Before the other overseers and some guards could get to him, Orc snapped Nager's neck.
Despite his struggles, during which he killed a guard and crippled an overseer, he was brought down to the ground. The chief overseer, pale under his dark pigment, almost frothing at the mouth, ordered that Orc be beheaded at once.
The slaves, having abandoned their duties to watch, had formed a ring around Orc and the men who held him. They were a silent group, but their faces revealed their hatred. There was not one among them who would not have done what Orc did if they had been able to do it.
Orc was on his knees, his trunk bent forward, his hands gripped behind him, his head pushed forward. The chief overseer had unsheathed his long sword and was approaching Orc. He was saying, "Hold him steady! One cut, and I'll take his head to the master!"
Jim was more than just terrified. If Orc died, he would die. He was convinced of that. He screamed out the releasing phrase and made the most violent mental effort of his life, which lately had been filled with such.
He had the sensation of passing through a colorless void. Not black. Colorless. Cold burned him. And he was back in his room.
Its lights were on. He was on his feet but bent over. His hands were squeezing the neck of Bill Cranam, a security guard. Bill was on his knees, and he was bent backwards. His eyes were popping; his face was turning blue; his own hands were clamped on Jim's wrists.
Someone was screaming at Jim to let loose of Cranam.
Chapter 25
TWO BLOWS OF a billy club on the backs of his elbows paralyzed Jim's arms. His hands fell away from Cranam's neck. An arm clamped down on his neck from behind. Choking, he was dragged from Cranam and thrown down onto the floor. The other guard, Dick McDonrach, stood over him, holding his billy club high.
"Don't move, damn you, don't move!" McDonrach said hoarsely.
Despite this warning, Jim sat up. He was naked. Before the last two entries, he had removed his clothes. He had had the idea, probably wrong, that they interfered with the ease of transition.
"What's going on?" Jim said hoarsely, looking up at McDonrach. He felt his neck.
"We made a surprise drug sweep," the guard said. "We found you sitting in that chair; you didn't seem to hear us. We searched your room. We found this!"
He reached into his pocket and brought out a plastic bag containing some black capsules. Triumphantly, he said, "Uppers!"
Jim felt dazed and stupid. He said, "They're not mine! I swear they're not mine!"
At the same time, he saw out of the corner of his eye faces in the doorway. He turned his head. The doorway was packed with patients in their pajamas and dressing gowns. Sandy Melton looked very sad. Gillman Sherwood was grinning.
Bill Cranam, tenderly feeling his neck, staggered over to McDonrach's side. His voice was hoarse and squeaky.
"Jesus Christ, Grimson! What got into you? I had a hell of a time waking you up, and then you attacked me! Why? Haven't we always been good buddies?"
"I'm sorry. Bill," Jim said. "I was still in. . . that other world. I mean, I wasn't all here. I didn't even know what I was doing."
"Godamighty!" McDonrach said. "I got blood all over my shirt!"
Jim had seen the stains, but they had not registered. He was numb. He would have sworn that he had flushed the black beauties that Sherwood had given him down the toilet.
"You got it when you grabbed Jim from behind," Bill said. He went around Jim and stopped behind him.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Your back's bleeding like a stuck pig! How'd you get those deep cuts? We never touched your back, I'll swear on a pile of Bibles!"
Jim could feel now the agony of the whiplashes and the wetness and salty sting of the flowing blood.
He said, "I got them. . ."
He fell silent. How could he explain? For the moment, he did not have to do that. What was really important was clearing up how the drugs got in his room. That son of a bitch Sherwood! He had to have something to do with it! But why would he try to frame anybody? How had he done it, if he had?
McDonrach, a big, burly, and huge-paunched middle-aged man, led Jim into the bathroom. He stood Jim before the mirror with his back to it. Jim, twisting his neck around as far as he was able, could see his back in the glass. There were at least six long and deep cuts. These had been inflicted on Orc by the overseer's whip. Yet they were also on his back. The blood was starting to cake.
"I'll clean you up," McDonrach said. "But don't make any sudden moves. I don't trust you."
"I'm not crazy," Jim said. "I was just, well, immersed, really into it. I didn't know what I was doing. But those capsules, Mac, they're not mine. Somebody's trying to frame me."
"That's what they all say."
Mac used a towel to wipe the blood off, then washed the cuts with soap and water and patted them dry with a paper towel. After that, he applied rubbing alcohol to the wounds. Jim clamped his teeth together hard but made no sound.
"You'll have to go to the emergency room for professional care," McDonrach said. He was grinning as if he enjoyed hurting Jim. "But I don't think those're going to get infected. Get your robe and slippers on."
"OK," Jim said. "But I didn't buy those uppers or bring them here. I'm innocent."
"Nobody your age is innocent."
"A fucking philosopher!" Jim said, snarling.
The red haze that had surrounded Orc was now around him. He had thought that he could be cool and play it cautiously and wisely. But McDonrach's last remark triggered the rage that Orc -- that he -- bore always within himself like a low-grade fever. Add to that the injustice of being accused of using drugs, and the fever boiled up into a very high grade, indeed.
He did not know what he had done to McDonrach. It may not have been he, it may have been Orc. Whatever he did do, it was Orc's fighting skill that he had used. McDonrach was lying on his back on the green and white tile floor, now touched with red splotches. He was unconscious, and blood was flowing from his ear.
Jim screamed, and he lunged out through the bathroom door. He saw Cranam bringing the billy down against his skull. After that, blackness.
When he came to his senses, he was on his back on a table in the emergency room on the first floor of the hospital. His back pained him, but his head hurt worse. Doctor Porsena, dressed in a checked woolen shirt and Levi's, was talking to the intern on duty. Two uniformed policemen stood just inside the door. A few minutes later, they were joined by a plainclothes cop. She talked to the two fuzz, then held a low-voiced conference with Doctor Porsena.
Jim had rolled onto his side but facing them to watch them. After a lot of hand waving and head shaking by the doctor and the cop, the doctor came over to Jim. He said, "How are you, Jim?"
"'Excelsior!" Jim said. "And I don't mean the stuffing for couches."
Porsena smiled thinly. "Ever upwards! No need for me to tell you you're in a hell of a mess. But I think we can work things out, though that won't be just to make it easy for you. Roll over. I want to look at your back."
Jim did so. Porsena whistled. "How'd you get those? They can't be self-inflicted?"
"They are. . . in a way. They're Orc's wounds. He got them from a slave driver he was uppity to."
"You have had stigmata, Jim."
Jim wished that he could see Porsena's face. He said, "Yeah, but I only had the bleeding, Doctor. Never had the wounds. My flesh was unbroken. The blood just sort of oozed out from the skin. Those are real cuts, deep. They hurt, too. They're not psychologically induced, as you shrinks say. You're not trying to invalidate me, are you?"
"We'll talk about them later. There's also the matter of the drugs to investigate. I understand you claim they were planted. Meanwhile, you'll be kept down here overnight for observation of a possible concussion. I'll be up and around for some time trying to find out what happened. Good night, Jim."
Next afternoon, Jim was back in his room. His cuts were covered with taped-down gauze, and they pained him far less than he had
expected. Maybe, just maybe, he had absorbed Orc's ability to heal wounds quickly. It did not seem likely, but anything was possible.
Jim did some detective work of his own, though he was restricted to his room except for meals and the therapy sessions. The Thorazine Doctor Porsena had prescribed for him made him too complaisant and fuzzy-minded. Despite this, he had little trouble figuring out what had happened while he was in the Tiersian worlds. Or, as everybody else believed, in a trance.
Sherwood's connection was an attendant, Nate Rogers. The patients knew this, but their "code" forbade them to inform the staff. Jim had seen Rogers pass drugs to Sherwood only once, which was enough. What must have happened the night before was that the drug sweep had surprised Rogers. Panicked, he had ditched the drugs in Jim's room. He could have done it easily, right in front of the patient. Jim was out of this world -- literally. Of course, it was possible that Sherwood had done it out of spite.
Never mind the speculations. Get to the heart; bite down on the jugular. Orc wouid do that. Hence, Jim Grirnson would do that.
It was not yet lunchtime. Jim walked down the hallway, greeting the few patients. No staff or nurses or attendants were present to send him back to his room. Nate Rogers, a tall and well-muscled but ugly man in his late thirties, was leaning against the door of the linen closet. He was contemplating a cigarette in his hand as if wondering if he should light up here or do it in the smoking lounge. When he became aware that Jim was approaching, he smiled. "How's the boy, Jim?"
"Not in a good mood, you sneaky son of a bitch!"
Jim grabbed Rogers, spun him around, and pushed him through the door. Rogers stumbled ahead, trying to keep from falling. Jim switched on the light. The attendant caught himself on the far wall and spun around. He was red-faced, and he looked menacing.
"What the hell is this, shithead?"
Jim told him what it was all about, though Rogers must have already guessed.
"You'll tell Porsena what you did or I'll beat you into doing it."
"What? Are you crazy? Yeah, of course, you are! You're all crazy as bedbugs!"
"Don't forget that," Jim said. "We'll cut your throat if you turn your back on us. I will, anyway. You coming with me to Porsena's office?"
"Shit!" Rogers said. "You got nothing, absolutely nothing, on me! Get lost, punk, or I'll wipe the floor with you!"
"Your clichés could do that."
"What? What's that?"
"Listen," Jim said. "You won't believe me, maybe, but I know how to kill you in two seconds with my bare hands."
"Bullshit!" Rogers said, and he sneered. "Even if you could, you wouldn't! You wanna go to prison for life?"
"I've seen you give Sherwood drugs," Jim said. "So've a lot of other kids. If they think I've been framed, they'll forget about this stupid code of silence. They'll stand up for me."
"Sure they will! In a pig's ass! You think they want their supply cut off?"
"There's only a few buying illegal drugs from Sherwood," Jim said. "They'll be outnumbered. OK. What about it? You got five seconds. One, two, three, four, five!"
Rogers, swinging his fists, ran straight at Jim. A second later, he was flat on his back, his eyes glazed and his mouth open. Jim waited until Rogers had recovered his wits.
"I just clipped you on the chin," Jim said. "That didn't do my hand any good. Next time, I kick you in the belly or ram three fingers just under your heart and squeeze it until stops. I don't like to do this, Rogers. No, that's wrong. I'm really enjoying this."
He was lying. It had suddenly occurred to him that he should be doing something tricky but nonviolent to get Rogers to confess. Wasn't that what Orc would do? Maybe he had, after all, done the wrong thing. He might be making this mess worse.
Too late now. His course was set. No turning back.
"So you can do all that?" Rogers said. "I'm just staying here on the floor until you leave. I might start yelling, too. You think you're in trouble now? Wait and see what deep shit you'll be in!"
The door swung open, its edge barely missing Jim. He stepped to one side and saw that Sherwood was standing there, the door swinging shut behind him. The big blond youth was blinking with surprise and alarm.
Jim stepped in behind him with his back to the door, now closed. He said, "Going to make a deal here, Sherwood? I got one for you!"
Rogers had to have in his pockets the drugs that Sherwood was going to buy. Without thinking about what he intended to do, Jim shoved the youth forward. Immediately, he opened the door, stepped into the hallway, slammed the door shut, and leaned hard against it. Sandy Melton was coming down the hall. He called to her to bring the security guards.
"Tell them I caught Sherwood and Rogers in a drug deal!"
Sandy was confused.
"What? You're turning them in? But. . .!"
"It's my ass or theirs," he said. "Get going!"
She came back a minute later, followed by two day guards, Elissa Radowski and Ike Vamas. Jim had to strain against the door to keep Sherwood from ramming it open.
He said, "Quick! Rogers and Sherwood were dealing in there! I caught them! You better get in fast before Rogers ditches the stuff!"
He stepped back, unlocking and swinging the door open. Sherwood fell through it onto his hands and knees. The guards charged into the room. Jim saw Rogers with a plastic bag in his hand. Evidently, he had just swallowed its contents. Only a person in a mindless panic would do that. And it did him no good. The guards pulled six other bags from the inner pocket of his white attendant's jacket. Then he was taken to emergency, where his stomach was pumped before the downers killed him.
Sherwood made a bad mistake while the guards were taking Rogers away. He came up off the floor and grabbed Jim's testicles. Before he could squeeze them, he was knocked backward by the heel of a palm slammed against his forehead. His neck and back bent backward; he screamed with pain. Some minutes later, strapped down on a gurney, he followed Rogers to the emergency room.
Jim stood against the wall, shaking his head and blowing out air. Again, the red cloud had settled over his mind, and he would have kicked Sherwood in the ribs if Sandy Melton had not clung to him while she screamed at him to be cool, for God's sake.
Doctors Porsena, Tarchuna, and Scaevola came then, pushing through the crowd of patients and attendants. It took some time for them to quiet down and disperse all but Sandy and Jim and more time to get their story.
After the questioning, Porsena ordered that Jim be locked in his room. "Mainly to keep you out of trouble and to allow you to settle down," he said. "I'll be seeing you when this mess is cleared up. I don't want you making still another."
The usually unflappable psychiatrist was angry. His set face and his tone of voice made that obvious. Jim went unprotesting to his room. That even Doctor Porsena was upset with him impressed him very deeply. But Porsena did not, as Jim had expected, summon him to his office later that day. He did give Jim another Thorazine after ascertaining when he had taken the previous one.
The tranquilizer did not soothe Jim. He became furious, then agonized with repentance, then furious again. Instead of going to bed after lights-out, he paced back and forth in his room, freezing with misery, burning with rage.
Chapter 26
JIM WAS IN the psychiatrist's office for his private session. A new framed paper with big fancy printed letters was hanging on the wall. Jim could not read it from his position, but he supposed that it was a recent honor. The doctor had more diplomas and citations than a Hollywood magnate had yes-men.
A new bust was on the top shelf in a comer. Below it were the white, stony-eyed, and bushy-bearded busts of some ancient Greek and Roman philosophers and statues of a sitting Buddha and St. Francis of Assisi. Curious about the addition, Jim got out of his chair to look at it while Porsena was still scribbling on a paper.
The face, except for the mustache, closely resembled Julius Caesar's bust. It was Doctor Porsena's. Below it was inscribed: TO THE UNKNOWN PSYCHIATRIST.
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Though Jim was in no mood to laugh, he broke up. The doctor had a hell of a sense of humor, though it was usually rather restrained and quiet.
At the beginning of the session, Porsena had outlined the "mess" Jim was still in. His words were very rapid but clearly articulated and lacking pauses, almost as fast as an auctioneer's. He always spoke thus when he was dealing with a subject that had to be disposed of before the real business, therapy, was gotten to.
Rogers had been allowed to quit his position without being charged with drug dealing. To get that, he had had to make a full confession and to drop the charges of assault and battery he had threatened to make against Jim. Gillman Sherwood had also not charged Jim with assault and battery and intent to kill. The doctor had made it clear that, if he did, he would be accused of dealing, too. Moreover, he would be kicked out of the project.
Sherwood was back in his room but under strict probation. He walked with a stiff back, his neck hurt when he turned it, and he kept out of Jim's way.
Cranam and McDonrach had also not pressed charges against Jim. They were in trouble because Doctor Porsena claimed that they had mishandled the situation with Jim. Though they could continue to work as security guards, they would not be attached to the mental ward.
"I believe firmly in giving a person a second chance," the doctor had said. "In this case, you're getting one, too. You're as much on probation as the others. Now, I spoke of your unusually vivid imagination. It has helped you progress faster in your therapy than your fellow patients. I don't want you to get a swelled head just because of that. You were just lucky to have been born with it."
The doctor paused. His blue eyes invoked images of the Vikings of whom Jim's grandfather had told him. The eyes were those of Leif the Lucky, staring across the sullen and dangerous sea which seemed to go on forever. Somewhere, beyond some distant horizon, was undiscovered land. Was it too far away? Should he turn back to Greenland?