The Masked Truth(29)

I understand, sir, that perhaps you’d rather I didn’t call you Dad now, after what’s happened, that you’re thinking a paternity test is in order. You’d never say so, but you think it. I know you do. This affliction of mine can’t possibly come from you. It’s your mother’s side, son, you know she’s always been intense.

Intense: having or showing strong feelings or opinions; extremely earnest or serious.

That’s why we couldn’t make it work, she and I. Why we never married, never even lived together. It’s her fault, this fever in your brain. As for those times you’ve caught me talking to myself or staring into space for hours or locking myself in a room … that’s just war—war is hell, kid, and I’m fine. I’m just fine. Too bad you aren’t, son.

Courage: the ability to do something that frightens one.

That’s what he’s doing here, isn’t it? Sneaking up on Cantina while his heart pounds so hard he’s sure it will give him away.

But can you carry through, Max? That’s the question. That’s real courage.

It depends on what “carry through” means. Put Cantina in a choke hold, as much as he flinches at even the thought? Yes, he can do that. For Riley, he’ll do that.

Oh, that’s so sweet. So chivalrous.

Chivalry: courteous behavior, especially that of a man toward women.

No, again, like courage, it doesn’t quite apply. He’ll do it for Riley, because Riley deserves to get out of here. To survive this. She’s good and she’s kind, and she has stuck by his side and watched out for him even though he was a jerk and made the initial situation worse, didn’t come to her defense quickly enough, because maybe, if he had, she’d be out of here already.

Ah, but you don’t want that, Max, do you? You’re quite happy she’s still here, with you, giving you a chance to show her you’re more than the idiot in the corner.

No, he wants her to get out. She deserves to get out.

And no one else does?

There’s Lorenzo, but Max isn’t convinced he’s even still alive.

I wasn’t talking about Lorenzo, and you know it.

Max ignores the voice and continues forward, slipping up behind Cantina, trying not to think the words: choke hold.

Choke hold, choke hold, choke hold.

Doesn’t work, does it, Max? Because as soon as you tell yourself not to think a thing, it’s all you do. That’s part of it. Part of the madness. Part of the crazy.

Don’t use that word.

Focus on his task. On “taking out” Cantina.

Can you do it? Can you carry through? You know what that could mean. Look around you if you need a reminder. Two bodies on the floor. If the choke hold doesn’t work, he’s not going to slap your bottom and call you a naughty boy. Life or death, Max. Life or death.

Can you do it?

Can you carry through?

His breath comes harder, sweat trickling into his eye, and he blinks as the salt stings. Could he kill someone? If it was a matter of life or death? Kill or be killed? If the only life at stake was his own? No.

And why’s that, Max? Tell us, why’s that?

But it isn’t just his own life at stake, is it? There’s Riley, always Riley, and if he fails, Cantina will go after her. Gray and Predator will hear and come running. Bing-boom-bam. That will be the end of Riley, and that matters, Max, doesn’t it? That is what matters even if the rest … not so much.

But the problem, yes, the problem, is the shadow he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye. The person who is not a person.

Unless it was really only a shadow. A movement. It’s a common optical phenomenon. Entoptic phenomenon, to be exact. From the Greek for “within” and “visual.” The act of seeing a shape that exists within the eye itself.

Ah, you’re a smart one, aren’t you, Max? So smart. Didn’t save you at all, did it? Your brain mutinies—all hands on deck, we’re not taking this shit anymore—and it doesn’t matter how smart you are, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t put your poor mind together again.

But the shadow … What if it was a sign?

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign, something, something, breaking my mind.

See, the thing is, it could be a sign. Meds not working. Red alert, red alert. And if that’s true, yes, if that’s true, then he cannot be trusted. Absolutely cannot be trusted, because for all he knows, this man at the table isn’t Cantina at all, but Gideon, struggling to stay alive, perched up here in his bloodied shirt.

Really? You really believe that?

No, but he believed his best friend had been possessed by demons. The twelve Malebranche, to be precise, from Dante’s Inferno, because Maximus Cross must be precise. No vague, nameless demons for him. That would not do.

Justin had been in trouble, and Max would save him. Because that’s what friends did. So he …

Max stops mid-step. He sees Justin in that chair. Justin at his desk, with his back to Max. Max with his hands outstretched, his brain on fire, only he doesn’t realize it’s on fire, doesn’t feel the flames, doesn’t smell the smoke. Later, straitjacketed—

Did you know they still use straitjackets? You wouldn’t think so, would you? How terribly archaic. Right up there with visits to Bedlam, which is short for the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem, if you didn’t know. Bedlam, Victorian London’s finest insane asylum, where you could pay your shillings to see the madmen, frothing and ranting, chained to walls, covered in their own shit and piss. Most were probably schizophrenic. That’s what the tour guide said, when Max visited once on a class trip.