“I’m sorry,” said the buck-toothed, horse-faced nurse. “Visiting hours don’t start until noon. You’ll have to wait forty minutes or so.”
I’d hitched a ride back to Fulton with a trucker I’d met in the restaurant parking lot. He ignored my youth and panicked demeanor. I ignored him feeling me out about an anonymous homosexual encounter in the back of the cab. He dropped me off in front of the Fulton Psychiatric Hospital. Denton’s home sweet home. I needed to talk to him, and didn’t feel like hanging around the waiting room.
“I’m kind of in a rush,” I said with my come-hither grin. “Is there any way you could make an exception?”
The nurse wrinkled her nose and smiled. “I’m sorry. If you’d care to have a seat, I’ll call you as soon as you can go in.”
I switched to my slightly condescending, exasperated smile. “Ma’am, I’ve been driving for hours and I’d just as soon not sit again. Could you do me a favor and buzz me in early?”
The nurse downshifted her smile a click. “Sir, I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do. Please try to be patient.”
Time for the secret weapon. The barely concealed wrathful smile. “Listen, I don’t want to cause trouble here…”
The nurse’s smile left her eyes. “Then I suggest you do not. I’ve been working with the mentally ill for fifteen years, and I seriously doubt you can do anything I can’t handle.” She stared at me until I blinked.
Not wishing to admit total defeat, I leaned against the wall and studied the voluminous list of visitor regulations. No sharp objects. All packages subject to inspection. No alcoholic beverages. Visitors may be asked to leave at any time.
Under the sign, someone with a Sharpie had written No public toilet. Doctor has less than fifty dollars after dark.
I whiled away the next twenty minutes reading pamphlets like Understanding Depression, Ten Warning Signs of Bipolar Disorder, and Violencia Domestica: Una Problema para Todos. Occasionally I’d look at the nurse who would show me her monolithic front teeth.
Ten minutes before the hour hand touched the twelve, she motioned me over. I dropped Dealing with Schizophrenia and approached the desk.
“You’ll need to fill out a short form before entering. Which patient are you here to see?”
“Denton Dubbs.”
The nurse fumbled the papers she was holding. “Mr. Dubbs?” Her eyes grew round and her voice cracked. She punched a button on her intercom machine. “Dr. Garcia? Please come to reception. There’s someone here to see Denton Dubbs.” She emphasized the name as if I had asked to be voluntarily lobotomized.
There are several reasons why the staff will summon the management and few of them are good. “Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing at all.” She flashed me her most insincere smile yet. “How do you know Mr. Dubbs?”
“He’s a friend of the family. I said I’d look in on him when I passed through. Look, what’s…”
The door behind the desk opened, and a smiling, dark-complected man in his fifties popped out. He had iron-grey hair, a long-sleeved business shirt, and a snappy-looking bow tie. He made a beeline for me before I could decide if I wanted to duck out.
“Hello, Mr….?”
“Andrews.” What was all this about? Maybe Denton had lied about being out of the asylum on a pass. Maybe the doctor thought I had helped him escape.
“I’m Doctor Garcia. You’re here to see Denton Dubbs?”
“Yes. Look, I really don’t…”
“Please come with me.” He smiled a smile that would have calmed even the most violent bipolar, depressed schizophrenic. “It won’t take a moment.”
“Um, okay.”
As we left, Dr. Garcia bent over the nurse’s desk. “Janet, please send Martin to my office.”
I followed the doctor down a short corridor and into a small office.
“Please, have a seat.”
I sat in a comfy chair, taking a moment to glance around the room. Citations, degrees, and pictures of the doctor with his family lined the walls, as well as a poster that read You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps. I tried to equal the doctor’s calm.
“Doctor, what’s going on here?”
At that moment, the door opened and a large black man entered; fat, but with the bulk that showed he’d be an easy match for most men. He was dressed all in white. I noted with amusement I was actually seeing one of the proverbial men in white coats who were supposed to come and take away crazy people.
Suddenly, the thought didn’t seem funny at all. Martin was big enough to break my back with one hand. Why had the doctor summoned him? What had Denton said about how he wound up here?
Dr. Garcia caught Martin’s eye and glanced in my direction. Horrible thoughts burst into my head: secret hospitals where people disappeared, hidden asylums where the sane were drugged, restrained, and tossed into padded cells for the rest of their lives so they couldn’t tell the world what they knew.
Martin looked at me for a long moment, then shook his head, almost imperceptibly. The doctor nodded. Without a word, Martin left.
“Mr. Andrews, I apologize.” Dr. Garcia fiddled with a paperweight. “You’ve come at an unfortunate time.”
“I’ve had my share of unfortunate times, lately. Would you mind getting to the point?”
The doctor seemed to have trouble meeting my eyes. “Young man, there’s no easy way to say this. Last night, Mr. Dubbs…Denton…was violently attacked.”
I leapt from my chair and slammed my palms on the desk so hard that the doctor was forced to look up. “What do you mean, attacked? Is he okay? What the hell happened?”
“Last night, around one in the morning, Mr. Dubbs got up to use the restroom. Near as we can tell, someone had broken in. They tried to strangle him with a rope. A noose. We suspect they wanted to make it look like a suicide. If Martin hadn’t stopped to use the facilities, there’s no telling what might have happened.”
“Is he okay?”
“Mr. Dubbs suffered a crushed trachea. He’ll recover, but he’s not in great shape. The assailant escaped out a window that Martin was too large to fit through. Um, do you recognize this man?” The doctor held up a police sketch that was a ringer for Dan Cooper.
“Never saw him in my life.”
“Do you have any idea who would have wanted to do this? We operate a secure hospital and this does not seem like a random attack.”
“No idea. I haven’t seen Denton in years. I was in the area and thought I’d stop by. You’re certain he’s okay?”
“He’s stable, and should make a full recovery. Listen, this isn’t how we run our hospital. Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm Mr. Dubbs? An old associate? Someone he owed money to, perhaps?”
“Not a clue.”
The doctor sighed. “I was afraid of that. Well, if you’d like to look in on Denton, you may. He can’t talk, but he may appreciate the company.”
“I’d like that.”
“I’ll have Martin escort you.”
Martin, who’d been waiting outside, led me back down the hall to a large, metal door. I could tell he was watching me. Having a patient almost murdered on his shift obviously didn’t sit well with the guard. He was probably hoping I’d attack Denton so he could even the score. As Martin punched in a code on a keypad, I reminded myself not to make any sudden moves.
I’d never been in an insane asylum and was half expecting metal cages and straw on a stone floor. The ward’s day room, as it turned out, looked more like the youth center at a Baptist church. Several worn-looking couches surrounded a television. A few card tables lined the walls, covered with magazines, board games, and puzzles. A ping-pong table stood in one corner and a Coke machine and a coffeepot flanked the far wall.
Sitting on one of the couches, a very old man stared off into space. Two younger men played ping-pong while a third watched, bobbing his head to some personal rhythm. At a desk by the door, a fat nurse read a soap opera magazine.
Martin took me through a far door, down a freshly mopped hall, and past a set of swinging doors marked ‘infirmary.’ We came to a stop in front of another room, where Martin nodded to another white coat and motioned me inside.
We were in a standard hospital room, divided in half by a white screen. Denton lay in the near bed, his back raised, his neck immobilized by a cervical collar.
“Mr. Dubbs?” called Martin. “You have a visitor. Do you feel like seeing anyone?”
Denton’s eyes moved toward me and he smiled. He tried to nod his head, winced, and gave Martin a thumbs up. Martin, after looking me over once more, left us alone.
I pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. Denton looked awful. A greenish bruise was spreading beneath his collar. His right eye was streaked with red from a burst blood vessel. But he was alive.
“Denton?”
He made a slashing motion with his hand. Reaching over, he grabbed a notepad from his nightstand and began writing.
The walls have ears. He jabbed a thumb at the screen next to his bed.
As if on cue, a low, male voice from the other bed gurgled, “I’m Talking Tina, and I don’t like you very much.”
I picked up the pen and wrote. Are you OK?
Denton smiled. They say I won’t die. Apparently the attack made me immortal. He drew a smiley face. You’ve certainly stepped in it.
For the second time that weekend I had to apologize for someone’s near murder. As I started to scribble my regrets, Denton stopped my hand.
Bound to happen. Watch your back.
“There was finally time! Finally time!” screeched the man in the next bed.
Looking at the door to make sure no one was hanging around, I gave Denton a whispered Reader’s Digest version of the previous night.
Denton turned the page. Something I have to tell you. Disturbing.
“More disturbing than last night?” I said loudly. Denton shushed me and wrote again.
Yesterday, I didn’t tell you everything.
“IT’S A COOKBOOK!” screamed Denton’s roommate. Denton glowered. Without looking, he picked up an empty water pitcher and banked it off the ceiling. It fell on the man in the other bed with a thud.
“Ow! Up yours, Denton! I wish you into the cornfield!”
Denton continued to write.
We may have underestimated our problems with Saberhagen.
I grabbed the pen. Underestimated? What’s worse than dying?
Denton looked up at me with his good eye and stared at me, almost sadly. Eventually, he wrote again.
Something that WON’T die.
Denton scribbled furiously on his pad, as his unseen roommate began to snore. I lied when I said I’d told you all I found out. Afraid you’d think I was crazy. Denton smiled, winked, and tapped the side of head with his pen.
I shrugged, not bothering to deny my earlier doubts about Denton’s sanity.
After I read the diary, I looked up Saberhagen in 1930s newspaper records and found out what I told you. That’s not all. Check the folder in the nightstand.
I retrieved a manila folder labeled ‘tax returns, 2002-2005.’ I looked at my companion inquisitively, but he didn’t meet my eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead and I wondered if he was in more pain than he let on. I perused the contents.
The first pages were newspaper photocopies, dealing with Saberhagen, his dodgy business dealings, and his obituary. It was all as Denton had told me before. I got the impression that whoever had written the articles very much wanted to call Saberhagen a thief, or worse. One especially vitriolic editorial implied that a business venture of Saberhagen’s, National Octagon, was nothing but a front for organized crime.
I was distracted from my reading by Denton banging his hand on the railing of his bed. He had written something on the tablet.
Check the date.
I squinted at the photocopy…April 16, 1899.
I looked back at the article. Sure enough, the editor was libeling a Peter Saberhagen, not Paul.
“Denton, it’s the not the same guy.”
Denton made irritated motions with his fingers. I returned to the pile of papers. The next article was Peter Saberhagen’s obituary. He had died in 1918, and was buried in Irontown Cemetery. Bit of a coincidence. Must have been a relation of Paul Saberhagen’s.
The next pages were copied out of a book. The running title was History of the Civil War in Missouri and Kansas. An underlined paragraph mentioned that ten Yankee POWs had been executed without trial by a Colonel Saberhagen in 1864. The next page was a family tree, copied out of someone’s family Bible. I could barely make out a circled entry: Col. P. Saberhagen, CSA, ?-1865, buried Irontown Cem.
I didn’t like where this was going. The following page was torn straight out of a book, apparently a junior high American history text. It was a chapter dealing with the slave trade. The illustration was of an advertisement for a slave auction in St. Louis. The date was 1833. The head trader was Pieter Saber-Jagen.
The last page was an obituary for a Mr. Perry Saberhagen, died 1975. He had apparently been a major fundraiser for the John Birch Society, had lobbied congress to deport suspected Communists, and had been a founding member of The Moark Brotherhood (a paper-clipped note stated that the Brotherhood was associated with the KKK and was responsible for at least two lynchings in Arkansas). Mr. Saberhagen was buried in his hometown of Irontown, Missouri.
I closed the folder and replaced it in the drawer. Repositioning myself so Denton could make eye contact, I wondered where to begin.
“Denton, you’ve done your homework. But it doesn’t prove anything. Who’s to say these guys aren’t related? That Irontown isn’t a family plot?”
Denton groped for his notebook. In a town where no one has lived since 1850? Coincidence?
I took a few moments to ponder what he was saying. “So what are you telling me? That this Saberhagen guy never dies? That he’s the one who’s chasing me?” Denton was obviously delusional.
I’m not sure if he’s the one. But five guys with the same name all buried in the same abandoned town, for over 130 years?
“This is dumb,” I whispered. “If he doesn’t die, why do they bury him?” If it hadn’t been for the very real attempts on our lives recently, I wouldn’t even bother trying to reason with this mental patient.
Denton’s pen hovered, as he stared at the ceiling for a moment. I don’t mean he doesn’t die. I mean he won’t stay dead. Every 30 years or so, he comes back. Don’t know how or why, just does.
“So he’s what? A zombie? A vampire?”
Don’t know. Something powerful. 3 of the last guys who crossed him ended up dead or vanished. His people are trying to kill us. Denton began massaging his cramping wrist.
“I can’t accept this whole undead explanation. If all these Saberhagens had something to do with each other, maybe they just changed their name. Maybe they’re part of some criminal organization or something. ‘Saberhagen’ might be some kind of code name for their leader.”
One way to find out.
“What?”
Go to Irontown, or where it used to be. Check out his grave. See if his plots undisturbed.
I stood up. “You’re forgetting one thing, Mr. Dubbs.”
He looked at me questioningly.
“I don’t want anything more to do with this shit!” I hollered. Denton’s bloodshot eyes opened in panic, but I continued. “I don’t care who can hear me. I hope they can hear me. I want out! No more investigation, no more attempts on my life! It’s over.”
Martin stuck his head in the room. “Everything okay in here?”
Denton waved him away and began writing again.
The time for getting out passed us both by. How many times have you been attacked this week? 2x?
I couldn’t make eye contact. “Three.”
Surprised you’ve survived this long. They’re after you, and saying pretty please won’t make them stop.
“It’s all I got. Sorry Denton, all I care about is my own hide.”
Aren’t you curious?
“Nope.” I thought back to my plans of a cushy job at a big newspaper. I wasn’t ready to abandon the life I’d worked so hard to achieve.
Denton tried to write something else, but I refused to read it. “Bye, Denton.” I moved towards the door.
“Shee….ma…” It was the first time Denton had called me by my first name, and it sounded as if someone had forcibly extracted the word through his nasal cavity. I turned to find him painfully trying to gasp something through his maimed windpipe. I sat down again.
Do you want to end up like me?
“I almost did.”
I don’t mean being attacked. Walk out of here, try to live your life. Go to the police, I did. And then someone finds a kilo of coke in your trunk. Or some sweet little girl tells them how you raped her in her in the back of your car. Who will believe you then? They don’t have to kill you. Just turn you into someone no one will ever trust.
The idea horrified me. What if Denton was telling the truth about why he was in the hospital? He could shout about Saberhagen for years, but no one would believe him. And if these guys, whoever they were, were truly as powerful as they seemed, then they could do the same thing to me.
“Denton, what the hell am I supposed to do?”
Irontown. See if the grave’s undisturbed. If it looks normal, then just be careful and hope this all blows over.
“Sorry. Last time I took a drive in the country, someone tried to shoot me. I can’t help you.” I tried not to think of the directions to a certain grave that I had taken out of a dead man’s car. For whatever reason, the people who’d been chasing me were interested in an abandoned cemetery as well. But I wasn’t about to find out why.
Denton rolled his eyes in a disappointed manner and I got up to leave. “Denton, will you be okay here?”
Yes. Martin and the crew have got my back. At least for now. Be careful.
* * *
Martin walked me down the hall. “Were you two all right in there? I thought I heard yelling.” The orderly looked at me with obvious distrust.
“Just clowning around. Listen, do you have any clue who jumped him last night?”
We paused at the door to the day room. “If I had any idea,” said Martin, contemptuously, “don’t you think I’d have told the police?”
We walked into the day room. It was more crowded, with both patients and visitors milling around and talking. I noted that it was not always easy to pick out who was who.
Martin stopped me just before I passed into reception. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but I don’t trust you. You’d do well not to come around for a while, you dig?”
I had enough of this BS. “Ah, Nurse Ratched, we just want to watch the baseball game,” I told him with a smirk.
To my surprise, the room fell dead silent. Other than a gasp from the nurse and the click of the ping-pong ball rolling across the floor, no one made a sound. Inmates and visitors began glaring at me.
Martin shook his head. “I think you’d better leave.”