The Dead Man: Ring of Knives

A bug landed on the page: a beetle with black, metallic wings. Matt flicked it away and kept reading.

Soon after his ordeal, JW began to claim that he could see lesions on individuals which were invisible to others, and that these lesions presaged violent incidents. He furthermore claimed that he was visited by a personage he called Rotting Jack, who taunted him, infected others with lesions, and was always accompanied by a distinct odor of decomposing flesh. Eventually, his symptoms regularly merited six points on the hallucination scale and thirteen on the psychosis index of the BPRS. JW showed early improvement with a combined regime of cognitive behavioral therapy, Flupenthixol, and Prolixin, but his condition began to deteriorate into hyperkinetic states after regular usage. He is currently residing at a facility in Washington State under the care of Dr. John Dindren.

'Got shifty eyes, don't he?'

Matt looked up. The driver's wraparounds had turned from the road, were focused on the page in his hand.

Matt wasn't sure if the driver was talking about JW, who did have a juvie squint, or Dr. Dindren, who looked nearsighted despite wearing Coke-bottle-thick goggles. He closed the folder. 'I didn't notice.'

'Didn't—?' The driver snorted. 'Oh, you got to notice the eyes. Always take note a' the eyes.'

'Huh. And why's that?'

'Well, hell, boy, everyone knows that the eyes'—he peeled off his sunglasses —'they're the windows to the soul.'

Matt flattened against the far door with a sharp, harsh intake of breath. His heart pounded wildly.

The driver had no eyes.

None.

Just sockets.

And they were seething with black masses of carrion beetles.

Matt bit back a yell of fear. A hard mass of panic formed at the base of his throat, and he forced himself to look away from the driver's face before he upchucked into his lap.

'Notice anything unusual about my peepers?'

Matt swallowed. 'Ah . . . Such as . . . ?'

'Well, dincha notice? One's blue and one's brown! Piebald, they call it. Like a husky dog!'

Trying to get a grip. 'Or David Bowie.'

'Who?'

'Never mind.' Matt took a slow, deep breath. Then another. Forced his head to turn in the driver's direction. His sockets were still aswarm with twin spirals of thorax, mandible, and iridescent black wings.

Matt cleared his throat. Thought carefully back through the last few minutes' conversation. Made a connection. Ask him, he thought. Can't hurt to ask.

'So . . .' Matt's voice sounded thin and strained. 'You said you were going to Tacoma tonight. What's in Tacoma?'

A strange smile played on the driver's lips, like he'd tasted something bitter—and liked it. 'Oh, my ex is havin' a birthday party. She don't know I'm comin'. Thought I'd surprise her, meet the new beau.'

Matt's nausea got a little worse. 'Crash it, huh?'

''S right. Got a gift for her that she's never gonna forget.' More beetles pulsed through the twin holes in his skull. Some pattered into his lap.

Matt nearly lost his lunch. And not just because of the beetles. 'What . . . kind of gift?'

'The kind that keeps on givin'.' The driver turned his beetles towards Matt. Several of them took flight, spanning the distance between them. Matt swatted them away.

The driver grinned. 'Sure you don't wanna come? Might see somethin' worth puttin' on YouTube.'

Or Faces of Death XII, Matt thought. 'Uh, no. But thanks. I see the sign up ahead for Carthage MHC. You can just drop me off right there. Like I said, I'll call a cab later, come by and pick up the Ford.'

'Suit yourself. But you're missin' out. Gonna be a night to remember.'

# # # # # #

As soon as he was out and the truck pulled away, Matt noted the license plate and pulled out his cell phone. With shaking hands he called the Tacoma police and left an anonymous tip. Nut-job tow-truck driver coming to wreak havoc on local divorcee. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Afterwards he felt better.

Maybe this is the reason I was given this gift, he thought. Not just to get caught up in carnage, but to prevent it. To head off bad things before they come to pass. To make a difference in people's lives for the better.

He liked the idea. It made him feel less like a delusional homeless man and more like a wandering knight. To save damsels in distress? He could get used to that gig.

And before he'd gone a hundred yards, he saw another chance to do just that.

# # # # # #

Halfway up the Carthage Mental Health Center's gravel driveway was a beat-up Toyota Corolla that must have rolled off the assembly line when Nancy Reagan's views on drug use were big news. Its hazards were blinking. As he got closer, he noticed that one wheel was flat.

Matt walked up to the car.

'Hey there,' he said, raising a hand in greeting.

The driver turned, startled. She was a heavyset black woman with shiny gold highlights in her hair. And mouth.

'See you got a flat, ma'am?' He put his hand on the car roof, gave a reassuring smile. 'I can help you with that, if you want.'

'Get away from me, ya white-power, serial-killer ma'fuckah!'

Matt froze. 'Hey, really, I just thought—'

'Thought you could rape my shit is what you thought, ma'fuckah.' She reached in her purse and pulled out what looked to be a toy: a bright yellow plastic handgun. She jabbed it towards him. 'But I'm 'a Tase your shit an' you come one step closer, so back the fuck off.'

He looked at it closely. Yep, it was indeed a Taser. Took a step back. A big one. 'Fine. No problem. I'm gone.' He turned away.

'Damn right you is.'

He started to jog up the hill. But he could still hear her.

' . . . up in my goddamn business . . .'

He sped up. But some voices carry better than others.

' . . . three hundred twenty-five dollars for this shit, ma'fuckah . . .'

Much better.

' . . . Tase your white ass . . .'

# # # # # #

Carthage Mental Health Center was a disappointment. Matt was half hoping for an ivy-covered, crumbling gothic ruin crowned with gargoyles and ravens. A set from a Tim Burton movie—that's how he'd imagined it. Instead, the Admin Building butting up against the circular driveway was pure sixties save-a-buck state construction: single-story cinder block with slit windows, pealing paint, and a weedy 'serenity garden' out front that consisted mostly of crabgrass and poison ivy.

The inside wasn't much better. The floor looked like it hadn't been vacuumed in weeks. One of the fluorescent overheads flickered. A row of empty plastic chairs faced a central desk, behind which a clerk was staring