Last Days (17 page)

He drove slowly, releasing the steering wheel to shift up or down. After a few minutes, he managed to scoot forward so as to hold the wheel steady with his knee when shifting, and then it was a little easier.

It wasn't a town he knew. He drove around until he came to the marker for a state road, took it. He followed the state road to another state road and then followed that to the interstate, took that south toward home.

It had just started to get light when he realized he was almost out of gas. He took the next exit, went to a Conoco just off the freeway. It was closed. He went to the next exit, found an all-night truck stop, pulled the car in. He pumped in ten dollars of gas, then went inside to pay.

The attendant, old and grizzled, looked oddly at his dressing gown and his missing arm. Kline held out his ten dollars.

"Couldn't sleep?" said the attendant, gesturing at the gown.

"Something like that," said Kline.

"Cops were looking for someone a few days back," the attendant said.

"Description matched you, more or less. Don't suppose it lines up with all that many folks."

A trucker in the candy aisle had started staring at them. Kline began to feel very tired.

"Can't be too easy to drive like that," the attendant said.

Kline shrugged.

"Say the man's a killer," said the attendant.

"Just a misunderstanding," said Kline.

"None of my business," said the attendant, "but seems to me a man who's a killer wouldn't bother to pay for his gas." He reached out and took the ten from Kline's hand and Kline saw he was missing a thumb. "Besides, they aren't even offering no reward. Good luck to you," the attendant said, and Kline made for the door.

He drove for a while on back roads, just in case, but after a half hour or so he realized that if he kept it up he wouldn't make it on the gas he had. The sun rose hot and dry and began to burn through the car. He rolled down the window but became worried that the drag would take up too much gas, so he rolled it back up, turned on the vent, slowly started to sweat.

He made it to the exit to his city and then to the city limits, the car lurching up the last few hills but kicking in again on the way down. Almost a half-mile from his apartment it died for good. He left it there half-blocking the street and set out on foot. The sidewalks had a modest scattering of people on them, late risers or people late for work or people out for other reasons. He tried not to look at them as he limped past in his bathrobe, though many stopped to look at him. He kept going, stopping once in a doorway to catch his breath.

It wasn't until he was at the building door, barely able to stand, that he realized he didn't have his key. He pushed the buzzer for the super's apartment, then sat down on the steps to wait. When there was no answer, he depressed the buzzer again, holding it down until the door buzzed and he finally could push his way in.

The super was waiting just inside the second door, hands on his hips, mustache bristling, eyes bleary, lips pursed. When he saw Kline his anger fled, was replaced by something uneasy, much less sure of itself.

"It's you," he said. "You came back."

"I don't have my key," said Kline. He was so exhausted, he was having difficulty standing.

"What happened?" asked the super.

"Two men kidnapped me," said Kline. "After that, things started getting weird. I meant to come back sooner. Is it the rent you're worried about?"

But the super had his forearms up, as if defending himself from blows. "No," he was saying, "I meant your arm."

"Oh," said Kline. "I lost it."

The super opened his mouth and closed it again. He went back into his apartment and got the master key, then helped Kline up the stairs and to his door, opening it for him.

"I'll have a new key made for you," said the super, "next day or so. Until then, you'll have to talk to me to get in."

Kline nodded and stumbled his way in. Everything, he noticed dimly, was covered in a layer of fine dust. And then he was on the bed, and already, despite the sudden pain in his shoulder, in his eye, mostly asleep.

III.

When he awoke, the room was dark. Confused, he looked first for the hospital curtain and then for the two grotesque paintings, but found nothing. There was only a blank white wall, a man's shadow cast upon it. The shadow moved and he turned his head to find himself suddenly looking at Frank, two uniformed cops standing just behind him.

"Seems like I'm always waiting for you to wake up," said Frank.

Kline just blinked.

"If I had a cigarette, this would be the moment I lit it and smoked it while waiting for you to say something," said Frank. "Only I don't smoke."

"No?" said Kline.

"No," said Frank. "And besides, I want things to go quicker this time around."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"We tried," said Frank. "I shook you and shouted and slapped you around a little, but it didn't help. I tried to convince these boys in blue behind me to see if their kisses would awaken you. But no matter how impatient we were, we just had to wait."

"How'd you find me?"

"If you thought about it even for a moment you wouldn't have to ask," said Frank. "One word. Super."

Kline nodded.

"Enough fun and games," said Frank, and Kline watched his expression shift just slightly, face growing hard, pupils shrinking to dots, gaze steadying. "Let's hear about it."

"Hear about what?"

His eyes grew harder. He took an unsharpened pencil from his pocket and turned it absently between his fingers. He stood and leaned in over the bed, resting a heavy hand on Kline's shoulder. The other hand brought the pencil up near Kline's eye, then moved it toward his temple. Then he moved it down and pressed its end against the dressings over the bullet wound.

At first it was just a gentle pressure, an odd and nervous reminder of its own presence, but then Frank pushed harder, and the vision in one of Kline's eyes began to fold in on itself and go out. He felt the knife dart back again, deep again in his eye, the pain starting to build. He closed his eyes and waited to pass out.

As suddenly as it had started the pressure vanished. When he opened his eyes again, Frank was back in his chair, twirling the pencil between his fingers, watching him.

"Let's hear about it," said Frank.

"Hear about what?" Kline asked.

Then Frank was standing again, his hand against Kline's shoulder and pressing him down into the bed. He was holding the pencil between his teeth and had a pocketknife in one hand and had begun to cut through the dressings over Kline's shoulder. Once he was through, he carefully folded the knife and put it back into his pocket, then took the pencil and pressed its end against Kline's stump.

It made Kline's eye hurt first and then it hurt inside his shoulder too and somehow in his throat so that he wanted to cough. And then Frank pushed very hard and the shoulder seared with pain and God's knife flashed all the way through his skull and out the hole in the back and he stopped being able to think and blacked out.

When he opened his eyes again, Frank was back in his chair, calm, twirling the pencil around between his fingers. Behind him, the two cops looked worried. The end of the pencil was now slick with blood. His shoulder throbbed.

"Let's hear about it," said Frank.

"This could go on all day," said Kline.

"It doesn't have to," said Frank. "It all depends on you."

They stared at each other.

"All right," said Kline finally. "What do you want to know?"

They started with Davis, his murder, Kline telling the truth and then Frank prodding one wound or the other until he was convinced it was actually the truth and there was no more to tell. At the beginning Kline kept thinking he could lie if he wanted to, but as blood began to drip off the pencil he realized that no, probably he couldn't, not now, not convincingly.

"That hurt me worse than it hurt you," said Frank, and smiled. Kline watched the two uniformed officers behind him exchange glances. "I'm a peace-loving man. I tried to do this the easy way, but you weren't interested."

"I'm starting to get interested," said Kline, eyes following the pencil.

"That was then," said Frank. "We're past that now. You know what the difference is? Davis being dead, for one. Not that he was much of a cop, but he didn't deserve to die."

"I didn't kill him," said Kline.

"No," said Frank. "We'd basically determined that. Technically speaking, you didn't kill him. But what I want to know is why the man who was missing an arm and could hardly move, let alone walk, is alive while the police officer with all his limbs is dead?"

"I don't know," said Kline.

"You don't know," said Frank, and leaned forward.

"No," said Kline quickly. "I do know. He fell asleep."

"He fell asleep?"

"I didn't sleep."

"Does that seem fair to you, Mr. Kline?"

"I don't even know what fair means," said Kline. "Why aren't we having this conversation at the station?"

"I have a reputation to maintain," said Frank. One of the officers behind him looked even more nervous. "I don't want people getting the wrong idea."

He reached out and pushed the pencil's end against Kline's stump, twisting it slightly.

Kline winced. "What do you want to know now?" he asked.

Frank looked up, smiled. "Who says I want to know anything?" he asked, and pushed harder.

And then, just as the knife was pushing its way into his eye again, the world burst apart. The door burst open and a man with a gun in place of a hand stood there and there was a rattling and one policeman's head came quickly open to reveal what was inside. The other policeman had his gun partway out and was half-crouched and turning, and then the rattling came again and he jerked about and his side split open and he shot twice into the floor, spun about, and fell.

Frank had dived out the closed window and now flailed about on the fire escape, face and hands cut up by the glass, trying to free his gun from its holster. The mutilate took a few steps toward him and raised his gun prosthesis again and a look of amazement crossed Frank's face. He threw himself sideways, the bullets thudding into the window casement and sparking off the railing of the fire escape. Kline heard him falling or stumbling down the stairs, away.

The guard looked at Kline, who hadn't moved, and smiled.

"We've found you, Mr. Kline," he said. He pointed his gun prosthesis at Kline, gestured. "Up," he said. "Time to go."

Kline stood, raised his hands. The guard kept his distance, always training the gun on him, following him from behind and to the side, always there in the corner of Kline's vision.

"Open the door and take two steps into the hall," the guard said. "Slowly."

He did as he was told, the guard just behind him. The hall was empty except for people standing near their doors, watching his door.

"What do you see?" the guard asked, closer behind him now.

"What's going on?" asked a man three doors down.

"My neighbors," said Kline.

"No police?" he said.

"No," said Kline.

"Tell them to go back inside," said the guard.

"Go back inside," said Kline.

"What's going on?" the man said again.

"Nothing's going on," said Kline.

"I thought I heard shots," the man said.

The guard pushed Kline forward, almost making him stumble down. "Go back inside," he heard the guard say, and half-turned to see the guard pointing his gun-arm at the neighbor.
This is the moment
, Kline fleetingly thought,
if this were a film I'd knock the guard's arm upward and overpower him.
But Kline was twisted the wrong way around; the gun was on the same side as his missing arm.

He heard a door close, saw that the neighbor had disappeared.

"All right," said the guard. "Down the stairs."

He started for the door to the back stairs but the guard gestured him away, pointed toward the front.

"This way, Mr. Kline," he said. "We don't have anything to be ashamed of. We're going out the front door."

He went slowly, wondering with each step if another chance would come. He listened to the guard behind. The man's steps were careful and regular, no hesitation to them.

The gun jabbed into his back. "Hurry up," the guard said. "Make it quick."

He sped up a little, stumbled again, caught himself, then continued down the stairs. In the lobby was another mutilate, a man missing both ears, several fingers, most of his palm. He was pacing back and forth nervously. He had a gun but held it awkwardly--as if he'd never seen a gun before, let alone used one.

"Hurry it up!" he shouted when he saw them. "Hurry it up!"

"Where's the cop, John?" asked the guard, looking through the glass doors onto the street.

"What cop?" asked John, gaze darting nervously about.

"Never mind," said the guard. "Out the front door, John," he said. "After you, Mr. Kline."

Kline pushed the door open then lifted his hand back up above his head and went out. The light outside was brighter than he'd imagined. It confused him for a moment.

"Straight ahead," hissed the guard. "Black car. Back door. Run."

He saw the black car, double-parked just across the street, and made for it, John moaning with fear beside him. He reached the car and pulled the door open and threw himself in, John right after him and nearly on top of him, the guard right after that. "Go, go!" John was yelling to the driver, but the driver didn't move and when the guard prodded him the man's head fell to one side and a red gash gaped at his throat. John started to scream, a high-pitched sound, and then the window beside Kline cracked and went opaque and John was dead, the front of his face gone. The guard tried to get his gun-arm around, knocking it against the seat in front of him, and then the rear window cracked and went opaque and his head burst brightly over the headrest in front of him. The gun rattled briefly, slugs thumping through the ceiling, and then stopped.

The door opened and there was Frank, eyes still hard, looking unblinkingly at him, gashed and bloody, breathing heavily.