"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.
"All right," he said. "I'll be right here. I'll be waiting."
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.