That last night, a noise. Around two in the morning, a noise in the hallway, and Billy rustles awake. This is not a place that creaks, like an old house. This is new construction, and after a few days, all the night noises have been cataloged. The central air—ka-duum—pumping in its fresh batch; the toilet communicating with another toilet that's been flushed—chaaa—like a communal cleansing breath; the courtyard spotlight clicking near the window—ki-ki-ki—in a halogen pulse. These are the normal noises, the AHRC's REM. But Billy bolts upright when he hears something, something, he swears, being dragged in the hallway.
No matter how murderously baroque, Ragnar comes to mind, Ossap and Dullick revealed. There must be a chemical reaction in the brain that brews a killer in a midnight noise. Receptor sites suck up old fears until you're a boy again with your various escape plans. You could jump out the window. You could lock yourself in the bathroom. You could pretend to be asleep. You could hide in the closet. You could cover yourself under the sheets and lie real flat, barely breathing, as if nobody's in this bed, nope, nobody here. Billy calculates the probable order of death, the homicidal feng shui of a psychopath. He'll likely move down the hall, from room to room, and slit throats with the routine of a hotel maid. This would be the fourth room. There should be screams, bloodcurdling, canary-in-coal-mine screams. Unless, of course, he's the only victim. The dragging continues down the hall, fading with a creepy old lady hush.
And that's the only noise.
Until now.
Ninety-three minutes later and Billy hears whistling outside the window, gentle entreaties coming from the courtyard, loving calls, kissing lips, enthusiastic claps, barking—yes, he hears dogs barking. All of this seems like midsummer night's dream stuff that sneaks through the heavy curtains. On the other side could be the frantic backstage of sleep. It's the sound of anxious wooing. Certainly better than the earlier hush, but equally mysterious, and while Billy is curious, he's also comfortable and goes through the sort of profit and liability reasoning more often associated with a full bladder and a warm bed. If he gets up any chance of sleep will be squashed. Then again, he's already awake and piqued. The floor must be cold. But not that cold. Just close your eyes and tomorrow will prove these noises ridiculous. But if you get up, you'll be satisfied. And feel stupid for the effort. Either way, do something. As it always seems, this debate goes on longer than necessary, to the point of false countdowns (in five seconds) and mini-motivational lectures (go go go) until finally (fuck it) Billy rolls out of bed.
Time: 3:23 A.M.
Parting the curtains (the anticipation in finding the seam and inching back the fabric and peering outside is almost sensual, and Billy lingers, giving the moment more oomph, knowing this is performance, suspense-fill foreplay in the style of edging your fingers along another's waistline even when there's no question the pants will be removed), he catches the source of the noise: nearly a dozen people bustle about the courtyard in chaotic synchronization. It's not far from woodland sprites, Billy thinks, from Puck and Co. if they were clad in black and their heads were sheathed in ladies' pantyhose, if they were incognito goblins scurrying around with ponytails of empty feet. Billy spots two vans parked no doubt illegally near the HAM sculpture. It's like the great bronze finger has finally hailed its ride. A few of the goblins are hunched over, tapping their knees here-here-here, while others run about waving their arms, pointing, giving thumbs up, gesturing come come come quick. All this action is being documented by a goblin with a video camera lashed to his right hand. Sensitive to every jiggle, he seems to be doing a form of cinemagraphic tai chi. The overall strangeness of the scene allays any need for explanation. Billy just watches, dumbfounded but pleased, feeling certain this has nothing to do with him.
No, these goblins are after different game. They're herding animals, mostly dogs, from the center's east wing. Beagles scamper free as well as mixed breeds with strong traits of Labrador and German shepherd and some sporting pointer. There's a golden retriever with its belly shaved; a cocker spaniel with a cone around its neck. The more energetic dogs speed around the courtyard in frantic circles, their hind legs hitched in tight serpentine. The fast chase the faster, their mouths nipping It! They tackle, roll, yap, bound toward grass where pissing and shitting must be more pleasurable for they muster an endless supply. They're beasts stoned on smell. But a majority of the dogs are far from enthusiastic. They are the ones in the midst of experimentation, nurtured with disease and recovery. They barely move. Instead, they lie down, or worse, step-step-step, collapse, and struggle to get up again. They limp. They shiver. They lick worn bits of overly kenneled fur. Some wear backpacks in the mode of sporty dogs who jog and hike with their sporty owners. But these dogs are the sportless; they carry the machinery of their own demise.
"I feel like"—Billy turns around—"we're on a sinking ship"—and sees Gretchen standing by the door. Lit from behind, she resembles a ghost who is sick of the haunting part. Despite everything, Billy is glad for her company.
"It's unbelievable," he says.
"Who are they?" she asks.
"No clue."
Gretchen drifts toward the window. "Animal rights, I'd guess."
"Yeah."
"Do you think security has any idea?"
"I would seriously doubt it," Billy says.
"Yeah, stupid question."
More animals are brought into the courtyard: rhesus monkeys clutched none too gracefully, Chimps hugging their rescuers sweetly. Cages are lugged from indoors and dramatically opened for the camera. Out flee rats, mice, gerbils, bunnies, the jetsam from a sinking ship. More dogs are brought forth, lame dogs who must be carried. The goblin videographer rushes over and films a pit bull convulsing in somebody's arms.
"This is awful," Gretchen mutters.
"Look at that dog," Billy says of a largish breed with a cone around its neck and a scar on its shaved chest.
"That's a Bouvier des Flandres," Gretchen tells him. "That's a real breed."
"And how about that one?"
"That's a vizsla, another expensive dog."
"And that?"
"A basenji."
Billy thinks of Eden, and he's Adam pointing to an animal in the distance and saying, "Dog," and Eve shakes her head and says, "No, Chesapeake Bay retriever."
The goblin videographer is summoned to the HAM sculpture. Across the wrist a banner has been unfurled (unreadable from this angle). Under the impressive thumb knuckle, two goblins, short and tall, stand in the camera's headlight. They must be making a statement because they flamboyantly gesture toward the AHRC behind them and the pitiable animals all around. The taller goblin holds a hairless rhesus monkey, which he thrusts forward, much to the displeasure of the monkey who leaps out of his grasp and lands on the head of the shorter goblin. Its claws instantly dig. The rhesus-affixed goblin tries pulling the monkey free, but the monkey has a good grip on pantyhose and hair, ripping both apart. The taller goblin tries helping his friend by grabbing the monkey's scruff, but stocking and scalp are like taffy and the monkey isn't letting go. The afflicted goblin now screams (audible through the glass) as the taller goblin yanks and pries. The fellow goblins briefly stop herding animals and watch this struggle, some obviously amused, and the videographer keeps on filming like this will be perfect for the blooper reel. Finally, the monkey abandons its position and leaps for the higher ground of the sculpture, springing from thumb to index finger. It hugs the bronze trunk like a memory gone weird. The shorter goblin dabs his head while the taller goblin tends to the worst of the scratches.
That's when Billy recognizes them. "Ossap and Dullick," he says.
"You think?"
"I'd bet my life."
Behind them, the third floor begins to bustle.
The hallway fills with shouts and naked feet slapping.
News filters in of the night nurse found tied up.
Word is the lounge has the best view, but Billy and Gretchen stay together. They watch Ossap and Dullick as they do another take for the camera, their statement this time more subdued and lacking in props. Ossap speaks while applying pressure to his forehead; Dullick rips his black shirt for a makeshift bandage; Dullick reaches for Ossap; Ossap swipes Dullick away; Dullick, shirt ruined, crosses his arms; Ossap, frustrated, divests himself of the tattered pantyhose and screams at the videographer who removes his own pantyhose and hands it over for the sake of anonymity. Thus Carlson Dickey, the security guard preacher, is revealed. He starts filming take three.
"There's security," Billy says.
"What do you think they're saying?" Gretchen asks.
"I have no idea."
In the hallway, the newly freed night nurse screams, "Everybody back into your goddamn room, right now, no screwing around! We have a situation here!"
Yes, Billy thinks, a situation. The friskier dogs have noticed the rabbits.
They are now giving chase. The rabbits don't stand a chance. They're too drugged, too chemically cooped up for evasive maneuvers. They're ripped apart, torn open, played with until lungs stop squeaking, then abandoned for the next flash of fur. It's a massacre. The courtyard, the massive dial of that clock, might as well be the floor of a timeless abattoir. The goblins try their best. They kick the dogs halfheartedly (animal abuse not their natural instinct) and scoop up the injured bunnies and run for the vans. They're all running for the vans, bringing as many animals as they can muster, like this is Saigon, 197 5. Move move move! Those left behind are urged toward the safety of the woods, but the dogs, the mice, the rats, the lone rhesus monkey atop of the bronze hand have no understanding of freedom, not in this world. They watch the vans speed away with little more than passing curiosity, more interested in the cool night air, the moon, the sirens in the distance flashing the horizon red, the brief recess of life unbounded by prescription.
"Run away," Gretchen says, like a filmgoer talking to the screen.
Billy reaches for her hand, and she accepts it, neither one saying a word.
He holds her without flirtation, fingers cupping fingers, nothing more, nothing less, their palms creating something a few degrees warmer than normal body temperature. They stand like this not forever, no, obviously not, but long enough so that time loses its grip and surrenders to heartbeats with no sense of the clock, only the immeasurable rudimental damp of a first touch. The remaining dogs chase down the last of the rabbits. Mice bump into nothing as if searching for the walls of a maze. The monkey balances itself on the raised index finger and reaches up into the air, wanting something higher than bronze. Billy and Gretchen watch this, holding hands, until the night nurse, a schoolmarm of the imagination, orders Gretchen away.