Crack-Up (22 page)

It was the kind sitting on a small, raised platform with a tall wooden counter in front, blocking the pharmacists and their medicines from easy view, adding a touch of the secrecy and majesty of village witch doctors, I’ve always thought.
 
There were no customers at the pharmacy window.

I stood below the counter, pretending to assess the display of Dr. Scholl’s foot care options, wishing the good doctor had designed something to ward off the bayoneting at my ankles.
 
Nervously, I patted the gun beneath my rugby shirt.
 
My palms began to sweat, and I wiped them on my blue jeans.
 
When I’d assured myself that only one head was bobbing behind the counter, I wiped my palms one more time, set my mind and my jaw firm, and blitzed through a little swinging door.

It led up a mini-flight of stairs to the platform behind the counter, where I came face-to-face with the pharmacist on duty.

Wouldn’t you just know it
, I thought at the instant I discovered the pharmacist was a granny.
 
A frail, blue-haired bingo player.
 
Her black plastic eyeglass frames were enormous, with paperweight-thick lenses.
 
And her magnified eyes seemed to take better stock of me than the store camera above her head.

“Dear Lord,” she said.

Chapter 22

“I couldn’t go through with it!” I said to Keisha as soon as I returned to her bedroom.
 
“I got all the way behind the pharmacy desk, and it was a little old lady, you know?
 
Somebody’s granny.
 
And all I could do was ask her, ‘Which way is the men’s room?’ ”

From beneath my rugby shirt, I took the Glock out of my pants and dropped it on top of the dresser.
 
I reached for the ring finger of my left hand, intending to twist the thick band of gold that Sarah had slipped on me six years earlier—a nervous habit—but the ring wasn’t there.
 
I’d given it away in a forced trade to a homeless man.
 
The trade felt like a betrayal.

“I got scared, Keisha.
 
No, petrified.
 
Petrified of my own self.
 
I just stared at that little old lady, wondering, where do I draw the line?
 
But now I’m wondering if I really have any chalk to draw lines with.
 
I’m a paranoid schizophrenic who protected the president, withheld his disease from his clients, fathered children, skipped psychotherapy, stole clothes off the back of a homeless man, kidnapped his very good friend, and . . . well, I could say a lot more.
 
I feel like there’s no bottom to me, Keisha, know what I mean?
 
No bottom!”

I heard Keisha moaning loudly behind her gag.
 
She’d been moaning that way for some time now, I realized, once my ears had engaged that strange replay mechanism everyone has.
 
I pounced on the bed, ripped the duct tape off her, and pulled the crotch-less panties out of her mouth.

“I’ve got to pee!” she said.

I tracked down the kitchen knife and cut her loose.
 
She bolted for the bathroom.
 
I stood outside the door, talking over her tinkle and my own sudden tears.

“I don’t know how it came to this, Keisha.
 
I’m rudderless, really, like all the other self-obsessed assholes in this town.
 
Sometimes, I wish I’d never left
Charlottesville
, never turned my back on that Baptist brimstone my mother and father raised me up on.
 
I go years without feeling the shame I'm feeling tonight.
 
Years!”
 
I paused, hoping Keisha would say something comforting.
 
She said nothing.

“I’m too educated now, that’s my problem."
 
But that notion was just the first random, stupid thought that came into my head when I needed some instant bullshit to believe, rather than face the truth that I had no clue why I was me.
 
"To understand is to forgive, don’t you think?
 
To forgive ourselves, especially.
 
Any wrong thing I do I absolve myself with insight.
 
Psychological, biological, evolutionary—it doesn’t matter—whatever works.
 
I tell myself:
 
Who am I to fight my own nature?
 
That’s what I say.
 
That and more.
 
Much more.
 
But it’s all so lame.
 
All of it—every bit of it—inexcusably lame.”

She didn’t answer, so I kept on talking, only now I wasn't bullshitting myself anymore.
 
“I think I killed John Helms.
 
I do, Keisha.
 
I really do.
 
I know I’m capable.
 
I’m a sinner.
 
I’m a human being, so I’m a sinner.
 
Yes, I murdered John.
 
You were right.
 
Everybody’s right about that.
 
Okay?
 
Okay?”

Still, I got no answer.
 
I slumped my tired forehead against the door’s cool wood.

“But I was pushed!” I said.
 
“Pushed, you understand!
 
You’ve got to believe me, Keisha.
 
Someone found out about me, about my disease, and—I’m telling you!—that someone deliberately drove me insane!
 
Why, I don’t know.
 
Trying to destroy me, I guess.
 
But I think I can prove I was set up.
 
I think I know how.
 
Only I can’t tell you how, because you’ll tell the cops, and they’ll know where to find me, but I swear to you—I swear to you, Keisha!—I’m right about this!
 
And don’t think it’s just my disease talking, either, because I’m fine.
 
Really.
 
I’ve been on my medication again for over two weeks now.
 
And—”

Keisha opened the bathroom door.
 
“Let me go!”

“Sure,” I said, wiping my runny nose.
 
“Of course.”
 
I handed back her cell phone.
 
“Here.
 
I took out the batteries, so I have time to get away before you call the cops.
 
And for the same reason, I hid the cord to the phone in the kitchen.
 
Oh, and one more thing . . .”
 
I dangled her car keys.
 
“Here.”

She snatched them.
 
Then she walloped my face with an unexpected left cross.
 
“Now get out!”

Chapter 23

I felt guilty about many things that night, including about what I'd done to Keisha, but I was only willing to atone so much.
 
I'd kept the cash I'd taken out of her purse, everything she had, though it was only fifty-seven dollars.
 
I used fifteen of it on a cab ride, exiting by a pay garage on
New Jersey Avenue
.
 
From there I limped two blocks to
Georgetown
University
Law
Center
.

“Excuse me,” I said to the security guard at the front desk.
 
“Stuart Carr teaching class tonight?”

The guard ran his index finger vertically down a schedule on his blotter.
 
“Yes, he’s teaching.
 
Right now, in fact.”

“What time does class get out?”

“
Eight fifty-five
.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I’ll catch him later.”

I limped to Union Station, where I ate a gyro at a table in the fast food area down in the basement.
 
I was only a few blocks from the Capitol, where I knew many senators and representatives, whom I’d advised over the years on their personal safety, or on matters of security-related policy—but if any of them were in the building, I calculated, they would be upstairs in the posh stores and restaurants, so I didn't worry much about being spotted, though I kept my cap on just in case.

Back at the law center, I sat down on the limestone steps outside the front entrance, just beyond the reach of the exterior lighting.
 
A light drizzle began, which soon turned to pelting rain.
 
I tried waiting inside the lobby, but the security guard demanded that I sign-in on a sign-in sheet and show some ID.

“Forgot my wallet,” I said, retreating into the storm.

Night school students began exiting the building.
 
Some scrutinized me—an umbrella-less man sitting in the open under a downpour—but none bothered to approach me.
 
There stood a men’s homeless shelter next door, and I thought it likely the students mistook me for a resident, maybe one lucky enough to have been given a decent set of second-hand clothes.

The stream of exiting students dried up.
 
Minutes later, Stuart emerged.
 
He was conservatively suit-ed and tie-yoked, toting a leather briefcase, pumping open an umbrella.
 
I stood.
 
Stuart didn’t notice me at all as he took the stairs with a lithe, cat-like grace most people lose with their pimples.

“Stuart!” I called.

He froze on the sidewalk.
 
Turned.
 
“Yes?”

I approached.
 
Stuart’s jaw dropped, along with his briefcase.
 
“Don’t worry, Stuart, I’m not psychotic, not anymore.
 
Or should I say, not yet.”

“Argus Ward!”
 
Stuart’s head pivoted in jerky, staccato motions, as if searching for more surprises.
 
I picked up the briefcase and handed it to him.

“I want to talk, Stuart.”

“Talk?
 
Talk about what?”

“C’mon,” I said, gently spinning my best friend around so we faced the same direction, “let’s go for a walk.”
 
I took hold of the umbrella, centering it above us so we could share it’s cover.
 
Stuart kept his eyes fixed to the sidewalk, dodging the puddles.

“You’re a fugitive now, Argus.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re putting me in a very uncomfortable situation here.”

“I know.”

“I’m a law professor, for crying out loud.”

“I know.”

Stuart halted us beneath a lamppost near the street corner.
 
He stared at me through his foggy designer eyewear.
 
“What exactly do you want with me?”

“Why, I’m doing fine, buddy, thanks for asking.”

“We could be seen any minute, Argus.
 
And if we are, I’m going to have to—”

“I want you to hear my story first,” I said.
 
“Just listen.”

“Go ahead.
 
Quickly.”

“You, uh, you may find what I’m about to tell you hard to believe, but here goes.
 
Stuart, I’m not solely responsible for the death of John Helms . . .”

I told him about the blood test, about my dummy pill theory, that I was certain someone unknown to me had deliberately driven me mad, deliberately destroyed my life.

“You’re frightening me, Argus.”

I sighed.
 
“Don’t believe me, then.
 
Just help me out.”

“Help you out how?”

“I need money, to start with.”

“Do you know what you’re asking?”

“I’m desperate, Stuart.
 
Totally fucking desperate.
 
If there were any other way—”

“Got any change?”
 
A raggedy man with a quick step and a servile hunch had intercepted us.
 
He’d shot from the shelter.
 
He was holding out his hand, palm upwards.

“Go away,” I told him.

“Please.
 
Something?
 
A quarter, maybe?”

“Fine,” I said, “fine, if you’ll just go away.
 
Stuart, have you got any loose—”

The single beep of a car alarm sounded nearby.
 
I turned to find Stuart dashing inside his Audi sedan, parked only steps away at a meter.
 
I rushed the car, yanking on the driver’s side door handle, but I was too late.
 
Stuart had locked himself inside.

“Stuart!” I cried, swatting the window hard with the palm of my hand.
 
Then, using my elbow, the hardest bone in the human body, I smashed the window to pieces in a single motion, bathing Stuart in shards.
 
Stuart screamed, but cranked the ignition.
 
I had him by the throat as the car’s engine roared to life, but lost my grip when the vehicle peeled away from the curb.

I watched the Audi’s tail lights recede.
 
The wheels of a passing SUV splashed my trousers with muddy water.
 
My elbow throbbed with pain, and I held it as I limped away, into the dark, wet night, wondering how many other delusions, besides my best friend, Stuart, I lived with when sane.

Half an hour later, traveling by cab again, I crossed the
Potomac River
into
Virginia
.
 
I wasn’t about to contact anymore friends for aid, nor any of my most trusted employees, some of whom were also friends.
 
Keisha and Stuart, not my illness, I told myself, had driven me paranoid.

Neither a three-foot tall perimeter fence, nor a mild case of the heebie-jeebies prevented me from reaching the soft, green lawn of
Arlington
National
Cemetery
.
 
I soon settled down to sleep in a soft rain, beneath an oak tree’s huge, tattered umbrella, beside a rare limestone block—the grave marker for one Robert Todd Lincoln.
 
Abraham’s son, I think.

Robert Todd proved to be a sound sleeper, but I had trouble nodding off until I thought to fold my soggy rugby shirt into a tiny pillow and until I appeased my not untroubled conscience with a firm vow to surrender myself to the police—no matter what I hadn’t yet accomplished—as soon as my first delusion or hallucination struck.
 
It wouldn’t do to murder someone else, after all, or to do anymore harm to others, myself, my family, or even my riddled reputation.
 
I’d only just fallen asleep when the sounds of a military patrol awakened me.

But the sweeping flashlights missed me, me and Robert Todd, never coming within forty square rows of crosses.
 
As the patrol receded down a long slope, I followed their dimming, fluttering lights until my eyelids extinguished all . . .

Chapter 24

I awoke with the dawn.
 
The rain had ceased.
 
The sky was silver blue and nearly cloudless.
 
I sat in my damp clothing on a park bench, adjacent to the cemetery, near the famous Iwo Jima Memorial and the much less famous Swiss Carillon, a gift from the King of Switzerland.
 
A battleship gray tower, it boasted an organ-like instrument at the top, which played enormous bells that would peal for miles.
 
The bells were silent that day.

The first day I ever came to
Washington
, I came to the Carillon.
 
A boy of ten.
 
It’d been the fourth of July.
 
In 1972.

While my father boozed it up on a blanket on the sloping lawn below—my mother tending him—me and my brother, Chuck, had climbed all the stairs up to the bells of the Carillon and its observation deck to watch the fireworks.

The park sat on a hill, overlooking the
Potomac River
.
 
The Capitol dome and the
Washington
Monument
and the Lincoln Memorial and the
Jefferson
too were all visible from the Carillon’s deck.
 
The bells had rung in my ears—and long, long afterwards—as bold patterns of fiery color burst high above the water, sprinkling all those famous, shiny white monuments with God’s very own grace and glory.
 
Or so it’d seemed to me.

It’d been easy to be awed by
Washington
then, easy for most Americans, not just little boys.
 
I hadn’t known it that fourth of July in 1972, but a mere two weeks earlier, a gang of business suit-clad burglars had been captured inside the Watergate hotel.

As I dried out on the park bench, I smiled as I wondered if the Watergate too was visible from the deck of the Carillon.
 
It was possible.
 
It would be fitting.
 
If not for my swollen ankle and sore, Keisha-pierced foot, I might’ve climbed the stairs again just to find out.
 
Instead, I hobbled toward the Rosslyn district, a towering canyon of glass and steel, only blocks away.
 
I entered a Burger King about two blocks from the metro station.

The manager kicked out a homeless panhandler but didn’t eye me with any suspicion.
 
My unwashed, unkempt hair was largely hidden beneath my Redskins cap, and my clothing, though wrinkled and ill-fitting, was clean, and when my bad breath knocked back the clerk who took my order, the manager didn’t see it.

With Keisha Fallon’s fast-dwindling cash, I paid and took my food tray to an isolated corner table.
 
I ate two egg, cheese, and sausage biscuits, sipping black coffee.

I badly needed help, but trusted no one in DC now, save my own wife—but only if I could just talk to her face to face first.
 
Yet I trusted my younger brother completely.
 
Utterly.
 
The problem was getting through to him.
 
Chuck was all the way out in
Charlottesville
.

And
, I thought,
Chuck’s phone would be tapped by now, wouldn’t it?
 
Just like the phone to my own residence would be, right?
 
The line to Sarah
?

Out of desperation, I suppose, I thought of the secret language code my father had taught his boys, and only his boys, decades earlier, before he’d disappeared into the folds of his own paranoia, when the old man used to obsess about a Soviet military invasion of the
United States
.

We would practice the code by arranging clandestine meetings and by making
drops
, taping things to the underside of public toilets and other strange places for pick-up and delivery.

I thought of phoning Chuck and, disguising my own voice, arranging a meeting using the ancient, secret, lunatic code our father had invented for the three of us.
 
Chuck probably hadn’t heard the code in a quarter century, but I had faith he still knew it by heart.
 
Because I still did.
 
And because of what used to happen whenever we forgot a word of it.

No
, I thought,
bad plan.
 
Too risky, too foolish.
 
The cops would simply put a tail on Chuck.
 
Bust us both together.

Thanks for nothing, Dad, wherever you are, you crazy, sadistic bastard
.

I would have to get to Sarah for help.
 
I didn’t see I had another choice.
 
Somehow, I would have to evade the stake-out I felt certain the cops had already set up around my home in
Georgetown
.
 
But how?

Morning rush hour car traffic clogged the
Key
Bridge
, yet along its sidewalks I was the only pedestrian crossing.
 
No breeze awoke the
Potomac River
.
 
Its surface had a jade-like sheen.
 
Near the center point of the bridge, I began to feel exposed.
 
I slowed my steps to make a torso-twisting sweep with my eyes in every direction.

I found no sign of a SWAT team ahead in
Georgetown
, or behind in Rosslyn, no police cruisers lurking, no helicopters approaching from the sky, or boats approaching from below, and no one anywhere staring at me through a pair of binoculars.

It was alright.
 
Everything would be alright.
 
I had a plan by now that I was still working out.
 
A way to reach my wife.
 
It was a bold, risky plan, but brilliant, I felt.
 
A way I could steal into my own home under the very nose of the cops.

Then I would talk to Sarah.
 
Make her understand.
 
Because without her faith, it seemed, all was lost.

Chapter 25

Carefully avoiding the vicinity of my own residential block, I limped up and down the hilly, cobblestone sidewalks of
Georgetown
for nearly an hour before finding the object of my search: a ding-blemished white van with
Mori Garden and Lawn
painted on the side.
 
It was parked deep in the driveway of a two-story Tudor with its double set of back doors open wide.
 
More conveniently still, the van’s owner, Hideo Mori, was out of sight, working in the backyard, I assumed.
 
I approached the vehicle.