argent."

Nothing.

"Claire Argent."

No response. I repeated myself. Peake's eyelids remained shut, but started to tic-lids contracting and releasing, lateral movement visible under the skin. A few green specks dropped onto his lap.

Reaction? Or random movement?

I sidled closer. Had he wanted to kiss me or claw out my eyes, he could've.

"Ardis, I'm here about Dr. Argent."

Another eyelid tic-a jerky wave traveling beneath the papery skin.

Definite response. On some level, he was able to focus.

I said, "You were important to Dr. Argent."

Tic tic tic.

"She was important to you, Ardis. Tell me why."

His eyelids quivered like a frog in a galvanic experiment. I counted the time in tardive sequences: One T.D., two T.D.'s…tenT.D.'s.

Twelve. Two minutes. He stopped.

Subjectively, it seemed longer than a hundred and twenty seconds. I was far from bored, but time was dragging. I started wondering how many minutes Peake's rampage had consumed. Had the Ardullos been fully awake or asleep? Or somewhere in between-a murky semiconsciousness as they died, thinking it was all a bad dream?

I mentioned Claire's name again. Peake's eyes ticced. But nothing more.

I thought back to his arrest photo, the look of terror in his eyes. It reminded me of something-a vicious dog from my boyhood. It had drawn lots of blood but, when finally cornered by the dogcatcher, had curled up and whimpered like a starving pup…

How much violence was fear catapulted back at the world? Was all viciousness cowardice at the root?

No, I didn't think so, was still convinced Claire's murderer had acted from a position of power and dominance.

Fun.

Had Peake enjoyed his blood walk? Looking at him now, I found it hard to imagine him extracting enjoyment out of anything.

As I watched at him now, the notion of this husk decapitating his own mother, stalking up the stairs, bloody knife in hand, running from room to room inflicting agony and death, seemed impossibly remote…

As unlikely as kindly Mr. Holtzmann sectioning and freezing his wife.

In this place, logic meant nothing.

I said, "Bad eyes in a box."

No flutter beneath the lids.

"Choo choo bang bang."

Nothing.

I tried it again. Same lack of response.

Back to basics. Claire's name.

"Dr. Argent," I said.

Nothing. Had I turned him off?

"Dr. Argent cared about you, Ardis."

Five T.D.'s, six… the eyes ticced.

"Why did Dr. Argent die, Ardis?"

Eleven, twelve… tic, tic, tic.

"What about Wark?" Fourteen… "Griffith D. Wark."

Sixteen, seventeen. Nothing.

"Blood Walk."

Static eyelids.

Maybe the tics meant nothing, and I'd fooled myself into allowing a random neurological spark to take on meaning.

Delusions were everywhere…

Knowing this might be my last shot with Peake, I decided to keep going. Keep it simple.

Moving close enough to whisper in his ear. "Dr. Argent. Claire Argent."

The eyelids jumped spasmodically and I retreated with a pounding heart.

He froze. No more T.D. for several seconds.

The eyes opened, revealing a sliver of gray white.

Looking at me. Seeing me? I wasn't sure.

They closed.

"Dr. Argent cared," I said.

No eye movement-but the cords of his neck tightened; he craned toward me. Again, I drew back involuntarily.

Unable to see me but turning toward me, and I couldn't help feeling he was… engaging me. His mouth gaped wider. No tongue visible, and now he was making a gagging sound, as if choking on it. Suddenly, his head thrust forward, a snake darting, the eyelids fluttering once again, wildly.

I stared in fascinated horror as he tilted his head upward, neck stretched so tight it seemed to elongate impossibly. What little mandible he had pointed up at the ceiling.

I took another step backward. His arms began climbing. Slowly. Painfully.

His eyes opened. Remained open. Wide, very wide. Fixed on the ceiling.

As if heaven resided in the plaster… as if he were praying to something.

He gurgled, gagged some more. How far had he retracted the slug of muscle into his gullet?

His arms rose higher. Supplication…

He coughed, made no sound. The neck rolls resumed, more frantic than ever, epileptically rapid. More gagging. His sunken chest heaved. I thought of Denton Argent, dead in his cell, brain burned out from seizing, and wondered if I should do something.

But Peake seemed to be breathing fine. Not a seizure. New pattern of movement.

He began rocking faster. His scrawny buttocks lifted from the mattress as he thrust his chest upward.

Offering himself.

His right hand sank to his mouth. Four fingers jammed inside.

He withdrew them and the tongue appeared-yanked free-flapped like a fish on deck, curled, hovered…

Return of the initial T.D. sequence: thrust, curl, hover, retract. But his rear remained inches above the bed, feet barely touching the ground. Unnatural-it had to strain-did he even feel pain?

Then, suddenly, it was over, and his head had lowered to its usual slump, his arms were back in the bedcovers, and the beat went on…

One T.D.,two T.D.'s…

I sat there with him for five more minutes, whispering, coaxing, to no effect.

Now Claire's name left him silent as paint. Maybe a new approach would startle him into another outburst.

"The Beatty brothers," I said. "Ellroy. Leroy."

Zero.

"Choo choo bang bang."

Nothing.

"One with a gun, one run over by a train."

Deaf, blind, mute.

Still, Claire's name had stimulated him. I needed more time with him, knew I wouldn't get much.

Keep going.

One T.D.,two…

I whispered: "The Ardullos."

No change.

"The Ardullos-Scott Ardullo, Terri-"Yes, yes, yes there it was: the eyelid tic, faster than before, much faster, a churning of the lids as if the eyeballs were rotating at jet speed.

"Terri and Scott Ardullo," I said.

The eyes opened. Alive now.

Fixed on mine.

Awake.

Clear intent. To do what?

He stared at me. Didn't move at all.

Paying close attention? To me.

Success, but I felt as if a scorpion were cakewalking along my spine.

I checked his hands. Those hands. Both knotted in the sheets.

Keep a look out for sudden movement.

"Scott and Terri Ardullo," I said.

The stare.

"Scott and Terri. Brittany and Justin."

The stare.

"Brittany and Justin."

He blinked. Once, twice, six times, twenty, forty-eyelid convulsions, which wouldn't-or couldn't-cease.

Metronomic, hypnotic. I felt myself being drawn in. Avoid that, watch his hands…

His arms rose again. Fear stabbed me and I stood up quickly, backed away.

He didn't seem to notice.

Stood, himself.

Unsteadily, but managing to remain upright. Stronger than he'd appeared out in the hallway, in Heidi's grasp.

Still staring. Hot stare. Hands curling slowly into fists.

Straightening his spine.

Stepping toward me.

Okay, you ve done it, Delaware. Success!

He moved another step closer. I braced myself, plotted my defense. How much damage could he do, unarmed, so thin, so feeble?

Another step. His arms reached out, inviting embrace.

I retreated toward the door.

His mouth opened, contorted-no tongue-thrusts, just the excruciating labor of the lipless orifice struggling to change form, fighting to talk or scream… working so hard, working working-

Suddenly, a shrill, dry sound escaped. Soft, wispy, echoing- soft, but it pounded my ears-

His arms began to climb again, very slowly. When they were parallel with his shoulders, they flapped. Birdlike. Not a bird of prey, something thin, deliberate, delicate-a crane.

Without warning, he turned his back on me and hobbled- still flapping, miming flight-to the far corner of the room.

Pressing his back to the wall, keeping the arms stretched. Head tilted to the right.

Above him, the metal restraint hooks embedded in the wall hovered like warnings.

Eyes still open-wide open-stretched open; I could see wet pink borders all around. Wet eyes. Tears welling, overflowing, streaming down sunken cheeks.

His left leg crossed over its mate so that he was standing on one leg.

More avian posturing-no, no, something else-Posing.

Unmistakable pose.

His body had formed a cross.

Crucifixion on an unseen scaffold.

Tears flooded his face. Uncontrollable, silent sobs, brutally paroxysmic, each gush seizing ownership of his fragile body and shaking it like a wet kitten.

Weeping Jesus.