Gundown (33 page)

His father said, “Look at the way the queer walks, Hank.”

Little Hank wasn’t sure what a queer was, but he’d felt the belt too many times in his six years to ignore an order. So he looked. Bernie kinda wiggled when he walked, but that was just the way he was.

Bernie smiled at him. “Hey there, Hank.” Little Hank enjoyed the musical sound of his voice.

Before Little Hank could answer, his father lunged and grabbed Bernie’s shirt with both hands.

“Keep away from my boy, faggot!” He slugged Bernie in the gut. When Bernie doubled over, Little Hank’s father kneed him in the face, sending him crashing into a garbage can. Bernie sprawled on the sidewalk, gasping for breath and bleeding from his nose.

Grabbing Little Hank by an ear, his father forced him to stand over Bernie. His dad leaned close to Little Hank’s face and glared with mean eyes. “That is an animal, boy, an animal that breaks God’s law, rutting with other beasts who profane the Word of God.”

He kicked Bernie in the head. “Animals that break God’s law ought to be put down. Not just the queers and niggers and spics and Jews whose very existence is an insult to the Lord.” Spittle flew from his father’s mouth. “The thieves and fornicators, too, and those who visit violence on others, all animals, all doomed to the fires of Hell.”

His dad stopped and knelt in front of Little Hank, his scowl triggering a wave of trembling in Little Hank. “There’s real human beings, God-fearing righteous people like you and me, and then there’s the animals. This world would be a whole lot better off without ’em, and don’t you forget it.”

Holding back tears, Little Hank nodded.

“What’d I say they were?”

Little Hank whispered, “Animals . . .”

“I don’t hear you!” his dad screamed into his face.

Little Hank wailed, “They’re animals.”

“Wipe up them faggy tears.”

His dad released Little Hank’s ear and strode off. Little Hank trotted to keep up, trying to hold back a sniffle.

Dr. Moore’s voice came softly. “Okay, Hank, you will now return to the present. You will remember what happened. Three. Two. One. Wake.”

Hank opened his eyes and stared at the memory that replayed in his head. It sickened him. But it rang true. And there were scores like it echoing through his mind.

The doctor said, “That incident was just one of many times you saw your father use bigotry and brutality to dehumanize those he hated, and apparently he hated just about everyone. Those we can dehumanize, we can kill without feeling; it’s the syndrome that enabled Nazi soldiers to take Jewish babies by the feet and smash their skulls against walls.

“I want to take away your ability to dehumanize people.” She rested a hand on his forearm. “The question is, may we do it? Your medical advocate will make sure we do what we say.”

His old fear of the government screwing with his mind whispered.
Escape. You can do it from here, easy. Right now. All you have to do is make your move.

Then he thought of the desert he’d seen from the top of the Keep, the desert that was just like his life. Escape wouldn’t change that. He didn’t want to live in a desert anymore.

“What if I don’t do the surgery?”

“Psychotherapy is the only alternative. It could take months, a year, but I think we can get it done that way, too.”

“You ‘think’?”

“It’s not as precise or definitive.”

They could cut out the part of him that was a monster? Life was too short for therapy. And they were coming after Noah. “Let’s take the shortcut.”

She stuck out a hand to shake. “A man of action. I like that. Tomorrow?”

He shook her hand. “Tomorrow.”

The next morning, Hank met his advocate, Dr. Oliver, another surgeon/shrink, a wise-looking man in his fifties with a face like a basset hound. Hank liked Dr. Oliver and thought he’d see the job done right.

After a session in the MRI tunnel and the MSR (which he’d learned meant “magnetically shielded room”) for the MEG, Hank lay on an operating room table. A snootful of Valium made the room a pleasant place. Dr. Oliver, his hound-dog eyes easy to recognize above his mask, stood ready beside Dr. Moore. Hank gazed up at the doctors. Above his head, a white robotic arm whirred as it positioned itself.

Hank smiled. “I feel like a new car on an assembly line.”

Dr. Moore positioned his head with her hands and tightened a strap across his forehead that held it in place. “Just relax and hold still now. This will take only a few minutes.”

A few minutes to change a lifetime. Hoping that he would wake up as himself, Hank closed his eyes and concentrated on Amy’s necklace.

He woke on a hospital bed in a recovery room. Memory of what he’d been through surfaced. His mind was clear and sharp. As he listened to his thoughts, the mental “voice” inside his head sounded the same. His kinesthetic sense of body said that all was as it should be. As far as he could tell, he was the same.

As far as he could tell.

But his mind was not at rest. Unbidden, a memory of killing Earl Emerson appeared. If only Hank hadn’t been contemptuous of stoppers—and Earl’s right to live—Earl could be alive now, and maybe even well.

Earl faded away, and the two punks Hank had killed in Chicago came to mind. If Illinois had treated guns like Oregon, he could have just stopped them. Hell, Jewel could have stopped them. And maybe therapy could have started them on the road to becoming decent human beings. How many rapes and assaults could be prevented if people could defend themselves with weapons like stoppers? But he’d used a gun. To kill. Not to disable.

To put them down.

Marcie’s anguished face appeared. In the world Noah Stone was creating, his wife might be alive now, well and loving him. But he’d used a gun.

Oh, how he missed her touches.

The haunts at last left him alone. He drifted off.

When Hank woke in his room the next morning, he lay still, eyes closed, searching inside to see if he was truly himself. Nothing seemed wrong or alien, but there was one change. He sensed the low, deep ache of his sorrow for Marcie and Amy waiting to come again.

But other than that he was . . . empty. His thoughts seemed to echo in a void, uncushioned by the presence of anyone else in his life. He’d once had a life—he could now summon memories of laughter and love.

He rose to ready himself for his last session with Dr. Moore. Along with the envelope of his belongings, his clothes were on the dresser, the same jeans and black T-shirt he’d worn when he arrived—and when he’d killed Earl Emerson in the park. Ah, if only . . . He shook off a sense of regret. Regret changed nothing.

Just as he finished dressing, a knock came and Dr. Moore’s voice said, “Okay if I come in?”

Hey, the door must be unlocked. He opened it and tried a grin. “It’s your hospital.”

She closed the door behind her. “Let’s see how we did.”

He reclined on his bed and held Amy’s butterfly necklace in his hand. Fear that it hadn’t worked and he’d be sent back to the Keep crept into his mind. Well, apparently he wasn’t completely empty.

She said, “I’m going to search for the memories and conditioning that supported your feelings about guns and human life.”

In seconds, he went under.

It seemed like only a moment had passed when she woke him and said, “We’ve done it, Hank. I’ll order up a police helicopter to give you a lift out of here. You can pick up your life where you left off.”

He wondered where that was. “Doctor, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Hey, you’re the one who made the tough decisions, I’m just the mechanic. Where will you go now?”

He blanked. Go? Where did an empty man go to be filled? There was nothing in Chicago except bad weather and bad memories. Ashland? He’d pretty much destroyed any welcome he had there. Hell, he wouldn’t want someone around who killed and kidnapped people.

An image of sunlit waves crashing onto a beach popped into his mind. “In that video Arnie gave me, there was a place, something about the sea . . .”

She smiled. “Bandon-by-the-Sea. I love it there.”

“Good spot to think?”

“Yeah. Look for a place called the Windermere. It’s a funky old 1950s motel a stone’s throw from the prettiest beaches you’ll ever see.” She gazed at him and then nodded. “You’ll be okay. That’s what I told Noah this morning.”

“Noah Stone?”

“How many Noahs do you know? He called to ask about you yesterday. He was very pleased to hear you were doing therapy.”

The information warmed Hank, and he wondered how anybody could be that . . . big? He slid off the bed.

“So where to?”

After the Keep, freedom and lazing on a beach sounded mighty good. But Noah was maybe the only friend he had in the world, and he didn’t know people were out to get him. He said, “Ashland.”

She grinned and then said “What the hell” and hugged him. He hugged back.

Prelude to Fear

As Mitch watched for his suitcase at a Medford airport baggage carousel, a woman’s voice said, “Fancy seeing you here.”

Colonel Hanson’s eyes—beautiful and cold—greeted him. Her flannel shirt and pants had become a gray business suit and spike heels, her wavy black hair pulled back in a bun. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. No one appeared to be, but her standing next to him made him nervous. What if someone recognized her?

She solved his problem by reaching in front of him for a floral suitcase. As she extended the tow handle, she said, “I’m at the Ashland Springs Hotel under the name of Betsy Ross. Bring me the gun there.” She looked him up and down. “And I don’t socialize when I’m working.”

Somehow, he was glad to hear that. She headed for the car rental counter, and he went back to watching for his bag.

At Rick Hatch’s house, Mitch sat on the patio in the backyard, a cold beer in his hand. “I hear you’ve had your differences with Noah Stone,” he said.

“That’s for damn sure.”

“I’m here on a mission to stop him. I need a gun.”

Hatch shifted his gaze to the green hills across the valley for a time. “I don’t think I want to do that.”

Mitch sucked in a breath. “For God’s sake, why not?”

Hatch looked to him. “I’ll be straight with you. Even though I hate what he’s done to our right to bear arms, things are gettin’ better around here. My window-cleaning business is growing more than my gun business has dropped off. The more money comes into the valley, the more people can afford to have me do their windows.” He glanced at the house; inside, his wife hummed as she worked in the kitchen. “And Betty tells me she feels safer these days.” He chuckled. “She carries one of them pee shooters.”

Mitch said, “You don’t sound like a militia man, Rick.”

“Times change.” Hatch took a long pull on his beer. “No, I think I’m better off lettin’ Noah Stone keep on.”

Mitch sipped beer and took a moment to calm himself. “In your militia, didn’t you take an oath to defend our country? The Constitution?”

Hatch stiffened. “Yeah.”

“Then live up to it. Which one of your rights do you think Stone will take away next? Free speech?”

Hatch studied him. “This’s a matter of principle for you, ain’t it? Well, I’d be the last one to say you don’t have a right to fight for what you believe in.”

Mitch smiled and took an easygoing tone. “I’m not going to hurt him, Rick. Just scare him so he stops doing what he’s doing.”

Hatch said, “Well, I figure Stone’s already done the hard part. I guess things’d be okay if he was, uh, out of the picture.” He pushed up from his chair. “You just set there a minute.” He shambled inside.

Mitch gazed at the hills across the valley, but didn’t really see them. If Noah Stone’s new world could sway the likes of Rick Hatch . . . well, the country was in for a world of hurt if they didn’t stop him.

The screen door swung open and Hatch stepped out holding a revolver. “Like I said, it’s a matter of principle, and I got to respect that. I’m with anybody who wants to fight for the American way.” He handed the gun to Mitch. “Got five rounds in it. You gonna need more?”

The gun was heavy and cold. It felt deadly. “This ought to do.” He stood and offered a hand to shake. “Thank you, Rick, for your service to our country.”

Hatch took it. He blushed. “Yessir. I mean, you’re welcome.”

“It’s too bad that no one else can ever know, but I will.”

Hatch straightened and pulled in his paunch. “Duty’s duty, I always say.”

As Mitch drove to his motel, he thought about that. Yes, duty was duty, and it had to be done.