The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone m-6

by George C. Chesbro

  "Marl, I had exactly the same experiences-and I'd be just as happy if I never heard the Ring again."

  "Nobody ever has exactly the same experience as someone else. You were simply God's tool, your role to be Garth's companion and solace on his two great spiritual odysseys. The proof is in the fact that, even though you triumphed over Siegmund Loge, you didn't change the fact that our species was doomed. In fact, all during the time when you were resting on your parents' farm, you had to wrestle with the possibility that the two of you, with Mr. Lippitt, had doomed humanity when you destroyed Siegmund Loge."

  That touched a sensitive nerve, and I slowly finished my beer before I spoke again. "What does the Archangel affair have to do with it?"

  "The seeds for Garth's awakening had been sown by Siegmund Loge, but they lay fallow for years. They had to be watered by the nitrophenylpentadienal-which would have killed him, if it had not been cut off when it was. The Archangel affair not only saved his life, but provided the emotional catalyst which sent him into the holy sleep from which he awakened as the Messiah. In Garth's body, nitrophenylpentadienal became a holy substance."

  "Oh, come on, Marl; this is getting more complicated than Revelations."

  "The pattern is there," the other man said earnestly, "for those with eyes to see it. Like you, Siegmund Loge was a tool of God. He provided the crucible in which the soul of the son of God would be fired and reshaped. Also, he set up communes around the world. The people who were in those communes are out there, waiting; they'll know that Garth is the Messiah, and they'll form the first troops in an army of love and compassion that will change the world, and save us from extinction."

  "Bullshit," I said with more feeling than I'd intended to show. "Believe me, Marl, even the Messiah wouldn't want anything to do with the people who were in those communes. I mean, I'm talking about seriously stupid, absolutely mindless people-which is why Siegmund Loge was able to suck them into his operation in the first place. I've met and talked with some of those people, Marl; you haven't. You wouldn't be able to tolerate the company of any one of them for more than five minutes. Hell, they thought Loge was the Messiah; a few of them thought Loge was God."

  "Loge was a false Messiah; his true mission was to prepare the way for Garth, and this was accomplished."

  I shook my head. "Garth told you you were crazy for thinking he's the Messiah. Does my brother believe any of this other business?"

  "No," Marl Braxton replied easily. "In fact, he said the same things about the commune people you did."

  "But that doesn't make any difference?"

  "That doesn't make any difference. Garth doesn't fully understand yet."

  "Then how can you be so damn sure that you understand so much? Does God speak to you?"

  Something that might have been dangerous glinted for a moment in Braxton's dark eyes, then was gone. "God doesn't speak to me, Mongo," he said calmly. "In fact, God doesn't speak at all. Hearing voices is Mama's problem, not mine; my maid of constant sorrows is-was-my problem."

  "Speaking of voices, Garth hardly says ten words at a time to me. Why does he spend so much time talking to everybody else?"

  "Not everybody else; only those who understand pain."

  "If Garth has told you about Valhalla and Archangel, then you must know that I understand a few things about pain."

  "It's true that you've suffered great pain, but you've never been broken like Garth and me. For now, Garth's words are only for broken people."

  "The world isn't made up of broken people, Marl. Loge's lesson-if it can be called that-is that there are far too many insensitive, stupid people in the world, and they'll destroy us all."

  Loge's lesson was that people with fantastic notions like Marl Braxton's would destroy us all, but I thought it better to keep that thought to myself.

  "Garth will change that," Braxton said.

  "How's he going to do that if he can only speak to broken people?"

  "There are many more broken people than you think. Not all broken people end up in mental institutions. They're all around you, but you can't see them because you've never been broken. Garth knows who they are; he'll find them, and they'll find him."

  "Okay," I said quietly, looking down at the floor. I was rapidly losing interest in Marl Braxton's pathology, and couldn't see any way in which it could help Garth. Quite the contrary.

  "I guess we'll just have to see what happens."

  "What do you think is going to happen?"

  "Garth will carry out his mission, and bring his message to the world. We will all be changed."

  "Okay. I can use a change." "Thanks for sitting down and talking with me, Mongo. I really appreciate it. In a nut house, time tends to drag."

  "You're welcome."

  "How did you get that scar on your forehead?"

  "A bad guy cut me. With the help of a friend, I changed him."

  "You killed him." It wasn't a question, and there was a faint hint of amusement in the other man's voice.

  "I changed him."

  "The scar is fresh. You were cut fairly recently, right?"

  "Right. Why?"

  Braxton shrugged, but he continued to stare thoughtfully at my forehead, as if he were reading some message there. "Just curious," he said at last. "Are you in a hurry? Do you have to be any place?"

  "No."

  "Would you mind hanging around a while longer? I really enjoy your company." He paused, laughed easily. "There are too many crazy people around here who do talk to God."

  "I don't mind hanging around and talking, but I'm a little tired of the subject of my brother's divinity," I said seriously.

  "Then we'll drop it."

  "Why did you bring it up in the first place, Marl? Somehow, I have the sneaking suspicion that you knew what my reaction would be."

  "I wasn't sure. I wanted to see if, by now, you'd come to realize that Garth is the Messiah. You haven't, so that's that. I'd love to discuss some of your monographs with you, and have you sign my copies."

  "You've got it."

  "And you'll help me finish up my weekly allotment of beer?"

  "I'll drink to that."

  Which I did. Marl Braxton and I talked easily for another hour or so, until Garth came back and joined us in the room. I left shortly afterward, depressed by the sight of Marl Braxton's Messiah sitting on the floor, head bowed, seemingly oblivious to both Braxton and me while he listened to his music.

  I was skittish and ill at ease when I left the clinic, and I didn't feel like going back to my small apartment in the staff building. I drove into New York to see a show, just for something to do, and then treated myself to drinks and a good dinner before driving back to Rockland County.

  But my sense of foreboding wouldn't leave me, and I couldn't sleep. I knew I had to make a decision one way or another on what to do with Garth, and then learn to live with it. I thought of calling my parents, which I had been doing every other night anyway, to ask for their advice, then decided against it. They were old, and it didn't seem fair for me to lay on them all of my doubts and conflicts, especially when they weren't around to judge the situation for themselves. They would only tell me to do what I thought best.

  I wondered how many other patients, either in the clinic or the larger facility, believed with Marl Braxton that my brother was the Messiah, and would begin to act toward him accordingly. I suspected there were quite a few, and the number would grow. Certainly, Garth didn't need that.

  All through the night I paced, trying to weigh the obvious risks of taking him out of the clinic against all my other misgivings. I didn't want him in a place where people were thinking he was the Messiah; if he couldn't live with me in his own apartment, then I at least wanted him in a nice, quiet sanitarium where there were no potential conflicts of interest among the staff, where Garth could simply rest, and where I might eventually be able to bring about a change in his musical diet.

  I also decided against calling Mr. Lippitt, because he would al
so have a potential conflict of interest and I did not want him to be put in an embarrassing situation; I didn't want to complain about Slycke and the clinic, and I certainly didn't want to get involved in D.I.A. politics.

  All I wanted, I finally decided, was to get Garth someplace else.

  Having made my decision, I finally fell asleep just before dawn. I was jarred awake slightly before eight by my telephone ringing-the school calling to ask if I could come in. I declined, thanked them for using me, and expressed regrets that I would not be available for any more assignments; I was taking my brother home with me to New York City.

  I made a series of phone calls to check on Garth's rights and mine, and to make preliminary contingent arrangements for Garth's psychiatric treatment in the city. Then I got dressed, ate breakfast, went out into the morning, and headed toward Building 26.

  12

  "This badge has been cancelled," the harelipped guard inside the kiosk said as he placed the square of beige plastic I had given him somewhere behind his desk. "May I have your keys, please?"

  "You may not," I replied curtly as anger-and anxiety-welled up inside me. "That's a Z-13 badge, in case you didn't notice, and I'm ordering you to give it back to me."

  "It's been canceled. You no longer have authority to enter this building or to carry your keys, Dr. Frederickson."

  "On whose authority was that badge canceled?"

  "Dr. Slycke's."

  "He doesn't have that authority!"

  "You'll have to take that up with him, sir. Please give me your keys."

  "I'll give them back to the man who gave them to me," I said as I pointed a trembling finger at the green telephone beside the guard's right hand. "You call Slycke and get him down here. You tell him that if he won't talk to me right now, a lot of high-level shit is going to hit a high-level fan."

  The guard picked up the phone, dialed a single number; he spoke into it, listened for a few moments, hung up. "Dr. Slycke will come down to speak to you," he said in a flat voice.

  It took Slycke, accompanied by two burly male nurses I didn't recognize, five minutes to come down from his aerie on the fourteenth floor. In that time, two RPC Security patrol cars had appeared on the scene and were parked ostentatiously on the street at the foot of the walk leading to the entrance.

  "Where the hell do you get off canceling my badge, Slycke?!" I shouted at the portly, round-faced psychiatrist as he emerged from the building, squinting against the bright sunlight.

  Slycke flushed, swallowed hard. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. "Your brother has suffered a serious relapse, Frederickson," he said quietly.

  That brought me up short, and suddenly my mouth and throat were very dry. "What? What do you mean, a relapse? He was fine yesterday."

  "That was yesterday. During the night he lapsed back into a catatonic state which is perhaps worse than the previous one. Now his physical condition is deteriorating. We're monitoring him very closely."

  "Oh, Jesus," I said as my heart began pounding in my chest. "Oh, Jesus Christ. Let me see him, Dr. Slycke."

  "I'm afraid that's impossible," Slycke said stiffly. "I'm not allowing him any visitors-and especially not you. I canceled your badge because, from the beginning, you have interfered with your brother's medical treatment, and I will no longer have you endangering my patient's health."

  "I didn't put him into a catatonic state, Slycke; I brought him out of the first one."

  "And what we're seeing now may be the price your brother is paying for your interference. The first priority now is to stabilize his physical condition. Then we're going to have to begin all over again with a therapy program. I'm responsible for this man's health, and in my judgment he must be treated in a strictly controlled environment, without any distractions or outside influences."

  "You have no right to cancel my badge," I said in a trembling voice, fighting against a sudden wave of nausea that made me want to gag. I was thoroughly frightened.

  "On the contrary," the psychiatrist replied tightly. "This is strictly a clinical decision, Frederickson, not a personal or political one. When you call Mr. Lippitt, as I'm sure you'll do the moment you leave here, he'll tell you that I've acted within my authority, which takes precedence in all medical matters. I'm not barring you as an administrator; I'm barring you as a physician."

  There was something in the other man's voice that just didn't ring true to me. Struggling to contain my fury against Slycke, and my piercing anxiety over Garth, I clenched my fists and glared at the psychiatrist. Slycke refused to meet my gaze. Despite the fact that it was a cool morning, he was sweating through his lab coat.

  "My God, you're lying," I breathed. "You son-of-a-bitch, you're lying!"

  Now Slycke glanced at me; I could see the confirmation in his eyes. . along with not a little fear of his own. He tried-too late-to cover his reaction by spluttering, "That's preposterous!"

  "Prove it to me! I don't want the badge back! Just let me see my brother for five minutes so that I'll know you're telling the truth!"

  "How dare you call me a liar!"

  "You listen to me, Slycke," I intoned in a voice I hoped was sufficiently threatening to bring him up short the way he had brought me up short. "I don't know what games you're playing upstairs, but you're not going to use my brother for them. I don't need to call Mr. Lippitt-at least not until I'm ready to level some pretty heavy accusations against you. My brother wasn't committed here by any court; he was admitted on a voluntary basis, and I was the one who signed the papers. That means I can get him out seventy-two hours after filing official notice that I want him out. When I walk away from here, the first call I make will be to my lawyer. RPC, under whose aegis you operate, will have my official request for Garth's release on file before noon. In three days, exactly at the appointed hour, a private ambulance is going to pull right up to the entrance to this building. Then, no matter what shape my brother is in, he's coming out of there. You got that, pal?"

  Slycke's face had gone pale, and the dark pouches beneath his eyes began to quiver. "I wouldn't do that, Frederickson."

  "Let me go up to see him!"

  "I. . can't."

  Struggling to keep my voice and emotions under control, I took a deep breath, slowly let it out. "Then there's something you should know, Slycke, and I'm saying it in front of these witnesses so that you will most definitely take it as a threat. If anything happens to my brother before that private ambulance can take him away-if he's in any kind of damaged state which I even suspect could have been caused by your games-I am going to take it very personally. You were worried about me spying for Lippitt when I wasn't; now you're just likely to have cause to worry. If I don't like what I find when I see Garth, if I think there's been any monkey business with his head or body that I think you're responsible for, then I'm going to start spying on you with a persistence you won't believe. If I ever start digging, Slycke, then your personal life and your stewardship of this clinic had better be purer than the Virgin Mary. If you don't want to find yourself up to your ass in alligators, you make damn sure Garth Frederickson is in good shape when I pick him up in three days."

  And then I turned on my heel and stalked away. When I was certain I was out of sight, I ducked behind some bushes and threw up.

  By the end of the day I had. filed official notice that I wanted my brother released from the clinic within seventy-two hours. I'd also made arrangements for a private ambulance to transport him, and booked a room in a private sanitarium in New York just in case Garth really was out of it when I got him back.

  Then there was nothing more to do but wait-which I didn't like at all. I tried to call Lippitt, just to keep him informed, but he wasn't in his office. By using "Valhalla" as a password, I could have been put in touch with him, no matter where he was, almost immediately, but I did not choose to use this emergency procedure. There wasn't an emergency-yet. I felt I owed him the courtesy of telling him I was removing Garth from the clinic, and why, but I wasn't yet ready
to push any panic buttons. I left a message asking him to call me, at his convenience.

  Everything that could be done had been done, I thought. And so I continued to wait.

  I no longer had access to the secret clinic, but I still had my apartment on the grounds of the hospital complex, and that's where I waited after filing notice that I intended to take my brother home. Slycke called me early in the evening of the second day.

  "Frederickson, this is Charles Slycke." He sounded out of breath, as if he'd been running.

  "I know who it is," I replied curtly. "Is my brother all right?"

  "I must speak with you."

  "I asked you about my brother!"

  "He's … all right," Slycke said with what I considered rather ominous hesitation.

  "He damn well better be."

  "I must speak to you, Frederickson. Alone."

  "Come on over. You know where I am."

  "No. I must meet you here. There's something I have to show you."

  "What?"

  "Not over the phone."

  "I'm on the way."

  "No!" Slycke said quickly. There was a lengthy pause, during which I could hear the psychiatrist breathing heavily. Finally he continued, "There are too many people around now. Tonight there won't be so many, and I can arrange to keep the night staff busy elsewhere. Will you come to my office at eleven?"

  "You took my badge, remember? I've still got my keys, but I can't get in the building without the electromagnetic strip on that badge."

  "All right, I'll come down and let you in at eleven."

  "Why do we have to meet in your office at eleven? Why can't we meet someplace else right now? For that matter, why can't you tell me what's on your mind over the phone?"

  "I just can't speak over the phone about this, and I can't remove what I want to show you from the building. You have to come here; eleven o'clock. We won't be disturbed at that time."

  "Put my brother on the phone."