Dr. Caine administered the injection. I was put into a wheelchair—the blond orderly named Trask did the honors here—and rolled to the main building, where Dugan opened the back door to admit us to the Torquemada room. I’d seen a few people, well bundled up, strolling aimlessly under the trees of the big fenced estate. They’d paid no attention to me. Maybe I wasn’t really there at all, I reflected; maybe I was back in the Prince Rupert Hospital having a highly colored dream. Here I was being transported quite openly to the chamber of horrors, and none of my fellow-patients would even acknowledge my existence by a glance. Actually, I had a hunch they were quite aware of me; they simply didn’t want to seem rudely curious about the poor violent case locked up in high-security Hyacinth, now scheduled for desperate treatments to restore his sanity. I mean, it would have been impolite to stare, don’t you know?
Trask turned me over to Dugan, who rolled me inside to where the horror lady herself awaited me. Dr. Albert had faded at the door; apparently he was okay with the needle but he had no stomach for the heavy work with the electrodes and rheostat. We started in the chair with questions. We continued in the chair with electricity. Then the electric treatments were continued on the table, with interesting variations. As I said, I was pretty used to institutional nightmares by now. I knew how to escape them. All I had to do was move off into a corner of the room and watch the fun. I was acquainted with the guy in the chair, or on the table, and I thought they were treating him badly and it was a real shame, but when you came right down to it he wasn’t a fellow who meant a great deal to me…
I was a little startled, maybe even a little scared, when I suddenly realized somewhere along the line that this was no longer the first day of intermittent questioning, it was the second. I’d lost a day. Well, it seemed to be something I was getting good at mislaying memories. I didn’t think the ones I’d misplaced inside that room were anything I’d miss. I stopped worrying about it once I decided that the mental circuit breakers, the ones that cut out during psychic overloads like airplane crashes, were simply doing their protective stuff once more, shutting out a lot of stuff I didn’t really want.
I did worry a bit about the Observer, as I called him. He was a small fat man with a surgeon’s mask and cap and gown who stayed in the corner so unobtrusively it had taken me a while to realize he was there. He didn’t act much like a surgeon. In fact he didn’t act at all. Elsie carried out the treatments, with the help of Dugan’s muscle when required. The Observer simply observed. Once in a very long while he’d make a comment. He had a pleasant enough voice, in spite of a Germanic accent, and sometimes what he said was pleasant, too. At least I found it so.
“No, no,” he’d say, “We can’t have him dead or permanently damaged, Dr. Somerset. You’d better let him rest a bit now, hein?”
In a way, however, I resented his presence. Somehow it wouldn’t have been so bad with just me and Elsie—and Dugan, but he didn’t really count, he was just the eunuch at the harem door. We worked out a very satisfactory love-hate relationship as the inquisition progressed, Elsie and I. I was her pet toy, and she was somebody I was going to kill very slowly, very deliberately, very painfully, when my time came. The ingenious torments I devised for her—to hell with simple electricity—kept me going during the times when the drugs wore thin and the disinterested-spectator technique didn’t quite work any longer. But having an observer present during our intimate orgies of pain wasn’t right, I felt. It was like making love in public, dammit.
“That’s enough, I think,” said the Observer one day, coming forward. It was the first time he’d left his corner station while I was in the room. He went on, “That is enough, Madame Doctor. I think we can take it as established that the man has actually lost his memory, nicht wahr? Furthermore it’s becoming quite obvious that we won’t break through to the information we need by these methods. There is nothing to be gained by proceeding further.”
“If you’d only let me—”
Elsie’s voice was even hoarser than usual with disappointment. She was an ugly, lonely little girl being told to stop playing with her favorite doll. I almost felt sorry for her.
“No. He must live and he must recover, those are my instructions.” The masked little man’s voice was sharp. “The name he gave you, the name spoken over the telephone, has been traced. We have some very interesting, but rather disturbing, information about this man and the organization for which he works. He is really a very interesting person. It’s too bad he had to get involved in our affairs. In his business—his real business, which is not photography—occasional interrogations are expected, so I think we need fear no retribution for what we have done so far. There are, however, people behind him who may take action if we go much farther; people it’s considered advisable not to antagonize. That telephone call was as much to us as to him. It was a warning. We feel it should be heeded. Let’s wrap it up, as the Yankees say. Lock him up and keep him safe until you get further instructions from the council. We’ll have to try to learn about Walters some other way.”
When the Observer had gone, Elsie herself came forward to release me, although that was normally Dugan’s job. She looked at me for a long time, fondly, sadly, before tackling the straps and buckles. I was tempted to congratulate her. Even when it’s checked, as seemed to be the case with her, acromegaly usually has unfortunate sexual side effects; but she had obviously made a wonderful adjustment and found a very satisfactory substitute. However, looking up at the intelligent eyes in the gargoyle face, I managed to keep my mouth shut. I’d survived. I knew, at least in part by not fighting or talking back. My profile was nice and low again. No sense in spoiling things by getting smartalecky at the last moment.
Dugan was almost as disappointed as Elsie, I think. He yanked me out of there angrily, rolled me roughly back to Hyacinth, and practically threw me at Tommy Trask.
“The skinny bastard beat them!” Dugan said bitterly. “Him and his phony amnesia! If they’d just let me at that rheostat, I’d have got it out of him in a hurry.”
“Or burned out his transistors,” Trask said. “Vegetables don’t talk… Come on, Mr. Madden, it’s time for beddy-bye.”
“The orders are to keep him safe,” Dugan said.
“We’re safe, aren’t we, Mr. Madden,” Trask said. “Safe as a baby in a crib, we are…”
I went to sleep, smiling like a baby in a crib. Phase one had been concluded in a reasonably satisfactory manner, everything considered. It was time for phase two, but there was no hurry, no hurry at all. A little strength and good sense would be required. I slept all the next day, therefore, except for meals. I’d been kept on very short, bland, and unsatisfying rations for obvious reasons connected with sanitation. Now Trask started bringing me real food, and I made up for lost time and calories. Between meals, I slept some more. Gradually, the drugs I’d been given wore off and the haze of pain, illness, and weariness began to clear.
I hadn’t paid much attention to the room before, since I wasn’t planning to do much about it. I wasn’t the Count of Monte Cristo planning to dig his way out of the Chateau d’lf; and as I recalled, in the end the guy hadn’t made it with a shovel after all. But a little geography wouldn’t hurt, and as sharp reality came back to me, I studied my surroundings carefully—it was actually quite a comfortable little suite—determined the way the door locked, and examined the view from the barred windows of the two rooms and adjacent bathroom. I got a pretty good idea of the lay of the land outside: how the cover was located and which way the paved walks ran under the trees.
Trask was a different matter. He was important. I’d been making fuzzy mental notes about Tommy Trask ever since I understood that he’d been assigned to me for the duration. Now I clarified and completed my research on the subject. He was almost six feet tall and he weighed well over two hundred muscular pounds. Even in good health, I would have hesitated to test my strength against his. Like Kitty Davidson, he spoke with that kind of half-British-sounding Ca
nadian accent I could never track to its source. He had longish blond hair and a heavy face that, as I’ve already indicated, had a hint of handsome boyishness. He wasn’t very bright but he wasn’t a bad guy…
I didn’t know what I was waiting for, really, until that evening came. It felt right, somehow. I wasn’t going to get any stronger or smarter cooped up here. If I stalled much longer, something might happen to change my situation for the worse. I heard Trask coming, whistling to himself. It was a roast-beef night, I realized, and he liked being able to bring his private patient something good, unlike last night when the dinner menu had consisted of a mixed-up Chinese-type mess that no self-respecting Oriental would have fed to his cat.
I watched the door open. I stepped back to the window as I was supposed to; we’d settled these small points of discipline long ago, quite amicably. Trask shoved the door wide, checked my location, and turned back to get the tray he’d left on the shelf beside the door so he’d have both hands free in case I had some notion of jumping him as he entered. His expression, as always recently, was slightly apologetic, indicating that he knew these precautions were unnecessary between us, but after all a job was a job and he liked to do it right. He pulled the door closed one-handed, just in case I should take it into my head to make a run for it while he was busy setting out my meal on the little table by the wall. The door could only be opened with a key, from either side. The key was in his pocket.
“A little underdone, just like you like it, Mr. Madden,” he said cheerfully as he uncovered the plate. “And I got you a beer. Just a sec while I open it for you. Sorry about the steak knife, but that’s a nice tender piece of meat; you’ll do all right with your fork.”
I grinned, coming forward as he stepped aside. “Sure. Hell, if I had a knife I might cut your throat. You never know with a dangerous character like me… Oh, damn!” I’d knocked the bottle off the corner of the table as I seated myself. “Oh, damn it, Tommy, I’m sorry…”
He went for the bottle, which hadn’t shattered. It was rolling across the floor spewing beer and foam on the carpet. Bent over to grab it, he stopped abruptly, realizing what he was doing. That was when I hit him and broke his neck.
9
I’ll have to admit that it surprised me almost as much as it did him. I’d known, somehow, that it could be done that way, but I hadn’t had any really good reason to think I could do it. I’d been ready to throw myself on top of him and pin him down and finish him off, one way or another, before he could recover from the first blow. It wasn’t necessary. He went down instantly. There were some ugly, convulsive jerks and twitches as the final, fading signals filtered through the damaged circuits; then he lay limp and still.
I rubbed my hand, stinging from the force of the blow. It was badly bruised—apparently I wasn’t the brick-smashing type of karate expert—but nothing seemed to be broken. Okay. Keys and a weapon next. I got the keys from his pocket. I was fairly sure, from careful observation, that he carried no armaments, but I searched him anyway. Nothing. He’d been picked for his ability to deal with maniacs barehanded; and in a place like that you don’t want to give a maniac an opportunity to become an armed maniac. Only the security guards, the last line of defense so to speak, were permitted firearms on the premises. I took his wallet, since I didn’t know where my own had got to, and money might be required if I did manage to get clear of this place. That made me feel a bit guilty, like a thief.
I let myself out of the room, but paused to look back. Something told me that if you can do it you’d damned well better be able to look at it. Poor Tommy. I suppose there are always guys who aren’t really bad guys who get themselves stuck on the wrong sides of situations. Maybe it was my imagination but the dead boyish face seemed to have a reproachful expression. Well, hell, I’d warned them, and he’d been right there when I did it. I’d given them a chance to let me leave peacefully, hadn’t I? If they persisted in locking people up and running electricity through them after being properly cautioned, they could damned well take the consequences.
Hyacinth Cottage contained my prison suite and a sitting room for the nurse or orderly. Off the sitting room were a small bathroom—just a toilet and basin—and a closet. In the closet I found my clothes and some sanitarium equipment, including several interesting canvas garments well-equipped with straps, and two pairs of crutches, aluminum and wood. Apparently they’d had a crazy cripple to deal with, or expected one. The aluminum tubing was too light for my purposes. I dismantled one of the wooden crutches by removing two wing-nuts and driving out the bolts. I checked the straight lower section after discarding the rubber tip. It seemed to be sound hardwood and it was almost two feet long. It would have to do.
I got dressed. It felt odd to have on real clothes once more, after living so long—with just one brief day’s interlude—in pajamas. My overcoat and airplane bag weren’t there. I left my sports jacket reluctantly, after checking that it held nothing I’d miss if I couldn’t come back. There was nothing in my pants, either. Fortunately, the going-away costume Kitty had provided me in Prince Rupert included a reasonably warm turtle-necked sweater, so going outdoors stripped for action involved no serious risk of pneumonia.
Nevertheless, I shivered as the cold, damp air hit me outside the cottage door. I guess my stint in the cold waters of Hecate Strait had left me with a chronic yearning for warmth and dryness. It was night outside, but they had enough lights on the premises for midnight football. The vague mist seemed to radiate the illumination into all corners that might have sheltered me. To hell with it. I’d be more conspicuous sneaking from one patch of cover to the next than just walking along like a gent on legitimate business. I strolled away casually, therefore, swinging my length of crutch jauntily, like a cane.
It was too late for any patients to be outside. They were either eating in the main dining room or being served in their cottages, depending on medical and psychological condition. For the moment, there were no employees in sight. With Trask eliminated, there was only one employee below the administrative level who concerned me, anyway. The rest had, and apparently wanted to have, nothing to do with the operation of the two Snake Pits, as Goldenrod and Hyacinth seemed to be known: the violent wards. Tommy had told me this resentfully, I remembered. He’d thought it unfair that his fellow-workers considered themselves superior to him just because they dealt with simple lushes and dope fiends instead of…
I saw Dugan coming, carrying a tray. Instinctively, I started to take cover; then I changed my mind. Actually, it was a stroke of luck catching him in the open like this. Otherwise I would have had to worry about him until I found him and immobilized him. Dugan being Dugan—I considered myself a Dugan expert by this time—there were better ways of handling him than jumping out from behind a bush and saying boo. I continued to walk towards him.
It was typical of Dugan, I reflected, that he was serving somebody’s dinner half an hour late. It was also typical of Dugan that, seeing a patient loose who shouldn’t be, he never once thought of raising the alarm. I’d counted on that. He could handle it personally, Dugan could. He needed no help, did Dugan. He set the tray carefully on one of the benches along the path, and kept on coming, reaching behind him. No gun, I hadn’t seen any further indications of the compact Colt he’d shown me when we first met, but it was also typical of Dugan, I knew, that he carried something in his hip pocket that wasn’t a wallet or a handkerchief, regardless of the house rules.
I’d seen the bulge of it often enough, but I’d never managed to identify it. Now, as he pulled it out, I saw that it was a slim and flexible blackjack of some kind. Maybe it was what the British call a cosh, but don’t ask me where I’d heard that word because I didn’t know.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Dugan asked as we stopped about ten feet apart. “Where’s Tommy?”
“Tommy isn’t anywhere,” I said. “Not any longer. Poor Tommy.”
His face changed. His eyes narrowed oddly. If I’d thought
Dugan could feel concern for anybody but himself, I would have said I’d just startled and worried him. Well, I’d wondered a little about the relationship between the two of them; not that their love life was any of my damned business. Dugan spoke harshly, as if to reassure himself.
“You’re a bloodly liar. Tommy isn’t Einstein, or Muhammed Ali either, but he’d never let you…”
I sighed. “Dugan, you talk too damned much. Are you going to do something with that thing besides slap it against your palm like that, or am I just supposed to fall down dead with fright at the noise?”
He said, “Since you ask for it, cock, it will be a real pleasure.”
He came forward in a half-crouch, weaving a bit, feinting with the sap. I brandished my stick clumsily, like a feeble club. He laughed and kept advancing. I struck out at him in an ineffectual way, and jumped back fearfully as he responded with a slash of his own weapon. I stumbled dramatically. He laughed again, and came in like a bear to honey. I arranged my feet properly and drove the stick straight at his eyes, rapier-fashion. A man six-four has considerable range when he extends himself in a full fencing lunge, even with just a two-foot stick. Dugan recoiled; his arms went up to protect his face. Instantly, in mid-lunge, I dropped the point and sent it into his belly with the full weight of my body behind it, trying to remember the Italian name of that high-low attack that I’d first learned, I recalled, on a college fencing team back when I was still just a nice young fellow with photographic ambitions racking up a few points for phys. ed.
I wasn’t so young, and I didn’t seem to be so nice, any longer. I heard the breath go out of Dugan. He doubled up helplessly, hugging himself, sinking to his knees. I looked down at him for a moment. I could see no need whatever to take any risks for Dugan’s sake, like the risk of leaving him tied up to maybe work himself free and alert the guards before I was ready for them. My right hand was too tender for any further flashy displays of karate, if that was what it was. I stepped behind Dugan, slipped my hands under his armpits, and brought them up and around, locking them together at the nape of his neck and levering his head forward. I remembered the name of that wrestling hold all right: the venerable and respected full nelson. I heard him groan as the pressure came on.
The Terrorizers Page 6