Two Songs This Archangel Sings
Page 36
I certainly didn’t need any prompting—but as I turned to leave I found my way blocked by someone with a slim waist connected to a pair of massive thighs, very close. I hadn’t heard anyone come up behind me, and I was thoroughly startled.
“Take your medication, Baker, and stop this bullshit,” a voice above me said curtly.
I stepped back, looked up at the man who had spoken. The owner of the thighs and the deep, commanding voice was about the same size as my brother, six feet two or three. He obviously spent a lot of time in the gym, for his chest and heavily muscled arms bulged inside a short-sleeved knit jersey. He had a rugged but not unhandsome face, with a straight nose, pronounced cheekbones, and an ocher tinge to his flesh that made me think he might have more than a little American Indian in him. His eyes were black—bright, piercing. He had a full head of hair only slightly tinged with gray around the temples. The sharp widow’s peak that extended low on his forehead gave him an elfin—or devilish—look. I put his age at around forty-five.
“This is none of your business, Braxton!” Mama Baker shouted. His eyes had grown very wide, and both JESUS and SAVES were outlined in pink as he flushed. He continued to tremble with rage, but something else—respect, and perhaps fear—moved in his green eyes, and he eased himself back down into his chair.
“It’s the business of everybody in this unit, Baker, when your bullshit involves our privileges,” the tall man with the piercing eyes said evenly. “The last time you refused to take your medication, it was less than three hours before you went apeshit. You busted up the place, and it took two months to get the television and stereo repaired.”
Marl Braxton paused, glanced at Tommy Carling, and held out his right hand. Carling handed a paper cup to the big man, who swallowed the two tiny pink pills in it without juice or water. “See?” Braxton said quietly to the man with the scar-shrouded head. “Nothing to it. This man you’ve been insulting is Dr. Robert Frederickson. I have no idea what he’s doing here, but he should be treated as an honored guest. I mean, we wouldn’t want Dr. Frederickson to think we’re too crazy, would we, Mama? In any case, I wish to think of him as my honored guest. He’s a most accomplished and interesting man, and I’d like to speak with him about many subjects. If he leaves prematurely because of you, Baker, I’ll take personal offense. Now, calm down and take your medication.”
Mama Baker swallowed hard, and his knuckles were white where they gripped the armrests of his chair. “Are you threatening me, Braxton?!”
“No,” the big man replied mildly. “I’m asking you to do what you should be doing anyway. The rest of us don’t care to suffer because of your stupidity.”
“What are you going to do if I don’t?”
“I’ll do nothing. But there’s always the chance that my maid of constant sorrows may visit you one night.”
“Fuck you and your creepy maid of constant sorrows.”
“My maid of constant sorrows will most assuredly fuck you, Mama.” Marl Braxton’s voice, calm and quiet to begin with, had become softer—which only made it more chilling. “She’ll really stick it to you. You won’t like it.”
There was a prolonged silence during which Mama Baker glared at Marl Braxton, who calmly gazed back at him.
“Give me the fucking stuff,” Baker said at last.
There was a barely audible, communal sigh of relief around the room as Mama Baker took a cup from Tommy Carling’s outstretched hand, swallowed the purple liquid. He crumpled the cup and hurled it to the floor, then jumped out of his chair and stalked away.
“Ah, yes, just another boring day at the office,” Tommy Carling said as he picked up the crumpled cup and dropped it into a slot in the side of the cart. He nodded to the other male nurses, who then walked away to various sections of the commons area. “Mongo, meet Marl Braxton.”
“Mr. Braxton,” I said, extending my hand.
Marl Braxton stared down into my face, but made no move to take my outstretched hand. He continued to stare, and then he frowned slightly. “You’re afraid of me,” he said at last.
I dropped my hand back to my side, said nothing.
“No,” the other man continued thoughtfully, after a pause. “Not afraid; but I make you nervous.”
“I’m a little strung out at the moment, Mr. Braxton.”
The man with the widow’s peak and bright black eyes nodded toward Tommy Carling. “Our ponytailed friend here has been talking to you about me, hasn’t he? Tommy really loves to gossip; I’ll never understand how he got a security clearance. They must tape his mouth shut every day when he leaves here.”
“What would you like to discuss with me, Mr. Braxton?”
“Please don’t patronize me, Frederickson,” Marl Braxton said evenly, and then sighed. “I’m just crazy; I’m not simple. I’ve read many of your monographs on the so-called criminally insane, and I found them most impressive. You’re a professor, with a doctorate in criminology; you’re an ex–circus headliner, a noted private investigator; you have a black belt in karate. I just wanted to talk.”
“Then let’s talk. Maybe we can get some coffee, and—”
“No,” Braxton said curtly. “Not today; not when the air has been poisoned the way it has. Perhaps some other time.”
Marl Braxton turned on his heel and walked quickly away, disappearing into one of the rooms that radiated off the commons area. When I looked back at Tommy Carling, the male nurse’s expression was thoughtful.
“Well, now you’ve met Marl Braxton,” he said dryly.
“This Mama Baker was afraid of him.”
“Oh, yes. Baker’s real name is Marion, incidentally, in case you’re interested. He insists everyone call him Mama, and we oblige. Anyway, there’s a pecking order here, just like there is in all groups.”
“And here, Marl Braxton is at the top of the pecking order.”
“You’ve got it.”
Suddenly, I heard the door to the unit bang open. I turned, saw the director of the clinic, his face flushed with anger, hurrying toward us. Dr. Charles Slycke was a man in his late fifties or early sixties, and most of the time acted like an extremely stressed individual in need of a good psychiatrist—at least that’s how he seemed to me. He was a couple of inches under six feet, overweight but not obese, with thinning gray hair that stuck out at odd angles from his head and watery gray eyes with dark pouches under them. At the moment, those eyes were flashing with anger—and, I thought, perhaps just a touch of insecurity.
“What is this man doing here?!” Slycke snapped at the male nurse.
“Sir, he has a Z-13 identity badge, and I just thought—”
“I’m well aware of what kind of badge he’s wearing, and I don’t care what you thought! Sometimes you go too far, mister! Do you think this is some kind of a game?!”
Carling shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he said evenly.
Slycke sucked in a deep breath, took a step backward, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his checked sports jacket. “Did he ask you to bring him into the secure unit?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Excuse me, Doctor,” I said to the psychiatrist in what I hoped was a properly soothing and thoroughly deferential tone. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding, and it’s my fault.”
Slycke continued to ignore me as he glared at Tommy Carling. “Why wasn’t I even informed that this man was in the building?!”
“Sir, with his Z-13, I didn’t think—”
“That is correct! You didn’t think!”
“Excuse me, Doctor,” I said a bit more forcefully. “I apologize for any inconvenience or trouble I’ve caused, and I’ll try to make certain it won’t happen again. I’ll be more than happy to follow any procedure you want to lay out. Mr. Carling was just trying to be—”
“Come with me, Frederickson,” Slycke snapped, abruptly wheeling around and heading back toward the door, which was being held open by two nurses. “We have to talk.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © by George C. Chesbro
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4653-4
This edition published in 2017 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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