Loge's lesson was that people with fantastic notions like Marl Braxton's would destroy us all, but I thought it better to keep that thought to myself.
"Garth will change that," Braxton said.
"How's he going to do that if he can only speak to broken people?"
"There are many more broken people than you think. Not all broken people end up in mental institutions. They're all around you, but you can't see them because you've never been broken. Garth knows who they are; he'll find them, and they'll find him."
"Okay," I said quietly, looking down at the floor. I was rapidly losing interest in Marl Braxton's pathology, and couldn't see any way in which it could help Garth. Quite the contrary.
"I guess we'll just have to see what happens."
"What do you think is going to happen?"
"Garth will carry out his mission, and bring his message to the world. We will all be changed."
"Okay. I can use a change." "Thanks for sitting down and talking with me, Mongo. I really appreciate it. In a nut house, time tends to drag."
"You're welcome."
"How did you get that scar on your forehead?"
"A bad guy cut me. With the help of a friend, I changed him."
"You killed him." It wasn't a question, and there was a faint hint of amusement in the other man's voice.
"I changed him."
"The scar is fresh. You were cut fairly recently, right?"
"Right. Why?"
Braxton shrugged, but he continued to stare thoughtfully at my forehead, as if he were reading some message there. "Just curious," he said at last. "Are you in a hurry? Do you have to be any place?"
"No."
"Would you mind hanging around a while longer? I really enjoy your company." He paused, laughed easily. "There are too many crazy people around here who do talk to God."
"I don't mind hanging around and talking, but I'm a little tired of the subject of my brother's divinity," I said seriously.
"Then we'll drop it."
"Why did you bring it up in the first place, Marl? Somehow, I have the sneaking suspicion that you knew what my reaction would be."
"I wasn't sure. I wanted to see if, by now, you'd come to realize that Garth is the Messiah. You haven't, so that's that. I'd love to discuss some of your monographs with you, and have you sign my copies."
"You've got it."
"And you'll help me finish up my weekly allotment of beer?"
"I'll drink to that."
Which I did. Marl Braxton and I talked easily for another hour or so, until Garth came back and joined us in the room. I left shortly afterward, depressed by the sight of Marl Braxton's Messiah sitting on the floor, head bowed, seemingly oblivious to both Braxton and me while he listened to his music.
I was skittish and ill at ease when I left the clinic, and I didn't feel like going back to my small apartment in the staff building. I drove into New York to see a show, just for something to do, and then treated myself to drinks and a good dinner before driving back to Rockland County.
But my sense of foreboding wouldn't leave me, and I couldn't sleep. I knew I had to make a decision one way or another on what to do with Garth, and then learn to live with it. I thought of calling my parents, which I had been doing every other night anyway, to ask for their advice, then decided against it. They were old, and it didn't seem fair for me to lay on them all of my doubts and conflicts, especially when they weren't around to judge the situation for themselves. They would only tell me to do what I thought best.
I wondered how many other patients, either in the clinic or the larger facility, believed with Marl Braxton that my brother was the Messiah, and would begin to act toward him accordingly. I suspected there were quite a few, and the number would grow. Certainly, Garth didn't need that.
All through the night I paced, trying to weigh the obvious risks of taking him out of the clinic against all my other misgivings. I didn't want him in a place where people were thinking he was the Messiah; if he couldn't live with me in his own apartment, then I at least wanted him in a nice, quiet sanitarium where there were no potential conflicts of interest among the staff, where Garth could simply rest, and where I might eventually be able to bring about a change in his musical diet.
I also decided against calling Mr. Lippitt, because he would also have a potential conflict of interest and I did not want him to be put in an embarrassing situation; I didn't want to complain about Slycke and the clinic, and I certainly didn't want to get involved in D.I.A. politics.
All I wanted, I finally decided, was to get Garth someplace else.
Having made my decision, I finally fell asleep just before dawn. I was jarred awake slightly before eight by my telephone ringing-the school calling to ask if I could come in. I declined, thanked them for using me, and expressed regrets that I would not be available for any more assignments; I was taking my brother home with me to New York City.
I made a series of phone calls to check on Garth's rights and mine, and to make preliminary contingent arrangements for Garth's psychiatric treatment in the city. Then I got dressed, ate breakfast, went out into the morning, and headed toward Building 26.
12
"This badge has been cancelled," the harelipped guard inside the kiosk said as he placed the square of beige plastic I had given him somewhere behind his desk. "May I have your keys, please?"
"You may not," I replied curtly as anger-and anxiety-welled up inside me. "That's a Z-13 badge, in case you didn't notice, and I'm ordering you to give it back to me."
"It's been canceled. You no longer have authority to enter this building or to carry your keys, Dr. Frederickson."
"On whose authority was that badge canceled?"
"Dr. Slycke's."
"He doesn't have that authority!"
"You'll have to take that up with him, sir. Please give me your keys."
"I'll give them back to the man who gave them to me," I said as I pointed a trembling finger at the green telephone beside the guard's right hand. "You call Slycke and get him down here. You tell him that if he won't talk to me right now, a lot of high-level shit is going to hit a high-level fan."
The guard picked up the phone, dialed a single number; he spoke into it, listened for a few moments, hung up. "Dr. Slycke will come down to speak to you," he said in a flat voice.
It took Slycke, accompanied by two burly male nurses I didn't recognize, five minutes to come down from his aerie on the fourteenth floor. In that time, two RPC Security patrol cars had appeared on the scene and were parked ostentatiously on the street at the foot of the walk leading to the entrance.
"Where the hell do you get off canceling my badge, Slycke?!" I shouted at the portly, round-faced psychiatrist as he emerged from the building, squinting against the bright sunlight.
Slycke flushed, swallowed hard. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. "Your brother has suffered a serious relapse, Frederickson," he said quietly.
That brought me up short, and suddenly my mouth and throat were very dry. "What? What do you mean, a relapse? He was fine yesterday."
"That was yesterday. During the night he lapsed back into a catatonic state which is perhaps worse than the previous one. Now his physical condition is deteriorating. We're monitoring him very closely."
"Oh, Jesus," I said as my heart began pounding in my chest. "Oh, Jesus Christ. Let me see him, Dr. Slycke."
"I'm afraid that's impossible," Slycke said stiffly. "I'm not allowing him any visitors-and especially not you. I canceled your badge because, from the beginning, you have interfered with your brother's medical treatment, and I will no longer have you endangering my patient's health."