The Man Who Would Not Die

by Thomas Page

  It certainly was a realistic fire to Jones, who coughed, gagged, and choked through the smoke into the hall. Cinders showered onto his clothes and smoldered clear through to his skin. The minute he left the corner room, the ceiling caved in, sending an avalanche of glowing wood and flaming debris into the hall.

  “Forrester? Come back!” Jones cried weakly. There was so much more he wanted to know. They had hardly started talking to each other. He searched the blazing hell of the second floor for the apparition, but could not see him. Yet, he had to be there, the fire blazed only because he was still present.

  Clutching his gear, Jones stumbled to the stairs as racketing chunks of burning wood rained down over his head, setting his hair on fire, sending pinpricks of pain over his skin. The fire completely engulfed the house. By the time he reached the front door, his clothes were burning.

  He turned the knob and pushed open the door. Instantly the illusion vanished; the fire was replaced by cool evening air and the musty smells of a closed-up house, the walls and ceilings were unscathed; his clothes were undamaged, his flesh unburnt. This was how Dutton had described it. It was as if a curtain rang down, bringing him back to reality. He had just awakened from a dream. For a second, Jones gasped in cold gulps of air and leaned against the doorjamb.

  Three spears of light flooded his eyes. They came from three cars parked on the street before the house. Jones blinked, trying to make out the figures crouched behind them.

  A stentorian voice flattened by a megaphone boomed, “Drop the gun.”

  Jones forgot that he was carrying his gun. It was in the hand that he raised to ward off the light. To the police watching him, it appeared that he was going to fire.

  A short fusillade of police bullets cracked through the night, knocking Jones backwards into the house, sending his gear sprawling in a heap on the porch. He hit the floor on his back and heard voices approaching him. One of them was that of the Realtor.

  Jones was a good doctor. He knew he was dying. He thought the most ridiculous part of his life was his death. He wondered if Daniel Forrester had known this was going to happen, if that were why he was so cheerful as he left. He raised his head weakly and saw the people crowding round the doorway, the lights still on him. His suitcase full of gear was unharmed by the shots. The minute he realized that, Jones allowed himself to fall asleep.

  They threw a sheet over him and blocked off the front yard till his body could be transferred to the city morgue. The police impounded his gear and stowed it in the back of the car. The neighbors in bathrobes and pajamas who had cowered in their homes since the first gunshots had been heard in the house, watched his body wheeled into the back of an ambulance. All this time the Realtor talked to anyone who would listen. “I knew he wasn’t all there, he comes into the place jabbering about flying saucers and all that crap. I didn’t know he had that gun, till I was leaving. What was I supposed to do, throw him out and get killed? He’s wacko, this house is going to attract all kinds of wackos like him. I bet he’s full of drugs. I bet they’ll do an autopsy and find out he was loaded with something that made him see little green men. I mean it. Crazy bastard. I’m lucky he didn’t shoot at me, I was in there alone with him, you know . . .”

  CHAPTER 11

  All day Dutton had noted fleeting grimaces crossing Branch’s face. Branch had insisted on giving the party. “It will be a fine evening, Lawrence,” he had said, brushing aside his protests. “One should be surrounded by friends at all times.”

  Before leaving the clinic that evening, Dutton instructed the nurse to keep the cardiac unit ready for dispatch at a moment’s notice. “It’s all Forrester’s fault,” Dutton said.

  “Sir?” she asked uncomprehendingly.

  “A patient we had,” Dutton answered. “He’s making us all think about death.”

  Dutton got to the party at eight-forty-five and tried to get a conversation going with Dr. Kampmeier, who told him, “There’s nothing sadder than an old doctor, eh? You get all the aches and pains you’ve spent your life treating.” None of the guests tonight was under sixty, so Dutton knew he would feel left out.

  Branch’s wife had died fifteen years before and his two children had moved away. The house, a kind of chalet with a sunken wood-lined living room, a modern wood-burning stove suspended from the roof, and a balcony on the north wall seemed too new to hold the memories. In one of the bedrooms where guests laid their coats was a pair of photographs of Branch, his wife, and children. Above the framed picture was a wooden crucifix. At least he did not have illuminated Nativity figures in the front yard.

  Dutton was coming down the hall when a white-haired man named Denenberg intercepted him. “Dr. Dutton, yes? Evan asked me to tell you the clinic’s calling. He said there’s a phone in the bedroom.”

  It was Mrs. Handel. Her voice was tight with fear. “Yes, sir. You instructed me to call in case of any intruders in the clinic.”

  Suddenly Dutton felt scared. “That’s right.”

  “A man came through the main desk area, sir, in an absolute fit, demanding to know where some capsule was. I cannot imagine how he got in here.”

  “And?”

  “Sir, I thought he wanted a pill or something. He was quite upset.”

  “I see. And what did he look like?”

  “A very nice-looking gentleman, blue coat and tie. There is a Dr. Jones connected with this clinic, isn’t there?”

  “Jones? Yes, he’s in California for a couple of days.”

  “Well, sir”—and at this point Mrs. Handel’s voice tilted a bit as though it were about to fall sideways out of her mouth—“this fellow said that Dr. Jones was dead. Now I don’t know if that means anything . . .”

  “Dead! Dead how?”

  “He didn’t say any more than that, Doctor. He said he had just finished with him. . . . Dr. Dutton, he was mad. I really think I should call the police.”

  “Is he there now?” Dutton could just imagine a couple of cops trying to put handcuffs on Forrester.

  “No. I don’t know how he got in or out, but he’s gone.” Mrs. Handel’s voice became a bit more hesitant. “He asked for you and Dr. Branch by name. That’s why I thought I should call the police, you see.”

  “Well, it’s a waste of time if he’s gone . . .”

  “What I mean is, sir, I’m afraid I told him where you are.”

  Dutton exhaled with careful control. It wouldn’t do any good to bully a nurse. “I see. You told him about this party.”

  “I’m afraid . . .” Nurse Handel was on the edge of tears. “I was so frightened of him, Dr. Dutton, I’ve never met anybody so intimidating in my life . . . I tried to tell him to come back in the morning when you and Dr. Branch would be here . . .”

  Dutton could sense tears about to burst out. “Never mind, Mrs. Handel, you did all right. I know who he is. Don’t worry, he won’t be back.”

  Dutton got the number of the Santa Eulalia police department. In a clipped manner, a desk sergeant informed him that, indeed, they had had a bit of tragedy with a doctor named Jones. He had been shooting up a house earlier that evening and he tried to fire at a policeman after emerging from the dwelling. The man seemed quite dangerous, quite out of his mind, they would certainly appreciate some background on him . . .

  Dutton was about to respond when a small buzz of static came on the line, growing louder and more irritating until the connection drowned in a swarm of shrieks like thousands of angered bats cheeping. When the bedroom light blinked and a cold layer of air slid along the floor icing his feet, Dutton realized the problem was not with the phone company. Evan Branch’s party now included Daniel Forrester.

  Dutton ran down the hall to the living room and saw the guests chatting away, some in clumps standing by the French windows looking out on the mountains, others gathered round the hanging wood stove, which Branch was stoking with fresh
logs. Dutton looked at every face, then looked up the stairs to the balcony.

  Dr. Kampmeier was coming down the hall. “Did you come here with anyone, Dr. Dutton?”

  “No.”

  She whispered, “There’s a man sitting in a chair in the study. He’s crying.”

  Dutton dashed down to Branch’s study. The room was empty. Dutton checked closets in the hall and looked out the window. He started working his way down toward the living room, checking bathrooms and more closets.

  The cold permeated the house, collecting in frigid little pockets in the bedrooms, gathering in hall corners, ebbing and pulsing everywhere. Dutton sensed Forrester was confused and uncertain about where to materialize.

  Dr. Kampmeier felt Dutton’s tension. “I don’t know where he got to,” she said. “If he left the study we should have seen him in the hall. Do you know who he is?”

  “A patient,” Dutton replied tightly, “who shouldn’t be running around.” Dutton spoke as they walked down the hall into the living room. He looked over the guests talking in small groups, some on the sofa with Branch, others at the hors d’oeuvre table, and a large number of them clumped close to the hanging fireplace.

  And then a kind of optical illusion seemed to strike Dutton. He thought he saw Daniel Forrester in several parts of the room. Forrester was standing on the balcony steps looking with palpable sadness at the people below. Forrester was by the canapé tray, then looking in the window, little details of him revealed by the shifting of people as they passed back and forth. Dutton rubbed his eyes and recalled how much he had drunk. It was not much, he was not hallucinating. Forrester really was here, gathering himself for some kind of tremendous act. Behind him, Dutton heard a sharp intake of breath and felt Dr. Kampmeier’s fingers clutch his arm. She was seeing Forrester, too. Dutton patted her hand and strode through the group to where Branch was seated. Halfway across the room, a blast of wind slammed into the house so hard that the hanging wagon-wheel chandelier swayed and the conversation faded. The impact sent a tidal wave of cold over the guests, causing them to clutch their sweaters and jackets more tightly around them.

  Dutton said to Branch, “Sir, he’s here.”

  Branch put on his glasses and studied Dutton’s face. “Lawrence, have you been drinking?”

  “No, sir, the clinic called and said he had been looking for the capsule. And Dr. Jones is dead, I don’t quite know how . . .”

  As Branch’s face suffused with shock, another blast hit the house, not so much like wind this time, but as if an earthquake had trembled beneath them. With the aid of his cane, Branch pushed himself to his feet. Dutton would have expected fear; instead every small movement of the old man’s body denoted firm alertness.

  Dutton watched the faces turn expectantly toward Branch who, after coughing to clear his throat, spoke in hard, precise words. “Ladies and gentlemen, apparently this gathering has been crashed. My apologies, but apparently a man in a blue coat has been walking around here.”

  From the wood stove came a thump and hiss of falling wood, provoking a startled squeal from a woman next to it.

  Branch raised his voice, speaking not to them, but to the rafters.

  “And I would appreciate it if he had the courtesy to show himself.”

  He was answered by another thunderous knocking that seemed to traverse the walls to the ceiling, across the top and down the other side. Heads turned up and sideways following the sound. The conversation died and Dutton became aware that the soft stereo music was sputtering as though the record was scratched.

  Then a man said, “Isn’t that him?” and pointed to the hall. The heads turned to look. “Sorry, I thought he was . . .”

  “He’s on the stairs,” cried a woman. And like sheep, the people whirled round to look up the steps. The babble of voices began again, in that rising tone of spreading panic. Standing next to Branch was a clinical psychologist who shook his head and said, “Evan, I believe this is the first case of mass hallucination I’ve ever seen. There’s no one here.”

  Kampmeier had wended her way through the bodies next to Dutton. “He’s here. I saw him.”

  The psychologist snorted. “You should all check your pulses and go easy on the firewater.”

  Kampmeier asked Dutton, “But why is he crying?”

  Dutton did not reply. He turned to the clinical psychologist and looked past his shoulder. “Mr. Friedman, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The man, who isn’t here, is behind you.”

  Friedman blinked, turned, and gasped so loudly Dutton though he would choke on his canapé. Branch turned, too, and his face lit up with an awestruck amazement that looked almost like delight. Slowly the people crowded closer to them and looked at Daniel Forrester sitting in a butterfly chair adjacent to the long sofa, weeping softly.

  For a few seconds, the only sound was that of Daniel Forrester weeping and even that was indistinct, fading in and out like the music trying to struggle past the static on the stereo. Then Dutton picked up the telephone on the other side of the sofa. It took a few moments for the call to go through, during which he said, “Everyone stand back. He won’t hurt you.”

  It was a necessary but inaccurate warning. Dutton knew how quickly he could move, he knew from the wild, blank eyes that no mind existed behind that face, only instincts. Forrester might do nothing or he might make the roof cave in.

  “Denver Mercy,” said a cool voice on the phone.

  “This is a medical emergency,” Dutton said. “Please put Mr. Bickel on the phone.”

  The phantom was not listening to Dutton. He continued crying in the chair with such total, complete despair the guests were embarrassed. Branch took off his glasses, gazed at the figure, put them back on again, and looked at Denenberg, tapping his head. “In here, Denenberg. He’s in here.”

  Bickel’s voice, breathless from running, picked up the phone. “Bickel here.”

  “This is Dutton. Forrester is sitting in one of Branch’s chairs. Hold this line.”

  At the mention of Forrester’s name, Dr. Kampmeier looked at him, her eyes distended into owlishness by the thick glasses. Dutton held the telephone toward the figure, hoping the receiver would pick up the sound of his crying. “Hear that, Bickel? It’s Forrester.”

  “I heard somebody crying, Dutton. Not that I can hear anything else, this line’s practically dead.”

  Dutton prayed that static would not kill the connection completely. Under the wavering lights, Forrester’s figure pulsed in and out of the gloom. He seemed to be having trouble solidifying and was far less vivid than the other night.

  Evan Branch stepped out of the crowd and looked down at the weeping figure. “Does everybody see him?” he asked the guests, all of whom nodded. “Lawrence? It’s a miracle. Look at him, he doesn’t look remotely dangerous, not even minutely supernatural. In fact he looks as natural and normal as the earth itself.”

  Branch walked round the crying figure, still speaking. “Is he aware of us, Lawrence?”

  “Yes and no, sir. His mind doesn’t stay on one thing for long.”

  “He must be here to see me. Has he forgotten why he’s here?”

  “He lacks logical thinking, sir, he does not connect things. He’s crying because he doesn’t know where his body is. He’s concentrating on crying, you see? Any second now, he will concentrate on the reason for his crying. Which will be us.”

  “I see. Something like catatonia. A very constricted consciousness.”

  “No, sir. He has no consciousness. Only unconsciousness.” Dutton felt unreality permeate the room. In the face of the fantastic they were behaving like pedantic clerks. “Sir, I wouldn’t get that close to him.” The assembled guests had begun murmuring among themselves, some stooping for a better look at the figure. Only Kampmeier shared Dutton’s trepidation and stayed back from the others.

&nbs
p; Some impulse requiring travel to another realm must have struck the ghost, for he shimmered away in the chair like ripples clearing on the surface of a pond, his passage so gentle and soft, his fading voice so like the melancholy fading of a bell that they could almost convince themselves it had been a pleasant experience, that the cold was not ominous, that the figure was a person just like themselves. The nervous laughter of relief traveled through them as Branch spread his hands and shrugged. “Lawrence, that wasn’t so bad.”

  Friedman poked at the chair. “Nice trick, Evan, but I have seen holograms before.”

  “I assure you it was not a trick.”

  Dutton spoke into the phone. “Bickel, what’s happening with the body?”

  “Nothing. No activity of any kind. What’s happening with your body?”

  “He just . . . left. He must have gone to his house. That’s how it works, he’s a victim of his own thoughts, he goes to whatever locale comes into his head . . .”

  “Dutton, what do you want from me, can I hang up now?” Bickel’s voice had an edge to it.

  Dutton lowered the telephone and looked the party over. Except for Kampmeier and himself, things were actually returning to normal. People were refreshing their drinks, cleaning up the cheese, olives, and chips, and resuming their seats round the living room. Branch was changing records on the stereo. Dutton said, “Bickel, either I’m losing my mind or Forrester’s just made this party. I’ve never seen a happier bunch of geriatrics in my life. Hold the phone?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve got a feeling he’ll be back any second.”

  Branch tapped his way over to Dutton, a happy grin on his face. “So. You were right, eh?”

  “Sir, I really and truly don’t think it’s very amusing . . .”

  “Come on, Lawrence, don’t you think every one of these clerks is happy to have seen a ghost? Life after death, eh? It’s reassuring. Consider how much of humanity has wanted to believe in that. He looked so natural, that’s what amazes me, as natural as . . .”