It did hurt, and after the first injection, the searing pain was so tremendous he desperately wanted to scream out, but his paralysis prevented even that last great spasm. He knew he only had a little time, perhaps less than a minute, before the drug hit. The shame of his defeat burned at his pride, he wanted some tool, some trick, to smash her, to maul her, to wipe that mocking smile from her lips. Perched on the metal stool before him, she was still talking, calmly, soothingly, looking into his eyes as he endured the piercing agony and strained to break the spell. “Is it not odd to you that our paths would cross? After so many years? Have you given that any thought? I have. Incredible, even for a coincidence. What does your scientific reasoning tell you about this, Doctor? What natural force pulled us together? Was it electricity? Gravity? Was it God?” She shook her head. “No, we have no God, do we? That is a bond we share. But what was it, then? Can you guess?” The room was dimming; he had only seconds left before the nightmares came. He did not want to imagine the visions that were now rising up from his subconscious, racing toward him in a great tumultuous wall like a massive black storm bank descending upon quiet plains. He was intelligent enough to be terrified. He could barely hear Zoya’s voice now. “Goodbye,” she whispered, reaching out to gently stroke his cheek. It was the last human touch he felt before the darkness of his life exploded.
Over the next twenty minutes, she kept building on the nightmares, methodically filling the syringes and emptying each one into his pale, prone arm. Finally, as he sat there, immobilized with his eyes glaring, lost in the grotesque phantasms of his delirious, macabre mind, she rose and went to the bookshelf. Pulling down the manuals and textbooks one by one, she tore the pages out and covered the floor. Then she held a fistful of paper up to the burner and, after it caught fire, dropped it to the ground. The flames caught fast. As she left, she wondered what the neighbors of the 6th arrondissement would find lurking in their own dreams once the smoke hit.
V
Witches’ Song Twelve
VI
The priest met the detective at the entrance to the asylum. Vidot was holding a brown grocery bag. “Ah, thank you for coming. And here you are,” he said, handing the bag over to Andrei. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your generosity.”
Looking inside, the priest saw the clothes he had loaned Vidot three days before in the barn, now all neatly folded up. He looked back at the detective. “That looks like a new suit you’ve got on.”
“It is!” grinned the detective. “How perceptive of you. It is much more expensive than I am used to paying, but, well, I must look presentable. I am returning home after all. But come, we are not here to talk of me.” He took the priest by the arm and led him into the asylum. “The nurses tell me you assist here occasionally.”
The priest nodded, unsure of where this was going. “I do what I can, a weekly mass, last rites as they are needed.”
“Yes, yes, that is most kind,” Vidot said, a little offhand, clearly distracted by other thoughts. As they approached the two women sitting at the front desk, he presented his identification. “Hello, I am Detective Vidot from Paris, and this is my colleague. I called earlier.”
The nurses both looked bright-eyed and willing to help, but it was clear they had no idea what Vidot was referring to. Whomever he had spoken to previously had clearly failed to pass on the message.
“A man was brought here yesterday?” said Vidot, hoping to clarify. “The man they found at the police station?”
At this there was a unison of “Ohhh” and their faces fell into solemn expressions of concern. Vidot gave them a polite nod.
Moments later, the priest found himself looking down at a thin, shivering figure who was balled up and muttering into the corner of his mattress. Kneeling beside the bed, Vidot held the patient’s hand. The detective’s face held such deep sympathy for the creature lying before them that Andrei had to ask, “Are you related to him?”
Vidot did not take his eyes off the man but nodded. “In a way, yes, he is a brother to me like no other could ever be, in that we have shared a unique and terrrible experience. But he is not a blood relative, no. He was once my colleague. His name is Bemm.”
“Bemm. I see. And what happened to Monsieur Bemm?”
“We were on a journey together, he and I. We were heading to the police station where we both work. Then we were attacked and separated. I thought he had died, but he hadn’t, he made it there to the station, and waited for me, I suppose, or for some kind of help, slowly going mad in his solitude. That is where they found him, transformed into … this.” Vidot leaned over and brushed the trembling patient’s hair away from his eyes. “He is healthy, physically, his body is fine. But his mind, well, it seems he encountered realities greater than he could bear. Many people need the certainty of solid walls and clear windows, but then they meet mysteries they cannot solve.”
The priest knew this all too well. “Yes, there are many.”
“And when they envelop and overwhelm you, well, if you are not prepared…” He gestured toward Bemm.
The priest looked down at the man. “What can I do for him?”
“Sit with him, talk to him, reassure him,” said the detective. “He needs a friend by his side, one who believes in him and, though I do not know you very well, I sense you are one of the few people alive who can help him.”
“I can try.”
“Good, good. I knew you would. Or at least I hoped so. I will come and visit as often as I can.” The
