Absolute Instinct (37 page)

“
I don't wanna hear no more, Mother!” he'd shouted at her. “Just go die of your own foul disease!”

She didn't miss a beat. “—and you, you know what they say about the acorn not falling far from the tree, and if you want to look up your genetic freak of a father, you only have to look, in the box, boy.”

She finished with another coughing jag, blood coming up. So apropos to her cursing Giles.

That had been years ago, the year of Mother's death that somber November day and night while he kept vigil at her bedside, not to ease her mind or as the obedient son but to be sure she was really dead when she finally took her last breath. He'd so wanted to open her up, remove her spine and feed on it as he'd done her cat, but he never got the chance.

Afraid of him, afraid of what he might do to her after death, she had ordered up her own cremation and the funeral home placed in charge, a place called French and Parker's back in Millbrook. The funeral boys rushed in like ghouls on automatic pilot and whisked her off straightaway on the basis of a court order she had made out in the event of her death to be cremated. French and Parker did not disappoint Mother. They did the cremation within hours according to her wishes, no wake, no fanfare, no candle burning, nothing. Mother's lawyer worked in close conjunction with the funeral home, overriding Giles's wishes for an old-fashioned, closed coffin wake, thinking he might get at the body sometime between its being embalmed and put out on the floor, thinking the spinal fluid and bone marrow from the backbone ought rightly to be his.

The thoughts most certainly frightened him, galled him even, but worst of all, the thoughts of doing this to Mother, extracting her essence, her luz, her al abj, her strength and her power to make it his own made him wonder even more deeply than ever about his father's identity, his insanity, his urges and actions. Only hinted at all these years by Mother but now handed over to him all wrapped in ribbon as a fucking nasty awful joke of a gift. Like handing someone a gun used by a suicide victim and calling it a gift that potentially “keeps on giving.” But that was Mother.

How much of his ill thoughts, his satanic and draconian urges had he in fact inherited from her and not Father? Why hadn't she bequeathed two boxes? One filled with dear old invisible Father and one filled with dear old venomous and quite visible Mother?

Giles had been given only a moment with her after she died there at the hospital, and he knew he had no chance given the openness and busyness of the place to take what every fiber in him craved. And the strict record kept of who was in and who was out of the rooms at any given time discouraged the violence he wanted to do. And with security just down the hall, he struggled mightily to restrain him-self, thinking he'd have his chance to break into the crematorium at Frenchy's, as it was called in the neighborhood, and attack the old crone, dead at forty-eight, that night. But the damnable partners at the funeral home acted quickly, paid well to do so.

Even in death she had cheated Giles of all he needed or ever really wanted. No matter now. He had killed Mother many times over now, and even Lucinda, in her way, was more like Mother than she was unlike Mother. And now all of his many Mothers dangled over his sculptures like long sleek egrets at full wing gliding over the mores of a strange sanctuary.

Unlike his other victims, he had only an opportunity to sketch Lucinda in death, never alive like the others. Sketches he had thrown into his own box along with news clippings and stories and materials and journal entries about his own exploits to rival those of dear old Dad.

Mother he had sketched many times over both alive and dead, depositing her into the box many times over, feeding birds in a park, petting a dog, walking a horse.

“
Perhaps Father is here someplace in Chicago,” he said aloud to Mother on the wind over the lake. “But so long as I don't know who the fuck he is, I really don't have to know, now do I?”

A voice from behind Giles interrupted his audible thoughts. “Whatcha doing with that box?” asked the nosey male jogger who'd stopped to tie his shoe as if an undercover cop. He was clean cut and bulked up from lifting barbells. He looked like a cop.

Giles lowered the box. “It's my fucking box. I'll do whatever the hell I want with it.”

The jogger nodded successively and rushed off.

“
Not a cop after all,” Giles told himself.

He then tucked the box under his arm as the first raindrops fell. He walked across the great expanse of the park, the grass growing wetter and wetter as he passed until his pant cuffs soaked through, even though the drizzle had remained light. The wind at his back pushed him hard as if a pissed off Satan were shoving, angry that he had failed to carry through on what he'd thought was a firm, final decision, one he would act on. The thunder overhead roared again and while his back was turned to Lake Michigan, he saw the flashes of lightning reflected in the thousands of blinking windowpanes ahead of him along Michigan Avenue. Cars whizzed past on the Outer Lake Shore Drive. When he finally arrived at the overhead bypass and the traffic at the terminus of Fullerton Avenue, the mild drizzle had become a steady beat like insistent pellets fired angrily into him. All of nature had agreed with him moments before, but now all of nature disagreed vehemently and the downpour felt like a power pressing in on him, all the divine and all the satanic at once mad with anger at his inability to follow through on a simple decision.

He'd made the decision only after arranging for a debut showing of his artwork at Cafe Avanti, where he had already set up his “unique and ingenious” sculptures—words of praise from the owners of the premiere artist cafe and art gallery across from the Music Box Theater.

He found a bus going west that would take him to Southport where he could exchange for a bus running to the 3000 block and Cafe Avanti. As he rode the bus, his pant legs dripping a puddle where he sat, he thought of Cafe Avanti, how fortunate he was to be showing his work there in the shadow of art history in the city and in the cafe's somewhat cramped and stuffy, dungeonlike rear rooms that formed a kind of myriad labyrinth that art patrons, and the curious numbers floating in and out of Avanti could wander through to Giles's delight. In a sense all of them, Mother, Sarah, Joyce, Louisa, and Lucinda Wellingham as well, must be seeing at this moment the fruition of Giles's work.

The bus arrived at the stop nearest Cafe Avanti, and Giles, his box safely in hand, deboarded the bus and walked proudly into the cafe, wondering if anyone viewing his showing with the brief descript and his photo would recognize him, and if his work would be rewarded with accolades from men and women who mattered, those in a position to help his career along.

# # #

Oregon State Penitentiary November 12, 2004

THE video cameras were disengaged by the bogus actors wearing uniforms of the power company that served the penitentiary and most of Portland, The Yakima Valley Power and Light Company. They'd come in on the heels of Sharpe, Reynolds, and Dr. Coran, all here for what appeared to be Robert Towne's last good-bye to his brother.

Inside the visitation room, Jessica, Sharpe and Darwin went into immediate action as soon as the cameras went down. Darwin began to strip off his clothes and throw them at his brother. Richard kept vigil at the door. Jessica explained to Towne what was going on.

“
Oh, no! No way! You going to get Darwin killed. No matter what, they're going to put a man to death here tonight at midnight. It ain't going to be Darwin.”

“
It ain't gonna be anyone, Bro. We've got it planned out. News that I am in and you are out is going nationwide today, long after you've been stashed.”

“
Strip off that prison jumpsuit, Mr. Towne,” Jessica ordered drill-sergeant fashion. “We only have minutes before the cameras are up and running again.”

Towne stared around the room at the still cameras, their lenses closed. “You're all crazy. You'll all be thrown into jail.”

“
Just do it, Robert!” Darwin's angry face was within inches of his big brother's. Jessica thought it like pressing one's face against a mirror. Their profiles perfectly matched, and Darwin had found a pair of glasses to match those his brother wore.

“
I can't let you do this, Darwin.”

“
Get the fuck outta those clothes, man. Now!”

Darwin stood in his underwear, his fists clenched, his chest heaving. “Let me do something just this once for you!”

A long moment of silence passed between the brothers. “They're getting damned restless outside,” warned Sharpe from the window in the door.

“
Please, Mr. Towne,” Jessica pleaded.

Towne raised a huge finger to the two-way mirror. “The screws are probably watching this whole damn foolish scheme right now, so just back off, Little Brother.”

“
We disconnected the two-way before we entered,” Jessica assured him. “Along with the cameras, all save that one.” She pointed to a single camera still operating. “We want to tape this, to insure Darwin's life.”

“
We'll get the tape,” Richard assured Towne.

“
They think it's the power company,” explained Jessica.

“
Now please, Robert, just do as we say,” began Darwin.

Jessica pleaded, “Put yourself... your life in our hands.”

Towne continued to stare at them all as if they were lunatics.

“
We've exhausted every other avenue, Rob. Let us... let me do this thing.”

“
It'll mean an end to your career, Darwin. You know that?”

Darwin slapped him hard across the face, drawing blood from his lip. Robert Towne hardly flinched, standing his ground, glaring into his brother's eyes, searching them for something. “I guess I had that coming for letting you down, Dar—”

“
What the hell're you talking about? Letting me down?”

“
I couldn't hold us together. They split us up, and I couldn't stop them. Couldn't never find you all those years I tried, and then I gave up hope of our ever being a family ever again.”

“
I never once felt you betrayed me, Robert, or gave up or did anything to hurt me, not once.”

Robert Towne hugged his brother to him. Darwin pushed away after a moment and said, “Now give me those goddamn prison clothes.”

They exchanged clothes and dressed quickly, still but toning up when the cameras began to pan around the room again.

Darwin went immediately into character, picking up a chair and hurling it at his brother, who was now in a three-piece Brooks Brothers suit.

Towne, as Reynolds, deflected the chair and charged at Darwin, now in the orange jumpsuit. Richard grabbed the false Darwin's arm before he could land a punch and shoved him hard against the two-way mirror. “Stand down, Agent Reynolds! This isn't Dodge City, and you're not Wyatt Fucking Earp!”

“
We're outta here,” Jessica announced, knowing the audio and video equipment in the room was again operational. Two guards pushed through the door and ushered Darwin, in jumpsuit, out.

“
Stay in character,” Jessica said in Towne's ear.

“
Let's get the fuck outta here. He don't wanna talk to me, then fuck Robert Towne.”

They leap-frogged the power and light workmen who busily cleaned up after themselves. The party of three apparent FBI agents stopped at the last inside checkpoint where their telephones and guns were returned to them.

Jessica exchanged a look with Richard as Robert Towne hefted his brother's weighty .43 Smith & Wesson, a half smile creased the giant man's features.

The power and light people passed them now carrying out their cables and tools. The three FBI agents signed out and marched down the corridor, falling in behind the men wearing the brown uniforms of the local power company, each carrying cables and strange handheld gadgets. Jessica had earlier found these willing activists among the mob at the gates, wooing them away and striking a deal with them. They not only wanted to help but to film as much as possible of the event. Death-penalty opponents, they were also film students and actors who had grown up with computers and media. “Don't get complacent, Towne. We still have three checkpoints to get past,” said Sharpe.

“
Yeah,” replied Towne, “but I got my FBI badge and gun.”

“
Under no circumstances, Towne, do you use that gun,” warned Sharpe. “It would only destroy our chances of making this work.”

“
Besides,” added Jessica, watching his fingers itch over the bulge of the holstered gun, “it's not loaded.”

He broke into an enormous laugh which he suddenly stifled. “Figures... goddamn just figures.”

A couple of guards stared in reaction to Towne's outburst.

“
The way he deals with grief,” said Jessica aloud. “Who can figure how a man's going to deal with the death of a loved one?”

Sharpe whispered to Towne, “A little grief for your brother's plight, Darwin, might be in order here.”

“
He dies in this fucked up place from listening to you two, and I'll fucking show you grief, Agent Sharpe, you and Agent Coran both.”

In the car, Towne breathed the air as if he'd never had the experience before, but his deep inhalations became near gasps as they began to make the first hurdle past the first outside checkpoint and he heard and saw the enormous crowd gathered outside the prison—90 percent screaming for his blood while waving homemade signs that called him filthy names and asked that he burn in Hades. A small contingent of others waved the signs of those opposed to any sort of capital punishment.