“Is he the one who supplies you the pills?”
He didn’t answer. He pulled at the knob, then slapped the door three times with an open palm.
“Why did we have to park four blocks away? Did you notice it was raining?”
“We won’t be using that car anymore,” he said. Something clanked on the other side of the door. “And I didn’t want the cops to find it here.”
I was going to say something to the effect of him dropping us off and then going to park the damn car wherever the hell he pleased, but the door opened presently. The face of the man on the other side of it was youthfully pink, despite his full head and mustache of white hair. He wore a maroon turtleneck and jeans and looked nothing like a priest. Nor a doctor, really. If anything, he could pass for an aging TV actor. He smiled, quickly scanning Iris and me. Finally, he nodded to Lloyd, taking a step back.
“Mr. Freud, please come in.”
“Father Young, I brought you some converts.”
“Please,” the white-haired man said, “call me Dr. Young.”
“I’m Iris,” Iris said, entering, while I processed that exchange. “This is Luke.”
“Of course. I do watch TV, you know. Keeps me sober. Come in, please.”
He led us through a darkened hallway into a small office drowned in paper. Newspapers, magazines, folders were piled on the desk and stacked in corners. Aside from it being a ton of actual paper and markings in ink on every single piece of print, I saw nothing religious about the room. Not even the measliest crucifix.
“Make yourselves comfortable. I have to finish my sermon,” Dr. Young said, gesturing indefinitely. “And get your medicine.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
Dr. Young escaped through the door opposite the one we had come in through. As it opened briefly, I saw a pulpit and a slice of a large room with rows of gray folding chairs and ceiling painted hospital-blue. There were neither windows, nor people in my field of vision.
When the door closed, I turned to Lloyd. He had already filled the desk chair and was presently leaning dangerously far back in it. Iris found herself a seat under the wall. There was no seat left for me, but standing seemed more fitting for the talk I intended to have, anyway.
“So… Mr. Freud, is it? That kinda rhymes, doesn’t it?”
I received patronizing smiles and nods as answers to both rhetorical questions.
“I think it’s about time we had the rest of that conversation.”
Before he could reply, an improbably deep voice began to chant beyond the door to the nave. I could not make out the words, but it was plain the chant, or song, was measured and made of them. I blinked, and the office, Lloyd, unanswered questions, Chicago, were all gone. I was standing alone in the middle of a desert. It was nighttime and it was cold, and I heard the sound of water, and above me there were countless stars. In the distance in front of me, in the darkness, I saw huge triangular shapes. Another dark form was moving, a rider on top of a camel. I blinked and the vision vanished, but it left a lasting soothing effect, similar to what I’d felt after calling Paul the day before.
Lloyd nodded at the door.
“He’s really good at that.”
I just nodded and we listened for another minute in silence, which Lloyd interrupted.
“But it is time for you to learn some things. Here’s one: I am the other marshal.”
Soothed no longer, I gaped at him in complete bewilderment. As the deep voice continued to sing, something rustled and fell to the floor. I had sat on top of the desk.
“May I… May I see your ID?”
He chuckled. “Sorry, I tossed it at the beach by your house.” So the cops would find it, a thought came, searing through my mind.
“So you knew who set me up, because…” I started to say, when another, more important idea occurred to me. “Wait, did you… Did you kill your partner?”
“Not all partners are as chummy as they show on your favorite Tuesday night police drama.” Lloyd’s cheerfulness was also gone. His speech became abrupt, angry. “I barely knew the guy.”
“So you did kill him?” I wanted to say that, but it was Iris. We both turned to her. She sat straight and white-faced, hands on her knees. “Just like that?”
“Neither of you know anything about it, all right? I’m a soldier. I did my job.”
“Soldiers don’t kill innocent—”
“Bullshit!” Lloyd sprang up from the chair, cutting me off. The chair rolled backwards and hit the wall. “When were you a fucking soldier? Soldiers don’t know who they kill. They kill those who shoot at them. They kill those who look like they’d shoot at them. They kill who their generals tell them to kill. Nobody checks who’s innocent and who’s not. That’s why they’re soldiers.”
“But civilians—” Iris began.
“Kids!” Lloyd shouted at her. “I’ve seen a car full of kids shredded for failing to stop! A mother, a father, and seven children, none older than twelve — blown away! Like that! Not a single gun in the car. Not even a goddamn knife! One of them — a boy of eight or so — he didn’t die right away. Blood was gushing from his side and he just kept shaking and staring and turning his head, and all I could think was, ‘He doesn’t speak English, so he can’t even ask us why.’ And he died, and I sat there and couldn’t stop asking myself that…” Lloyd came back into present with a jerk. “Before you say that making one mistake is not the reason and blah, blah… Spare me. O’Malley wasn’t a civilian. He was not even a goddamn real marshal. He was an enemy soldier who didn’t know I was an enemy soldier.”
“Why did you kill him?” I asked.
“So you wouldn’t have to become a soldier.”
“That’s not a good enough reason to kill a person!”
“It is for my employer.”
“Well, he’s crazy then. I wouldn’t have gone either way. I got lawyers for that.”
“My employer seemed pretty confident that you would.”
“Is this Dr. Young your employer?”
“No.”
“Who, then?”
“You’ll meet him.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m going to call 911, introduce myself and tell them I have located the murderer of a U.S. Marshal found in my condo. Then I am going to…” I wasn’t bluffing. I made my way towards the antique, “cordless” phone on the edge of the desk and actually picked up the receiver. A loud clank stopped me in my tracks. Looking over my shoulder, I saw that Lloyd was pointing the gun at me. I pretended to be calm.
“I don’t think your employer would appreciate—”
“You’re such a dumb shit still,” Lloyd said with disdain. “A cop almost put you in a box not twelve hours ago. Why don’t you ask for that guy specifically when you call? A whole week without pills, and your brain is still as fried as a breaded mushroom.”
“Well, certainly.” Dr. Young, who was suddenly in the room, said. Only then did I realize that the chanting had ceased. “He had you to enlighten him.” He tossed a small red bottle, and Lloyd caught it with his left hand. “I suggest you take your medicine, Mr. Freud.”
The murderer shook his head, reseated himself, dropped the gun in his lap and popped the bottle open. Customarily, he chased the pills with a hefty swig from his flask.
“You work for ‘Freedom,’” Iris said from her chair. Dr. Young smiled and waved his hand.
“No, no. Not for a long time. But there are good people even there.” Then he turned to me. “You see, Mr. Whales, Mr. Freud favors archaic methods resembling electro-shock therapy. He thinks just being out there sober should have scared you into understanding. Easy for him, of course, because he already knows, but quite shortsighted.”
“That’s why you’re the doctor and I am the grunt,” Lloyd remarked. His cheerful mood was returning quickly.