Yes, Mr. Brickman… yes… yes… now if only Mr. Brickman could understand what it was he was trying to tell. He moved his eyes in a sort of sign language-over to Fern and back again-over and back, over and back- willing Mr. Brickman to read the message and save him.
Mr. Brickman looked down at him with concern-but the wrong kind. Like… that freighter, the one that saw flares exploding over the dying Titanic and mistook them for fireworks. Mr. Brickman had misread the signs. All night long that ship heard those faint cries, drifting over the dead-still ocean, picturing hundreds of blue bloods drowning in champagne. Only they were all just drowning. He was drowning. Mr. Brickman hadn't spotted the danger.
'Don't worry, William,' is all he said. 'Don't worry.'
The ship was sailing off into the night. There was just a slow death left, and no one there to hold his hand.
The trip downstairs was quick and painless. The two of them carried him down after putting on his shoes- Leonati and Brickman-just as they'd carried him up the stairs after the hospital. William made no effort to stop them; he'd used up whatever strength he had left and was feeling the awful impotence of the mute. The world had turned deaf to him.
Dr. Fern held the door of his Volvo wide open as Leonati and Brickman slid him in. Like sliding a body into the crematorium, he thought, conjuring up the sight of Jean's family as the firemen discovered them-like so many bits and pieces of a photograph consigned to the living room hearth. And now there was nothing he could do. He'd tried, he'd tried harder than anyone could have asked of him, harder perhaps than even Jean, who, after all, was after the killer of his flesh. He'd tried, tried mightily, but he'd failed. Perhaps, in a day or two, Mr. Weeks would write a better ending to the story. But Mr. Weeks was old and Mr. Weeks was strange, and if he wasn't exactly senile, he was close, and it was anybody's guess if anybody at all would believe him. Three people can keep a secret, someone once said, if two of them are dead. And one of them was dead-Jean-and one of them was about to be-him-and Weeks, well, he was maybe half dead. Petoit had outmaneuvered two police forces and an occupation army; he wouldn't have much trouble with Weeks. Whoever said the meek shall inherit the earth was probably being beat up on a regular basis, and was just doing some wishful thinking. The meek inherit whatever the strong decide to deed them. Jean knew that; so did Santini. Leonati and Brickman patted his arm through the open window.
'Take care, William,' Mr. Brickman said. 'We'll come see you tomorrow.'
No, you won't, Mr. Brickman. And even if you do, I won't be able to see you back.
The car pulled away from the curb.
Dr. Fern didn't talk very much on the ride to his office.
'Do you remember the hospital?' was all he said. 'I came to see you there.'
So, it wasn't a dream after all. Not a dream. Maybe that explained why Dr. Fern seemed so spooky when he'd seen him for the first time. Aside from the obvious reasons. Because he hadn't been seeing him for the first time. Fern was the stuff of nightmares, and that's where he'd seen him first, smack in the middle of a bad dream that had been all too real. He'd been begging for his life, and somehow he'd won. But not this time.
His head lay flush against the cold metal of the doorknob. He could feel the hum of the engine and every bump in the road. Fern was a meticulous driver; he flashed his signal lights at every turn, the click… click… click like the soundtrack to a cheap melodrama. The End of the Road maybe. Or Dead End. Something that reeks of despair, something whose very title promises an unhappy ending. Only there wasn't an audience, not a single soul. There should always be a witness to death, William thought, someone to share its terror and mark the end. There ought to be a law about it.
They were passing over Flushing Bridge now. The tires had hit metal grating, and the vibrations were knocking his head stacatto-like against the doorknob. He remembered the clock now, frozen stiff, finally telling the right time. For he was winding down too, almost there, his hands nearly still. Of course, his hands had stopped moving a long time ago-sure they had, only to be awakened by an unexpected jolt, the way a dropped clock suddenly springs to life. If there was something positive to be said about his life, maybe it was that-that he, like Jean, had saved the best for last. That final dizzying movement of the hands, when the parts were old and rusted and better left alone. Maybe he could give himself a bravo, maybe he could clap for himself like an audience of one, and see the curtain go down with a smile on his face. Maybe.
And yet, try as he might, and he was trying-honest- he couldn't quite come to terms with it. With death. With his own death. There was too much unresolved here, there were too many bodies under the bridge.
And now the car was slowing down, the kind of slowing down that says you're almost there. And time was too, slowing down for him, each passing second like a blood relation he was mournfully waving goodbye to. Come and give old William another kiss. His heart was banging against his ribs like an angry prisoner on the door of his cell; it wanted out. But the only thing it was out of was luck. The motor suddenly cut off, the car stopped dead.
Dr. Fern wrenched the emergency brake into position, then unclasped his safety belt, each sound like something you hear in death row melodramas. The sliding of bolts, the strapping in of legs.
When he opened the door by William's head, his face was framed by the moon, reminding William of a picture he'd once seen as a child-old man moon as a jolly night watchman. Goodbye moon.
Dr. Fern lifted him from under his arms and dragged him out of the car. His body settled onto the cool grass, and for just a moment the crickets grew silent and gave the night the sort of dignity befitting an execution.
The dew soaked through his pants and made him feel naked and ashamed, as if he'd just wet himself from fear. It was possible he had. He could feel tears on his cheeks, hot and salty, running slowly past his mouth.
Dr. Fern began to drag him through the grass. Feet first. He had to stop every few feet or so to catch his breath, the barest mist rising from his mouth like steam.
When Fern got him to the front door, he stopped again, hunched over, waiting for a second wind. William's clothes were completely soaked through now, his hair wet and slimy. He was cold too, a dull chill seeping slowly, slowly through his body like a nasty enema. He was forced to stare straight up at the stars, at the Dipper and the Great Bear and the Hunter, and down here us hunted, us terrified, all of the stars out tonight, as if he was being given one good look to remember them by. And they were beautiful. They did glitter like diamond studs, just like poets said they did. And they made him feel insignificant and awfully teeny, that too. Which might have made what was coming to him easier to take, if he wasn't so scared of what was coming to him, scared not just of going, but of going now, when-at the ripe old age of seventy-five-he was just getting started. Maybe if he'd spent just a few more nights stargazing, it wouldn't be so hard saying so long to them.
Goodbye stars.
Dr. Fern leaned over him like a shadow, like the Grim Reaper himself.
'Soon,' he said. 'Very soon.'
He'd regained his wind. His grip was stronger now; he pulled William up over the welcome mat. Welcome William. Onto the doorstep and into the vestibule of the house. A pair of muddy rubbers lay flopped against the wall like dead fish. An umbrella hung from the doorknob of a closet. Fern opened it to hang up his coat, opened it for just an instant, long enough for William to see inside, and then to wish he hadn't. Don't look. It was filled with umbrellas-black, blue, red, pink, and yellow ones, retractable ones and miniature ones, men's and women's, like the Lost and Found at a train station. Don't look. But the trains at this station went but one way; there wasn't a return ticket to be had. They weren't his umbrellas, but they were his now.
Dr. Fern began to pull him down the stairs.
Down and down and down the stairs.
To the rec room maybe, for a little Ping-Pong when his muscle relaxant wore off. Or maybe they would sit around a Naugahyde bar and swap dirty stories. Did I ever tell you the one about…
About the doctor and the farmer's daughter. And the milkman's son. And the plumber's sister. And the janitor's friend. And the detective's partner. About them.
The muscle relaxant was wearing off.
Not enough to do anything, to get up and run, to karate-chop Dr. Fern-Petoit-to the ground, but enough to feel a distinct and jolting pain each time the back of his head met a stair. Enough to flinch when the distinct and jolting pain told him to.
The muscle relaxant was wearing off.
They went slowly, down and down and down, where the air began to stink and turn clammy. It felt like the inside of the funeral home in Flushing, it felt downright funereal. And why not? He'd just arrived at death's door;
