"I will say that, despite the concerns you've brought up, I still believe this is the best place for Garth-without question. What you're witnessing now could be just one more phase Garth is going through. You don't know what may happen, how he may be acting tomorrow, or the next day. As you pointed out, you might only have to bring him back here, anyway. What would happen if he suddenly turned violent, or uncooperative, and you couldn't handle him? We're an hour away from the city-when there's no heavy traffic. This clinic is still a government installation, and the results of all tests done on Garth-even the description and causes of his condition-are highly classified. Nobody here will share any information about Garth's condition or NPPD with any other hospital. I think you'd be shouldering a very heavy responsibility if you decided you wanted to take him out of here just yet-assuming he would want to go, which may be a very large assumption."
"Thanks, Tommy. I'll bear all that in mind."
When I did broach the subject of going home with Garth, he gave no indication that he cared one way or another what was done with him. Indeed, I couldn't even be certain he was listening to me; he was playing his Walkman so loud that I could hear Siegfried's Funeral March, from Gotterdammerung, clearly through the earphones.
Without going into the reasons for my concern, I asked Charles Slycke what he thought of the idea of Garth's going home. He told me he would advise against it, and he gave the same reasons Tommy Carling had. It didn't surprise me. I tried to tell myself that my fears for Garth were ill-founded, and that I had no real choice but to leave Garth where he was, regardless of the fact that there might be a K.G.B. informant in the clinic, and regardless of the fact that Garth was continuing to chatter away about the Valhalla Project and the shooting of Orville Madison. I remained anxious and undecided.
That didn't surprise me either.
11
The next day, I met Tommy Carling in the corridor on my way to Garth's room.
"Garth's visiting in the secure unit," the male nurse said. "It looks like he's in a pretty heavy conversation with Marl Braxton, so he'd probably prefer that you go down there. Besides, I know Braxton would like to talk with you. It seems he's a fan of yours."
"What about Mama Baker?"
"Mama went off last night, and they had to put him in a camisole and give him a needle. He'll be in the Critical Care room all day, so he's not a problem. It's very quiet in there. That key you have will let you in."
"I'd rather not do that-use my key."
"Then just knock on the door. One of the nurses will let you in."
Just to be on the diplomatic safe side, I checked back with Slycke to make certain he had no objections to my going into the secure unit. The director of the clinic seemed very distracted, and he merely waved a hand at me in what I took to be a gesture of approval. I went out of his office and down the orange corridor to the secure unit, knocked on the thick Plexiglas door.
Marl Braxton was sitting with my brother at the far end of the huge commons room, near a bank of barred windows. Garth had his earphones around his neck and was leaning toward Braxton as he spoke, occasionally waving his arms for emphasis. The animated discussion stopped when I entered, and both men rose as I walked toward them.
"Dr. Frederickson," Marl Braxton said, extending a large hand. His large, piercing black eyes gleamed with pleasure. "Now I'll shake your hand."
"Then you'll have to call me Mongo," I replied, taking his hand. His grip was firm, the muscles in his hand and forearm sinewy and clearly articulated; the man with the glittering black eyes and pronounced widow's peak kept himself in excellent condition.
"I'm glad we can get together under more pleasant circumstances than when you were in here the last time. It's a real pleasure to meet you."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Marl. Anybody who has the patience to wade through my monographs can't be all bad."
"I find your work intriguing. I feel like the pieces you've done on the so-called criminally insane speak directly to me."
The man was smiling; since most of the research I'd done recently was on serial murderers, I hoped this was Marl Braxton's idea of a joke. I managed to smile back. "Are you keeping my brother entertained, off the streets, and out of trouble?"
"On the contrary," Braxton replied seriously. "It's been Garth who's been keeping a lot of people around here out of trouble."
"Hi, Garth," I said to my brother as Braxton went to get a chair for me.
"Hello, Mongo," Garth said easily, smiling. He was looking directly into my eyes, and he seemed perfectly at ease, but I noticed that-unlike Marl Braxton-I was once again competing with Richard Wagner; Garth had put his earphones back over his head and turned on the Walkman.
"How are you doing?"
"Garth feels fine, Mongo. Thank you. And you?"
"I'm fine. Uh, how was lunch?"
"Lunch was very good. Garth ate in the dining room here; Garth thinks the food in the secure unit is just slightly better."
Feeling decidedly uncomfortable engaging in this vacuous chitchat with my brother, I was relieved when Marl Braxton returned. I sat down in the chair he had brought me, and he sat down across from me. Garth sat, then shifted his gaze toward the ceiling as he listened to his music.
"Frederickson," Braxton said easily, "I was an admirer of yours even before Garth told me some fascinating things I hadn't known."
I looked at Garth, but couldn't tell whether or not he was listening to anything but Die Walkure; at the moment, he seemed to have opted out of the conversation. "Garth's been talking about me?"
"He's told me all about the horrors the two of you went through with Siegmund Loge and the Valhalla Project," Braxton said, his intelligent, expressive eyes suddenly flashing with excitement. "I'd certainly love to see that knife you call Whisper. Damascus steel. Incredible. It must be some weapon."
"Garth has taken to talking a lot since he got here," I said, looking at my brother with what I hoped was a most eloquent expression of disapproval.
"He also told me how he shot Orville Madison a few weeks back; blew his head off. What a son-of-a-bitch that guy was."
I said nothing, stared at the floor.
Braxton continued, "What's funny is that Slycke and the other shrinks around here don't believe him."
"But you do."
"I do," Braxton said with sudden intensity. "I know it's true, Mongo. All of it."
"Assuming it is true," I said in a low voice, looking up to meet Marl Braxton's gaze, "I think you'd agree those are stories he should keep to himself."
"Don't worry, Mongo; the patients are the only people around here who believe him. And we're crazy, remember?"
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Garth?" I said to my brother in a low voice. "Do you have any idea?"
"The world as we know it is coming to an end, Mongo," Garth replied evenly, in a clear, strong voice. "You and Garth know it, because Siegmund Loge taught us. Now others know it."
"Loge could have been wrong, Garth; the Triage Parabola is no crystal ball. Besides, he never said it was going to end tomorrow. The human extinction he predicted could be hundreds of years away."
"But it could end tomorrow, and the only way to change that outcome is to change ourselves-person by person, heart by heart. Lippitt, you, and Garth thought it was best to keep everything that had happened and that we had learned a secret, but we were wrong. We've already wasted years, and now there's no time left for anything but the truth-no matter what that truth might cost."
The words struck me, perhaps because of his intense manner of delivery, as probably the most coherent, focused thing Garth had said to me at one time since he'd regained consciousness. I knew I should probably feel encouraged, but I didn't. "Has it occurred to you what could happen to all of us if people did start believing you killed our late secretary of state? And remember that it was Lippitt who killed Siegmund-''