Method of Madness

by Brad Kelln

  "Calm down," he sa­id out lo­ud. He ne­eded to re­ga­in pers­pec­ti­ve, aga­in.

  It's just a kni­fe. It was pro­bably misp­la­ced. It co­uld be anyw­he­re. It do­esn't me­an the­re's a cons­pi­racy. Why wo­uld so­me­one bre­ak in­to a ho­use and just ste­al a kni­fe? They wo­uldn't. It do­esn't ma­ke sen­se.

  "Okay," he sa­id just to he­ar his own vo­ice. "Okay."

  "Eat!" he an­no­un­ced. He for­ced him­self to re­fo­cus on why he ori­gi­nal­ly ca­me In­to the kitc­hen. He ope­ned a cup­bo­ard do­or and lo­oked up at the cans and card­bo­ard bo­xes. Rows of Camp­bell's so­up fa­ced him-mush­ro­om so­up, to­ma­to so­up, con­som­me for sa­uces. The­re was a box of Ca­esar sa­lad cro­utons and a lar­ger box of Gra­pe Nuts.

  He rub­bed his sto­mach. The way he was fe­eling he knew that he sho­uld stick to bland fo­od. He pul­led the Gra­pe Nuts down and used the box to shut the do­or. He got a bowl, set it be­si­de the sink and po­ured his ce­re­al. He ret­ri­eved the milk from the frid­ge and ad­ded it be­fo­re he pic­ked up the bowl and he­aded to the li­ving ro­om to watch TV.

  As he wal­ked he swal­lo­wed a mo­uth­ful of ce­re­al, re­ad­ying the se­cond spo­on­ful. He stop­ped. The ce­re­al smel­led odd and he drew the spo­on away from his mo­uth. A hor­rib­le bur­ning in the back of his thro­at ma­de him gag and he spit the oddly tex­tu­red ce­re­al out, co­ug­hing. The bowl fell from his hands and cras­hed aga­inst the flo­or as he do­ub­led over. He tur­ned and ran to the kitc­hen sink as his sto­mach pum­ped bi­le in­to his mo­uth. He gag­ged and spit as dry he­aves po­un­ded thro­ugh him.

  It was hard for Dr. Cla­ric to stay up­right aga­inst the sink. His hands sho­ok aga­inst the grey, wet me­tal with each spasm. His legs felt we­ak and he wan­ted to drop to the flo­or but he was af­ra­id that he'd throw up aga­in. Anot­her spasm chur­ned thro­ugh his sto­mach and swir­led up in­to the back of his thro­at. His sho­ul­ders he­aved and his che­eks swel­led as he le­aned furt­her down and spil­led mo­re bi­le in­to the sink.

  He co­ug­hed and re­ac­hed out with one hand to try and find the dish­to­wel that was nor­mal­ly ne­arby, but ins­te­ad his hand brus­hed aga­inst so­met­hing hard. He tur­ned to see the Gra­pe Nuts box only it wasn't Gra­pe Nuts. At this ang­le he co­uld just ma­ke out the la­bel on the box: Spark­ling Cle­an Dish­was­her De­ter­gent. Dr. Cla­ric's sto­mach chur­ned aga­in and he tur­ned his he­ad to re­le­ase anot­her mo­uth­ful of bi­le.

  It to­ok anot­her few mi­nu­tes be­fo­re he was ab­le to stand up. His sto­mach fi­nal­ly set­tled eno­ugh that he knew he wo­uldn't throw up aga­in. He sto­od but con­ti­nu­ed to hold the co­un­ter with one hand. He sta­red at the box be­si­de the sink. It was de­fi­ni­tely de­ter­gent for the dish­was­her. It didn't ma­ke sen­se. That's whe­re he left the Gra­pe Nuts box.

  Dr. Cla­ric tur­ned to­wards the li­ving ro­om. He co­uld see shards of the bowl sit­ting in a milky mix­tu­re on the flo­or. He co­uldn't see any fa­mi­li­ar bits of Gra­pe Nuts in the mess, only the speck­led mush of the de­ter­gent mi­xed with milk and glass.

  It didn't ma­ke sen­se. He al­ways kept the dish­was­her de­ter­gent un­der the sink. He ne­ver put it up in the cup­bo­ard with fo­od.

  Dr. Cla­ric de­ci­ded he had no cho­ice. He pic­ked up the pho­ne and di­aled Wen­ton's ho­me num­ber. It rang busy. Damn it.

  Dr. Gla­ric he­ard a muf­fled so­und. He fro­ze and lis­te­ned for it aga­in.

  The­re was so­me­one yel­ling just out­si­de.

  "I just want to help," so­me­one cal­led. It so­un­ded li­ke it ca­me from just be­hind the front do­or.

  Dr. Cla­ric's he­art po­un­ded as he sto­od and mo­ved ca­uti­o­usly to the ent­ran­ce.

  "Open the do­or, Dr. Cla­ric," the vo­ice cal­led aga­in. "It's the Ha­li­fax Re­gi­onal Po­li­ce."

  It was a squ­e­aky, ma­le vo­ice. He co­uldn't pla­ce it. It wasn't fa­mi­li­ar to him.

  "Who?" he cal­led out, trying des­pe­ra­tely not to bet­ray how he felt by the qu­iver in his vo­ice. His sto­mach was chur­ning aga­in and he wor­ri­ed he might vo­mit. He tri­ed to lo­ok thro­ugh the pe­ep­ho­le but so­met­hing was bloc­king it. "Show me so­me ID."

  The pe­ep­ho­le sud­denly cle­ared and he co­uld see a po­li­ce bad­ge but it obs­cu­red the fa­ce of the per­son hol­ding it. The pe­ep­ho­le went dark aga­in.

  "Open the do­or, Dr. Cla­ric. I want to exp­la­in everyt­hing to you."

  "Everyt­hing what?" Dr. Cla­ric yel­led back. He still had one hand clenc­hed to his so­re sto­mach.

  "Everyt­hing," the vo­ice sa­id. It was an inc­re­dibly calm vo­ice with no tra­ce of ur­gency or me­na­ce.

  "What do you want?"

  "Co­me on. Just open the do­or. Don't be a pussy."

  "What? What did you say?" Dr. Cla­ric's pa­nic wo­uldn't al­low him to do anyt­hing ot­her than scre­am. "Did you just call me a pussy?"

  "No, I'm sorry. Co­me on, Dr. Cla­ric, open the do­or."

  "Get out of he­re. You're not with the po­li­ce. Get out!" He des­pe­ra­tely wan­ted to lo­ok thro­ugh the pe­ep­ho­le aga­in but co­uldn't bring him­self to. He didn't know what he'd see and he didn't know if he wan­ted to see anyt­hing.

  "We just want to talk to you."

  "Who are you, re­al­ly?"

  "The po­li­ce. Now open the fuc­kin' do­or."

  "Get out of he­re!" A we­apon. I ne­ed so­met­hing. He lo­oked aro­und the front ent­ran­ce. Not­hing. He step­ped away from the do­or and lo­oked in­to the li­ving ro­om. A lamp? No. Think, think.

  "Dr. Cla­ric," the vo­ice sang out in a chil­dish ca­den­ce, "Co­me out, co­me out whe­re­ver you are!"

  That was it. Dr. Cla­ric tur­ned and ran from the do­or. He ro­un­ded the cor­ner and went stra­ight to the uti­lity clo­set at the end. He'd se­en a ba­se­ball bat in the­re ear­li­er du­ring one of his se­arc­hes. He felt tre­men­do­us re­li­ef at the sight of it now and eagerly grip­ped it in both hands.

  The vo­ice from the front ent­ran­ce con­ti­nu­ed to sing out, "Dr. Cla­ric, co­me on out and play. Don't wa­it for anot­her day." The chil­dish sin­ging in the stran­ge squ­e­aky vo­ice dril­led thro­ugh his skull.

  Dr. Cla­ric's na­usea was go­ne as he stor­med back to­ward the front do­or, ba­se­ball bat in front of him. He de­ci­ded to ta­ke ac­ti­on, strong ac­ti­on.

  "Co­me out and play. Play, play, play," the vo­ice je­ered.

  "You want to play?" Dr. Cla­ric scre­amed as he slam­med aga­inst the front do­or and grip­ped the do­ork­nob. "I'll play with you, you god­damn…" He swung the do­or wi­de open. The­re was no one the­re, not even a whi­te van on the stre­et.

  His hands fell to his si­des and the bat drop­ped away, clat­te­ring on the ce­ment walk.

  "Why?" he ple­aded and then sat down, hol­ding his fa­ce in his hands.

  TWENTY-TWO

  So­met­hing hi­de­o­us sat next to Wen­ton. So­met­hing in­hu­man.

  And it smi­led at him. It knew him.

  The thing to­ok a bre­ath and blew air to­wards Wen­ton. The fo­ul stench of its bre­ath slap­ped aga­inst Wen­ton's fa­ce and he bol­ted up­right on the co­uch.

  "What the nick's go­ing on?" Wen­ton blur­ted.

  Set­tle down.

  "What are you?"

  It smi­led aga­in, the folds of its mis­sha­pen he­ad wrink­ling with the ef­fort. Don't you know me by now?

  "Edward?" Wen­ton as­ked ten­ta­ti­vely.

  Edward wasn't mi­ne to ke­ep. Try aga­in.

  "I don't play ga­mes," Wen­ton sa­id and fi­nal­ly lo­oked aro­und his sur­ro­un­dings. It lo­oked li­ke his apart­ment but everyt­hing was out of fo­cus. It was as tho­ugh he was trap­ped be­hind smo­k
ed glass as he lo­oked out at the va­gu­ely fa­mi­li­ar fur­nis­hing of his li­ving ro­om. He sto­od.

  We don't ha­ve to be ene­mi­es. Why don't you jo­in me?

  Wen­ton ig­no­red the vo­ice. He tur­ned to lo­ok out at the ro­om, but the stran­ge ha­zi­ness fol­lo­wed him. It was his con­do but it wasn't. It felt li­ke so­me­one was trying to ma­ke him be­li­eve he was the­re when he wasn't. He to­ok a step.

  Sud­denly the gro­tes­que fa­ce was di­rectly in front of him. Tra­ils of filth swir­led away from its fa­ce as­sa­ul­ting Wen­ton's no­se.

  What are you af­ra­id of? the thing as­ked.

  "I sa­id I wasn't pla­ying ga­mes."

  What if the ga­me has al­re­ady be­gun?

  "What ga­me? What are you tal­king abo­ut? It's got so­met­hing to do with me?"

  May­be yes, may­be no. You won't win.

  "May­be fuck off and get out of my apart­ment."

  Sud­denly the fi­gu­re swel­led in si­ze, qu­ickly lif­ting its arms up. It to­we­red over Wen­ton for an ins­tant.

  I don't fe­ar you! it scre­amed and bro­ught it's arms cras­hing down on­to Wen­ton's he­ad.

  Wen­ton flinc­hed, bra­cing for the im­pact. His eyes shot open.

  He blin­ked and then blin­ked aga­in.

  He lif­ted a hand to his he­ad and felt it was slick, not with blo­od but with pers­pi­ra­ti­on.

  He was lying on his so­fa in the li­ving ro­om. He shif­ted slightly and no­ti­ced that the spot be­ne­ath him was al­so wet with swe­at. He lo­oked aro­und the ro­om and his eyes stop­ped on the empty bot­tle of rye on the cof­fee tab­le. He re­mem­be­red se­arc­hing the In­ter­net for the cons­pi­racy Web si­tes and then drop­ping on­to the so­fa with the rye.

  "It was a dre­am," he told him­self. "Just a fuc­kin' dre­am."

  TWENTY-THREE

  Dr. Cla­ric sta­red up at the sign over the ma­in ent­ran­ce: ECOR Phar­ma­ce­uti­cals In­ter­na­ti­onal. It was an imp­res­si­ve bu­il­ding lo­ca­ted on the Ha­li­fax har­bo­urf­ront-twenty sto­ri­es of ref­lec­ted glass and conc­re­te. He ca­uti­o­usly en­te­red the re­vol­ving do­or and fol­lo­wed it aro­und to en­ter the bu­il­ding. It was just be­fo­re ni­ne on Fri­day mor­ning and the­re was an even flow of pe­op­le co­ming and go­ing. Dr. Cla­ric hadn't slept at all. How co­uld he af­ter what had hap­pe­ned?

  Once in­si­de the lobby he was imp­res­sed by the she­er si­ze and gran­de­ur of the fa­ci­lity. The ma­in ent­ran­ce was a spec­ta­cu­lar cent­re­pi­ece of swe­eping, mol­ded glass and conc­re­te pil­lars. The lobby re­ac­hed up abo­ut three sto­ri­es and the mo­ve­ment of the ele­va­tors co­uld be se­en thro­ugh glass enc­lo­su­res. A lar­ge in­for­ma­ti­on desk was off aga­inst one wall, ne­arest the ele­va­tor hal­lway.

  Dr. Cla­ric pa­used ne­ar the do­ors to exa­mi­ne the lobby mo­re clo­sely. A cof­fee shop was set in­to one si­de and a small news­pa­per stand sto­od op­po­si­te it, but ot­her­wi­se, the lobby was ma­inly a col­lec­ti­on of cha­irs and co­uc­hes. He didn't see a bu­il­ding di­rec­tory sign whe­re he co­uld find out the lo­ca­ti­on of Met­tin­co­urt's of­fi­ce. I ne­ed to talk to the pre­si­dent, he tho­ught.

  He was still con­si­de­ring his next mo­ve when a stran­ge vo­ice so­un­ded be­si­de him.

  "Can I help you, sir?"

  He was slightly start­led and lo­oked to his right to find a man in uni­form. The man was thin, al­most ga­unt, with dark fe­atu­res. The grey se­cu­rity gu­ard cap cast sha­dows over the man's fa­ce ma­king his eyes se­em even mo­re re­ces­sed than they we­re. The bad­ge on his grey jac­ket sa­id "Edward."

  "No," Dr. Cla­ric sa­id. "I'm fi­ne."

  The gu­ard nod­ded. "Well that's fi­ne. Just let me know if I can help you with so­met­hing."

  Dr. Cla­ric nod­ded, mo­re re­la­xed now. "I'll do that."

  "And don't go stir­ring up any tro­ub­le," the gu­ard sa­id as he wal­ked away.

  Dr. Cla­ric stop­ped de­ad. "What'd you say?"

  The gu­ard tur­ned back to­wards him with a hi­de­o­us grin of yel­lo­wed te­eth stretc­hing over pa­le, crac­ked lips. Don't go­fuc­kin' aro­und whe­re you sho­uldn't be, you pi­ece of shit, he his­sed.

  Dr. Cla­ric co­uldn't catch his bre­ath as he sta­red at this thing in front of him. He felt his he­art po­und li­ke it was go­ing to rip thro­ugh his chest. "Who are you?" he gas­ped.

  I'm yo­ur­fuc­kin' bra­in, the gu­ard sa­id, ma­king a hor­ribly gro­tes­que and im­ma­tu­re fa­ce, stic­king his ton­gue out. He lif­ted his hand and po­in­ted to his temp­le and ma­de a buz­zing so­und and star­ted to sha­ke all over as if he we­re be­ing elect­ro­cu­ted. The fi­gu­re re­semb­led Ed­ward Car­ter, but the­re was so­met­hing dif­fe­rent abo­ut him.

  "STOP IT!" Dr. Cla­ric scre­amed. "JUST LE­AVE ME ALO­NE!"

  Ever­yo­ne in the lobby tur­ned to see who was yel­ling. The sud­den hush ma­de him lo­ok aro­und. "ECOR CAN'T JUST FUCK WITH PE­OP­LE'S HE­AD'S. YOU WON'T GET AWAY WITH IT!"

  Gu­ards from the in­for­ma­ti­on desk im­me­di­ately star­ted to­wards him. Dr. Cla­ric sta­red at the ap­pro­ac­hing men for a mo­ment and then tur­ned back to the ot­her gu­ard, but he was go­ne. Dr. Cla­ric scan­ned the lobby, se­arc­hing the crowds, but the­re was still no sign of the bi­zar­re lo­oking gu­ard. He wan­ted to run but was fro­zen to the spot.

  "YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME! I'M DR. CLA­RIC, A FO­REN­SIC PSYCHO­LO­GIST AND I WANT ANS­WERS RIGHT NOW!"

  "Ta­ke it easy," one of the gu­ards sa­id. "Let's just ta­ke it easy."

  "You ta­ke it easy," Dr. Cla­ric spat back. "I want to talk to Tra­vis Met­tin­co­urt. He knows what's go­ing on he­re. I ha­ve to talk to him."

  "That's okay. We'll get him for you right away," anot­her se­cu­rity gu­ard sa­id.

  Dr. Cla­ric no­ti­ced the gu­ard turn and wink at his part­ner.

  "Fuck you!" Dr. Cla­ric scre­amed and bol­ted aro­und them, run­ning to­wards the ele­va­tors. He didn't know whe­re he wo­uld go but knew he did- n't want to be stop­ped in the lobby.

  "GRAB HIM!" a gu­ard sho­uted.

  Two mo­re gu­ards step­ped out from the in­for­ma­ti­on desk, cut­ting him off be­fo­re the ele­va­tors. The ot­her two gu­ards we­re cha­sing clo­sely be­hind.

  Dr. Cla­ric felt pa­nic­ked. He ne­eded to pro­ve ECOR was res­pon­sib­le for the elect­ro­nic we­apons that ca­used his mad­ness. He ne­eded to show the world what was hap­pe­ning. I don't want pe­op­le thin­king I'm a men­tal pa­ti­ent. He knew ECOR was in­vol­ved. That first se­cu­rity gu­ard was la­ug­hing at me. They ha­ve to be in­vol­ved.

  "GET TRA­VIS MET­TIN­CO­URT DOWN HE­RE!" Dr. Cla­ric sho­uted as he slo­wed to a walk. He knew he wo­uldn't be ab­le to get past the two gu­ards and ma­ke it in­to an ele­va­tor. Even if he did, he didn't know which flo­or to go­to.

  "That's eno­ugh, sir," one gu­ard sa­id. "Let's just go in the back and ha­ve a talk. We'll try and con­tact Mr. Met­tin­co­urt for you."

  Dr. Cla­ric didn't be­li­eve them at all. "Do you think I'm stu­pid? I can't be­li­eve anyt­hing you say." He lo­oked over his sho­ul­der and the ot­her two gu­ards we­re di­rectly be­hind him now. He was sur­ro­un­ded. He de­ci­ded to ta­ke a dif­fe­rent tac­tic.

  "I'm sorry I was scre­aming," he sa­id calmly. "The­re was so­me­one el­se in the lobby who was bot­he­ring me but I'm okay now." He no­ti­ced the gu­ards nod­ding ref­le­xi­vely as they con­ti­nu­ed to inch slowly to­wards him. He tri­ed to ig­no­re it. "I'm go­ing to re­ach in­to my back poc­ket. I want to show you my wal­let. I'm Dr. Bri­an Cla­ric, a cli­ni­cal psycho­lo­gist from the Ma­xi­mum

  Se­cu­rity Psychi­at­ric Cent­re."

  "We know you are," sa­id a
gu­ard. "We want to help you out. Get you out of this crow­ded lobby whe­re we can talk."

  How do they know who I am? he won­de­red. "No, let me show you my ID."

  "That's okay, sir. We be­li­eve you. You're a doc­tor. That's fi­ne." They we­re al­most clo­se eno­ugh to to­uch him now.

  Sud­denly Dr. Cla­ric felt dizzy. His fin­gers star­ted to sha­ke and the wal­let slid out, fal­ling to the gro­und. The­re was a stran­ge, co­ol mist drif­ting down his right che­ek. He tur­ned sharply, lo­oking over his sho­ul­der, but the ro­om se­emed out of fo­cus. He saw one of the se­cu­rity gu­ards hol­ding a small, sil­ver ca­nis­ter with an aero­sol top.

  "What did you do?" he as­ked we­akly. "What is that?"

  The gu­ard tuc­ked the ca­nis­ter back in­to his belt and sho­ok his he­ad.

  "Don't worry abo­ut it, sir. It'll help you re­lax."

  The world was be­gin­ning to spin. He felt his legs gi­ving out and he knew he wo­uld so­on lo­se cons­ci­o­us­ness. "What did you do to me?" he gas­ped.

  A vo­ice so­mew­he­re sa­id, "Try and catch him be­fo­re he hits the gro­und."

  The world be­gan to fa­de in flas­hes of black. "Stay away from…"

  "He's out. Grab him."

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Wen­ton sto­od, uns­te­adily, and set his drink down next to the empty rye bot­tle on the cof­fee tab­le. The act of stan­ding cle­ared a few cob­webs from his he­ad and he wal­ked to­ward the pho­ne in the kitc­hen. The ring had be­en a dull thud­ding in the back of his he­ad that hadn't im­me­di­ately re­gis­te­red.

  "What?" he as­ked ro­ughly.

  "Is this Dr. Mic­ha­el Wen­ton?"

  He didn't re­cog­ni­ze the vo­ice. "Who is this?"

  "This is Cons­tab­le Dal­las Po­wer of the Ha­li­fax Re­gi­onal Po­li­ce and I'm ter­ribly sorry to bot­her you at ho­me. I've he­ard abo­ut-"

  "What do you want?" Wen­ton in­ter­rup­ted.