He turned on the bedside lamp then stood beside the bed, watching Ramse sleep. He seemed peaceful, serene, his face as pale and motionless as if made of wax. It was almost a shame to wake him.
He balanced Borchert's head on the nightstand, facing away from the bed. Tugging the cleaver from his belt, he sat down on the edge of the mattress.
"Ramse," he said, "Wake up."
Ramse's face scrunched, going from wax to flesh then back again. His eyes fluttered a little then opened, remaining unfocused but slowly coming together on Kline's face. At first they just stared, and then a dull sluggish fear began to build behind them.
"It's all right, Ramse," said Kline. "It's me, Kline." More or less, he thought.
"That's what I'm afraid of," said Ramse, voice still hoarse with sleep.
"No reason to be afraid," said Kline.
"What happened to you?" asked Ramse. "Are you dead?"
Kline looked down, saw his blood-soaked chest. "Nothing happened to me," he said. "I'm what happened to them."
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Ramse, voice rising, and Kline gestured to the bedside table.
"There's part of it," Kline said.
Ramse turned and saw the back of Borchert's head. He tried to speak but it came out in a shriek. Kline lifted his cleaver and shook his head and Ramse stopped. He looked back to the head, swallowed hard.
"Is it Gous?" he said, and looked like he was going to cry.
"Of course not," said Kline. "It's Borchert."
"I don't believe you," said Ramse.
Kline sighed. He put the cleaver down on the bed, reached over to turn the head to face Ramse.
"Believe me now?" he asked.
Ramse just nodded.
"I just wanted to make you au courant," said Kline. "To summarize: I slaughtered the guards at the gate. Then I killed everyone in the stone building that Borchert is in. Or rather was in. Which makes you next to run things, no?"
"Me or DeNardo," said Ramse. "Are you planning to kill us?"
"I don't want to kill you," said Kline. "DeNardo's a nine too?"
Ramse nodded.
"Only two nines?"
"No," said Ramse. "There are four of us. The other two won't be chosen."
"Why not?"
"It's complicated," said Ramse. He was starting to calm down a little. "Let's just say one isn't interested, the other has made too many enemies."
"Should I kill DeNardo?"
"What?" asked Ramse.
"Are you certain you can beat him?"
"Almost certain."
"You have to be certain," said Kline.
He watched Ramse think, turning it slowly over in his head.
"I can leave Borchert's head with you if you think that'll help," said Kline.
Ramse, looking terrified, shook his own head. "It wouldn't help," he said.
"Fine," Kline said. "Borchert is coming with me then."
"I'm certain," Ramse finally said.
"All right," said Kline. "Good. Now listen very carefully," he said. "If I'm to let you live, I need a promise from you."
"What is it?"
"I want to be left alone," said Kline. "I never want to see any of you ever again."
"Of course I'm going to say yes," said Ramse. "But how can you believe me?"
"Look around you, Ramse," said Kline. "Go outside and look and tally up the number of the dead. And then think about how many there are and about the fact that none of them are me. The only thing they all wanted was for me to be dead and I'm the only one of them still alive."
Ramse swallowed, nodded.
"Wouldn't you rather have a truce?"
"Again," said Ramse, using his stumps to push himself a little higher in the bed, "how can I say anything but yes?"
Kline smiled thinly, feeling the dried blood around his mouth crack. "There's always Gous," he said.
"What about Gous?" said Ramse.
"You break your promise and I'll kill Gous. I'll send him to you bit by bit."
"What do I care about Gous?" asked Ramse.
"You had a falling out," said Kline. "But what's a little thing like religion between old friends? Besides, he's coming back into the fold."
"He told you that?"
"He doesn't know it yet," said Kline. "But he will."
"How would you know? What are you, some kind of prophet?" asked Ramse.
"I'm beginning to wonder," said Kline. "Now which is it?" he asked. "Truce or war?"
Ramse stared at him for a long moment. "Truce," he finally said, and stuck out his stump.
"Good enough for me," Kline said, touching it with his own stump. Sticking the cleaver back in his belt and taking the head by its remaining hair, he made for the door.
III.
At a little distance was a guard, strolling casually, but Kline faded into shadow and let the man live. He approached the gate slowly but it was still as deserted as it had been when he'd left it, the dead still comfortably dead in the places they had fallen. Hadn't it been two hours since he had gone in? he wondered, and then wondered if this was a trap. He walked out with his neck prickling, waiting for the shots to come.
But they didn't come. He walked slowly and carefully out the gate without any trouble and then made his way down the road, weary now. He dumped the bullets from his pockets into the dust of the road, letting them go one by one. He passed where he had hidden his car at first, but then backtracked and found it, threw the head in, got in, drove.
He stopped at a closed gas station with a payphone at one end of its lot. The ashtray of the car was crammed with loose change and he took all of it with him. Calling the operator, he mentioned a town, asked to be connected to the police station.
"Second precinct," said a voice.
"I'm looking for Frank," he said.
"Frank who?" the voice asked.
"The detective," he said. "He told me to call," Kline said. "It's regarding those mutilates."
"That Frank," said the officer, "Frank Metterspahr. He's still in the hospital. Why don't you tell me about it?"
"Has to be Frank," Kline said. "I'll call back," he said, and hung up the telephone.
He immediately dialed the operator again, gave the name of the town again, asked to be connected to the hospital.
"Which hospital?" she asked.
"The biggest one," he said, and then waited impatiently to be connected.
When they answered he claimed he was a florist, that he was at the other hospital across town with a heap of flowers for someone named Frank. Matterball or something like that, couldn't quite read the card. Had he gone to the wrong hospital?
"Yes," she said. "He's right here, intensive care, fifth floor. But isn't it a little early to be delivering flowers?"
Well, yes, he admitted, and looked out the phone booth and at the sky caught somewhere between night and morning. But there were a lot of deliveries today and generally they'd just leave them at the desk to be taken up later, would that be all right?
He had hung up the telephone and was on the way back to the car, when it began to ring again. He looked at it awhile, then went back to answer it.
"You're the guy called earlier?" said the voice. "Looking for Frank? I'm the officer who talked to you?"
"Yes," Kline said. "That was me."
"I just talked to Frank," the man said. "He said to tell you to tell me whatever you know."
"Only to Frank," Kline said.
"All right," the man said smoothly. "That's okay too. Why don't you stay there and we'll come get you and take you to him?"
What would an informer do? he wondered.
"Frank promised me money," he finally said. "Two hundred dollars."
"Fine," said the officer. "We'll back up whatever Frank promised."
"All right," he said. "I guess that's all right."
"So stay there and we'll come get you," said the officer.
"You'll bring the money?"
"Yes," the officer said.
Hanging up the telephone he got into the car and drove away as quickly as he could.
He managed to force a service door with the blade of the cleaver, the gap between metal door and metal frame being too big, and made his way up a back stairwell. An alarm started when he opened the door but immediately stopped again when he closed it. He hurried quickly upward.
The door to the fifth floor was unlocked. He put Borchert's head down and slowly cracked the door open, saw a deserted hall, every other light extinguished. There was, at the far end of the hall, a nurse's station, the nurse asleep but sitting up, nodded off.
Propping the door open with his foot, he picked the head back up, made his way in.
He went into the first room he saw, found it to contain two beds, both empty. The next one contained an older lady, asleep or unconscious, her bed lamp still on, a tube snaked down her throat, flakes of blood in her hair. He went out. The nurse at the desk was awake now, but not looking his way.
He slipped across the hall and into a third room, found both curtains drawn. He opened one, found a man, his hands strapped down, his head covered in bandages that blood had seeped through, unless it was mere shadow. The man's eyes were the only thing moving, rolling madly in his sockets and then suddenly focusing sharply on Kline. The man made a strange muffled sound and shifted his head slightly and Kline saw that yes, it was not just shadow, but blood. He pulled the curtain closed.
Behind the second curtain was Frank, asleep. One arm was out on top of the blankets, the other was missing, amputated between the elbow and the shoulder, dressed and wrapped. Kline scooted a chair toward the bed. With his foot he pulled the curtain closed. Holding Borchert's head in his lap, he waited for Frank to wake up.
After a while he realized that something wasn't quite right. Frank was too still. Fleetingly he thought Frank was dead, but no, he was breathing. And then he realized what it must be.
He reached out, prodded Frank's dressings with a finger.
"I can tell you're not asleep," he said.
"Never claimed to be," said Frank, his eyes slitting open.
Kline smiled. They both stared at one another.
"Why are you here?" asked Frank finally. "To kill me?"
"I want to turn myself in," said Kline.
Frank laughed. "This isn't a police station," he said. "Why come here?"
"I thought I owed it to you," said Kline.
"What exactly do you want to turn yourself in about?" asked Frank.
"This," said Kline, and lifted up Borchert's head.
"Good God," said Frank. "What the hell did you bring that in here for?"
"Evidence," said Kline.
"I don't particularly want to see it," said Frank. "Why don't you put it on the nightstand?" he said. "Or, better yet, on the floor."
Kline put Borchert's head on the floor, against the bed's leg.
"What was that exactly?" asked Frank.
"Borchert," said Kline. "Leader of the mutilates."
"He owes me an arm," said Frank. "I'm glad he's dead."
"He's not the only dead," said Kline.
"Who else?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"Not names," said Kline. "A few dozen people. More or less. I killed them."
"Mutilates?"
Kline nodded.
"How many left?"
"I don't know."
"Jesus Christ," said Frank. "Talk about an avenging angel. And now you've decided to turn yourself in?"
"That's right," said Kline.
"Why?"
"So I can be human again."
"Buddy," said Frank. "Look at yourself. You're covered head to toe in blood. You're never going to be human again."
Kline looked away. He looked at the head on the floor. When he looked back, Frank was still staring at him.
"So now what?" Kline said.
"Now what? You want to turn yourself in, go down to the police station and do it. Don't come around here with your bag full of heads expecting me to do something about it. What do you want? Sympathy? Understanding? Hell if I'll be part of it."
"I only have one head," said Kline.
"Last I saw you had two," said Frank, "the one you're wearing and the one you're carrying. That's one head too many. Maybe in your case two too many. How the hell is it you're not dead?"
Kline shrugged.
"That's it?" said Frank. "You come in carrying a head and say there are a few dozen more where that came from and when I ask you how it is you're still alive all you can do is shrug?"
"Just lucky, I guess," said Kline.
"Lucky?" said Frank. "Blessed is more like it."
"Don't say that," said Kline.
"What do you want me to say?"
Kline shook his head.
"All right," said Frank. "You've had a hard day, with the multiple killings and all. I'll cut you some slack. One question though."
"What?"
"Why are you still here? Why can't you get out and leave me in peace?"
IV.
It was morning by the time he got to his apartment. He rang the super's bell and the super buzzed the front door open, but upon seeing Kline, bloody and carrying the cleaver, he tried to close the door to his apartment. Kline was too quick. He knocked him down as the man babbled. He tried to tie him up, finding it too difficult to do well with a single hand, finally knocking him out with the flat of the cleaver and locking him inside a closet.
The keys to his apartment were on one of a series of hooks in the kitchen, just above the sink. He tore the cords for both of the super's phones out of the wall, then left, climbing the stairs to his apartment.
When he got there he found the door ajar, the police tape across it broken.
Does it never stop? he wondered.
He pushed the door open slowly and, cleaver held ready, went in. The air was dusty and thick. He could see in the dim light from the hallway the dust on the floor, dust that he was now stirring up in slow, drunken eddies. There were other footprints, he saw, dim tracks covered over with dust, smears too on the floor and beneath this the glints of broken glass like dim eyes, and a dark spread of dried blood. And also another pair of footprints, singular, newer, dustless, leading him forward.
The footprints led him out of the entrance hall and back into the apartment. There, in the bedroom, was Gous. He didn't notice Kline at first, just kept sitting and staring idly at his mutilated hand, tracing the smooth flesh from his third finger down to his wrist, stroking it like it was an animal.
"Are you alone?" Kline finally asked quietly.
Gous jumped. "Oh," he said, when he saw Kline. "It's you."
"You didn't answer the question," said Kline.
"Yes," said Gous. "Alone. Just me, Paul."
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to get you," said Gous. "Paul wants to see you. He wants you to report."
"Which Paul?" said Kline. "And what do you mean, report?"
"The first Paul," said Gous. "He wants to know how it went."
Kline came a step further into the room, putting the cleaver down on the edge of the bed. Gous' eyes flicked to it and flicked quickly back, and for just a moment Kline thought maybe he himself had finally made a mistake. But Gous made no move for it.
"I'm going to take a shower," said Kline, and stripped off his shirt.
"Don't you want to report?"
"No," said Kline.
"No?"
"I'll tell you about it and then you can go tell Paul."
Gous shook his head. "Paul insisted you come in person."
"No," said Kline. "I won't come."
"Why?"
"Because Paul wants to kill me."
Gous laughed. "Why would Paul want to kill you?"
"We had a deal," said Kline. "I kept my half of it. His half was that I never had to see any of the Pauls ever again."
"Even me?" asked Gous.
"Even you," said Kline. "Even though you're not really a Paul."
"Don't say that," said Gous, giving him a pained look. He stood up, sighed. "Paul said you might prove difficult," he said. He took a gun out of his pocket and, gripping it awkwardly, pointed it at Kline. "I'm going to have to insist," he said.
Does it never stop? thought Kline again.
"You know what he wants to do to me, Gous?" he asked.
"He wants to talk to you," said Gous.
"He wants to kill me," said Kline. "He wants to crucify me."
The gun wavered slightly in Gous' hand, then steadied again. Kline inched forward. "It isn't true," Gous said.
"It is," said Kline. "Do you want me dead?"
"Not particularly," said Gous.
"I didn't kill Ramse," said Kline, and watched the gun waver again, go steady.
"No?" said Gous.
"No," said Kline.
"I suppose that's good," said Gous. "I don't like to imagine him dead."
"If you take me back," said Kline, "they'll kill me."
"No," said Gous. "We won't."
"Then why the gun? Why would Paul insist on me reporting in person? Why would that matter?"
Gous shrugged. "How should I know?"
Kline sighed. "All right," he said. "What else can I do?" he asked. He started to turn away and then half-turned back. "One other thing," he said. "That gun won't do you any good."
"Why not?" asked Gous.
"Haven't you heard?" said Kline. "I can't be killed." And this time when the gun wavered, Kline's hand was already on it, tearing it out of Gous' grasp.
He made Gous turn around and raise his hands and then struck him on the back of the head with the butt of the pistol. He left him lying there in a heap on the floor while he slipped out of his pants. Wiping his chest and legs best he could with a dry towel, he found a clean shirt and a new pair of pants, put them on.
In the kitchen he washed his face. Suddenly he felt very tired.
There was a bucket under the sink and he took this. The sink had a spray nozzle at the end of a piece of retractable tubing and he tore this tubing out and then broke the spray nozzle off, leaving water gouting up in the sink. He coiled the tubing, dropping it into the bucket.
Last Days Page 17