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."