“It’s been bad for a few weeks, I think. But he said it really started a year ago.”
He frowned. “Oh dear.”
“I didn’t know, Mr. Bryant,” I whispered.
“I believe you.”
“When the play started, I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t—” My voice caught in my throat. I didn’t want to say it. “He promised me he’d deal with it.”
“It’s okay.” He said it in that Bryant way that made me feel like it was true.
I nodded. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Some form of psychosis,” he said. His face was set, all business. “But from the symptoms you’re describing—the auditory hallucinations, persecutory and referential delusions, disorganized thinking, that sort of thing—schizophrenia, most likely.”
I dropped into a chair, leaned on the table, and put my head in my hands. A hot flash hit me, the kind you feel before you get sick. I didn’t know why at first. I mean, I already knew Stewart was crazy. Then I realized. Now it had a name.
Bryant sat down and waited.
“It’s been so hard,” I said. “He seemed better for a while. Some days good, some days bad. Yesterday—really bad.”
“People don’t go to bed normal and wake up psychotic, Gerry. It’s a gradual process. Symptoms can come and go, depending on all kinds of factors. Like a major stress, for example.”
I glanced over at him. “So maybe it was the play after all.”
“It could have accelerated things. Of course, smoking lots of pot doesn’t help.”
I looked down at my feet.
“Listen, Gerry, this is the age when schizophrenia typically starts to show itself. Play or no play, pot or no pot, it doesn’t necessarily matter. If the towers weren’t around, something else would have become the focus of his paranoid delusions. These things just happen. It’s nobody’s fault.”
“So what are we going to do?”
Then he did the last thing I expected he’d do. He made a sad sort of face and shook his head.
“It’s a tough one. The Bolgers didn’t sound too receptive to your plea. Is Stewart eighteen yet?”
“No. His birthday’s next month.”
“He’s still a minor, then. Which means the Bolgers have the final say in terms of whether or not Stewart can be treated.”
“But you can call them. Maybe they’ll listen to you.”
“I’ll absolutely call them,” he said. “But I can’t promise they’ll change their minds. You have to understand that.”
I nodded. “Fine. But you have to do it now. They said they were leaving for the day. You can still catch them if you call now.”
“All right.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “In the meantime, go to class. Try not to worry.”
“Yeah, right.”
I checked in at the office and headed to class. It was the day before Thanksgiving vacation, which meant nobody was doing squat. At first I thought it would be good—it would give me a chance to relax a little—but it ended up being the opposite. The minutes dragged by, one by one by one, and pretty soon all I could think about was Stewart—where he was and whether Bryant had caught up with the Bolgers and if they’d changed their minds and so on and so forth, round and round. Along the way, kids kept coming up to me, wanting to talk about the play. People were still buzzing about it. Yesterday the attention had been bewildering; today it was just annoying. A few times I thought about walking out, but I held off and just focused on being patient.
When the final bell rang, I rushed out of class. Bryant was waiting for me. He just frowned when I came up to him.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“They pretty much told me the same things they told you. Only not as nicely, I’m guessing.”
“But I have to do something. There has to be something I can do to help, to stop this.”
“It’s up to Stewart now. He has to decide he wants help.”
“But he won’t. He can’t leave Don Quixote. Believe me, I tried to get him to come back, but he’s too afraid.”
Bryant nodded a few times but didn’t say anything.
“Can’t we just force him? Take him to a hospital or something?”
“You can’t involuntarily commit someone unless they pose a danger to themselves or to other people. Is Stewart a threat? Are you willing to make the case? If there’s anything you haven’t told me yet, I need to know now.”
He looked me dead in the eye and waited.
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“Just the truth.”
“I don’t know what the truth is.”
I thought about the parking lot, about Stewart pinning Scott against the hood of his car with his sword, about Stewart wrestling Quentin to the stage moments earlier. But he’d been frustrated, provoked, bullied. Anyone could have reacted that way under those kinds of circumstances. Kids fought all the time. Even friends. The more I thought about it, the less sure I felt. And now, in order to help him, I had to label him a threat, make accusations. Who knew where that would lead. I imagined him being hunted, captured like an animal.
I finally shook my head. “I don’t think he’d hurt anyone. Not really.”
“What about himself?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s never said he would.”
“Okay, then I think we have our answer.”
“It just doesn’t seem right. Somebody should do something.”
“Gerry, I know it sounds strange, but as long as they’re not hurting themselves or anyone else, people in our society have a right to be crazy. That’s the way the system works.”
I forced myself to look in his eyes. “Try telling that to my father.”
He sighed. “Want my advice? Find Stewart and keep talking to him. The real him.”
“I will.”
“And I’ll try calling the Bolgers again tomorrow. It might take a while for them to come to grips with this. People often struggle with denial in matters like these. Parents especially.”
“Yeah. I know all about it,” I said, and turned to go.
He stopped me.
“You’re okay, Gerry. I just want you to know. That guy I saw onstage the other night, the one I’m seeing now, isn’t the same one who showed up in my office at the beginning of September. No matter what happens, remember that.”
I tried to smile. “Thanks.”
“And be careful,” he said, then let me go.
I got a ride partway home and started hobbling up the hill, running as best I could. I was going straight for Stewart’s. I got so tired out, I thought of stopping at Ralph’s for a lift, but the Camaro was gone. Mom, of course, was at the barracks, miles away, so I pushed on. The whole time I kept praying that Stewart was home, that maybe he’d even come around, that he’d listen to me. He had to listen to me. I’d listened to him, followed him all these years, and now it was my turn. My turn to be Don.
I’d passed my house and reached the edge of Shangri La Road when Stewart’s car came flying around the bend. It took me a second to figure out it was him—the front of the Volvo was covered by a metal frame with a 55-gallon drum lashed to it.
“Oh shit.” I recognized the frame—I’d caught a glimpse of it a couple weeks ago in the Bolgers’ garage.
I barely managed to jump out of the way as he hit the brakes and skidded to a halt.
“Where are you going, Stewart?” I yelled, running up to the driver’s side door as he rolled down the window.
“There you are, Sancho!” He broke into a smile. He was still in full regalia. Only his eyes were different now—dark with exhaustion. “I was just about to leave without you.”
“What did you do to your car?”
“My steed has been modified. Altered to suit my needs. All part of the plan, Sancho. You’ll see.”
“What plan?” Then I looked into the car and my stomach flipped.
The whole backseat was loaded with tanks, with Mr. Bolger’s tanks—o
xygen, acetylene, propane—the ones he used to fuel his torches. Stewart had piled them up. From the way his car sagged, I guessed he had more in the trunk.
It all clicked. After weeks of watching Don charge his hated windmills on the stage, I suddenly knew what Stewart was planning to do. Project Quixote was coming to an end.
“One last adventure, old friend. You were right, you were right. There’s no running, no escape. We can only go through. I’m going through.”
I started to feel dizzy now, like I’d entered a dream. This was all happening in some alternate world, not this one.
“No, Stewart. You can’t do this.”
“It’s already done.”
“Get out of the car, Stewart.”
His grin faded. He drew back from the window.
“Get out of the fucking car!” I grabbed at the handle, but he’d locked the doors. “You can’t do this, Stewart. This isn’t you. I told Bryant that this isn’t you. You want to make me a goddam liar?”
The car continued to run, its exhaust curling in the frigid air. For a moment we stared at each other.
“Get out of the car,” I pleaded, coming up close to the window and leaning in.
“A clever ruse,” he said at last, his voice all thick and strange. “You’ve taken many shapes, but I never thought you’d have the nerve to become my dear Sancho.”
“Stewart, I’m not the Enchanter. There is no Enchanter. Look at me. Look at me, Stewart.”
He wouldn’t look, so I reached in to touch his shoulder. As soon as my hand brushed him, he recoiled. Then he hit the gas.
I took off after him, waving my arms, screaming for him to stop, but he just turned the corner and sped off down the hill with me chasing him.
He disappeared around the corner, but I didn’t stop. I kept on running, grateful for the downhill momentum that carried me all the way to my driveway and into the house. I burst inside, grabbed the phone, then hesitated. I almost called the police, wondered in those horrible seconds if I should. Then I tried to imagine Stewart—alone, confused, ready to explode—confronted by a score of cruisers. I knew I needed to get to him first. I needed to be the one to save him. Because I could.
I dialed Kaela’s cell, praying she’d pick up. For once, I caught a break.
“Is this the famous actor?” Kaela’s voice, playful and coy, sounded in my ear.
“Kaela, you have to come pick me up at my house. Something’s happened. Something with Stewart.”
“What happened?”
“Please, Kaela. Just come. I need you.”
“I’m already on my way.”
I hung up the phone, but I didn’t wait. I tore out of the house and kept on going down the hill, half running, half limping. Anything to meet her sooner, anything to get me to the only place Stewart could be going.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“You can’t blame yourself, Frenchy,” Kaela said as we made our way up Wind Farm Road, skidding around one switchback after another. She was already driving ridiculously fast, but I wanted her to go faster.
“He kept saying he was taking care of it.” I slammed the dash.
“How were you supposed to know what he meant?”
“I just should’ve. Stewart’s clever. He never means exactly what he says. I should’ve guessed that he was planning something like this.”
“You sure he’s going to blow them up?”
“He’s going to try,” I said. “He’s been wanting those things down from the beginning, long before Quixote came along.”
“But do you think he can? I mean, they’re so goddam big.”
“If anyone can figure it out, it’s Stewart. You know how smart he is.”
We were approaching the top. I could see the gate. It was open. My stomach clenched even tighter.
“So what’s the plan, anyway?” She pulled to a stop.
“The plan? I don’t know what the fucking plan is, Kaela. Stewart’s always the one who had the plan. Not me.”
“Forget about that.” She grabbed me as I started to jump out. “The play’s over. You’re not Sancho anymore. You’re a smart, tough guy, Frenchy. You can figure this out.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” I said, trying to muster a smile. She patted me on the cheek and let go.
We got out and looked up at the towers rising above the trees. They were still standing. No smoke, no sound—the blades were still.
“Maybe we should call someone,” she said, drawing close to me and squeezing my hand.
“You mean like the police? Yeah, get a SWAT team up here. That’ll really help. Besides, we don’t know how much time we have. We might not have any.”
The two of us passed through the open gate and set out.
“Are you positive this is where he’d go?” she said as we hurried along the service road.
“He’s here.”
Sure enough, there he was, standing on the roof of his car at the top of the rise, where the road peaked before heading back down toward the row of wind towers. From here, he wasn’t much more than a silhouette against the November afternoon sky, with his cloak spread out behind him, one hand resting on his hip, the other holding his sword as he looked away from us toward the turbines, preparing for one last battle.
Turning to Kaela, I put my finger to my lips. She nodded, her face white and full of fear.
I took off along the road, quiet and quick, sneaking toward him like I would a deer, the way my father taught me. No more fucking around. I was going to take him out before anything could happen.
I had only twenty yards to go when he turned and caught sight of me. With a curse, he tossed his sword aside, hopped down off the car, armor rattling, and jumped inside, slamming the door and starting the engine as I came upon him.
“Open the door, Stewart!” I banged on the glass.
He turned and looked at me through the window. His face was white and streaked with tears. He looked more terrified than I’d ever seen anyone look, worse than at the smoking rock, even worse than last night. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear the words behind the glass.
I tried the door. It was locked. I knocked on the window again, but he only looked away, back toward the towers. I’d never felt so helpless in my whole life. Not even when I’d heard the shot in the middle of the night and come out to find Dad there on the bathroom floor. Then, there was nothing to be done, nothing to stop. Not like now.
Think, Sancho, I told myself, then grimaced. Fuck Sancho. Kaela was right. Being Sancho wasn’t enough.
I reached down and grabbed the sword, then ran around to the front of the car and pointed it right at him. The cap on the large metal drum was sealed with duct tape. A rubber hose lay on the ground beneath it. I didn’t know what was in that drum, but I knew Stewart was sharp enough to have figured something out. He’d turned his car into a bomb, an exploding steed, and he was determined to charge it right into the base of the wind tower and take it out, Quixote-style, even if it meant taking himself out with it.
He revved the engine, then honked the horn a few times. I stood my ground.
I could see him frown. He rolled down the window and stuck out his head.
“Get in, Sancho!” he hollered, his voice cracking as the tears continued to flow. “Come with me!”
“I’m not Sancho, Stewart. And I’m not the Enchanter, either. I’m just Frenchy, that’s all. And you’re just Stewart.”
He shook his head and gave a bitter laugh as snow started to fall.
“Laugh if you want, but it’s the truth. It’s real. And if you do this, Stewart, you’re going to die, and that’s real too. This isn’t a play or a movie or a book. You’re not going to come back!”
“I don’t care!” he wailed.
“Just stop the car, for chrissake!”
His face darkened. “Get out of the way, Sancho. I’ll run you over, I swear.”
“Go ahead. Go ahead and do it!”
He started to roll toward me. I braced myself.
At that point, I didn’t know who was crazier—him or me. I just knew I wasn’t going to let him do this to himself. I wasn’t going to let him do it to me.
He laid on the horn, a loud, steady rip as the car moved closer. The noise triggered something in me, and all of a sudden I found myself raising the sword above my head, ready to come down on the barrel as hard as I could. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
“Don’t!” I heard him scream.
I opened my eyes. The car had stopped moving. Through the windshield I could see the confusion on his face. I lowered the sword.
“Listen to me, Stewart. For once, just listen!” I called out. “You said you couldn’t be Don Quixote without me, and so I did it. I became Sancho for you. But I need you now, Stewart. We can figure out what’s real and what isn’t later on. Right now, I need you to stay.”
He started to cry again. Then he began to shake his head, and yell, and beat the steering wheel, and all I could think was that this was it, this was the end. I glanced over at Kaela, watching me from the edge of the clearing, her arms wrapped around herself against the snow.
When I looked back, Stewart had slumped forward, his head down on the steering wheel. And then the car began to roll.
Dropping the sword, I ran around to the driver’s side door, reached through the open window, and popped the lock. I managed to open the door and haul him out by his armor just as the car went over the crest toward the base of the first tower.
We hit the ground with a thud, rolling a few times before coming to a stop. Stewart just lay there, limp and dazed, as I struggled to my elbows and turned toward the tower, watching as the car moved silently down the incline, rolling faster and faster through the snow as it closed the gap between us and the base of the turbine, sailing closer, closer, bouncing over the uneven ground.
It took one particularly hard bump and left the ground entirely. For an instant it seemed to float there in space—a silver form hovering above the ground, glowing as the late-day sun reflected off the windows—a moment of perfect silence. Then it fell, its front end tilting toward the dark ledge rising from the snow.
The explosion ripped through the afternoon gloom, a combination of sound and light that knocked me on my back. I rolled over to cover Stewart and shut my eyes as the flames crackled and debris fell all around us. When I managed to sit up again, the Volvo was nothing more than a blackened frame burning thirty feet from the tower, its plume of dark smoke rising up to mingle with the still blades.
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