Bleeding in the Eye of a Brainstorm

by George C. Chesbro

  Ah, yes, the perils of celebrity. "I can see I'm going to have to tell my public relations people to tone things down a bit."

  "I can't believe you could have been so stupid as to approach us like that on the street, and then ask a dumb question about how to get to Carnegie Hall."

  I couldn't believe it either. If I lived to New Year's, I was going to make a serious resolution to stop trying to be such a clever little rascal. "I didn't know who you were when I approached you, and I still don't know who you are. I've been looking for a teenage runaway. I came over to ask if you might have seen him, but when I heard you talking I assumed you didn't speak English. The question about Carnegie Hall was just a display of my razor wit employed in an attempt to amuse myself. What the hell do you want?"

  "You're lying," Judy said, and Punch indicated that he agreed with her sentiments by poking me in the ribs with the stun gun. I screamed and went into convulsions, and Punch immediately slapped the glove that smelled like feces over my mouth. That stopped the screaming, but not the convulsions. The electricity and repulsive odor comprised a double-barreled bazooka attack on all my senses, pairing the extremes of pain and revulsion, and it was most effective.

  I'd been tortured before; I hadn't much cared for it then, and I didn't much care for it now. In fact, I hated being tortured. Just like the times before, I cried and screamed—or tried to—and threw up and most sincerely begged them to stop, and, just like the times before, I knew that if they finally found out what they wanted to know, they would kill me. Just like the times before, I knew I was going to have to somehow summon up the will to look beyond the terrible pain, try to think happy thoughts about the fact that I was still alive, and keep lying in order to keep me that way.

  They let me hang around, as it were, twitch and soil myself for what felt like a couple of centuries, but was probably only about five minutes. My back felt like it was about to break, and might have if they hadn't flipped me around into a position that was only slightly less uncomfortable. My whole body had become one huge cramp, but in the new position I was able to breathe—and presumably talk—a little easier. I couldn't decide which was worse, the artificial odor on the glove or the real smell of my own vomit, and I knew I was going to have to endure—survive—one more slam of electricity before they would be ready to believe whatever tale I was going to tell them. It would have to be good enough to satisfy their curiosity yet make them decide not to kill me, and it was a whopper I had yet to come up with. My current situation was seriously interfering with my imaginative flow.

  "Untie the ropes and let me lie down on my back," I croaked. "I think I'm rupturing a disc or two. I'll tell you what you want to know."

  Punch said, "Tell us what we want to know, and then the pain will stop. How did you know who we are?"

  "Hey, pal, if I'd known who you were, I wouldn't have come up to you on the street and made clever remarks. If you're going to torture me for information, at least don't waste time by asking stupid questions. It's my body you're using up. I had a description of two people, and you two looked like you might fit it. That's why I came over to you, to take a closer look."

  "Who gave you this description?"

  "There was a witness to the killing you pulled off here a week ago."

  "Who?"

  "How the hell do I know? It was somebody in the neighborhood. The police wouldn't give me a name."

  "Was it the woman sitting on the grate, the one dressed in rags?"

  "I told you I don't know, but I seriously doubt it was her. I know her. She's not only a loony but half blind and deaf."

  "She's not up there now. Where is she?"

  "How the fuck would I know? She's probably in some shelter—or maybe she went to Florida for the winter. Jesus H. Christ. Hurry up with the questions, will you? My back is really giving me problems."

  "The killing you mentioned is a police matter. Why are you involved?"

  "I'm chairman of our neighborhood Crime Watch committee."

  That did the trick. This time I got the stun gun in the belly, and my bones rattled as I twisted around in the ropes, convulsed, threw up, and cried. It was now time for Mr. Scheherazade to step through the curtain and go for one more night, this one.

  "Interpol," I gasped when I was finally able to speak.

  The man and woman looked at each other, obviously surprised. Judy asked, "What about Interpol?"

  I spat out vomit and stifled a sob. "You're blown; the whole operation is blown. One of the patients who escaped from Rivercliff walked into a relief center and told her story to a social worker. The social worker called the police, and the police called the Feds because they smelled something very big and fishy about the whole thing. Word about what was going on leaked to a senator who's a friend of mine, and she's planning an investigation into just who's responsible for Rivercliff. In the meantime, her committee has hired me to do some preliminary investigating and search for the rest of the patients, besides the one you killed and the one who came in, who are still hiding out on the streets."

  "That's nonsense," the woman said, sounding none too sure of herself. "What you're describing couldn't possibly have happened so quickly."

  "What can I tell you, lady? You tell me how I could have become involved if things aren't the way I just told you."

  Punch raised the stun gun threateningly. "If your senator doesn't know who Rivercliff belonged to, how could you know we'd been hired, and how could you know that the man we killed was one of the escaped patients?"

  "I didn't know that at the time. It was just a hunch. The killing had the signature of professionals. Now, why should professionals take out a homeless vagrant if he wasn't in fact one of the people I was supposed to be looking for? I told you there was a witness. I called Interpol with your description because I thought it possible they might have a line on you. They did. Punch and Judy. They even know your real names, and the fact that you live near Paris. That's it. So untie me. You don't have any reason to kill me, and you have several very good reasons not to. I'm just a hired hand in this case, working for the real heavyweights who are after your asses. Back off now and go home, and maybe those heavyweights will let you continue to enjoy your lifestyle. Kill me, and they'll know you did it. Then things could get real nasty for you. If you know about me, then you must know about my brother; he will definitely track you down, and he will most definitely kill you both. Cut me loose, and you cut your losses."

  I squinted in the gloom at their shiny faces, trying to gauge how I was doing, hoping I could remember whatever story I had just told them in case I had to repeat it. Both Punch and Judy looked singularly unimpressed with the threat of my brother tracking them down, my argument, or both.

  The woman said, "You've been looking for the patients."

  "That's right. Just like you."

  "Have you found any?"

  "No. Have you killed any others?"

  I didn't expect an answer, and I didn't get one. Punch and Judy looked at each other for some time without speaking, as if they could communicate telepathically. Finally the man looked back at me, said, "Your story doesn't make any sense. If the police know about Rivercliff and the patients, why aren't there more cops out on the streets looking for them?"

  "I don't know how many cops, maybe some in plainclothes, are looking for them, and neither do you. Sometimes the truth is kind of crazy. Hey, could anybody make up a story like I just told you while he's dangling here being electrocuted? I don't want you to hurt me anymore. Believe it, and let me go."

  He raised the stun gun for me to see. "I want to hear about this business with senators and congressional committees and Interpol one more time. But first—"

  He had brought the electric fangs of the stun gun to within a fraction of an inch of my neck, but he suddenly froze at the sound of brakes squealing as a car pulled up to the curb and stopped. The car's engine was turned off, a door opened and closed, and then footsteps clicked on the sidewalk, coming closer, going up the
steps to my front door. I heard the doorbell ring from deep inside the brownstone, and I was glad I had given Margaret and Michael strict instructions to stay away from windows, and never to answer the door. The doorbell rang again, and then .my visitor pounded on the door. Finally I heard a familiar voice shout, "Hey, Mongo! You up there?! If you are, you'd better stop playing games and get down here! The chief says I got to bring you in! Mongo?!"

  It was Lou Colchen. Never again would I complain that there was never a cop around when you needed one—but then, I might never again get the chance to complain about anything. Punch had clapped the foul-smelling glove over my mouth the moment the car door had opened, and now I watched as he and his wife exchanged glances.

  "Mongo?! You hear me?! I see lights on up there! If you are in there, you may as well come down now, because my orders are to wait right here until you show up! Come on, now! There's no sense in making me wake up the whole neighborhood!"

  My captors continued to stare at each other, their expressions mirroring uncertainty. My heart was already pounding, but it began to beat even faster when a knife suddenly appeared in Judy's hand. She started to press the blade to my throat, but Punch, bless his dark heart, abruptly grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away, shaking his head. He nodded toward the steps, and she nodded back. He took his hand away from my mouth, and then they bounded in unison up the stairwell and sprinted away down the sidewalk, their sneakered feet making hardly any sound.

  "Hey, you two! What the hell?!"

  I tried to spit, but there was no saliva left in my mouth. I smacked my lips and swallowed until I could work up a little moisture, then croaked, "I'm down here, Lou."

  "Mongo? Where . . . ? I can hear you, but I can't ..."

  "Under your feet. In the stairwell."

  I heard him skip down the steps over my head, then come along the railing until he was a dark outline at the top of the stairwell. A bright light came on, shining full in my face. I closed my eyes and turned my head away as pain shot through my skull.

  "Holy shit," the gray-haired policeman said, then quickly climbed down the stairwell to the landing. He set his flashlight down, then used a pocketknife to cut the ropes that bound my wrists and ankles while he supported me under the back with one strong arm. He caught me as I fell, then started to lay me down.

  "I don't want to lie down, Lou," I rasped. "Lift me up so that I can grab the railing."

  "What?"

  "Just do it, Lou."

  He did, grabbing me by the seat of the pants and hoisting me into the air so that I could grab the bottom brace on the steel railing over my head. I hung there, breathing deep sighs of relief as my weight served to stretch out the muscles and ligaments in my body, every one of which was cramped, knotted, twitching, and screaming in pain.

  Being stretched out felt absolutely divine. As far as I could tell, I hadn't broken any bones during the convulsions, or suffered any serious back injury, which I considered delightfully surprising considering the way I'd been trussed up, worked over, and had thrashed around.

  "Mongo . . . ?"

  "I'll be with you in a couple of minutes, Lou. I just need to hang out here a little while longer."

  "What the hell happened to you?"

  ". . . Mugged."

  "Muggers are going to the trouble of tying up their victims these days?"

  "These were kinky muggers. Lou, I'm really happy to see you. I mean, I'm really, seriously happy to see you."

  "Jesus, Mongo, you smell like shit and puke."

  "You should get a whiff of me from where I am."

  I was actually starting to feel better. I released my grip on the railing and dropped to the landing of the stairwell. That turned out to be an overly optimistic estimate of my recuperative powers. Normally, such a drop would have been no problem at all, but now my legs wouldn't support me, and I collapsed in a heap on the cold concrete. Lou lifted me up by the armpits, then sat me down on the steps next to his flashlight. My muscles were already starting to twitch and cramp again, and I arched my neck and back.

  "Hey, buddy, I think I'd better get you to a hospital."

  I shook my head. "I don't need to go to the hospital. I'll be all right. I just need to do a few more stretching exercises."

  "That's up to you. But if you're not going to let me take you to the hospital, you're going to have to come with me anyway. The captain wants to talk to you. Now."

  I sighed. "Give me a break, will you, Lou? I just got the shit kicked out of me. I'm still alive, thanks to you, but I really don't feel like chatting with MacWhorter, or anybody else right now. Tell him I'll be there in the morning, but not to expect me too early."

  The policeman shook his head. "I can't do that, Mongo. Sorry. The captain's been calling you all afternoon and night. First your secretary says you're out and he doesn't know where you are or when you'll be back, and then he starts getting your machine. My assignment was to find you, no matter how long it took, and I'm not supposed to show my face at the station house unless I've got you in tow; otherwise, I'm going to be walking a beat on Staten Island. He means it, Mongo. You know how he gets. I can see you're hurting, but that's the way it's got to be."

  I dredged up another sigh, this one even deeper, louder, and more heartfelt than the first. "You mind if I clean up first? I don't want to stink up the station house."

  "You're not going to skip out on me, are you, Mongo?"

  "Skip? You've got to be kidding me, Lou. I might try to crawl out on you, but skip? No way."

  "Make it snappy, will you?"

  "Snap this," I grumbled to myself as I got to my feet and stumbled up the stairs.

  Naturally, I was in no hurry whatsoever to get back downstairs, because I was certainly in no hurry to go another round with MacWhorter while trying to keep my wits about me as I figured out what I was going to tell him, which was probably going to be only a slightly less fantastic bubbameister than whatever it was I had told Punch and Judy.

  I stripped off my soiled clothes, sealed them in a plastic bag, which I set down by the kitchen door to take out with the garbage. Then I stepped into the shower, turned the water on as hot as I could stand it, then lay facedown in the tub and let the needle spray wash over me as I reflected on how very close I had come to being dead. Very sore was preferable to very dead, I concluded, and started to feel better about life in general.

  After twenty minutes or so of stretching out and soaking under the hot water, I got to my feet, soaped up, rinsed off, and got out of the shower. I was moving easier, and it at least felt as if I might be able to get about without looking and feeling like a palsy victim. I dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, then checked on Margaret and Michael, who were both sound asleep. I considered calling in some outside help to stand guard while I was gone, but then decided that it was unlikely that Punch and Judy would return to the brownstone, at least not so soon. I went to the bar in Garth's apartment, whacked my brain and body with a quarter of a tumbler of scotch, then went back downstairs, double-locking the front door behind me. The policeman was leaning against the hood of his cruiser, sipping at a carton of coffee he'd gotten from the deli up the block.

  "You took your own sweet time."

  "You'd better cuff me," I said, going across the sidewalk to him and holding out my wrists. "It's procedure, and you know how MacWhorter is about procedure."

  He looked at me in an odd way, then crumpled up his empty coffee carton and threw it into a wire trash container a few feet away. "You've got a really strange sense of humor, Mongo. Get in the car, will you?"

  Chapter 8

  This is bullshit, MacWhorter, dragging me down here in the middle of the night!" I shouted as I marched into the police captain's office. "Don't you sleep?! You're wasting your time, and mine! The first thing I want to do is call my lawyer, and then you and I can sit and stare at each other until she gets here!"

  The burly policeman looked up from the stack of papers on his desk. In the harsh light thr
own from his desk lamp he looked as if he had indeed not slept in some time, or even bothered to change his uniform. There were sweat stains around his collar and under his arms, and he would certainly not have passed one of his infamously rigorous inspections. He was unshaven, his beard a dark shadow cupping his face, and the large rings under his eyes were the color of bruises. "You don't need a lawyer, Frederickson," he said in a hoarse voice, "because you're not under arrest."

  I stopped in front of the desk. "I'm not?"

  "You're just here for a friendly chat. Sorry if Lou dragged you away from something you were doing."

  "Actually, I was in the middle of being tortured, but it's all right. I was getting tired of it anyway."

  He studied my face, blinked slowly. "If that's a joke, I don't get it."

  "Didn't Lou call in a report?"

  "He said you'd been mugged by a couple of guys in front of your house, and he was giving you time to clean up."

  "That sounds about right. Before you bother to ask, I didn't get a good look at them."

  "Two guys beat you up, and you didn't get a good look at them?"

  "They were wearing ski masks."

  MacWhorter grunted, then leaned back in his chair and smiled thinly. "Actually, I'm surprised they survived the encounter, much less got away. You're a pretty tough little bugger."

  "Yeah, but I'm getting old. I can't mix it up like I used to."

  "Now that you mention it, you look like shit, Frederickson."

  "You don't look so hot yourself, Captain."

  "How long have you had that twitch?"

  "Not long. Why don't we both go home and get some sleep?"

  MacWhorter sat up straight, pulled his chair closer to his desk. Color had risen in his cheeks, but his tone was even, and he seemed to be making some effort to control his temper. "I'll tell you why I can't go home, Frederickson, and why you're not going home either until I get some straight answers from you. Because more than two dozen people are dead, their hearts or spinal cords punctured, and eleven of those deaths occurred in my precinct. Guaranteed, there'll be more by morning. It's hard to nab somebody who has no apparent motive and who seems to have nothing better to do than wander around the city jabbing people with an ice pick. The reason I can't sleep is because I know more people will be dying while I do. I want to catch that crazy son of a bitch, and I just happen to have living in my precinct a civilian who seems to know more about what's going on than the whole NYPD put together. It's nothing short of amazing to me how this kind of weird shit always seems to stick to you and your brother; if there's something really bizarre going down, one or both of you are odds-on favorites to be somewhere right in the middle of it."