The Dead Man: Ring of Knives

Dindren jerked back, sprawling. His scrubs fell open at the shoulder, where Matt's hands had pulled the laces free.

Matt stopped, sunk heavily onto one knee, staring. Unable to take his eyes off Dindren's left breast. Silenced not only by his shame of exposing it, and the surprise that it was actually real, but by disbelief at the sight of the raw half-moons that covered it.

'Are those . . .' He couldn't process what he was seeing. 'Are those bite marks?'

Dindren, panting, pushed himself upright. Eyes bright, he roughly pulled the flap of his scrubs back up and attempted to conceal the fresh red crescents.

'See anything you like?'

Matt fought off a wave of nausea—barely. 'What . . . What the hell is going on in this place?'

'Little of this. Little of that.' Dindren was shaking harder, grinning in a tight gray rictus. Whispered: 'Let's just say that—to paraphrase the Immortal Bard—'something is rotten in the state of Carthage.''

Matt vaguely remembered the line—or something like it—from Hamlet, which he'd had to read in high school. But what caught his attention was the word rotten. He made the connection.

'Rotting Jack.'

The words electrified Dindren, who scrambled backward in a panicky crab walk to the padded wall. He flattened against it, eyes wide. 'What did you say?'

'Rotting Jack. Jesse Weston's profile in the Encyclopedia of Psychopathology described how Weston had suffered from a delusion: he believed there was a guy named Rotting Jack that only he could see, and whose touch could cause lesions and madness.'

'Yes.'

'And you said just a minute ago that Weston had returned to his 'former state.' Meaning, after years of treatment, the delusion returned.'

'Yes.'

'And let me guess—that's when the administrators starting disappearing, and you went off the deep end, and the night shift began using the residents as chew toys.'

Dindren's jaw worked. For the first time, the mask of saucy dissipation began to slip, revealing a look of active interest in Matt, an interest bordering on hope.

'What do you know,' he said slowly—and without any hint of a British accent—'about Rotting Jack?'

So Matt told him his own story, told him about Mr. Dark, the leering, ghostly presence he'd glimpsed in dreams while his wife, Janey, had died of cancer. Told him about how he'd been trapped beneath an avalanche for three months and how afterwards he'd felt the phantom's presence more acutely. How afterwards, he'd been able to actually see and smell evil and madness in the faces of his friends, in the form of physical decay and rot. Told him about the massacre his best friend had caused at the sawmill, and what he'd had to do to stop it . . . and how he'd wandered since then, pursuing—and being pursued by—the mysterious Mr. Dark.

There was a long pause when he'd finished. Rocking back and forth, Dindren ran his tongue along the upper ridge of his gray, leaning teeth. Stared down at the trash on the isolation-room floor, the Twix wrapper, the bent lollipop stick.

'I see,' he said finally. 'And so you're—what?—in self-imposed exile until you discover the truth about his nature—and yours?'

'You might say that. But if you were able to diagnose Jesse Weston, it sounds like you could save me the effort, if you wanted to.'

Dindren stopped rocking. But he didn't look up. 'What are you asking?'

'I'm asking if you think I've got what Jesse Weston had.'

As still as a statue. 'In a word,' he said quietly, 'yes.'

Matt's heart started to pound, even though he'd come to the same conclusion.

'So my next question is, I guess, am I . . .' He had trouble even forming the words. 'That is, was Jesse Weston actually crazy?'

A sly half smile. 'And by extension . . .'

'Yeah. By extension, am I? And is Mr. Dark—or Rotting Jack—real?' A long pause, while Dindren continued to study the floor. 'Or don't you know?'

'Oh, I know.' He lifted his half-bloody gaze to Matt. 'After years of studying Jesse? I know. But it's going to cost you.'

'I don't have any Necco Wafers.'

'Understood.'

'Or much cash.'

'I have no use for money.'

'So what do you want?'

A pause. Dindren's smile became brittle. His eyes widened, became bright with emotion. Leaning towards Matt, he peeled back his chapped, bee-stung lips and silently mouthed GET . . . ME . . . OUT . . . OF . . . HERE.

Matt looked at him, feeling bad, genuinely bad for the mess in front of him. But what could he do? He tried to picture himself on the run through the woods with this guy in tow—this guy, who wasn't even a real guy anymore, and who was in no shape to travel, and probably had more mental problems than he could count.

'Sorry,' Matt said. 'But I can promise you this: that when I get to Olympia, I'll report this place for what it is and get you the help you need.'

The vulnerable light in Dindren's eyes extinguished. Its place was taken immediately by a leer of dissipated raunch.

''The help I need?' I'll tell you what I need, and you won't find it in Olympia.'

'And that would be . . .'

Dindren batted his crusty lashes at him. 'Like all girls, I just wanna have fun.'

'Right . . . And I just wanna get information.'

'You don't know what you want. But I do. After years of studying Jesse and similar cases in medical records, in folklore, in primitive mythologies? I do. I filled his case file to bursting with theories, facts, and information. And I'll share it with you, too. But first . . .' And here Dindren scootched closer, batting his bedroom eyes, and bit his lower lip. 'You're going to have to put your fist . . . in my mouth.'

Matt stared at him. 'My . . . ?'

'Fist. In. My. Mouth.' Giving Matt a nice gray grin.

Matt was at a loss. Then he wasn't. 'Hell no. Hell no.' He stood up. 'Why would you even ask for that?'

'Why?' Dindren frowned a little, as if it hadn't occurred to him that it needed explaining. 'Well, ah—it's Matt, isn't it? Well, Matt . . . do you know what the biggest thrill is, for a doctor? The biggest kick, the biggest payoff? It's not the money or prestige. It's the moment that the patient makes the decision to hand himself over, bodily, to your care. That's the moment that he proves that he trusts you. It's positively sacramental, that moment. I miss it. I want to feel it again: that trust.' His eyes narrowed sleepily. 'Also, I like the taste.'

Matt backed away. I don't trust you for shit, he thought. But what he said was, 'I think I should go.'

'I know.' Sadly, drowsily. 'But you'll be back . . . If you want to know whether it would work.'

''Work'?'

As if to a small child: 'Yes. What you're considering doing: I can tell you whether it would actually get rid of Mr. Dark.'

Matt took another step back. 'And what do you think I'm considering doing?'

'Why, killing yourself, of course.'