The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone

14

About thirty-three miles, depending on construction detours.

I was out of the hospital two days later. There was no word on Garth or Marl Braxton. There was also no sign of Tommy Carling; I made it my business to check on his apartment in the staff quarters, and he was gone, the apartment stripped of his personal belongings.

There seemed nothing more to be done in Rockland County, so I moved back into Garth's apartment in the city-which by now seemed as much my home as his. I called my parents every few days, even though there was nothing to tell them; they had not heard from Garth, either.

As first the days, and then the weeks and months, went by, I tried to accustom myself to the strong possibility that my brother was dead, perhaps killed by Marl Braxton during one of the fallen D.I. A. operative's psychotic episodes. Then, on a bitterly cold afternoon in mid-fall, a Wednesday four months later, while I was standing in the express line in a Gristede's supermarket, I found a grainy picture of Garth staring back at me from the front page of one of the lurid, always ridiculous, tabloids sold at the checkout counter. With trembling hands I lifted the paper out of the rack, stared in disbelief at the, photograph and the blurb under it. Disbelief and a growing disorientation. I felt as if I had been struck, or drugged again, and for a moment I feared I would loose consciousness. Slowly, I became aware of a kind of Greek chorus of cursers in the stalled line behind me, and when another cart "accidentally" banged into mine I snapped out of it. I pushed my cart ahead. Then I flipped to the two-page spread and blaring but skimpy text inside the newspaper, cursed aloud when I could not find what I wanted.

Leaving my groceries in the shopping cart, I dropped two dollars on the checkout counter, then ran the three blocks back to the apartment. I was just reaching out to pick up the telephone to call the editorial offices of the tabloid when the phone rang. Irritated, I snatched up the receiver.

"Yeah?"

"Frederickson, this is Sergeant Mclntyre."

"Ah, yes, Sergeant Mclntyre," I replied tightly, still fighting a sense of disorientation and dizziness, trying and failing to mask the deep scorn and anger I felt. "Perchance, would you be calling to fill me in on what the massive forces of the NYPD have been doing in their attempt to find a missing colleague?"

There was a prolonged silence on the other end, and I half expected Sergeant Alexander Mclntyre, who had been in Garth's precinct and whom I considered a friend, to hang up on me. "You've seen The National Eye," he said at last in a flat voice.

"As a matter of fact, I just picked up a copy at Gristede's. There's nothing like going out for a few groceries and finding out that the brother you'd feared dead has become a local celebrity, of sorts. Mclntyre, can you explain to me how, with a Missing Persons report in the hands of the NYPD, I end up finding Garth's picture on the front page of a Goddamn fish wrapper like The National Eye? You worked with him for twenty years! What the hell's the matter with you people?! What the fuck have you been doing for the past four months?!"

"Just hold on a minute, Frederickson." Mclntyre's voice had grown cold, hard. "New York City, in case you haven't noticed lately, is a very big place which is easy to get lost in-if that's what you want to do. Also, in case you haven't noticed, we're in the midst of a crime wave caused by a crack epidemic; we don't have a lot of resources to look for a grown man who's just happened to have dropped out of sight. If their picture isn't on a milk carton, we don't spend a lot of time looking for them. We thought from the beginning that there was something not quite right about that MP request, and we kind of filed it away; we figured if Garth and this other guy they were looking for wanted you to know where they were, they'd have told you. Like I said, your brother's a big boy."

"Okay," I said curtly. There was no percentage in arguing with the other man.

"One of the uniformed officers in the precinct saw the picture, and he recognized Garth. That's why I'm calling you."

"Okay. I appreciate it, Sergeant."

"Did you read the story about Garth and the other guy in the picture with him?"

"The story was long on horseshit and short on facts. It didn't tell me what I need to know. Where the hell is that place Garth is supposed to be living?"

"There was a cop on the scene when that incident happened; he didn't recognize Garth, and he didn't know there was an MP blip floating on him."

"I don't care about that crap, Mclntyre. Where is he?"

"It's a big, converted bathhouse down in the Bowery-five blocks south of St. Mark's. The city shut it down when the AIDS scare first started. You'll recognize it right away by all the people hanging around it." Mclntyre paused, and when he spoke again, his tone had become softer. "Like I said, there was a cop on the scene when that business happened-and the cop drew the photographer. A report was filed, and maybe I can let you see it if you're interested; you stop around, and I'll see what I can do for you. I can understand how you'd be pissed, and maybe we could have done a little more than we did. Don't quote me."

"Thanks for the offer, Sergeant, but I'm not really interested in that nonsense. See you."

"Frederickson?"

"Yeah."

"What the hell's the matter with Garth?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," I replied carefully.

"The way he's acting. . it's why the Missing Persons report was filed, right?"

"Right."

"Is he crazy?"

"Aren't we all?"

"He's sure got some funny stories to tell."

"Yeah."

"He told me he killed Orville Madison. Can you believe that?"

"You've talked to him in person?"

"He was-is-my friend. After I heard about the newspaper story, I drove down to check out the situation. I called you before, but you weren't in. I didn't want to just leave a message on your answering machine."

"Why didn't you bring him in, Sergeant?"

"On what charges? He was reported missing, and now he's not missing anymore. There's definitely something the matter with Garth's head, Frederickson; you wouldn't believe the collection of people he's got down there in that mission of his."

"Mission? I thought you said he was living in a bathhouse."

There was a pause, then: "You'd better go down and see for yourself, Frederickson."

That was precisely what I intended to do. I thanked Mclntyre again, hung up.

I took the subway down to the Bowery, went up to the street, and walked five blocks south, until I came to a large traffic circle. Darkness had fallen, and I stood across the street, huddled against the cold in my parka, watching the proceedings on the opposite side of the circle, in front of a building of freshly scrubbed stone which took up half the block. There appeared to be a lot of construction going on inside and on top of the building, where the roof seemed to have been torn away, but business was obviously going on as usual. It was eerie, seeing the huge symbol painted above the entrance-four interlocking rings, skewered by a great knife with a jewel-encrusted handle. Valhalla and Whisper. I wondered if the logo had been designed to Garth's specifications, somehow doubted it. Unless Garth had changed once again, my brother certainly wasn't into symbols of any kind.

A line of bedraggled people snaked down the street and disappeared around the corner. The men and women, some cloaked only in rags and pushing rickety shopping carts or carrying shopping bags filled with their personal belongings, patiently shuffled forward, waiting their turn to be ushered into the bathhouse. A number of well-dressed people-young and old, black, brown, white, and yellow-moved up and down the line, clasping hands, occasionally hugging the bag people, evidently offering hope and encouragement. All of the aides wore green jackets or headbands-sometimes both-emblazoned with the rings-and-knife logo.

Tommy Carling, still wearing an earring and his long, blond hair in a ponytail, was there, wearing a green jacket. He was standing near the entrance, talking with a woman who also wore a green jacket, along with a black nun's cowl that fell over her shoulders.

There was no sign of Garth, and I assumed he was inside the building.

As I stood in the night shadows and watched, a television news truck pulled up to the curb in front of the entrance. A well-known local news reporter, accompanied by sound and camera men, got out and went up to Carling and the nun. The reporter said something to Carling, who shrugged his shoulders and made a gesture with his hands that seemed to indicate the line of people. There was a conference between the three people, and then the nun turned and went into the building. Lights were set up, and the reporter and his team began walking down the line of people, interviewing those who were willing.

Five minutes later the nun returned with a short man with long, greasy black hair liberally streaked with gray, who walked with a slight stoop. Even from where I was standing, I could see the ugly red and white scars on the man's face, and he wore dark glasses-which he slowly and dramatically removed as the lights came on, the camera focused on him, and the reporter stepped up to him with a microphone.

That, I thought with a grim smile, would be Harry August, obviously a con man par excellence. Untold numbers of readers of The National Eye no doubt believed that my brother had cured Harry August of total blindness, and now the credulity of a broader television audience was to be tested; there was no doubt in my mind that a lot of them would believe it too. As my mother was fond of saying, some people will believe anything.

I waited across the street for more than an hour, but still saw no sign of Garth. People continued to file into the building, and very few came out; those who did were dressed in clean clothes, looked as if they had washed, and walked considerably straighter. Finally the line of people began to thin out and shorten, and Carling seemed ready to take a break. He stepped over to the curb, lit a cigarette.

Now I stepped out of the shadows and walked quickly across the traffic circle. Carling saw me coming, flicked away his cigarette, and held out his hand.

"Mongo!" Tommy Carling said brightly.

"Where's my brother, Carling?" I said coldly as I stepped up on the curb outside the entrance to the bathhouse, ignoring the other man's outstretched hand.

Carling shrugged, then made the same gesture I had seen him make earlier with the television reporter. "I don't know. He's not back yet."

"Back from where?"

"He's walking the streets with Marl and a few of the Guardian Angels; they're looking for more people to take in for the night."

"Marl? Braxton's here?"

The male nurse nodded.

"Braxton's dangerous, Carling. You told me that yourself; you said he was the most dangerous man in the clinic. You're supposed to be a Goddamn mental health professional. What the hell are you doing parading around with this freak show?"

"Freak show, Mongo?" Carling said softly.

"I'm not talking about these poor people, Carling, and you know it! I want to know why you let my brother go off walking the streets with a potential killer!"

"Marl isn't dangerous any longer, Mongo," he replied easily. "Except, perhaps, to anyone who tried to harm Garth. That hasn't happened yet, and I don't believe it ever will. Marl is Garth's protector, not his enemy."

"Carling, you son-of-a-bitch, why couldn't you at least have picked up a phone and told me that Garth was with you, and that he was all right?"

The big man with the pony tail flushed slightly, dropped his gaze. "I guess I should have," he said softly.

"You're damn right you should have! How the hell do you think my parents and I have felt all these months, not knowing whether Garth was dead or alive?"

"I. . wasn't sure what your attitude would be, or what might happen if the D.I.A. got hold of him again. I knew. . what Slycke was planning to do, and I just couldn't let that happen. If there was any chance that Dr. Slycke might somehow still manage to-"

"What the hell are you talking about? Slycke's dead."

Tommy Carling looked at me, his mouth slightly open. He shook his head, swallowed. "What did you say?"

"You didn't know?"

"That Dr. Slycke is dead? Of course not. How did it happen? When?"

"Is there someplace we can talk?"

Carling nodded, then gestured toward the entrance to the bathhouse. I followed him inside, through a group of bag people who were still clustered at the entrance. I stopped just inside the entrance and looked around, stunned by what I saw.

The interior of the building, that part which I could see, was huge; with all of the interior walls gutted, the space I found myself in looked as big as an airplane hangar. There was a lot of scaffolding spiderwebbing the interior space, and anchored to a stone balcony which went all around the hall. The entire roof of the building had been removed, and was now covered with layers of heavy plastic sheeting. Everything looked spotless-scrubbed where it was stone and freshly painted where it was wood. The line of people outside led directly to a long, gleaming counter where stew was being served out of huge, steaming cooking pots by men and women in green, logo-emblazoned jackets or headbands. People ate off paper plates in one section of the vast hall, while in another people rested in neat, tightly packed rows on air mattresses, covered by khaki army surplus blankets which looked new. At the far end of the hall, men and women wearing pale brown robes and paper slippers, with towels draped over their shoulders, emerged from two sets of swinging doors which exuded faint wisps of steam. The men and women filed behind separate partitions, emerged dressed in clothes that were obviously used, but clean. Then they left, or went to get food, or went to rest on an air mattress and blanket, which were being distributed by the nun.

Music, unobtrusive but still clearly audible, filled the hall, piped in through at least a dozen loudspeakers hanging from the stone balcony. Siegfried.

Men and women who were either doctors or paramedics moved quietly among the people on the air mattresses, checking throats, answering questions, listening to heartbeats, occasionally giving out something from the black leather bags they carried. Like the other workers, the medical people wore the distinctive green jackets or headbands.

There was a strange odor in the air, rising above all the other odors, which caught my attention, but which I could not immediately identify. Outside the building, there had been the smell of the streets and unwashed bodies; inside was the smell of soap, disinfectant, steam, paint, washed stone, medicine, plastic, coffee, hot food-but the smell that had caught my attention was none of these. I found the odor vaguely ominous.

"What the hell?" I murmured.

"Are you impressed, Mongo?" Tommy Carling asked quietly.

"Who runs this place?"

"Everybody; nobody."

"Who owns the building?"

"It belongs to Garth; the deed is registered in his name."

"Oh, yeah? Not bad for a guy who's never had more than two thousand dollars in the bank, and who hasn't even been bothering to pick up his disability checks."

"The money comes from many sources, Mongo. God provides. Shall we go someplace where it's quieter?"

I followed Carling across the hall, through a maze of pipe scaffolding, through a door and into a medium-sized office. Like everything else, it had been freshly painted. There was a desk, and a couple of chairs. The entire wall behind the desk was covered with a rendering of the rings-and-knife logo. Siegfried was playing here, too.

"You mind turning off that music?"

Carling sat down behind the desk, turned a rheostat on the wall; the music grew softer, but continued to play. "It always plays," Carling said simply, motioning for me to sit down in one of the straight-backed chairs. "We prefer it that way. We've learned from Garth to let that music serve to remind us of all that needs to be done; it focuses the concentration."

"I find it distracting."

Carling shrugged. "Yes, well; there's the difference, I guess."

"What difference?"

"Between you and us."

"How does God provide, Tommy?"

"You seem fixated on financial questions, Mongo."

"I'm curious; I'm curious as to what Garth is a part of, and who's financing it. If the deed for this place is registered in Garth's name, it could make him legally, or morally, responsible for things he might not want to be responsible for."

"Did you see anything illegal or immoral happening out there?"

"I just got here."

"Some people might say that it's none of your business," the other man said evenly.

"Some might."

"Would you believe that we picked up this place for a ten percent down payment against the back taxes owed by the previous owners?"

"I don't know. Why shouldn't I believe you?"

"Because you're a very skeptical man, Mongo-some people might even describe you as cynical."

"Yeah, but I've never tried to buy a bathhouse."

"It was foreclosed some years ago by the city after they closed it down. At the time, this wasn't exactly a target area for real estate developers, and the city was more than happy to unload it. It was a white elephant."

"There are a lot of other things going on around here that aren't financed by payments against back taxes."

"Word gets around."

"Word of what?"

"Word of good people with good intentions doing good things. Most people really do want to help people who are less fortunate than they are, Mongo, if you only give them a chance-and if you set an example and lead them. There are individuals and corporations, as well as various relief and funding agencies, which heartily approve of what we're doing, and they've been contributing substantial amounts of money, goods, and services. They like what's happening here. Most of the construction and mass organization you saw out there has only begun to happen in the past month or so."

"What is it that's happening here?"

"What you see."

"I'm not sure what I see."

"That doesn't surprise me, Mongo," Carling said in the same even tone-which was beginning to irritate me. "Each person must finally be responsible for what he sees-or doesn't see-with his own eyes, how he feels about what he sees, and what he does about it. That's one of Garth's lessons; it seems simple, but it certainly isn't."

"I'm Garth's Goddamn brother, Tommy, and I've been searching for him for four months! Why is it that none of this great 'word' ever got around to me?!"

Tommy Carling studied me with his expressive, hazel eyes. "Perhaps you didn't have the ears to hear, Mongo," he said at last in a very soft voice. "Somewhere it's written, 'Seek and ye shall find.' "

"You've got to be putting me on," I said in a low voice, feeling my anger begin to swell in me.

"I don't understand what you mean."

"No? Let me tell you who else has been just a tad concerned about Garth, my friend. Did it ever occur to you that his mother and father might have liked to receive just one little ring-a-ling to inform them that their son wasn't dead or lying comatose and unidentified in some strange hospital?!"

"But, if Garth chose not to-"

"Garth's sick!" I snapped. "He's not responsible for anything he thinks, says, or does. You're the one I hold responsible, Tommy!"

"Garth is not sick," Tommy Carling replied somewhat petulantly. "He's probably the healthiest person on the face of the earth."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I admit I-we-may have handled things badly, and that maybe I should have pressed Garth to contact you and your parents; but I told you that I was very concerned about what could happen if Dr. Slycke ever got hold of Garth again."

"And I told you that Slycke was dead."

"I didn't know that, Mongo. It's the truth; if I had known, I would have handled things much differently. Do you care to tell me what happened to him?"

"Why don't you tell me how you come to be here with Garth and Marl Braxton in this super-Salvation Army operation."

"The Salvation Army totally supports our work here, Mongo, and they might not think much of your attitude. You tell me your story first. How did Dr. Slycke die?"

Watching Carling's face very carefully, I told him what had happened up in the clinic the night I had gone there in response to Slycke's phone call. When I had finished, Carling tugged absently at his earring and shook his head.

"That's incredible, Mongo; you were incredibly lucky to get out of there alive."

"So I've been told."

"I didn't know about any of this. Naturally, since the clinic is a secret facility, news of Dr. Slycke's death wouldn't have been in the newspapers-even if I'd been reading them."

"Your turn, Tommy. The three of you took off even before Slycke called me, which means you must have snuck Garth and Braxton out from under Slycke's nose."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Garth never had any kind of relapse, Mongo. Slycke was lying."

"I'd gathered that," I said dryly.

"You talked to Slycke after you talked to me, about the same thing-the possibility of removing Garth from the clinic. You shouldn't have done that. It was why I didn't plan to report the conversation to Dr. Slycke; I knew it would make him very nervous. In fact, he panicked. I'm not sure why he reacted as severely as he did, but my guess is that he was under pressure-as you suspected might happen-from his superiors in Washington to keep Garth under close observation at all times, in order to monitor the effects of NPPD poisoning." Carling paused, seeming to study the opposite wall for a few moments, then continued: "Still, he was so upset that you might even be thinking about taking Garth out. I'm not sure I understand it. How could his superiors hold him responsible for potential actions of yours which you had every right to make? It doesn't make sense."

"Slycke's problems weren't with the D.I.A., Tommy, and they weren't the ones putting the pressure on him. He was an informant for the K.G.B., and they had their hooks into him good."

Carling's eyes opened wide, and he blinked slowly. "What?"

"Slycke was passing on information to the Russians, as well as taking orders from them. It was the K.G.B. making him nervous."

"Ahh," Carling said distantly, once again focusing his gaze on the wall behind me. "That could certainly explain a few other things."

"Like what?"

"I'd told you that Charles Slycke was a good doctor-and I sincerely believed that. It was why what he was planning to do came as such a shock to me."

"What was he planning to do?"

"He was going to institute a clearly experimental-and potentially dangerous-drug therapy program with Garth. There was absolutely no reason to do that, and it was unethical; he planned to do it in secret, without informing either Garth or you, or even trying to get permission. That made it illegal, as well."

"Just what kind of a program was this?"

"He was going to medicate Garth with a whole series of very powerful psychotropics. In effect, from what I could understand, his only motive was simply to see what might happen. I couldn't believe my ears when he told me what he was planning to do, or my eyes when I saw the medication orders on the daily sheet."

"He came up with this plan just before he barred me from the clinic?"

"Yes. Even a layman could see that Garth had made tremendous progress in a very short time. He wasn't violent, certainly no threat to himself or others, and he was lucid. Under no circumstances would any responsible psychiatrist want to do absolutely anything but continue to observe patiently, listen, and perhaps counsel. Yet Dr. Slycke was planning to saturate Garth with these drugs. I couldn't make any sense out of it-and then I remembered some of the concerns you'd expressed to me during the course of our conversation outside on the grass. I realized then that you'd been absolutely right. I also understood then why you'd been barred from the clinic. I guess I panicked."

"Why didn't you call and tell me about this when it happened, Tommy?"

"There was so little time. I was to begin administering doses to Garth-in any way I could manage-that very evening. I didn't know if you'd be able to stop Slycke, or what would happen to Garth, or me, if I tried to stop him. I'm just a nurse, and he could have ordered me off the premises out-of-hand-and had me locked up, to boot, as a suspected security risk. I was. . very upset. By that time, as I think you know, I'd become very attached to Garth-and to you, if I may say so. I just couldn't let Dr. Slycke do something that could destroy Garth's mind. So I did the only thing I could think of at the moment."

"You took Garth out."

"Yes," Tommy Carling replied quietly. "I just had to do something. I hadn't even thought about what I was going to do afterward. . I just acted."

"Thank you, Tommy," I said simply. "Garth and I owe you more than we can repay."

"Oh, no," the other man said quickly-and then looked at me in a way that made me slightly uncomfortable. I'd seen a similar look before-on Marl Braxton's face, when he had started to talk about Garth. "It's I who owe the two of you. Garth is. . very special."

"How did Marl Braxton get to join the party?"

"I took him out with Garth. Garth wouldn't leave without him, and. . well, there just wasn't a lot of time to argue; I only had two or three minutes' leeway. If I didn't take Garth out then, the chances were slim that I would be able to do it at all before he was drugged."

"A hell of a big decision, Tommy."

"Yes," the male nurse replied simply.

"How did you know Braxton wouldn't kill you the moment you got them away from the clinic? For that matter, how do you know he still won't kill Garth or you one of these days?"

Carling shook his head. "Garth assured me that Marl would be fine, and that he wouldn't cause any trouble. It's hard to explain, Mongo, but somehow I knew instinctively that Garth was right. He was."

"So far."

"He was right."

"Garth has an apartment." I said tightly. "I happen to be living in it. Why didn't you bring him back there?"

"For the same reason I didn't contact you; I was afraid the authorities would catch us, and somehow force Garth to go back to Slycke. Besides, Garth didn't want to go back there. He told me he wanted nothing more to do with anything in his past.

"We ended up in a flophouse not too far from here. I had — some cash with me, but it wasn't going to go very far with the three of us." Carling paused, spread his hands on the surface of the desk. "Mongo, I don't really know how to explain easily all that's happened since then. Four months is such a short time, but. ."

"Just tell me what happened, Tommy."

"On that very first night, Garth started his work-talking to and comforting some of the others in the flophouse, walking the streets and talking to drunks, bag people, people living in cardboard boxes. Those people responded to him the same way the patients in the clinic responded to him. Garth explained to me that he had to do these things, that it was the only way he could keep from crying.

"The next day, Garth went to the bank and emptied his savings account. He thanked me for taking him out of the clinic, and told me I should leave and go back to my old life. He and Marl were going to spend all his money on food and clothing for the street people, and then just do whatever it was they had to do. He wasn't worried at all about the future.

Mongo, I just got caught up in the spirit of what Garth was trying to do. You may say I'm crazy, or a fool, but I didn't want to leave. I just had this feeling-and it's impossible to describe-that something wonderful and very important was about to happen, and I wanted to be a part of it. I had my own savings, and a trust fund with a not inconsiderable amount of money in it. I used that money to put the down payment on the bathhouse to use as a base of operations for what Garth wanted to do, as well as buy the first food and clothing supplies to give out to those who needed it."

"If you used your money to buy the bathhouse, why did you put it in Garth's name?"

"Because I wanted to." Carling paused, smiled thinly. "You still don't understand. It was Garth who was going to make this wonderful, important thing happen, not my money. Although I didn't fully realize it at the time, I'd made a commitment, like Marl, to give everything I had-including my life-to whatever it was Garth wanted to do."

"Go ahead."

"After we moved into the bathhouse, things just began to snowball. Garth and Marl were out all the time, walking the streets and bringing people back here for food, shelter, clothing-or just comfort. We were quickly running out of everything, including money, and then the wonderful things started to happen. The 'word' that I mentioned had already started to get around. The Salvation Army, as well as a number of other relief agencies that operate down here, began to help us and share their resources. Lines began to form, and still Garth and Marl walked the streets to bring more people here. I think what most impressed the other agencies was Garth's effectiveness; some of the men and women he got to come to us for help would never think of going anywhere else. Nobody had ever been able to get them to accept help; they had always been afraid to go to city shelters, even during the winter."

"Afraid with good reason," I interjected. "They get ripped off in those shelters. Who keeps order here?"

Carling thought about it, as if the question hadn't occurred to him before. "There's Marl, of course," he said at last. "He can be very intimidating-to anyone who's looking for trouble. Also, we have a couple of dozen Guardian Angels who work for us. But we've never really had any trouble. There's just this feeling of goodness and good feeling around here that's almost palpable, at least to some of us, and I really do believe that it's this sense of goodness that radiates from Garth which keeps away evil." He paused, flushed slightly. "Silly, I know."

"Maybe not so silly," I said quietly. I was indeed most impressed with what was going on in the bathhouse-and terribly proud of my brother, despite all my other concerns and misgivings.

"Anyway, almost before we knew it, we were getting all sorts of offers of money, goods, and services from other relief programs, wealthy individuals, and corporations; the jackets and headbands you see everyone wearing are donated-no advertising strings attached-by a sporting goods manufacturer. You want a jacket, Mongo? I'm sure we can find one that will fit you."

"Let me think about it."

"The point is that we ended up, virtually overnight, with a sizable financial structure-and the responsibility that goes along with it. Thank God for Sister Kate."

"Sister Kate, I take it, is the nun outside?"

Carling nodded. "She's with the Sisters of Mercy. They donated her, in a manner of speaking, and it was a most significant contribution. Besides being a nun, she's a C.P.A., with an M.B.A. from Wharton. She helped us organize, and she keeps the books. Without her, we'd have been swamped long ago. She's just wonderful. She's a gift from God-Who, as I said, provides."

"But she's still a Catholic, in good standing with her order?"

"Of course; as I said, they 'donated' her. Why shouldn't she be?"

I pointed to the rings-and-knife mural on the wall behind the desk. "Is that a religious symbol?" I asked in what I hoped was a neutral tone.

"No. It's just. . well, it's just kind of a sign that identifies. People seem to like it. Kind of 'catchy,' don't you think?"

"It seems kind of militaristic for an organization like yours."

"Not at all; not when you understand what the rings symbolize."

"Wagner's operas."

"The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The great knife is Garth, struggling to defeat them."

"Who understands that?"

"People who understand it."

"Who designed it?"

"A Guardian Angel who used to be a graffiti artist. He'd been listening to Garth's stories about the Valhalla Project, and he came up with it. Everyone thought it was just super, so we adopted it as a logo. Why?"

"Just curious."

"Incidentally, I know now that all of Garth's stories about Siegmund Loge and the Valhalla Project are true, Mongo. Garth was never psychotic. He was simply telling the truth to the doctors, nurses, and patients in the clinic-but the patients were the only ones who sensed that it was the truth. Interesting."

"Yeah, interesting. What do you call yourselves?"

"We don't call ourselves anything. Others are starting to call us Garth's People."

"Lousy name," I said as I felt a sudden chill.

"Why?" Carling asked, and smiled thinly. "Because it reminds you of the name given to the people in Siegmund Loge's communes-Father's Children?"

"Something like that." The notion that Garth, even inadvertently, might be taking up where Siegmund Loge had left off in the overall scheme of things was just too sour an irony to dwell on. The Triage Parabola. Human extinction. Loge had said that, given our present state of being, nothing could be done; history would keep repeating itself over and over and over, until. . "Forget it. What difference does it make what you're called?"

"No difference. Names aren't important. The only important thing is Garth's mission on earth."

"His 'mission on earth,' Tommy?"

"Yes."

I spread my arms in a gesture meant to encompass the room, the bathhouse, the streets outside-and perhaps beyond. "What's your thinking about how Garth fits into all this?" The sudden chill I had felt hadn't gone away; indeed, I was growing colder by the moment.

"I don't understand your question," Carling said, leaning forward on the desk. His pony tail had fallen over his right shoulder. "Without Garth, this wouldn't exist. Garth is 'this.' "

"Tommy," I said as I breathed a small sigh, "from the very first time I saw you working with Garth, I knew you were a hell of a good nurse, a solid professional. I also pegged you as a man with his head and heart in the right place, and both feet solidly on the ground."

"But now you've changed your opinion of me?" the other man asked in a mild tone.

"Tommy, I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate-am grateful to you for getting Garth away from that clinic when you did. If you hadn't done what you did, Garth could have lost his mind, and maybe his life. But now I have to ask you a question."

"Please do," Tommy Carling said in the same mild tone.

"Anyone can see that you're helping all sorts of people, doing all sorts of good works …"

"But?"

"Is what you're up to here good for Garth? Once, that would have been the first question you asked yourself."

Carling looked vaguely surprised. "Good for Garth? This is what he wants and desperately needs, Mongo. You don't seem to be able to understand-or accept-that. He's a man who feels the suffering of others to the very core of his soul. You know that he cries when he sees someone-man, woman or child-hungry, cold, or in pain? To help other people is not only a spiritual need for Garth; it is, without exaggeration, a physical one."

"Tommy, my brother's an escaped mental patient, with his thinking seriously out of joint. I know this is selfish, and not at all in the spirit of the way things are done around here, but I have to think of my brother's welfare first. It occurs to me that all the business I see around here just feeds into his fantasies."

"Fantasies, Mongo?" the male nurse said, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Just what fantasies of Garth's are you referring to? Siegmund Loge, the Triage Parabola, and the Valhalla Project? Or maybe you mean his fantasy that he killed Orville Madison-and tried to kill somebody named Veil Kendry-because of the hurt inflicted on you?"

I quickly looked away, angry for having trapped myself. "Maybe 'fantasies' was a poor choice of words. What you're doing is feeding into his problem-which is a badly distorted self-image and perception of reality. He belongs back in a mental hospital, not walking the streets playing Mother Theresa."

Tommy Carling slowly shook his head, then absently brushed his ponytail back over his shoulder. "You're a hard man, Mongo. I honestly believe there's no sense of wonder-of awe or mystery-in you. I think I feel sorry for you."

"Thanks, Tommy. Believe me, I can use all the sympathy I can get. I'd like you to feel a little pity for my brother."

"Garth doesn't need my pity; he's the man who's given me a renewed sense of wonder, awe, and mystery."

"Garth is very seriously mentally disturbed."

Again, Carling shook his head. "You truly believe that, Mongo? Still?"

"Still? Not so long ago you would never have questioned it. You didn't help Garth escape from the clinic because you thought he was well; you took him out because you couldn't bear to see a sick man made even sicker at the hands of a fool." I paused, swallowed, put my own hands on the desk. "I guess what I'm doing is asking for your support in trying to convince Garth that he should go back to the D.I.A. clinic. He'll be all right there now."

"Garth doesn't belong in a mental hospital, Mongo," Carling said evenly. "Nor does Marl-not any longer, thanks to Garth. Garth is carrying out God's design for him."

"What does that mean, Tommy?" I asked, feeling my stomach muscles tighten.

Tommy Carling's easy, loud laugh startled me. "You've really been having a problem getting around to asking me what's really on your mind, haven't you? Well, the answer is yes, I do believe Garth is the Son of God, the Messiah. I believe just as Marl believes-and yes, I know about the conversation you had with Marl. If my thinking-knowing-that Garth is God's son, His personal messenger and our Savior, makes me crazy in your eyes, then so be it. I'm filled with more joy than you can possibly imagine, and what you think just doesn't matter to me."

"Tommy, your brains have run out your ears."

Carling merely smiled. "You hear something which disturbs you, and the only way you can react is with an insult. As I said, I feel sorry for you. I don't mean any offense, Mongo, but I can't help but wonder now if that scar on your forehead wasn't put there when it was for a reason."

"That's cute, Tommy; it's a new twist, and I love it. When did this great revelation about Garth come to you?"

"Now that I think back, I think I was beginning to realize it back at the clinic, even before I took Garth out," he replied, totally oblivious to-or choosing to ignore-my heartily felt sarcasm. "I began to realize it when I saw the incredible impact Garth had on sick people. Now … I'm just grateful that God chose me as His tool to save His son from destruction."

"Marl Braxton didn't plant this notion in your head?"

"No. I believe you were the only person Marl broached that subject to-and only because you're Garth's brother. I was the one who went to him with. . my conviction. That was when he told me about his. We had quite a laugh over it."

"I'll bet you did. Tommy, you don't really believe that Garth made a blind man see again, do you?"

"Absolutely," Carling said without hesitation. "There's no question that it happened. In fact, you had witnesses-including a New York City policeman, and a photographer. And there have been other miracles. The transformation of Marl Braxton is one-perhaps that was Garth's first miracle. Considering who-what-Garth is, it really isn't surprising that he should be able to perform miracles, is it?"

"Tommy, are you people running around advertising that Garth is the Messiah?"

"No. Even if we wanted to do that, Garth wouldn't permit it."

"Because he doesn't believe it himself."

"What Garth says and does is proof of who he is. Many people have already come to realize the truth, and their numbers will grow. Do you totally discount the possibility of miracles, Mongo?"

"In the sense that you mean the word, yes."

"Why?"

"Because I had to take science courses, beginning in grade school."

"What about the existence of God?"

"I don't know what you mean by 'God.' If you mean a kindly old fellow who periodically sends one of his offspring to earth to do magic tricks, the answer is no. The notion of divine intervention is a very old superstition, as old as our species. In its various manifestations down through the ages, the business of looking for, and finding, messiahs has caused us a lot of grief."

"That doesn't mean it couldn't happen."

"It's silly on the face of it."

"How do you explain Garth's impact on people?"

"How do you explain the impact Jim Jones or Adolf Hitler had on people?"

"Are you comparing your brother to mass murderers?"

"I'm saying that I have no way to explain why all of us occasionally think and behave in an irrational manner. I can't explain why people believe the things they do, or why they react to certain people the way they do. If somebody like you, who's intelligent and well educated, begins touting miracles and messiahs, what can we expect of people who aren't as intelligent and well educated?"

"But you don't understand," Tommy Carling said softly. "Garth really is the Messiah. When that sinks into your head, you'll feel the same joy and sense of wonder the rest of us feel. And your life will be changed forever."

"If this Harry August tells you he was totally blind and Garth made him see again, he's bullshitting all of you. You tell him I said that when you see him."

There was a soft knock on the door. Carling rose from behind the desk, walked across the office, and opened it. In the doorway stood the nun and the scar-faced man with the long, greasy black hair and dark glasses.

"Excuse me," the woman said, curtsying slightly in my direction. "I hope we're not interrupting anything important. Harry and I just wanted to meet Garth's famous brother."

Carling opened the door wider, stepped aside, then turned to me. "Mongo," he said evenly, "perhaps you'd like to deliver your message to Harry in person."