Last Days (21 page)

"It's him," said the nurse.

They stayed like that for a moment then the nurse turned back, finished winding the dressing. Kline came quickly behind her and struck her hard on the head with the pistol butt. She slumped, the top half of her collapsing onto Borchert. Borchert winced. Kline dragged her back into the wheelchair, wheeled her to face against the wall, where he could see her, and set the brakes.

"So we haven't managed to kill you after all, Mr. Kline," said Borchert. "Not, I must say, for lack of trying. You seem to live a charmed life."

"What happened to your eyes?" asked Kline.

Borchert smiled, the movement distorting his face terribly. "Always wanting to know, Mr. Kline. You'd think you'd have learned your lesson. Did you come here just to ask me that?"

"Not exactly," said Kline.

"Not exactly," said Borchert. "Always holding something back, Mr. Kline. Intimacy issues, perhaps?" And he smiled wider, the damaged skin just beside his mouth cracking, growing moist with a pinkish fluid in the cracks, leaking.

"What did you do with the girl?" asked Borchert. "Kill her?"

"No," said Kline. "Unconscious."

"Ah," said Borchert. "Still pretending to be human, are we?" Kline watched his smile tighten further, then slowly die. "Where were we?" he asked.

"Your eyes," said Kline.

"I thought we'd sidled our way past that," said Borchert. "What happened to my eyes, Mr. Kline, was you. You are also what happened to my face, my body, my voice. And now I imagine you've come to finish the job."

"Yes," said Kline.

"I don't suppose you could be convinced to give this one a pass?"

"I don't suppose so," said Kline.

"Say I call off the hunt, Mr. Kline? Say I solemnly swear not to pursue you, grant you immunity as it were?"

Kline hesitated.

"No," he said finally. "I can't trust you."

"I hear the hesitation in your voice, Mr. Kline. Why not give in to it?"

Should I?
he wondered. And then he thought of each of the men he had killed, seven, unless it was eight, unless it was nine, the way they had each fallen. What did he owe them, now that he was here?
Owe them?
he thought. No, that was just him pretending to be human again. He didn't owe them anything. But they were a part of a velocity that still carried him forward and he didn't know how to stop without killing Borchert.

"Well, Mr. Kline?" said Borchert. "How about it?"

But then Kline caught out of the corner of his eye the nurse, still pretending to be unconscious, slowly lifting something out of the seat of her wheelchair, and he realized with a start that it was a gun. As she suddenly came alive and tried to turn it toward him he shot her twice in the head.

Borchert sighed in the bed. "I see you found her gun. Worth a try," he said. And then said, still inflectionless, "Hardly gentlemanly to shoot a lady. You could have simply disarmed her, Mr. Kline. What's happening to you?"

What indeed?
wondered Kline.

"Well," said Borchert, "what are we waiting for? Get it over with."

"Not quite yet," said Kline.

"Not yet?" said Borchert.

"First," said Kline, "there are a few things I want to know."

Borchert smiled again, this time so wide Kline thought fleetingly his face was coming asunder. "Ah, Mr. Kline," he said. "We never seem to learn, do we."

"Shall we say twenty questions, Mr. Kline?"

"What?" said Kline.

"Nineteen questions then?" said Borchert. "And then you can kill me?"

"Suits me," said Kline.

"Always game for a game, Mr. Kline? But what am I to receive for my cooperation? Perhaps my life?"

"No," said Kline.

"Not my life? Then what, Mr. Kline? What's my so-called motivation?"

"Your motivation?"

"Eighteen," said Borchert. "You should be more careful. Simply this: Why should I answer your questions? I'm dead either way."

"True," said Kline.

"Perhaps . . ." said Borchert. "It's not much, but perhaps I might be allowed to choose the manner of my own death?"

The nurse, Kline noticed, was apparently still alive, her hand quivering against the floor and sending ripples through the pooling blood. He went over to her, prodded her with his foot, turned her face up. She seemed dead, except for her eye, which, unblinking, followed each of his movements.

"Well, Mr. Kline?"

"What about paralysis?" asked Kline.

"Excuse me?" said Borchert. "Seventeen."

He moved his hand slowly, the gun in it, watched her eye follow it. Was there any sign of intelligence in the eye's movement? In the eye itself? Was she still human? More human than he?

"Have I lost you, Mr. Kline?"

"No," said Kline. "I'm right here."

"What are you doing over there?"

"Nothing," said Kline, watching the nurse's eye. "What about paralysis? Does it count the same as amputation?"

"Sixteen and fifteen, Mr. Kline. Is it religious instruction you're hoping for? Paralysis is a shadow and a type of amputation, a next best thing. We do not accept paralytics among us, but we look kindly on them. You have to draw the line somewhere, Mr. Kline."

"I see," said Kline. He watched the eye until he couldn't bear it anymore and then struck her hard on the forehead with the pistol. Immediately the pupil rolled back and was gone.

"But we have yet to reach an agreement, Mr. Kline, and you've already expended a quarter of your questions. I must ask again: Will I be allowed to choose the manner of my own death?"

"Within reason," said Kline, turning back toward him.

"Something quickly achieved, within this room, no tricks? Can we agree to that?"

"What is it?"

"Fourteen," said Borchert. "There's that curiosity again, Mr. Kline. Shall we say I'll tell you at the end? Once you've had your other answers?"

Kline thought. "All right," he finally said.

"Fine," said Borchert, "just fine. What would you like to know?"

"Tell me about Paul," said Kline.

"That's not a question," said Borchert. "Shall we rephrase it as
Will you please tell me about Paul?
Thirteen." He smiled again. "Ah, Paul," he said. "I knew he was behind this. Paul used to number himself among the faithful, Mr. Kline. Now he numbers himself among the fallen."

"What is he like?"

"Twelve," said Borchert.

"That shouldn't count as twelve," said Kline. "It's the same question."

"It's a modification of the original question," said Borchert, "
ergo
, no longer the same question. Twelve." Borchert stretched slightly. A plate of pink skin under one arm split, began to suppurate a yellowish substance. "Paul likes exactness and order. He wants everything to be the same. He's a great believer in the saving power of art and culture and, perhaps as a consequence, of the saving gestures of ritual. He's into the ritual of the worship--relics, ceremonies."

"Can I trust him?"

Borchert gave a barking laugh. "You should know better than to ask a question like that. Particularly of me. Who's to say if anyone can be trusted, Mr. Kline? Eleven."

"When I kill you, what will they do?"

"They Pauls or they us?"

"Both."

"That's two questions, Mr. Kline. Ten, nine. What we'll do is convene and decide on a new leader. What they'll do is rejoice at my death. I'm sure they have plans for you."

"What sort of plans?"

"Let's suspend that question for now," said Borchert. "Let's work our way toward that one."

"Who will take your place?"

"Eight. Our process is very simple, Mr. Kline. They'll opt for the person with the most amputations. In case of same number of amputations, one must rely on charisma and Godly vision. It could be either of two men whose rooms are to be found on this floor, at this end of the hall."

"And after them?"

"After them, Mr. Kline? One of the three other men on this floor. Seven."

"And after that?"

"Six. Not very original questions, Mr. Kline. You don't know how to play properly. After that, the next floor down. And then, after that, the ground floor. Then outside and to the nines, among which probably chief among them would be your former associate, Mr. Ramse."

"I thought he was an eight," said Kline.

"He indeed was an eight," said Borchert. "But now he's a nine. Five."

"It wasn't a question," said Kline. "It was a statement."

"It was fishing for information," said Borchert. "Thus a question. 'Isn't he an eight?' you might as well have said."

"Where does Ramse live?"

"Excuse me?"

"Where does Ramse live?"

Borchert paused, hesitated. "I wish I could see your face, Mr. Kline. I'd like to know exactly what you hope to gain from this question. Don't suppose you care to tell me?"

"His address," said Kline.

"Perhaps we should suspend this," said Borchert. "Just gently call a stop to it and allow you to kill me in whatever manner you please."

"If you'd like," said Kline.

"I don't like giving out information whose use strikes me as uncertain."

"Perhaps I just want to see an old friend."

"Not likely, Mr. Kline. But then again, what does it matter to me once I'm dead?"

"That's the spirit," said Kline.

"And there's always the matter of choosing my own death."

"Within reason," said Kline.

"Yes," said Borchert. "Exactness and order in all things. I'm aware of the terms," he said, and told him how to find Ramse's house. "Three more, Mr. Kline," he said, once he was done.

Kline nodded, but of course Borchert couldn't see. The gun had grown sweaty in his hand. He stuck it into his jacket pocket, rubbed his hand against his pants. The hand came back sticky with blood.

"How many of you do I have to kill before you'll leave me alone?" asked Kline.

"How many?" said Borchert, and smiled. "Don't you realize you'll have to kill all of us, Mr. Kline?" he said. "Every last one."

"Two more questions, Mr. Kline," said Borchert. "Do you feel like you've gained something? What do you do with all this knowledge of yours? Do you feel more complete?"

Kline didn't say anything.

"Well, then," said Borchert. "Your move, Mr. Kline."

"What sort of plans do the Pauls have for me?"

"Ah, yes," said Borchert. "The return of the repressed. Isn't it obvious, Mr. Kline?"

"No," said Kline.

Borchert pursed his lips. "Try harder, Mr. Kline," he said. "Consider Paul. A young man who likes things in their place, a strong believer in ritual and in some of the traditions of the old church--the so-called relics of his so-called saints for instance." He smiled. "We have our spies too, Mr. Kline. We know the Pauls inside and out. Think, Mr. Kline, what would a man like that want with you?"

"I don't know," said Kline.

"You do know, Mr. Kline. Think. He thinks of you as their messiah. But messiahs' lives are always messy. What can one do with a messiah so as to allow Him to enter unsullied into the realm of myth?"

"I don't know."

"Martyr Him, of course. Crucify Him."

Kline felt his limbs grow suddenly heavy, the missing limb most of all. Borchert was making a repeated barking sound, like he was choking to death, his breathing mask fogging inside. It took Kline some time to realize he was laughing.

"You're lying," said Kline. "It was you who wanted to crucify me."

Borchert stopped barking. "Of course we wanted to crucify you," he said, "but as one of the two thieves. It's different for them. Think it through, Mr. Kline."

Kline stayed motionless, watching Borchert's damaged face twitch.

"Why?" he finally asked.

"Why?" asked Borchert, and his whole body seemed to flinch. "Because Paul believes in you, Mr. Kline. Paul thinks you're the one. You came like a thief in the night. You came bearing not an olive branch but a sword. You left a swath of fire and destruction in your path. You seem to him as if you are impossible to slay by mortal means. In his eyes, you are the Son of Man, which is to say the Son of God."

"I'm not," said Kline.

"And what does one do with the Son of Man?" asked Borchert. "One crucifies Him, of course. One does him the favor of helping Him step out of this mortal round, thus making the Son of Man the Son of God. There's also of course the matter of you being the only person among the Pauls more powerful than he. At this point, Mr. Kline, you're more useful to him dead than alive."

"What should I do?"

"Alas, Mr. Kline, you've run out of questions. You'll have to figure that one out on your own. Or rather you have one more question that awaits an answer:
How does Mr. Borchert choose to die?
"

"How does Mr. Borchert choose to die?" asked Kline.

"In the back," said Borchert, "near the hotplate, you'll find a cleaver. I believe you're already rather familiar with its mode of operation. I want you to deliver one final amputation. I want you to separate my head from my body."

"You what?"

"You promised," said Borchert. "A dying man's final request."

Kline didn't say anything.