. . . wheeze . . .
“I’m going to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone, if that’s all right, since we’re here like this, just you and me. All my life, I’ve
(been half in love with easeful death)
felt lonely. Even in a crowd of people, or with people I know, even the few times I’ve had girlfriends, I’ve felt that way. I’ve spent so much time looking back at the bad things, or imagining the good things ahead that never get around to happening, that I’ve . . . I’ve missed out on most of my life. You ever feel like that? Like you’ve
(Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme)
been living just outside the frame of the movie, except it’s in the frame where all the real living is happening?”
. . . pop!
“Ah, well, shit. My head really hurts, and I’m tired, and I’m scared right down to the marrow of my bones. And I sound like a whiny little kid. I’m sorry.”
He reached out touched one of Bob’s hands, gently stroking its surface; it felt rock-hard, clammy, a brittle used-up echo of something grand that once was.
“Why couldn’t I talk to my folks like this, at the end?” And son-of-a-bitch if that didn’t open the goddamn waterworks again. Martin didn’t fight it; he just leaned down his head and placed Bob’s hand against his lips, kissing it once, not too quickly, then pressed it against his forehead as he cried, and once he almost lost his grip but managed to grab hold before Bob’s hand dropped back down and—
—and Bob was holding something.
Martin slowly turned Bob’s hand around—wincing at the sound of the frail bones cracking—and moved it a little more toward the light.
Bob was clutching a piece of paper that had been wadded into the size of a lime.
Carefully working it free of Bob’s frozen grip, Martin smoothed open the sheet of stationary.
Hello, Dipshit, read the salutation.
Martin almost grinned. “Hello yourself, Jerry.”
The letter continued:
Since you’re reading this, then Gash woke up before I could finish telling you what you need to do.
Yes, I figured that you’d end up holding Bob’s hand; cop to it or not, you’re a hand-holder; held your dad’s hand, held your mom’s, it only stood to reason . . . .
Second floor above what used to be DeVito’s; first room on your left at the top of the landing. Bob’s old apartment many years ago. The painting is there, so is the key to the museum. You’ll know the key when you find it—or when it finds you. There’s a flashlight under the bed, you’ll need it.
Be careful; once you’re inside, Gash will know and he’ll come looking. Make damn sure he doesn’t spot you—and more important than that, make sure you don’t see him. It, actually. Trust me on this: you lay eyes on that thing, you’d sooner rip them out of their sockets than have to look at it a second time.
The exhibit you want is called Rights of Memory. In it, you’ll find a piece entitled As Was, As Is. Smash the case, and take the piece out of the museum. Once you’ve gotten out, destroy it—and don’t let your heart or hand be swayed by its appearance, that’s what Gash wants.
This piece is the disease; it is the physical form of the Alzheimer’s that is killing Bob; Gash is what the Alzheimer’s is becoming. As long as he and it are in the same place, the process can’t be stopped. He’s been using other pieces from inside the museum to build himself; when Bob dies, he will ingest As-Was and be complete. It is the single most powerful source of his strength; destroy it, and he’s toast.
No, this won’t save Bob, but it will stop Gash and buy the rest of the Substruo time to repair the foundation while they wait for Bob’s replacement to come of age.
Then there’s one last thing that you’ll need to do, and it’s going to take nerve.
Here Jerry had drawn an arrow at the bottom of the page. Martin turned over the letter and read the two short lines written there.
“Oh, no . . . .”
From the bed, Bob released another rattle-wheeze-pop! Martin looked at him. The gaps between each breath were growing longer. And Martin knew what this meant; he’d known it with Dad, known with Mom. There was maybe an hour left; probably less.
He grabbed the flashlight from under the bed, rose from the chair, leaned down, kissed Bob’s forehead, whispered, “Good-bye, my friend; I will keep you in my heart always,” then walked across the room, kicked aside the crate, wrenched open the door, and ran. And ran. And ran. Hitting the street, he kept running, the crowbar hanging from his grip, not giving a good goddamn if anyone saw him or not. He would not be stopped. Regardless of what he had to do, he would not be stopped. He stuck to the side streets and alleyways. Six minutes after he’d said good-bye to Bob, Martin emerged half a block from West Church Street. He would have to be out in the open now; if the cops were going to spot him, it would be between here and DeVito’s.
The area of the square where he’d emerged was once again swarming with classic cars . . . and police cruisers. Like the first night, the cars seemed to be going a little too fast, showing off, but the cops seemed to be enjoying it as much as the spectators.
Good, just keep watching the show . . .
Sliding the crowbar back up the sleeve of his coat, he lowered his head and started crossing the street—there were a lot of spectators tonight, the streets were lined with lawn chairs—and was just turning the corner onto West Church when a little boy sitting a few feet away from a foot-patrol officer shouted: “That guy’s all bloody!”
The officer turned in Martin’s direction, saw the way he looked, and began approaching him while simultaneously talking into the microphone of his portable communications unit.
Martin shook his arm, letting the crowbar drop back into his grip.
Only if I have to . . . Then turned and continued walking away. After a few yards, he turned and looked behind him. The officer was at the corner, finishing speaking into his mike, looking right at him. Martin tightened his grip on the crowbar.
And then a grotesquely wonderful thing happened: someone in a souped-up ’67 Chevy hit the gas to beat a yellow light, didn’t make, and broadsided a Bentley that in turn spun around and slammed into the front end of a ’74 Ford Mustang. The collision wasn’t bad enough to seriously injure any of the drivers or passengers, but it created one hell of snarl.
The officer following Martin spun around to see what had happened, then ran out into the street and started directing traffic around and away from the accident.
Martin wasted no time; he sprinted down West Church, crossed at the deserted intersection, and ran to the front of the Tae Kwon Do studio. To the left of the display window
(used to be so many books there)
was a dilapidated-looking puke-green door. Martin put his shoulder against it, worked the curved edge of the crowbar between the door and jamb, and forced it open.
Could have a whole new career as a burglar waiting for you.