Two Songs This Archangel Sings

by George C. Chesbro

  “It won’t go beyond me.”

  “You see my point? Garth remained under a great deal of stress, and the signs that he was ready to come apart were there all the time we were tracking you. I should have seen them, and then done something about it.”

  “Like what? Take time off? Madison and his men, not to mention this Henry Kitten, were breathing as hard on your ass as they were on mine—harder, since they usually knew where to find you. Kitten had threatened to kill Garth if you stopped looking for me, remember?”

  My response was to shrug, and then resume poling away dirt in the deepening trench in which I stood.

  “Run the present situation by me again, Mongo,” Veil said quietly. “That is, if it doesn’t bother you to talk about it. What was Garth poisoned with?”

  “A chemical called nitrophenylpentadienal, also known as NPPD or ‘spy dust,’” I replied in a flat voice. “Because it bonds very strongly to flesh and clothing, and can be seen under ultraviolet light, it’s used by a lot of intelligence services to track people. Most information on the stuff is classified, and they’re not even sure what the long-term effects may be for people whose flesh has been exposed to it. It sure as hell isn’t meant to be eaten.

  “Garth was working undercover on an industrial espionage case in a place called Prolix Pharmaceuticals; it’s one of a handful of plants in the United States authorized by the government to manufacture NPPD and conduct classified research projects. The D.I.A. suspected a security leak at Prolix, and Lippitt arranged with the NYPD for Garth to be put on the case. There must have been a leak at the NYPD, or Garth made a mistake, because the spy or spies at Prolix got on to him. They began poisoning him with NPPD.”

  “How?”

  “Lippitt thinks it was done slowly, over an extended period of time. Maybe they dosed his coffee a few times, or sprinkled small amounts on his food.”

  “Do you suppose whoever did it to him knew what the final effects would be?”

  “There’s no way of knowing that until they catch the guys. Garth may strongly suspect who did it to him, but we won’t know unless—until—he comes around.

  “Anyway, I’d just begun pondering the problem of where you’d disappeared to. As you know, Madison sent his men to find out what you might have told me over the years, and then burn me to death. When they succeeded in burning out a whole floor of my apartment and killing five people, that made it a case of arson and murder, and Garth was assigned to tag along with me to try to find you, since you were considered a material witness. The transfer put a stop to the slow poisoning, but he’d already absorbed a lot of shit into his system—his brain. You saw him snap; he killed Madison, and tried to kill you, and then sank into the catatonic trance he’s in now.”

  “What’s the prognosis?”

  “There is no prognosis—not yet. Nobody’s ever been poisoned with NPPD before, so Garth’s the test case. Since there is no standard treatment, everything now is a wait-and-see show.”

  Veil shook his head, then reached down, gripped my shoulder, and pulled me out of the trench. “That’s deep enough, Mongo. Let’s put him under.”

  Veil grabbed hold of one of the corpse’s splayed arms. I took hold of the other, and we dragged Henry Kitten down off the mound of junk, into the shallow grave. Together, we poled and kicked dirt over the body, then piled up refuse over the site.

  “I’m ready for my Scotch,” I said when we had finished.

  Our clothes and bodies reeked of death and garbage. Fortunately, because Veil and I often worked out together in his loft, I kept a spare set of sweats there. I stripped off my clothes and threw them away; then, while Veil showered, I soaked in a hot bath, taking care to keep my bandage dry. Afterward, I toweled off, dressed in my clean sweats, and joined Veil at the kitchen table, where he had a tumbler of Scotch over ice waiting for me.

  Veil said, “Since you’ve quit teaching, I assume you’ll be spending as much time with Garth as possible?”

  I sipped at my drink, nodded. “Yeah. The hospital’s a little more than an hour’s drive from lower Manhattan, depending on the traffic.”

  “Oh, I know where it is, all right,” Veil said softly. “I spent time there, as a kid. Didn’t you find that out?”

  “I wasn’t sure it was a subject you’d appreciate me bringing up.”

  “Thanks, but it doesn’t bother me to talk about it. The staff in the children’s division saved my life and mind in a dozen different ways.”

  “I could commute from Garth’s apartment, but I don’t want to. Lippitt arranged for me to get a small apartment in a staff dorm they’ve got there, and he gave me keys and a pass that will get me into the clinic any time I want; I intend to take full advantage of the privileges. I want to be at Garth’s side until this thing is resolved … one way or another. Until they tell me Garth is going to stay a vegetable, I want to stick close in case he needs me.”

  Veil nodded, then studied me as he sipped the tea he had brewed for himself. “Any other plans at all?” he asked. “Will you do any work? What about your P.I. practice?”

  “Shut down, at least for now. I don’t have any cases pending, and anything that comes along I’ll refer to some of my colleagues. I’ve got enough money put away so that I don’t have to do anything if I don’t want to, at least for a while. I’ve been giving some thought to working at the Children’s Hospital there. There’s a whole separate facility, which they didn’t have when you were there.”

  “Teaching?”

  “Yeah. The school’s right there in the hospital. I’m not certified for teaching emotionally disturbed children, but you don’t need certification to substitute, and I’ve been told they have a hell of a time getting substitutes. If they want me, they’ve got me.”

  “You’d be great teaching those kids, Mongo,” Veil said, his voice low and serious. “Forget certification; with disturbed kids, it’s the singer, not the song. You’ve got a great voice.”

  “Thanks. We’ll see.”

  Veil smiled thinly. “Then again, teaching at Rockland Children’s Psychiatric Center won’t exactly be like teaching at the university, Mongo.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “You don’t get admitted into RCPC unless you’re either homicidal or suicidal—sometimes both, which was my case. It’s bottom-line work. You’ll be dealing with some very sick puppies there—and not a few of them will be dangerous.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “I think it’s a great idea for you to teach there while you’re looking after Garth—but I want you to know what you’re getting into.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “What about Prolix, Mongo?”

  “What about it?”

  “Who’s continuing that investigation—the D.I.A. or the police?”

  “I really don’t know. I didn’t think to ask Lippitt, and I’m not sure the NYPD would welcome inquiries from me.”

  “I thought your problems with the city cops had all been smoothed over.”

  “Maybe,” I said with a shrug. “Maybe not.”

  Veil was silent for some time, sipping his tea. Finally he leaned back in his chair, ran both hands back through his long, yellow hair, fixed me with his blue eyes. “My relationship with the NYPD is about the same as it’s always been—a lot of cops dislike me intensely, but not all. I may be able to find out a few things, if you want me to. I can do it, and still keep a low profile. It’s up to you.”

  “Veil, right now I’m not thinking about anything but seeing that Garth gets better. Sure, I’d appreciate any information you can give me—but not if it’s going to get you into any trouble.”

  Veil nodded slightly.

  “I’ve got to go,” I continued, draining off the Scotch and getting to my feet.

  “Stay the night, Mongo. You came close to getting killed earlier, and you’ve got a hell of a nasty cut on your forehead. It’s not a good idea for you to drive all the way up to Rockland, which is where I as
sume you’re going.”

  “Yeah. This is Garth’s first night in the clinic, and I want to be with him when he wakes up in the morning. Thanks for the invitation.”

  “From what you tell me, Mongo, he won’t know whether you’re there or not.”

  “Nobody seems to be certain what Garth knows or doesn’t know, what he sees or doesn’t see. Remember; his EEG is almost normal. I want to be there, Veil.”

  Veil nodded again. “I understand. I still think you should have a plastic surgeon look at that cut as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll stick with what I’ve got. Thanks for the sewing job.”

  “Thanks for the rescue job.”

  I wrote down my new address and phone number for Veil, and left. As I drove off, I glanced off to my right, into the dark alley where the Archangel affair had ended at last. For everyone but Garth.

  3.

  The Rockland Psychiatric Center complex covered hundreds of acres, and was virtually a city unto itself, with its own locksmith shop, fire and police departments; there was a summer camp in the woods beside a large reservoir, cornfields—now leased to local farmers—where patients had once been encouraged to tend crops, an outdoor swimming pool, small parks nestled among a myriad of tall, ivy-covered stone buildings which were, for the most part, designated by numbers. In many ways, RPC reminded me of an Ivy League college campus.

  Many of the buildings were now unused; years before, with the best of intentions, the state had decided that many of its mentally ill but otherwise harmless patients would be better served by so-called community support services, and these patients had been released by the thousands from state hospitals. The problem was that there had been no adequate community support services, and the results of this decision could be seen in the surge of numbers of homeless, helpless men and women living on the streets of New York, and many other cities. In addition, many of the criminally insane at RPC had been transferred to various other institutions throughout the state. Consequently, a number of the buildings with bars on the windows were empty, although a few had been converted to staff residences and recreational facilities.

  The Defense Intelligence Agency clinic was housed on the upper floors of Building 26, and that was where I headed at seven o’clock the next morning, walking the short distance from Building 18, where I had been assigned an apartment. An armed guard who had not been on duty the previous afternoon sat in a kiosk discreetly set back behind a row of trees, near the entrance to Building 26. The guard, who had a harelip only partially hidden beneath a bushy handlebar mustache, frowned when I handed him the plastic-shrouded, beige-colored identity card with my picture on it. He turned it over a few times in his fingers, as though he could not believe it wasn’t counterfeit, then telephoned somebody. He recited my badge number, said something behind his hand which I couldn’t hear, then listened for a few moments. Finally he hung up, handed me back the pass, and waved me on. I used the same pass card to open the magnetic lock on the entrance door, then clipped the card to my shirt pocket and took the key-operated elevator to the fourteenth floor. Two orderlies pushing a racked cart loaded with insulated food trays gave me a strange look as I stepped out of the elevator into a corridor, but they passed by and I was not challenged.

  Garth’s room was the fourth on the left in the corridor to the right of the elevator, and I went directly there. My brother was lying in the same position as when I had left him, on his back, with a pale blue sheet pulled up under his chin; his eyes were open, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

  “Garth?” I said quietly as I stared down into his eyes and rubbed the back of my hand against his stubbled cheek. There was no response, and his flesh felt cold.

  I started slightly at the sound of a cart rolling into the room, behind me. I turned to find myself looking at a tall, solidly built man dressed in a starched white hospital coat, pushing a cart on which were arrayed a variety of toilet articles—a stainless steel bowl filled with steaming soapy water, a second bowl of clear water, rubbing lotion, washcloths and towels, a cup with toothbrush and toothpaste, shaving equipment. The man had large, bright hazel eyes and long brown hair, which he wore in a ponytail secured by a tooled leather band. In his left earlobe he wore a tiny gold earring. Despite the fact that it was early spring, the man was deeply tanned—which probably meant he was an avid skier. He looked very fit.

  “Dr. Frederickson,” the man said easily, coming around from behind his cart and extending a large, heavily muscled hand. His voice was high-pitched and carried just the trace of a lisp. His grip was firm. “It’s a real pleasure to make your acquaintance; I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Tommy Carling—one of Garth’s nurses.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Carling.”

  “Please; call me Tommy.”

  “My friends, and people who take care of my brother, call me Mongo.”

  Carling smiled, revealing even, white teeth that looked as if they might have been capped, then pushed the cart next to Garth’s bed. “Then I’d better start taking care of your brother, hadn’t I, Mongo?”

  I watched as Carling checked Garth’s pulse, then examined the levels of the fluids in the bottles attached to the tube city that had grown up around Garth’s bed. Next, he carefully removed the tubes from Garth’s nose and the needles from the implants in his veins. This done, he pulled the sheet down to Garth’s waist. He lathered my brother’s face with shaving cream, then proceeded to shave him expertly with an old-fashioned bone-handled straight razor, occasionally rinsing the blade in the bowl of soapy water, drying it on a towel he wore draped over his shoulder. Tommy Carling, I thought, had a light, gentle touch, and he seemed fastidious and sincerely caring as he went about the business of tending to Garth. Garth, of course, wasn’t about to lodge any complaints, and it was possible that the male nurse was putting on a good show for a relative and visitor—but I didn’t think so.

  I asked, “Are you permanently assigned to Garth?”

  “When I’m on duty,” Carling replied, carefully lifting Garth’s nose with his left thumb and forefinger in order to shave his upper lip.

  “Good. I like your style.”

  Carling laughed easily. “My style? I haven’t even finished shaving him.”

  “Still, I like what I see.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hope I’m not in your way.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I wanted to be here early, just in case Garth was … awake. I guess I was being silly and overoptimistic. I guess you could say Garth is always awake—or always asleep, depending on how you look at it.”

  “A little optimism never hurt anybody, patient or relative,” Carling said as he finished shaving Garth, wiped his face clean with a towel, then splashed on some English Leather cologne. Next, he proceeded to brush Garth’s teeth, carefully massaging the gums with the rubber tip of the toothbrush. As he did so, he nodded toward the pass I had clipped to my shirt pocket. “Incidentally,” he continued matter-of-factly, “with that ID, it’s irrelevant whether or not you get in anybody’s way. That particular piece of plastic entitles you to go anywhere you like, any time you like, and do whatever you want, just as long as it doesn’t interfere with any patient’s treatment. It’s heavy.”

  “This badge is different from the usual visitor’s badge?”

  Carling laughed as he finished brushing Garth’s teeth, then rubbed some astringent on the gums with the tip of his finger. “A regular visitor’s pass is green, with a broad yellow stripe across it. It will get you as far as the Day Room downstairs—or into a patient’s room only if the patient is absolutely immobile. You’d have an escort from the time you entered the building until you left. That badge you’re wearing is a Z-13; God knows why it’s designated that, but it is. We call it a brown bomber. It gives you unlimited access to this facility, and also gives you the authority to ask questions of anyone, and get answers. Except for clinical matters, that badge gives you equal authority with the doctors her
e. That badge makes me, and the other nurses and attendants, your subordinates.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I’ve only seen a brown bomber three other times in the five years I’ve been here, and those were worn by an official from D.I.A. headquarters in Washington and two congressmen from a select oversight committee. As far as I know, you’re the first relative of a patient ever to be issued one of those. It means you have either a very high security clearance or very powerful friends in very high places. Don’t be surprised if it raises a few eyebrows.”

  So Mr. Lippitt had really taken care of me; perhaps too much so, unwittingly creating enmity and suspicion toward me among the clinic’s staff. It could explain Dr. Slycke’s attitude.

  Tommy Carling was obviously curious as to how I’d secured my brown bomber—but I didn’t feel any great urge to tell him, and he didn’t press. Quickly and efficiently, Carling stripped off the top sheet and then removed Garth’s pajamas, leaving my brother lying naked on another sheet stretched over a rubber mat. He detached Garth’s colostomy bag, dumped it into the toilet, and attached a fresh one to the rubber tube extending out from the gash in Garth’s side. He did the same with the urine bag, then proceeded to wash Garth. I smoothed down Garth’s thinning, wheat-colored hair, then joined in with the washup, using a second washcloth from the cart, and starting with Garth’s feet. There was one striking change in my brother’s condition: he had been absolutely rigid when he had collapsed in the Washington hearing room, but his muscles were now completely slack, and his limbs flopped wherever they were placed. Now that the sheet was off, I could see that his head was propped in a face-forward position by two foam rubber supports which had been placed on either side of his jaw. I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of sadness, futility, and loss; I blinked back tears.

  “I don’t want any authority over anybody,” I said quietly as I worked my way with the soapy washcloth up Garth’s legs. “I’d appreciate being kept informed of my brother’s treatment and progress, but most of all I just want to be able to be with him.”