Books 1–4 Page 2

  The choir sings hosannas as Sister Catherine exhorts the crowd to give generously to her crusade to build a Zebulon Wheele Memorial Chapel. Strapping young men work the crowd, carrying large plastic trashcans in place of offering plates. A thirty-nine-year-old woman with ‘sugar diabetes’ is brought from the audience and told to throw down her insulin. She obeys as Sister Catherine grinds the ampoules into the floorboards with one deft twist of her high heel. The crowd roars amen. Sister Catherine then reminds the congregation to give generously to the Zebulon Wheele Memorial Home for Unwed Mothers as the ushers make a second round.

  An elderly man suffering from a heart condition is wheeled on stage. Sister Catherine places her hand inches from the man’s forehead, then strikes him with the flat of her palm. The man begins to shriek and howl in ecstasy, his arms spinning like pinwheels. Sister Catherine grabs hold of the supplicant and pulls him to his feet. To the amazement of the crowd, the euphoric old man pushes her across the stage in the wheelchair. By the time they reach the speaker’s podium, the old man’s face is beet-red and covered in sweat. Two young men in dark suits with narrow ties and narrower lapels emerge from the wings and hastily escort him into the darkness beyond the lights.

  The congregation is well-pleased. They clap and shout and stamp their feet. “Hallelujah! Amen! Praise the Lord!” rebounds from the walls. Sister Catherine accepts their veneration, not a hair out of place, her hands held high. Her gold lame pantsuit shimmers in the lights from the cameras. Tears of humility smear her makeup, leaving dark trails on her cheeks.

  “His will be done! His will be done, brothers and sisters! As it was said in Matthew, Chapter Fifteen: ‘Great crowds came to him, bringing with them the lame, the maimed, the blind, and the dumb, and he healed them so that they marveled when the dumb spoke, the maimed became whole, the lame walked, and the blind saw!’ Praise God! Praise ...”

  Sister Catherine falls abruptly silent, her eyes sweeping the auditorium like a hawk sighting prey.

  “Someone here is in dire need of healing. I can feel that need, calling out to God to ease the pain. I have healed others tonight, but this need is greater than all of those combined! Tell me, Lord. Tell me the name of this afflicted soul, so I may minister to his needs.” She lowers her head, seeking divine counsel as she prays into the microphone.

  The camera slowly pans the audience as they wait for God to speak to Sister Catherine. Who will it be? Who will be called out to be healed? There are many worthy of attention, and the ushers have made sure they are seated in the front rows, where the camera can see them. The camera lens pans the line-up with the eye of a connoisseur, lingering on the most pathetic cases: an elderly woman so twisted by osteoporosis she sees nothing but her feet; a drooling microcephalic supported on either side by his aged parents; a once-pretty girl who fell from her boyfriend’s motorcycle and slid face-first along an asphalt road.

  Catherine Wheele’s head snaps up, her voice tight with excitement. “Is there a George Bellwether here tonight? A George Bellwether who lives on Hawthorne Street?”

  The crowd murmurs among itself as everyone turns in their seats to see who will rise and go to be healed. No one doubts there is a body to go along with the name and address. Sister Catherine always knows.

  A fragile man seated near the front stands up. The same ushers who helped the old man with the heart condition off stage move into the congregation. Flashes of gold at their wrists leave smears of light on the camera’s retina. Their eyes are shielded from the klieg lights’ glare by sunglasses.

  George Bellwether is dying of cancer. He stands between the healthy young men, his flesh the color of bad meat. Chemotherapy has robbed him of his hair and most of his teeth; it is impossible to say if he is young or old. By the time they reach the podium, the man is visibly exhausted.

  Sister Catherine rests a hand on his shoulder. Her manicured fingernails shine like they have been dipped in fresh blood. “Brother, how long have you been afflicted?’ She asks as she thrusts the microphone into his face.

  Bellwether forces his eyes from the mammoth visage of Zebulon Wheele hanging from the ceiling and speaks into the mike “Five years, Sister Catherine.”

  “And what did your doctors say?’

  “It’s inoperable. I only have a few months left, maybe weeks...”

  The crowd moans in sympathy, like the prompted gasps of surprise and envy heard on game shows.

  “Have you tried everything, Brother George?’

  Bellwether’s balding head bobs up and down. “Chemotherapy, laetrile, crystals, fire-walking, channeling...You name it, I’ve tried it.”

  “But have you tried God, brother?’ She asks admonishingly.

  “No... Not until tonight,” he admits, tears streaming down his dying face. The camera moves in closer; his pallid features fill the screen. “Help me, Sister Catherine! I don’t want to die... Please...” His hands, as thin and flaccid as an old woman’s, reach out to clasp her own. His sobs threaten to knock him to the floor.

  “Do you believe in the Lord God Jesus Christ’s power to bring the dead to life, to make the blind see, the deaf hear, and the lame well again?’

  Bellwether nods as he presses his cheek against her fingers, his eyes welded shut by tears. “Ibelievelbelievelbelieve.”

  “And are you prepared, Brother George, to accept this, The Ultimate Healing?’

  He nods again, too overcome by emotion to speak. The congregation mutters knowingly. Sister Catherine motions for one of the ushers to take charge of the microphone and her gold lame jacket. The camera pulls back to get a better view of the miracle.

  She grasps the dying man’s shoulders, forcing him to kneel before her, his back to the audience. The congregation holds its collective breath; The Ultimate Healing is the reason they attend services. Even in his heyday, Zebulon Wheele never attempted anything so grandiose and controversial.

  She rolls back her sleeves, raises her right hand above her head, and splays the fingers and rotates the palm so everyone can see that it is empty. Her hand remains suspended, the muscles in the forearm twitching and jumping like live wires. Then her hand plunges downward, like an eagle diving to snatch up a rabbit, and disappears into George Bellwether.

  The supplicant’s mouth opens so wide the skin threatens to split and reveal the skull beneath. There is no sound. His head snaps backward until the crown nearly touches his spine. His eyes roll in their sockets and his tongue jerks uncontrollably. It is impossible to tell if George Bellwether is being eviscerated or having a powerful orgasm, as his torso is hidden from the lens of the camera.

  With a yell of triumph, Catherine Wheele removes her arm from the dying man’s stomach. Her bare arm is slick with blood and bowel juices. The congregation comes to its feet, roaring their approval and shouting her name over and over. The thing she holds aloft is a grayish-black lump the size of a child’s softball. It pulses and twitches in her grip.

  George Bellwether slumps forward, showing no sign of movement. The young ushers reappear and drag him off stage. The rubber tips of his shoes leave skid marks on the stage’s waxed surface. A stagehand hurries on camera with a silver washbasin and a white towel, while a second pins a lapel mike onto Sister Catherine’s vest so she can speak as she cleanses herself.

  “See, brothers and sisters? See what belief in the Word of God can do for you? See what the power of Jesus Christ Our Lord is capable of if only you open up your hearts and accept His divine glory? Thus sayeth the Lord: ‘He who believeth in me shall not perish, but shall have Everlasting life!’ And if y’all don’t want to perish, brothers and sisters at home, send me your love offering and I shall protect you from the diseases of sin and Satan, just as my husband did before me! Send us your seed gifts, and remember, that which you give to the Lord shall be returned to you tenfold! So send us twenty dollars, or ten dollars, or whatever you can, brothers and sisters! Don’t let doubt enter your mind. Act today! If you doubt, then you are lost to Jesus! Pick up your phone
and give Sister Catherine a call!”

  An electronic superimposure comes on the screen, explaining how the check and money orders should be made out and what major credit cards are accepted, should the audience at home wish to call the toll-free Love Offering Hotline. Operators standing by.

  “Jesus Christ,” Hagerty muttered, turning off the flat screen TV in the break room. He wondered, not for the first time, what the hell was wrong with him. Here he was, spending his waking hours among psychotics, paranoid-schizophrenics, neurotics, and compulsive personalities of every possible persuasion, so why waste his time watching a bunch of religious kooks who’d escaped diagnosis and bought themselves a TV studio? Granted, at this time of night it was either that or infomercials for penis pumps.

  Claude massaged his eyes. Deep down part of him was fascinated by the sleazy geek-show theatrics and cheap tricks. In a lot of ways it was not unlike watching wrestling. But the real truth behind why he was watching was that he was trying to keep from falling asleep.

  He hated watching television in the break room—especially alone at night. The damned vending machines hummed and clicked constantly. He always had the feeling they were conspiring among themselves.

  The long, well-padded sofa located just inside the break room door seemed almost to invite him to stretch out. He shook his head to clear it of the temptation to nap. He stuck a couple quarters in the coffee dispenser and selected black, straight up. As if to give credence to his suspicions concerning vending-machine malice, the paper cup dropped through the chute at an angle, and before he could act to correct it, the hot coffee sluiced out, splashing his crotch, the legs of his trousers, and the floor. After mopping up the spilled coffee and dabbing halfheartedly at his pants with a wad of wet toilet paper, he returned to his post at the nursing station. He was still sleepy, damn it.

  Claude wasn’t fighting sleep because he was afraid of being discovered napping on the job. He’d spent many shifts sacked out, his feet propped in an open drawer. No, what he was afraid of was the nightmares.

  Each time it happened, he would be on the verge of drifting off, where the senses ignore the outside world and start to react to signals generated by the mind. It always started there, for some reason. Suddenly, he would realize that he wasn’t alone anymore. Whatever it was sharing his dreams, it moved too fast for him to draw a bead on it. All he saw was a hint of movement at the corner of his mind’s eye, made of flickering shadow, with red eyes, like those of an animal caught in the headlights of a car. The shadow thing would scurry through his brain, digging with the frantic energy of a burrowing rodent, and then it would become very still, as if sensing Hagerty’s awareness for the first time. And then it would smile. He always woke up at that point, with his limbs tingling as if from a mild electric shock, and the firm conviction that his unwanted dream visitor was none other than the patient in Room Seven.

  Maybe he was going insane. All those years being exposed to crazy people were bound to have an effect, like water dripping on a stone, gradually eroding it away. His brain probably looked like the Grand Canyon. He didn’t feel insane, but that’s how it starts; you’re perfectly normal except for one little obsession, then—whammo!—you’re wearing hats made out of aluminum foil so the men from Planet X can’t see into your head and read your thoughts.

  But he knew he wasn’t crazy. There was something wrong with the woman called Blue. Something no one wanted to acknowledge. Kalish was proof of that. Hagerty didn’t like thinking about the last time he saw Archie Kalish. And without meaning to, he began to doze.

  He was at work, but he wasn’t supposed to be there. It was his night off. He’d gone out bowling with some friends. He’d left the book he was reading in his locker at work. It was after midnight when he got to Elysian Fields. He was surprised to see Red Franklin in the locker room, about to go off-shift. Red normally worked the Danger Ward on Claude’s nights off. Red said there’d been a change in the schedule, and now Archie Kalish was working the fill-in shift.

  The dream/memory begins to speed up and slow down at the same time. Kalish. The damned fools put Kalish in charge! Claude’s heart began pumping faster. He didn’t want to go to the Danger Ward. He knew what he’d find there. But his dream pulled him down the corridor of memory. Maybe, he told himself, if he was faster this time, things would be different. His movements were slow and clumsy, as if he were moving underwater. The elevator took an eternity to arrive, the doors opening in slow motion. Claude wanted to scream at it to hurry up.

  He shoved his hand into his pocket, searching for the key ring that would give him access to the Danger Ward. His arm went in up to the elbow, as if eaten by a black hole. He reached farther down, until his shoulder was level with his hip. His fingertips brushed cold metal and he withdrew the keys. His fingers were numb, and he had to struggle to keep from dropping them. Fumbling, he finally located the circular key that fit into the recessed override lock that would grant him access to the Danger Ward. The elevator groaned and began its sluggish movement upward. Hagerty cursed and pounded his fists against the walls, trying to hurry the damn thing along.

  Kalish! The idiots left Kalish up there! Alone! Unsupervised! Hagerty had no love for the bastard. It was rumored he abused patients, like poor Mrs. Goldman, and the brain-dead teenager in Ward C, who later turned up pregnant.

  The doors of the elevator opened like a wound. The Danger Ward was dark, the only light coming from the empty nursing station. Claude moved forward, his feet adhering to the floor with every step. His muscles strained until he thought they’d tear from their moorings. His clothes were plastered to his skin.

  The gate was unlocked, but had somehow trebled its weight Dozens of voices were raised in mindless, wailing sound. As he continued down the hall, he separated individual words and occasional sentences from the verbal chaos.

  “Mamamamama...”

  “Blood.... on the walls... flood of blood..in the halls….”

  “Go away, go away, I don’t want you here, go away...”

  “Get her out of me! Get her out!”

  Time expanded. Every heartbeat was an hour, every breath a week. He could see his arm stretching out, his hand reaching for the door handle of Room Seven. It took a year for his fingers to lock around the knob. Two years for it to turn in his grip. It was unlocked. Of course. The door swung open and Claude saw he was too late. He would always be too late.

  Although it was dark in Room Seven, there was still enough light for Claude to see what was going on. Kalish was sprawled on his back, his pants and underwear snarled around his ankles. He still had his shoes on. His legs were pale and skinny and his penis lay cold and shriveled against his thigh like an albino slug. Claude couldn’t see Kalish’s face because the woman called Blue was kneeling over him, her head tucked between his shoulder blade and his neck.

  Time snapped and Claude found himself speeding toward the woman in the straitjacket. He pulled her off the corpse and held her at arm’s length. He looked down and caught a glimpse of Kalish’s face and the shredded mess where his throat should have been. Claude pinned the struggling madwoman against a wall, making sure her feet cleared the floor. All he could see of her face, hidden by a filthy tangle of hair, were eyes like twin bullet holes. His throat burned with bile, but he managed to keep his grip on her. Her screams, twisted by memory and dreamtime, began to echo inside his head.

  When he was a kid he used to spend his summers on his grandparents’ farm in Mississippi. During one of his vacations, a swamp cat went rogue and terrorized the community, killing chickens and neighborhood pets. When an itinerant field-worker was found badly mauled in a ditch outside of town, the farmers formed a hunting party and chased the panther into a canebrake. Rather than risk their prize coon dogs by sending them after the big cat, they set the field ablaze. The panther was roasted alive, screaming its rage and pain like a demon in hell. It was the same noise that the woman called Blue made.

  What now? He couldn’t hold her until th
e day shift showed up. And if he let go, she’d be on him before he could make it to the door. His biceps ached as if they had been skewered. Suddenly a white-sleeved arm snaked around his shoulder. Light glittered off glass and sterile steel as the syringe in its hand punctured the straitjacket and the flesh underneath. The woman called Blue shrieked, and then went limp. Claude stepped away and allowed her to drop to the padded floor. She looked like a mistreated rag doll.

  Dr. Wexler pushed Hagerty aside, kneeling beside the straitjacketed patient. Her head lolled back and for one brief moment Claude found himself looking into the eyes of an animal with its leg in a trap. Then he saw the blood on her mouth. As he watched, her tongue wriggled between her lips and licked them clean, like a cat grooming itself after the hunt.

  Wexler glanced up at him. “Good job ... Hagerty, isn’t it?” As he stood, the doctor wiped the palms of his hands against his pant legs. “Of course, none of this happened.”

  Claude turned to see two young men in dark suits and sunglasses dragging Kalish’s body from the room by its ankles.

  Wexler cursed out loud, staring at the drugged madwoman in undisguised disbelief. “She’s coming to.”

  A high-pitched whine came from the woman in the straitjacket. Rocking from side to side, she rolled onto her stomach. Using her head for a prop, she inched her knees forward, looking like a Muslim at prayer. She turned her face toward Wexler and growled. Her upside-down grin was enough to make Claude back away. The heavy door to Room Seven slammed behind him. He felt very cold, despite the sweat running down his back. Something thudded against the other side.

  Time melted and he found himself sitting in his usual booth at the Cup ‘n’ Saucer, a greasy spoon specializing in the early breakfast trade. He’d been taking his after-shift breakfast there for twelve years, and the waitresses knew him on sight. A plate with two eggs sunny-side-up, biscuits, and hash browns with country gravy appeared without his having to order. As he read the morning edition of the local newspaper he saw a headline that read: Local Man Found Burned To Death In Car.