The figure sat crouched in midair as though seated, mimicking Amfortas’ posture precisely. Dressed in the same denim jeans and blue sweater, it was staring back with equal astonishment.
Amfortas leaned back; it leaned back. Amfortas put a hand to his face; it did the same. Amfortas said, “Hello”; it said, “Hello.” Amfortas felt his heart begin to beat faster. “The double” was an often-reported hallucination in serious disorders of the temporal lobe, but looking into those eyes and at that face was eerily disquieting, almost frightening. Amfortas shut his eyes and began to breathe deeply, and slowly his heart rate began to slow down. Would the double be there when he opened his eyes again? he wondered. He looked. It was there. Now Amfortas grew fascinated. No neurologist had ever seen “the double.” The reports of its behavior were vague and contradictory. A clinical interest overcame him. He picked up his feet and held them out. The double did the same. He put his feet down. The double followed. Then Amfortas started crossing and uncrossing his feet with a timing that he tried to make random and unplanned, but the double matched the movements simultaneously without flaw or variation.
Amfortas paused and thought for a moment. Then he held up the tape recorder in his hand. As the double imitated the action, its hand was empty, curled around the air. Amfortas wondered why the delusion stopped short of including the tape recorder. The double wore clothing, after all. He could not think of an explanation.
Amfortas looked down at the double’s shoes. Like his own, they were blue-and-white-striped Nikes. He looked at his feet and pigeoned them inward, making sure he could not see if the double was matching him. Would it mimic if he were not observing its action as it happened? He shifted his gaze to the double’s feet. They were already pigeoned in. Amfortas was wondering what to try next when he noticed that the tip of the double’s left shoelace had something like an ink mark or a scuff on it. When he checked his own shoe he saw that his shoelace tip was the same. He thought that was odd. He didn’t think he had known of such a marking until now. How had he seen it on the double? Perhaps his unconscious had known, he decided.
Amfortas lifted his gaze to the double’s. It was haggard and burning. Amfortas leaned closer; he thought he saw lamplight reflected in the eyes. How could this be? the neurologist wondered. Again he experienced a sense of disquiet. The double was staring at him intently. Amfortas heard voices coming from the street, students shouting back and forth; then they faded to silence and he thought he could hear the beating of his heart when suddenly the double grasped at its temple and gasped in pain, and Amfortas was unable to distinguish the action of the double from his own as the searing pincers clutched at his brain. He stood up unsteadily and the tape recorder and cassettes tumbled down to the floor. Amfortas lurched blindly toward the stairs, knocking over an end table and a lamp. Moaning, he stumbled up to his bedroom, opened the medical bag on the bed and groped for the hypodermic and the drug. The pain was unbearable. He flopped on the edge of the bed and with shaking hands filled up the syringe. He could barely see. He stabbed the syringe through the fabric of his trousers and pressed twelve milligrams of steroid into his thigh. He’d done it so rapidly that the drug hit his muscle like a hammer; but soon he felt an easing of the pain in his head, and a calm and a clarity of thought. He exhaled a long and fluttering breath and allowed the disposable syringe to slip from his fingers to the floor. It rolled on the wood and then stopped at a wall.
When Amfortas looked up, he was staring at the double. It was sitting in midair calmly meeting his gaze. Amfortas saw a smile on its lips, his own. “I’d lost track of you,” they said in perfect unison. Now Amfortas began to feel giddy. “Can you sing?” they said; then together they hummed a piece of the Adagio from Rachmaninoff’s Symphony in C. When they broke it off, they chuckled in amusement. “What very good company you are,” they said. Amfortas shifted his glance to the nightstand and the green and white ceramic of the duck with the inscription HONK IF YOU THINK I’M ADORABLE. He picked it up and held it with tenderness while his eyes brushed over it, remembering. “I bought this for Ann while we were still dating,” they said. “At Mamma Leone’s in New York. The food was awful but the duck was a hit. Ann cherished this crazy little thing.” He looked up at the double. They smiled fondly. “She said it was romantic,” said Amfortas and the double. “Like those flowers in Bora Bora. She said she had a painting of that in her heart.”
Amfortas frowned and the double frowned back. The doubling of his voice had abruptly begun to annoy the neurologist. He felt an odd sensation of floating, of becoming disconnected from his surroundings. Something smelled horrible. “Go away,” he said to the double. It persisted, simultaneously mimicking his words. Amfortas stood up and walked unsteadily to the stairs. He could see the double at his side, a mirror image of his movements.
The next instant, Amfortas found himself sitting in the living room chair. He didn’t know how he’d gotten there. He was holding the duck in his lap. His mind seemed clear again and tranquil, though he felt himself suffering in some way at a distant remove from his perceptions. He could hear a dull pounding in his head but could not feel it. He looked at the double with distaste. It was facing him, sitting in the air and scowling. Amfortas closed his eyes to escape from the vision.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
For a moment the voice didn’t register; then Amfortas opened his eyes and stared. The double was sitting on the sofa, one leg comfortably stretched on its cushions. It lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke. “God knows, I’ve been trying to give it up,” it said. “Oh, well, I’ve at least cut down.”
Amfortas was stunned.
“Have I upset you?” asked the double. It frowned as if in sympathy. “Awfully sorry.” It shrugged its shoulders. “Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t be relaxing like this, but for heaven’s sakes, I’m tired. That’s all. I need a break. And in this case, what’s the harm? Do you know what I mean?” It was staring at Amfortas with an air of expectancy, but the neurologist was still speechless. “I understand,” it said at last. “It takes a bit of getting used to, I suppose. I’ve never learned how to make a subtle entrance. I suppose I could have tried it an inch at a time.” It gave a shrug of surrender, and then said, “Hindsight. Anyway, I’m here, and I do apologize. All these years I’ve been aware of you, of course, but you’ve never known about me. Too bad. There are times when I’ve wanted to shake you, so to speak; to set you straight. Well, I suppose I can’t do that, even now. Stupid rules. But at least we can have a chat.” It suddenly looked solicitous. “Feeling better? No. I see the cat still has your tongue. Never mind, I’ll keep talking until you’re used to me.” A cigarette ash fell on its sweater. It looked down and brushed it away, and murmured, “Careless.”
Amfortas started giggling.
“It’s alive,” said the double. “How nice.” It stared as Amfortas continued to laugh. “Only nice to a point,” said the double sternly. “Do you want me to mimic you again?”
Amfortas shook his head, still chuckling. Then he noticed that the table and lamp he’d knocked over were back in place. He stared, looking puzzled.
“Yes, I picked them up,” said the double. “I’m real.”
Amfortas returned his gaze to the double. “You’re in my mind,” he said.
“Four words. Well done. We’re progressing. I’m referring to the form,” said the double, “not the content.”
“You’re a hallucination.”
“And the lamp and the table as well?”
“I went into a fugue coming down the steps. I picked them up and then forgot it.”
The double breathed out smoke with a sigh. “Earth souls,” it murmured, shaking its head. “Would it help to convince you if I were to touch you? If you could feel me?”
“Perhaps,” said Amfortas.
“Well, it can’t be done,” said the double. “That’s out.”
“That’s because I’m hallucinating.”
“If you say that again I will vomit.
Listen, who do you think that it is you’re talking to?”
“Myself.”
“Well, that’s partially correct. Congratulations. Yes. I’m your other soul,” said the double. “Say ‘Pleased to meet you,’ or something, would you? Manners. Oh, that puts me in mind of a story. About introductions and whatnot. It’s lovely.” The double sat up for a moment, smiling. “This was told to me by Noel Coward’s double, and Coward himself says it’s true, that it happened. It seems he was standing in a royal reception line. He was right beside the Queen and to the other side of him stood Nicol Williamson. Well, along came a man named Chuck Connors. An American actor. You know? Of course. Well, he thrust out his hand to shake Noel’s and said, ‘Mister Coward, I’m Chuck Connors!’ And Noel said immediately in a soothing, reassuring tone, ‘Why, my dear boy, of course you are.’ Is that lovely?” The double leaned back against the sofa. “What a wit, that Coward. Too bad he’s moved on past the border. Good for him, of course. Bad for us.” The double looked meaningfully at Amfortas. “Good conversationalists are so rare,” it said. “Do you get my drift or do you not?” It flicked the cigarette stub to the floor. “Don’t worry. It’s not going to burn,” it said.
Amfortas felt a mixture of doubt and excitement. There was something of reality about the double, a flavor of life that was not his own. “Why don’t you prove that I’m not hallucinating,” he said.
The double looked puzzled. “Prove it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I can’t stay here forever,” said the double.
“Some fact I don’t know that I can check.”
“Did you know that little story about Noel Coward?”
“I made it up. It isn’t a fact.”
“You are utterly insatiable,” said the double. “Do you think you had the wit to make that up?”
“My unconscious does,” said Amfortas.
“Once again you are close to the truth,” said the double. “Your unconscious is your other soul. But not exactly in the way you suppose.”
“Please explain that.”
“Prevenient,” said the double.
“What?”
“That’s a fact you don’t know. It just came to me. ‘Prevenient.’ That’s a word. I heard it from Noel. There. Are you satisfied?”
“I know the Latin roots of the word.”
“This is absolutely maddening if not insufferable,” said the double. “I give up. You’re hallucinating. And I suppose now you’re going to tell me that you didn’t commit those murders. Speaking of facts you don’t know, old boy.”
Amfortas froze. The double peered over at him slyly. “Not denying it, I see.”
The neurologist’s tongue was thick in his mouth. “What murders?” he asked.
“You know. The priests. That boy.”
“No.” Amfortas shook his head.
“Oh, don’t be stubborn. Yes, I know, you weren’t consciously aware of it. Still.” The double shrugged. “You knew. You knew.”
“I had nothing to do with those murders.”
The double looked angry and suspicious. It sat up. “Oh, I suppose now you’re going to blame me. Well, I haven’t got a body, so that lets me out. Besides that, we don’t meddle. Do you understand? It was you and your anger that committed those murders. Yes, your anger over God taking Ann from you. Face it. That’s the reason you’re allowing yourself to die. It’s your guilt. Incidentally, that’s a stupid idea. It’s the coward’s way out. It’s premature.”
Amfortas looked down at the ceramic. He was squeezing it, shaking his head. “I want to be with Ann,” he said.
“She isn’t there.”
Amfortas looked up.
“I see I have your attention,” said the double. It leaned back against the sofa. “Yes, you’re dying, you think, because you want to join Ann. Well, I’m not going to argue that now. You’re too stubborn. But it’s pointless. Ann’s moved on to another wing. With all that blood on your soul, I rather doubt that you’ll ever catch up. Awfully sorry to be telling you this, but I’m not here to feed you lies. I can’t afford it. I’ve got trouble enough as it is.”
“Where is Ann?” The neurologist’s heart was beating faster, the pain growing closer to his field of awareness.
“Ann is being treated,” said the double. “Like the rest of us.” It abruptly looked sly. “Do you know where I come from now?”
Amfortas turned his head and stared numbly at the tape recorder in the corner, and then back at the double.
“Amazing. A landmark in the history of learning. Yes, you’ve heard my voice before on your tapes. I’m from there. Would you like to know all about it?”
Amfortas was mesmerized. He nodded.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” said the double. “Sorry. There are rules and regulations. Let’s just say that it’s a place of transition. As for Ann, as I told you before, she’s gone on. That’s just as well. You were bound to find out about her and Temple.”
The neurologist held his breath and stared. The pounding in his head was growing louder, the pain more present and insistent. “What do you mean?” he said, his voice breaking.
The double shrugged and looked away. “Would you like to hear a nice definition of jealousy? It’s the feeling that you get when someone you absolutely detest is having a wonderful time without you. There could be some truth in that. Think it over.”
“You aren’t real,” said Amfortas huskily. His vision was blurring. The double’s body was undulating on the sofa.
“Christ, I’m out of cigarettes.”
“You’re not real.” The light was growing dim.
The double was a voice amid shimmering movement. “Oh, I’m not? Well, by God, I’m going to break another rule. No, really. My patience has come to its limit. There’s a nurse who joined your staff today. Her name is Cecily Woods. You couldn’t possibly know that. She’s on duty this minute. Go ahead, pick up the telephone and see whether or not I’m right. You want a fact you didn’t know? That’s it. Go ahead. Call Neurology and ask for Nurse Woods.”
“You’re not real.”
“Call her now.”
“You’re not real!” Amfortas was shouting. He stood up from the chair, the ceramic in his hand, his body trembling, the pain pushing upward, tearing and crushing and making him cry out, “God! Oh, my God!” He moved blindly toward the sofa, stumbling, sobbing, and as the room began to whirl he tripped and fell forward, smashing his head against the corner of the coffee table with a force that opened up a red wound. He thudded to the floor and the green and white ceramic gripped in his hand smashed to pieces. In moments the blood seeping out from his temple was lapping at the shards and staining the fingers still tightly clutching a jagged piece of the ceramic duck. The word ADORABLE was on it. The blood soon covered it over. Amfortas whispered, “Ann.”
SATURDAY, MARCH 19
15
The old man’s name was Perkins and he was a patient in the open ward. He’d been found unconscious in Room 400, where the body of Keating had been discovered by the charge nurse coming on duty at six. The room was around the corner from the charge desk and out of view of the uniformed policemen posted at the stairwells and the elevator banks. The old man had blood on his hands. “Will you answer me?” Kinderman said to him.
The old man’s stare was blank. He was seated on a chair. “I like dinner,” he said.
“That’s all he ever says,” Nurse Lorenzo told Kinderman. She was a nurse from the open ward. The neurology charge nurse who’d discovered the body was standing by a window, controlling her horror. It was only her second day on the ward.
“I like dinner,” the old man repeated dully. He smacked his lips over toothless gums.
Kinderman turned to the nurse from Neurology, appraising the tightness of her neck and face. His glance flicked down to her nametag. “Thank you, Miss Woods,” he said. “You may go.”
She left hurriedly and closed the door behind her. Kinderman turned to Miss Lorenzo. “Would you help the old man into the bathroom, please?”
Nurse Lorenzo hesitated a moment, then assisted the elderly man to his feet and guided him toward the bathroom door. The detective was standing inside. The nurse and the old man stopped at the doorway and Kinderman pointed to a mirror on the door of the medicine chest above the sink where a message had been scrawled in blood. “Did you write this?” the detective demanded. With a hand, he turned the old man’s head so that his gaze was on the mirror. “Did someone make you write this?”
“I like dinner,” drooled the patient.
Kinderman stared without expression, then he lowered his head and told the nurse, “Take him back.”
Nurse Lorenzo nodded and assisted the senile old man from the room. Kinderman listened to their hesitant footsteps. When he heard the door to the room close softly, he slowly looked up at the writing on the mirror. He licked at dry lips as he read the message:
CALL ME LEGION, FOR WE ARE MANY
Kinderman hastened out of the room and picked up Atkins at the charge desk. “Come with me, Nemo,” the detective ordered, not slackening his pace as he passed the sergeant. Atkins followed in his wake until at last they were standing in the isolation section in front of the door to Cell Twelve. Kinderman peered through the observation window. The man in the cell was awake. He was sitting on the edge of the cot in his straitjacket, grinning at Kinderman, his eyes mocking. His lips began moving and he seemed to be saying something but Kinderman couldn’t hear him. The detective turned away and questioned the policeman standing by the door. “How long have you been here?” he asked him.
“Since midnight,” answered the policeman.
“Has anyone entered the room since that time?”
“Just the nurse a few times.”
“Not a doctor?”
“No. Just the nurse.”
Kinderman considered this for a moment, then he turned to Atkins. “Tell Ryan I want fingerprints taken of every member of the hospital staff,” he said. “Start with Temple, and then everyone working in Neurology and Psychiatric next. After that we’ll see. Get extra help to take the prints and then run the comparisons with the prints from the murder scenes. Get as many men as possible. I want it done quickly. Go ahead, Atkins. Hurry. And tell the nurse to come back here with her keys.”
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