The Thirteenth Skull (Alfred Kropp #3)(11)

“He’s a little creepy, like you, only a different kind of creepy. More supersuave creepy than undertakerlike creepy.”

I slowly peeled back the bandages. I didn’t look at the wound. I looked at his homely, hound-dog face, the sunken cheeks, the prominent jaw, the deep lines across his forehead.

“He says OIPEP wasn’t responsible. I don’t know. It sure seems OIPEPish to me, but I wasn’t an operative like you, so I don’t know everything they’re capable of.”

I picked up the scalpel and held it for a long time, the diamond-edged blade hovering an inch above my left palm, already laced with scars. I had saved him once from the grip of demons in Chicago. And before that I had cut myself open to heal Agent Ashley in the Smokies. But having done it before didn’t make it any easier now: it takes a special act of willpower to slice yourself open.

“The main thing is,” I whispered, as much to me as to him. “The main thing is I’m in a real jam now and it’s either the rest of my life in a funny farm or in a prison, and I don’t like those choices. I’ve got to find a third way and you’ve got to help me find it.”

I ran the blade along my palm and blood welled around the shiny metal.

“In the name of the Archangel Michael ... the Prince of Light ...”

I lowered my bleeding hand toward his stomach.

“... in the name of Michael, who fell with me through fire ...”

His hand shot upward and grabbed my wrist before I could touch him.

He spoke without opening his eyes.

“No . . .”

Then his eyes came open. The muscles of his neck bulged as he forced out the words.

“Not your will. Not ... your ... will!”

I tried to force my hand to his belly, but he was very strong. It was like some bizarre version of arm wrestling.

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “I can heal you.”

“No,” he gasped. “It is not ... ”

He took a deep breath and I could hear something rattling in his chest.

“Well, it wasn’t for that phony deliveryman to decide either,” I snapped back. “Now stop being stupid and let me get this over with ...”

His head came off the pillow and he spat out with such intensity I jerked backward, “Not your choice! Not my choice!”

I tried to pry his long fingers away from my wrist, but weak as he was he was still too strong for me. His head fell back onto the pillow and he closed his eyes, pulling hard for air.

“I will not let you, Alfred,” he whispered.

“Maybe it isn’t my decision, you ever think of that?” I asked. “Maybe all this happened so I could be here to save you. I didn’t ask for this, you know that.”

I yanked my hand away and held my clinched fist against my chest. The blood seeped between my fingers, staining the white shirt red.

“What’s it for, anyway, if I can’t use it?” I demanded, but he didn’t answer. I wondered if he had passed out. “Huh? Why did this happen to me if I’m not supposed to save people with it?”

Someone stepped into the room. Maybe they heard me in the hallway; I was talking pretty loud. It was an orderly, who grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me away from Sam’s bed.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“You don’t get it,” I said, ripping away from his grasp and stumbling back toward Samuel’s bed. “I can save him. I can save everyone.”

The orderly grabbed me again and pulled me toward the open door and into the hallway. Droplets of my blood fell to the floor, like I was marking a trail back to Sam. I kept shouting at the orderly to let me go, that I could save him; I could save them all. I had saved them before, saved the whole world—twice—and I could empty out this hospital, every hospital and hospice and cancer ward, and no one would ever need to be sick or hurt again.

“What else is it for?” I hollered as he gave up trying to reason with me and forced me facefirst toward the floor. “What is it for?”

A hand pushed my head straight down, and I turned my broken nose to one side and pressed my right cheek against the cold white tile. My throbbing left hand was inches from my nose and I could see my blood, shining in the light.

12:08:38:02

It took four guys to drag me back to my room. They tied me down to the bed with canvas straps while I screamed and cursed and generally flipped out exactly like you would expect a psycho to do. Then they gave me an armful of sedatives to knock me out.

The next morning a psychiatrist came and interviewed me. Or tried to. I refused to answer any of her questions unless they untied me. She gave up after an hour. An aide came in with a tray and I thought they would untie me so I could eat. Instead, she tried to feed me like I was a baby. I refused. She left. I yelled for her to come back and untie me. “You forgot to untie me!” I yelled. She didn’t come back.

The hours spun out. I don’t know what time it was when Mr. Needlemier came in, but the sun had set and the room was dark. He turned on a light and sat by the bed and looked at me with a sad expression, or as sad an expression as his round little baby face could make.

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” I said. “Some guy blows away Samuel, cuts me up, breaks my nose, wrecks half the downtown, and incinerates five cops, and I’m the one roped to a bed.”