W Is for Wasted (40 page)

I felt tears well. “I bet you introduced him to Terrence Dace when he was admitted to the CCU.”

“He was very sick. He was doomed. I offered him a better death. The aide came in so I said good night. I said we’d come back for him.”

He lashed out at me so abruptly, I could feel the blade displace the air as it whipped across my face. I jerked back. I put my hand behind me, grabbing the arm of the aluminum lawn chair to keep from stumbling. I glanced down and then swung the chair in a hard arc. I caught Linton by surprise, though he managed to get his arm up to soften the impact. He focused on me with curiosity, perhaps with a touch of respect. I wondered if he thought I’d go down without a fight.

I held the chair in front of me, the four legs keeping him at bay. He paused to consider his options and then lashed out again. He was quick in the way a striking snake is quick. Out and back, hoping to bury his blade in me. I struck him with the chair, driving at him with all four legs. A hard bang as the two front legs jabbed his chest. I backed up and to my left, forcing him to shift right to keep me in range. From the corner of my eye, I saw a touch of white.

The cat was out.

Linton saw him at the same time I did and I watched his eyes flicker toward Ed. I struck again to distract him. Ed paid no attention to either one of us. He sat down and licked his paw, grooming his face with a curling gesture that broke my heart.

Now it was Linton who moved. I knew what he was up to. A demonstration. The Biter cutting to the bone. The simplicity of math. If not me, the cat. My only advantage was that I could devote both hands to the chair I held while his left hand was occupied. A leftie. I’d forgotten. He had his little friend to protect. I lunged, snapping the chair in front of me like a lion tamer. It was too light to do him any harm, but it created a buffer zone between us.

He snatched at the chair and I pushed abruptly, causing him to stumble backward by one step. I leaned left and I grabbed a clay pot of marigolds by the rim. I threw it hard, directly at his face. A gash opened up on his forehead. Scalp wounds really are the most dramatic. No reaction from him. He probably didn’t feel a thing. The Biter flew again and I didn’t draw back in time. The blade nicked me on the cheek. Linton liked that, drawing blood for blood. I abandoned the chair. I grabbed the big plastic bag of sphagnum moss and held it in front of me like a chest protector. Linton struck and the blade opened up a long slit. Moss bulged through the cut like internal organs being liberated.

I stooped to the mound of lawn mulch and swept upward, an armload of fine dirt flying at his face. He inhaled silt and coughed. He backed up, his body racked as his lungs fought off the insult. The dirt had stuck to his sweaty skin. A minstrel in blackface.

I grabbed a second clay pot and threw it. He deflected it with his arm. Striking him in the head was my only hope. His heavy coat offered him padding. I was in jeans, shirt, and running shoes, my movements unhampered where he had the bulk of his coat to contend with. The only sounds we made were the grunts of two tennis players, putting everything we had into each shot. My body heat had jumped from chill to flame in the space of those few minutes. He was sweating. The Biter must have been slippery in his fingers but his grip was sure.

I saw his eyes flicker again. I’d lost track of the cat whereas Linton had not. Ed had retreated into the shrubs, where he watched us warily. He crouched much closer to Linton than to me. I’d give up before I’d let Linton hurt the cat. My chest was on fire. My heart banged in my ears. I wanted to say don’t. I wanted to protest. Linton plunged into the bush and grabbed the cat. This was a mistake. Ed twisted and spat, hissing as he ripped into Linton with his claws. Linton struggled to secure his hold, but Ed propelled himself out of Linton’s hands like a whirling dervish. Linton made a sound and the cat was off like a shot. He put a hand to his cheek and then checked his fingertips. He was bleeding. I could see the angry red welt where Ed had made his mark with his rear claws.

I needed a shield. Something between me and the blade. The aluminum lawn chair had folded in on itself to form a flat metal plank. We grabbed for it at the same time, both of us now holding on with two hands. The Biter remained in Linton’s grip, but he couldn’t maneuver the blade while clinging to the chair. He released his hold, allowing me full possession for all the good it would do. The chair was crudely constructed, not meant to endure much in the way of punishment. It was already growing heavy. My arms burned from the weight.

Linton wanted full access. No impediments. Just me and the small deadly rapier no bigger than his index finger. I heaved the chair at him, but I was too tired to do so with any force. He backed up a step and the chair dropped with scarcely a sound. He lashed and as I jumped, I banged into the potting bench. I snatched the pruning shears from the spot where they were affixed to the garage wall. The second set was bigger, but I had to work with what was closest to hand. I opened the blades and chopped at him. The sound was good, so I chopped at him again.

I swung the shears as though at batting practice. Linton’s face was red and his breathing was hoarse. The sound of childhood asthma. I pictured him chubby. A white, fleshy boy. A sissy on the playground. I could have beaten him in second grade, but girls didn’t do those things back then. I held the pruning shears low, giving my arms a rest. He struck. I jumped back, angling the shears in front of me. I whacked his left hand full force, hoping his fingers would loosen. He backed up a pace, pausing to catch his breath.

In his hand, the Biter had the look of a claw.

This was the difference between us. He was nuts. I was mad. His thinking was disorganized while I wasn’t thinking at all.

I went after him. My only hope was to wear him down. He was heavier than I by a good seventy pounds. I was light on my feet. I was speedier. I would never give up. I would fight to the death if that’s what it took. He had his hands on his knees. He panted. I moved toward him, pulling the shears back like a baseball bat. I knew the risk. Linton might not be as tired as he looked. I might not be as strong. I drove at him, aiming for his head. His hand came up to protect his face. I struck the Biter on follow-through and watched the scalpel fly off into the dark. When I looked down, Linton was on his back. His coat was caught under him, leaving his belly exposed. I lifted the shears above my head like a sword.

Someone said, “Kinsey, it’s okay. You don’t have to do that.”

Cheney stood in the drive. He hadn’t even drawn his gun. He knew I could do it but trusted that I would not. Anna, white-faced and mute, stood behind him.

EPILOGUE

The district attorney filed first-degree-murder charges against Dr. Linton Reed in the shooting death of Pete Wolinsky. Involuntary manslaughter charges were also brought against Reed for the deaths of R. Terrence Dace, Charles Farmer, and Sebastian Glenn, whose participation in the Glucotace scandal resulted in misdiagnosis and medical mismanagement. The DA theorized that once the first victim died, Reed’s continuation of the suspect drug regimen amounted to criminal negligence.

Dr. Linton Reed, through his attorney, declined all requests to be interviewed by the police. He took a leave of absence from the university, where his research was suspended. His wife’s family is sufficiently wealthy to underwrite his legal expenses, but after an initial outpouring of protests as to his innocence, his wife has begun to disassociate herself from this once well regarded young researcher whose star fell so swiftly to Earth. Better to be married to a bum than a criminal, says she.

Eventually a deal was reached between the DA and Reed’s attorney for a plea to voluntary manslaughter with a gun use for twenty-one years in prison. Part of the plea deal was dismissal of the involuntary manslaughter charges in the deaths of the three homeless men because all three suffered from multiple debilitating diseases that, individually or together, could have proved fatal. Analysis confirmed Dace’s claim that the medication he was taking was indeed Glucotace, which was probably responsible for his failing health and eventual death, as well as that of Charles Farmer and Sebastian Glenn. Nonetheless, the DA’s deal with Dr. Reed was supported by Dace’s three children, who announced at the same time that they’d reached an out-of-court settlement with Reed, the university, and Paxton-Pfeiffer, the pharmaceutical company that had supported his research. Each of the Dace children received $150,000 in compensation for their pain and suffering.

Dace’s will went unchallenged, in part because the legal costs would have been prohibitive, but more importantly, because it would have been inconsistent to claim in a civil suit that their father was of sound mind and body and a victim of premature death at the hands of Reed, thereby justifying a monetary award, and at the same time assert he was so debilitated as a result of drink that he could not competently decide as to the disposition of his assets.

You may wonder (as who has not?) what I did with the half a million dollars that fell into my lap. After less than one minute of consideration, this is the plan I came up with: I made a generous donation to Harbor House and then I put the rest in my retirement account. Do I feel at all apologetic about my good fortune? Of course not. Are you nuts?!

But these are procedural odds and ends, some of them months in the making; dry matters when laid up against the lives of Terrence Dace and Felix Beider. I paid to have their remains cremated with the intention of scattering their ashes at some future date. According to the municipal codes governing this matter, I learned that it is illegal to scatter ashes at a public golf course, a public beach, or a public park. Though it was not specifically spelled out, I was certain that flinging them off a freeway overpass would be frowned upon as well, so I set that decision aside temporarily.

I put William in charge of the memorial service, which was held on the grassy area at the beach where the homeless congregate most days when the weather’s good. There was no sign of Ethan, but Anna was in attendance, as were Ellen and her young family, who’d driven down from Bakersfield. The children had never seen the ocean, and they ran barefoot and shrieking to the water’s edge under Hank’s watchful eye. William was amused by their enthusiasm, smiling to himself as they danced in the surf.

Henry had adapted and copied portions of Dace’s botanical folios to create a program commemorating the farewell. Pearl and Dandy were there, along with their new friend, Plato the preacher man. Ken and Belva and other volunteers from Harbor House made an appearance, along with assorted staff members. There was no drinking, of course, and I’m happy to report Pearl only excused herself once for a quick smoke behind a tree.

The day was sunny, the temperature in the midsixties. William wore his best three-piece suit as was fitting for the occasion. His white hair was riffled by the breeze coming off the ocean, and his voice, powdery with age, rang clearly in the open air—in consequence, he later pointed out, of his early mastery of elocution.

William selected and arranged for the music, saying no send-off would be complete without hymns. He’d hired a solo trumpeter (on my dime, of course), who opened the service by playing “Amazing Grace.” Strangers passing along the beach path recognized the solemnity of the gathering and paused, looking on respectfully. Cyclists, walkers, joggers, and mothers pushing strollers lingered at the periphery until the crowd numbered close to sixty by my count.

When the trumpeter finished, William welcomed everyone and thanked them for coming. He recited the Lord’s Prayer and those who knew it chimed in. He read the Twenty-third Psalm. There was no proselytizing and none of the formalities rested too heavily on the Christian side of the equation. As he said, his purpose was not to convert, but to express the optimism of faith in all its forms. He and Henry then joined in a duet, singing an a cappella rendition of the spiritual “Going Home.” Their two strong tenor voices blended in a harmony that was both simple and sublime. I’d never heard Henry sing and certainly not in concert with his brother.

Thereafter, William invited remembrances from those who’d been acquainted with Terrence and Felix. Ellen couldn’t bring herself to speak; too shy in a public setting and far too upset to talk about her father. Anna talked about his love of nature, and then Dandy and Pearl both told stories about the two. Their recollections were varied and amusing, with more laughter generated than you’d expect. Or maybe the laughter was exactly appropriate. I’ve never attended a funeral yet where those present were not bound by both tears and mirth. It was William who captured the sentiment.

William’s eulogy was brief.

We are here this afternoon to mourn the passing of two good friends, Terrence Dace and Felix Beider. They were homeless. Their ways were not those we most desire for ourselves, but that didn’t make them wrong. We seem determined to save the homeless, to fix them, to change them into something other than what they are. We want them to be like us, but they are not.

The homeless do not want our pity, nor do they deserve our scorn. Our judgments about them, for good or for ill, negate their right to live as they please. Both the urge to rescue and the need to condemn fail to take into account the concept of their personal liberty, which they may exercise as they see fit as long as their actions fall within the law. The homeless are not lesser mortals. For Terrence and Felix, their battles were within and their victories hard-won. I think of these two men as soldiers of the poor, part of an army of the disaffiliated. The homeless have established a nation within a nation, but we are not at war. Why should we not coexist in peace when we may be in greater need of salvation than they?

This is what the homeless long for: respect, freedom from hunger, shelter from the elements, safety, the companionship of the like-minded. They want to live without fear. They want to enjoy the probity of the open air without the risk of bodily harm. They want to be warm. They want the comfort of a clean bed when they are ill, relief from pain, a hand offered in friendship. Ordinary conversation. Simple needs. Why are their choices so hard for us to accept?

What you see before you is their home. This is their dwelling place. This grass, this sunlight, these palms, this mighty ocean, the moon, the stars, the clouds overhead though they sometimes harbor rain. Under this canopy they have staked out a life for themselves. For Terrence and for Felix, this is also the wide bridge over which they passed from life into death. Their graves will be unmarked but that does not mean they are forgotten. The Earth remembers them, even as it gathers them tenderly into its embrace. The sky still claims them and we who honor them will hold them dear from this day forward.

In closing, the trumpeter sounded “Taps.” When the service ended people hugged and shook hands and wiped their eyes and blew their noses, connected for that small window in time. The camaraderie might never rise to the fore again, but I believe it was heartfelt and genuine while it lasted.

As for the matter of the ashes, William and Henry and I considered scattering them along the beach, thus committing an act of civil disobedience, but in the end, Henry came up with a better idea. We took the ashes home with us, and in a private ceremony of our own, we folded them into the rich earth in Henry’s flower beds, where they’ll nourish the roses when spring comes again.

Respectfully submitted,

Kinsey Millhone

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