The Incurables Read online

  Sighing deeply, Freeman crossed the floor until he reached the far side of the office. Against the wall, in the corner, was a blackened steel safe. Freeman got down to his knees and moved the dial slowly back and forth, back and forth. The lock clicked open, and he pulled open the door. On the floor of the safe, in a gunny bag, was a stack of money, all twenties, nearly five thousand dollars in all. Freeman pulled out the bag and dropped it on the floor. And on the top shelf, next to a box of ammunition, was a Colt .38 pistol, a weapon Freeman hadn’t fired in nearly a decade.

  He stuck the gun and a handful of ammo in his pocket, and slung the bag of cash over his shoulder. Then he left the study and made his way toward the staircase, toward his bedroom.

  Freeman wasn’t thinking all that clearly, so his packing job wasn’t thorough. Still, he tossed in enough slacks and shirts and socks and ties and underwear to last him a while. Went to the bathroom and collected his toiletries. Finally, he stuffed the gunny bag into the suitcase and zipped it shut. Wheezing badly, he lugged the suitcase down the stairs, nearly stumbling down two different occasions.

  Back in the kitchen, and Stella remained on the floor. She wasn’t moving, but Freeman could see her shoulders and stomach fluttering, so he was sure she wasn’t dead.

  He knelt down next to her and watched her breathe, but soon his legs got tired, so he sat on the floor. Feeling a strange sense of tenderness, he began to stroke her wiry hair and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment before closing again.

  “I’m going to go now,” he said. “I suspect you won’t ever see me again. But I’ll be doing what I’m supposed to do. I’ll be doing God’s work.”

  Freeman nodded a few times and then rose to his feet. Stella stirred a bit and groaned. He patted his pocket for the gun, grabbed the handle of the suitcase, and hobbled toward the front of the house.

  Chapter 4

  Less than an hour later, Walter Freeman sat in his car outside the hospital. Going on nine p.m. and the stars were jagged holes in a black tarp of a sky. The hallway lights glowed dully, but the patients’ rooms were mostly dark, filled with dreams of the insane.

  Freeman sat motionless, his gun on his lap, bullets scattered on the passenger-side seat. The engine of the Cadillac droned softly, exhaust billowing into the sky. Music played on the radio and it was terrifying, something by Wagner.

  The heat from the car was causing Freeman to sweat, so he turned off the engine, ended the frightening symphony. He glanced in the rearview mirror and barely recognized his own face.

  Freeman reached across and grabbed a handful of round-nose bullets and began placing them in the chamber. Hands trembling, several of them fell to the floor of the car. He sighed deeply and stuck the gun back in his jacket pocket. Then he pushed open the door and stepped outside. He grabbed his walking cane and slammed shut the door. He walked slowly toward the hospital gates, his feet and cane echoing on the sidewalk.

  Nearly halfway to the door, Freeman saw a figure emerge from the shadows. He placed his head down and continued limping toward the hospital. But as he passed the hulking figure, he felt a hand on his arm and then heard a baritone voice saying, “Walter?”

  Freeman looked into the dark eyes of Dr. McCloud. Those dark, smug eyes. “Yes. Hello, Franklin.”

  “Burning the midnight hour, huh?”

  “Not really,” Freeman said. “I’m just here to pack up my stuff. I won’t be long.”

  Dr. McCloud started to speak, then quickly stopped, his porcelain veneers glimmering beneath the streetlights. When he spoke again, he almost sounded sincere. “Believe it or not, I’m sorry to see you leave,” he said.

  Freeman fingered the gun in his pocket. He could feel his frontal vein throbbing. “I don’t think you’re sorry. You think I’m Dr. Frankenstein.”

  “No. That’s not the case. I wish you the best, Walter. I really do.”

  Freeman nodded quickly and then began walking again toward the hospital. He had nearly reached the front door when he heard Dr. McCloud’s voice again. “You might have made some lives better,” he said. “I admit that.”

  Freeman stopped for a moment but didn’t look back. Dr. McCloud didn’t understand. None of them did. He got his hands to stop trembling long enough to get his key in the lock. Then he pulled open the steel door and stepped inside the hospital filled with a graveyard silence.

  He felt nostalgic as he walked through the halls, as he limped up the stairs, knowing this would be the last time. You give your life to a cause, you give your life to an institution, and when that disappears, you disappear a little, too.

  He reached the third floor. Here an old man was mopping, rocking back and forth, whistling “Danny Boy.” When he saw Dr. Freeman, he nodded his head before continuing his slow and lonely dance.

  A few more steps and Freeman paused. He turned and looked at the oversized portrait of himself, commissioned nearly a decade ago. With a tweed sport coat, a scholarly pipe, and eyes intense but kind, Freeman felt the painting showed him at the peak of his professional career, a man of distinction. Not the old and unemployed man he was today. He reached out and touched the painting, trying to transport himself to another time. But that wouldn’t happen. Those days were dead and gone. But it wasn’t too late for him. He would begin again, and it wasn’t so bad. Besides, how many times does a fellow get to make a clean start? How many times does he get to bury his sins by the roadside?

  He reached the end of the corridor and stood facing a blank door. He placed his ear against the metal but only heard silence. He pulled out his ring of keys and flipped through them until he found the right one. Then he placed the key in the lock and twisted open the door.

  The room was dark, and even with the door cracked open it took several moments for Freeman’s eyes to adjust. When they did, he saw the figure lying on the bed, arms folded over his chest like a vampire in his coffin. He could hear him breathing loudly. Freeman took a few steps inside and then sat down on the wooden chair. The chair creaked but the slumbering figure didn’t stir.

  How long did he sit in that chair watching him sleep? To Freeman it seemed like hours, although it was probably thirty minutes or so. Occasionally, he’d hear a muted scream or footsteps echoing on the linoleum floor. But otherwise things were quiet. And he probably would have sat there for longer if he hadn’t noticed the man’s eyes were now open.

  “Edgar?” Freeman whispered. “Are you awake?”

  Edgar Ruiz didn’t say a word, but his head turned slowly like a haunted doll.

  “Edgar, Edgar. How are you feeling? I know that sometimes the second and third days are the worst. You might still feel disoriented. You might still feel…”

  Freeman rose to his feet and walked over to the bedside. He dropped to his knees and began examining his patient’s eyes. Despite the darkness, Freeman could feel the wound and the scar tissue beneath.

  “It’s healing nicely,” he said. “The incisions were quite delicate. You might find it hard to believe, but those incisions represent a cure to your mental illness, a cure to your misery. No more anger, eh, Edgar? No more violence.”

  Edgar turned his head again so that he was staring at the ceiling. Eyes so dull and empty.

  Freeman rose to his feet and began pacing across the room. His cane rested in the corner, so he was unsteady, grabbing a hold of the chair and the foot of the bed.

  “You may still harbor some resentment. But soon you will understand. Soon you will thank me.” He paused and wiped the perspiration from his brow. “Something I’ve been thinking about, Edgar. You were born the very year my own son was born. I find that quite interesting indeed.”

  Edgar’s jaw dropped and his tongue lolled in his mouth.

  “I imagine ol’ Sigmund would have had a field day with this fact. But you must understand, Edgar, that I do not mistake you for my son. I know you are my patient. Perhaps that makes my love even stronger. And so I must ask you. And it is a difficult thing to as
k. Would you like to join me on my next adventure? I will be traveling all over the country. Places you’ve never been. I would very much like your company. You could be my assistant. Living proof. Then people would see. Then people would understand. You see, here, in this hospital, they don’t seem to want me anymore.”

  Freeman moved back to the bed and grabbed a hold of Edgar’s hand. Edgar stared at him with those fish eyes. Then he nodded his head slowly, blinked a few times. “I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll go.”

  A smile spread across Freeman’s face and he used his knuckle to wipe a tear from his eye. “That’s wonderful, Edgar. We’ll make quite a team, you and I. Only we have to be sneaky. Because the bureaucrats won’t want you to leave. They’ll claim you’re still dangerous. I know better. I know you’re cured.”

  Moments later, Freeman helped pull Edgar’s legs over the side of the bed and then gave him support as he rose to his feet unsteadily. He wore his white patient’s gown and nothing else.

  “No time to change now,” Freeman said. “We’ll get you clothes on the road. Maybe a nice suit. Make you look sharp.”

  Hand in hand they walked toward the door. Freeman pushed it open and checked in both directions. The corridor was quiet and still. Nodding at Edgar, Freeman stepped into the hallway and they walked. Every so often, apparently having second thoughts, Edgar would stop suddenly and shake his head.

  “C’mon, now,” Freeman said. “A better life awaits. Let’s get a move on.”

  Halfway down the corridor, a room door opened and an orderly stepped outside, holding a bag of used needles. When he saw Freeman and Edgar, he nodded and smiled, but then his smile quickly vanished.

  “What…what are you doing? Edgar. You shouldn’t be out of your room.”

  “It’s okay,” Freeman said. “I’m Dr. Walter Freeman and he’s my patient. We’re going for a walk. Simple exercise is crucial for recently lobotomized patients.”

  “Dr. Freeman? But I thought—”

  Leaning on his cane, Freeman nodded at Edgar and continued walking. Edgar paused for a long moment, rubbing his hands together, and then followed. The orderly didn’t say anything else, but spun around and walked quickly in the other direction.

  They’d nearly made it to the exit when a single hospital guard appeared, blocking the door. He was a burly fellow with a bald head, a full beard, and an enormous gut. He wore a brown uniform and carried a baton and handcuffs and a two-way radio. But no gun.

  “I can’t let you do this, Doctor,” he said. “You can’t take a patient off the premises.”

  Freeman dropped his head and shook it. “What does it matter? He’s got no family. Got no friends. They’ll just let him rot here. What does it matter?”

  “You can’t take a patient off the premises,” the guard repeated.

  “Don’t make this difficult for us.”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  With his free hand, Freeman reached into his pocket and pulled out the Colt .38. He aimed it shakily at the guard’s forehead.

  “Please,” Freeman said. “Allow us.”

  The guard remained in front of the door for a few moments staring at the old man, staring at the barrel. Then he nodded his head and moved out of the way. Freeman and Edgar walked through the door and toward the car, which sat glowing beneath a street lamp.

  Every few steps, Freeman glanced back, waiting for the guard and orderlies to come charging, but it never happened. They reached the car without any more disturbances.

  Freeman started the car and glanced at Edgar, who was staring at his own hands, perhaps remembering the violent acts that got him placed in the hospital so many years ago. “No need to worry, my friend. You are now forever a free man.” He stepped on the gas and spun out of the parking lot, the sky brilliant with lightning. “And so am I.”

  Chapter 5

  Two Years Later

  Durango Stanton, barely sixteen years old, sat cross-legged on a homemade throne, wearing torn blue jeans, a filthy T-shirt, and a crown of thorns that kept slipping down his head and slicing his furrowed brow. All around him a crowd was gathered—most of the faces backwoods ugly—and they were laughing and jeering, spitting and cursing, while his father stood on a whiskey box, his pale face turned red, his black hair turned disheveled, and preached all the truths the sinners didn’t want to hear.

  Durango and his father had come to the same spot at the carnival for three days straight to preach the new gospel but had received nothing but scorn. Most of the venom had been directed at the old man, but occasionally some whore would come and spit in Durango’s face, or some redneck would ridicule his crown. And it was at those times that Durango wished he had the powers his father had ascribed to him, wished he was filled with the Holy Spirit, although he was damn certain he wouldn’t use those powers to heal the sick or raise the dead.

  And so there he sat in his throne (between the Tilt-a-Whirl and the funnel cake stand), staring down at his tattered shoes, listening as the old man shouted over the heckling and cries of hatred. “Now listen, brothers,” he said. “Now listen, sisters. I know firsthand about this wicked town, believe me, I do. I’ve witnessed generation after generation of sad luck lives: men spending their days working at the refinery, spending their nights drinking Tennessee whiskey; women staying at home with their emaciated kids or plying their trade for Ma Brown over at the Pioneer. A town full of incurables, they say, and it’s hard to argue otherwise. And so maybe it’s too late, maybe it’s hopeless. But I’ll tell you something and you best listen. I ain’t giving up on you. You can burn me in the fire, blind me with lye, flay me with a butterfly knife. I’ll be waiting patiently still.

  “But before you can be saved, I do believe it’s time you understand why Jesus of Nazareth came into this world and what happened to him, what the Romans did to him. I do believe it’s time you understood the words of love and salvation he preached. And most important, I do believe it’s time you understood that the Messiah has returned and that he sits before you on this here ragged throne.”

  And at this, Durango’s face blanched because he didn’t really believe it himself, never had, and he adjusted his crown, the blood from his forehead now stinging his eyes.

  He didn’t know why his father thought him the Messiah, but it had been that way for some time now, ever since his mother had died. And the strange thing was, before her passing, the old man had never been the religious sort, not really. He’d never gone to church. Never poured over the words of the Bible. Never scabbed his knees in prayer. But after she died, after they found her buried in that ancient well deep in the woods, her flesh waxy and rigid as old putty, the old man changed. He quit his job at the filling station. Began mumbling nonsense, yanking at his hair. And eventually he became a true believer…in something. For his part, Durango began worrying that his father was a lunatic. Because faith and delusion aren’t that far apart, when you really think about it. And then, one day, when the sky was filled with a thousand crows, the next great plague, the old man took Durango for a ride in his Lincoln Continental and told him about the dream he’d had, as real as salvation itself. Told him how in his dream he’d seen a steel staircase rising from the Oklahoma dirt, its top reaching toward the clouds. And on top of this staircase, God, surrounded by fire and ice. His father told him that God had spoken, had revealed that the Messiah had returned and that the Messiah was Durango. And when the old man told Durango about his destiny, eyes glowing like some cave demon, Durango felt scared and lonely and wished his mother hadn’t died, wished his father weren’t crazy. But soon he accepted his role as the Messiah, at least the best he could, because he felt sorry for the old man and couldn’t help but love him.

  And now, as old man Stanton continued making promises Durango could never keep, as he prophesied about the coming days, an old man with a thick handlebar mustache, the stink of poverty leaking from his pores, approached the preacher and, without warning, shoved him hard. Stanton tumbled off his whiskey box and fe
ll to the ground, mud spattering his suit. The crowd laughed and patted each other on the back. As Stanton struggled to his feet, the man turned to the crowd, spat on the ground, and spoke in a booming voice. “We’ve had our share of freaks in this town, ain’t we? Hell, just in the past week, I seen that crazy old bird, Millie Florence, all four hundred pounds of her, running out of her shack, buck naked, shouting about some invisible knife-wielding maniac nipping at her heels.” More laughs. “And I seen good ol’ Frank McCarthy sitting on his porch, shotgun in his lap and violin in his hands, playing that wretched melody again and again and again, hoping to win the heart of a certain whore, making a bloody mess of hisself when she mocked his effort. And I seen that albino boy biting the head off a pigeon, smearing his face with the blood. Yeah, we’ve had our share of freaks in this hick town. But I ain’t ever seen a couple of freaks like this, have you? They take the cake, you ask me.” Then he turned and pointed at Stanton. “You. You claim that your son is the Messiah? Well then. I do believe he should prove it. I do believe he should turn some of our shit water into whiskey.”

  Durango instinctively rose to his feet, wanting to defend his father, but Stanton commanded him to sit and he did. While the crowd pushed forward, becoming louder and more unruly, Stanton wiped off his tattered seersucker suit and pulled back his unruly hair. Then he faced his accuser, nodded his head slowly. “Understand that I am only a humble messenger, and the words I speak are not mine. But the message is this: repent, repent, repent! Get your home in order! Leave behind your sinful ways! And most important: learn what love really is. Because until you know what love is, you will not be able to recognize my son, and your soul will continue to rupture.”