The Insane Train (12 page)

Seth had barely slept with all the snoring and clamor of the Barstow Workers' Hotel. That, on top of an especially disturbing nightmare, had made it a short night indeed. He preferred sleeping under a bridge to staying in a flophouse. At least the air was fresh, and the nights were quiet.

He stood in front of the long line of sinks, deciding on the one nearest the door. The previous man's whiskers still lined the sink, and a sliver of soap liquefied on the backsplash.

He took a long look in the mirror, which had a crack radiating from one corner to the other. The scar on his face had faded with the desert sun, and the droop of his eye had lessened as his weight had returned. But a sandwich board could not have been more effective than the scar in reminding folks of the war, something most preferred to forget.

After shaving, he rousted Santos and Roy from their bunks.

“Goddang it, Seth,” Roy said. “Such a dream don't come along all that often.”

“Hook will be waiting,” Seth said. “And he ain't so patient.”

On the way to the Harvey House, they stopped at the back door of the Barstow Café and Grill, which could be good for a cup of coffee, sometimes a biscuit with butter if the Mexican cook was on duty.

“You think that cop died?” Roy asked, munching on his biscuit. “That bridge support rang like a Chinese gong.”

“Cops got heads thick as boiler patches,” Seth said.

“You figure we're going to the security ward?”

“Soon enough,” Seth said, finishing off his coffee. “They didn't hire us to march a bunch of women back and forth to lunch. Anyway, things are getting out of hand between Bertha and Santos here.”

“She like it hot,” Santos said.

“That's why she's in the nutty,” Roy said. “Anyone fall for you has to be bonkers.”

Santos dropped the remainder of his biscuit into his mouth and grinned.

 

Hook waited as Santos and Roy climbed out of the back of the pickup. He flipped his cigarette butt out the window and turned to Seth.

“I've got to get locks put on one of those outfit cars for the security ward today, Seth. We can't take any chances with those boys. Now, I called Baldwin this morning, and he wants you to go ahead and report to Doctor Helms.”

“We're going to the security ward then?” Seth asked.

“Looks that way.”

“I fought Germans bare-handed, Hook,” Seth said, “but I got to tell you, the security ward scares the bejeezus out of me.”

“You just keep your wits about you, Seth. You'll be alright. Doctor Helms will be there to give you an orientation and such. Don't let Roy be poking fun at those inmates. They haven't the sense of humor I do. Any questions?”

Seth looked over at the gate. “I been hoping to get paid before I got killed.”

“Well, it isn't payday, and the railroad doesn't pay until it's payday.”

“Exactly what
is
criminally insane, Hook?”

Hook pulled at his chin. “It isn't altogether clear to me. They're either criminals or they're insane, but they can't be both at once.”

“They got to be one or the other?” Seth asked.

“That's right. A criminal commits a crime because he wants to. An insane criminal commits the same crime, but he doesn't want to. That way he isn't a criminal, he's just insane.”

“He can do it as long as he doesn't want to? It ain't against the law that way?” Seth asked.

“That's right.”

“Hell, Hook, that's crazy.”

“Exactly. That's why there are doctors and then there's us. So just don't try to figure it out. Do what you're told.”

Seth opened the door. “Okay, Hook, if you say so.”

 

Helms, looking like a blue heron, waited at the door of the security ward as Seth, Roy, and Santos climbed the steps.

“There's no smoking,” she said, pointing to Seth's cigarette, “and no matches allowed in the ward.”

Seth snuffed out his cigarette and gave her his matches. Roy searched his pockets and came up with nothing.

“Follow me,” she said.

Sounds issued from the bowels of the ward when the men stepped in. The smells reminded Seth of the flophouse they just left, the pungency of urine, sour clothes, and sweat. But the sounds were nothing he'd ever heard, an eerie concoction, like a mourner's wail and a jackal's howl all mixed together in sadness.

“These cells are locked at all times,” Doctor Helms said. “Your duties here are simple. You'll help administer the medications I've prepared, and you'll bring the meals from the cafeteria. Do not talk to the inmates more than giving instructions, and do not go into a cell under any circumstances. If there's an emergency, call me immediately, and I'll arrange for restraints. Is that clear?”

They all nodded their heads.

“Good. Now, this man in room six is Robert Smith. He's a sexual sadist and extremely dangerous. Believe me when I tell you that he would have no compunction about slitting your throat and watching you choke on your own blood.”

Seth looked into the cell. Smith sat on the edge of his bunk staring at the wall. He was small, not much bigger than a boy, really, and his face, pockmarked from acne, displayed no emotion. Suddenly, he turned toward Seth and blinked his eyes with the slow deliberateness of a serpent. His tongue slid from his mouth until it reached nearly to his chin. Seth's bowels churned, and he turned away.

“Van Diefendorf over here is a pyromaniac,” Helms said, “among other things. He is not to be trusted under any circumstances.
Any
circumstances. Understood?”

They all nodded and looked in at Van Diefendorf.

“All of these inmates suffer from a range of psychotic disorders, most so severe that traditional therapy is ineffectual. Whatever dysfunctions you see in the general population exist here as well, except to the extreme, including insomnia, sexual deviance, eating disorders, identity disorders, and substance abuse of every ilk. Self-mutilation is common.

“This man in room five sawed open his wrist with a can lid. In room eight is a seventy-year-old grandfather who picked his nose until he destroyed his septum. We tried everything to stop him but to no avail.”

She stopped and turned to the men. “Do not think for a minute that these men see the world as you do. Do not think they are stupid because they are insane. Many planned their crimes with the most exacting detail and executed it in ways so despicable they cannot be described in mixed company. Some eluded their captors for years through carefully planned deceptions. To assume them to be dull-witted could be the biggest mistake of your life.

“Now, here in this room is a man you do not have to worry about. He will do you no harm, not now, not ever again. He murdered his teenage daughter for kissing the neighbor boy. In order to avoid punishment, he left his car running in his garage. Unfortunately, he bungled the job. The end result is what you see before you; that was over twenty years ago. The state pays for his care.”

Seth peeked into the window. The man leaned against the wall. His hair had worn from the back of his head, and the smell of feces seeped from under the door. His hands lay open at his sides, and drool spilled from his lips, soaking the front of his shirt. His eyes reflected outward like mirrors, absorbing nothing from the outside world.

Roy looked over Seth's shoulder. “I once dated a girl from Pikesville looked just like that,” he said. “Except she wore heels and shaved every Saturday night, need it or not.”

Helms turned and looked at Roy. “Jokes are inappropriate. I suggest you dispense with them.”

Roy glanced at Seth and then at Santos, who was busy studying his feet. “Sorry,” he said.

Helms then took them to the end of the hall. “This is a panic button,” she said. “It's called that for obvious reasons. If you should become engaged in a situation, push this button immediately. An alarm will be sounded throughout the compound.” She paused, looking at each of them. “It is the only access to help. Be mindful of where it is in relation to where you are at all times.”

 

That morning Seth swept the main hall while Doctor Helms prepared medications for each of the inmates, placing their pills in paper cups, writing the room number on each with a pencil. Roy and Santos went for bathroom and cleaning supplies, sneaking a smoke on the way back.

At noon, Doctor Helms called Seth into the medications room.

“I've therapy sessions scheduled, Mr. Durand. You are to give these medications to the inmates. The room numbers are on the cups. Slide them through the opening and watch to make certain they are taken. Sometimes they hide the pills under their tongues. If there is a problem, simply wait until I return.”

“You're leaving us here?” Seth asked.

“I'll be back around three. The other men are to go to the cafeteria and bring back the food carts. Count the eating utensils going in and coming out.”

“But this is our first day, Doctor Helms.”

“Under normal circumstances, I would not leave the ward under the supervision of new employees, but these are hardly normal circumstances. In any case, the inmates need to become familiar with you and your men since you will be working with them during the transfer. In the final analysis, all you have to do is maintain security. Are you clear on that?”

“Keep them locked up,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”

After Roy and Santos left for the cafeteria, Seth stacked the cups of pills on the tray. At each room, he handed the medications through the slot and waited for them to be taken. Most took their medications without comment before turning back to their demons.

Van Diefendorf in room nine swallowed his in a single gulp, crumpled up the paper cup, and threw it at the window. Seth jumped back, nearly spilling the tray.

Voices rumbled down the corridor. Seth turned to see the inmates watching him through their windows. Their eyes were still and insidious. His ears went hot.

When he came to room six he called out Robert Smith's name. Smith didn't move, staring at the wall.

“Medications,” Seth said. “Doctor Helms's orders.”

Smith rose from his bunk to stand at the window, looking at Seth with cougar eyes, the eyes of a predator that kills instinctually and without guilt. Seth's pulse ticked up as he searched through the cups for room six.

When he pushed the medicine through the slot, Smith reached out and touched Seth's hand. Seth jerked it back, the coldness of Smith's touch lingering on his fingers.

Smith tipped the cup up and swallowed the pills. Then, smiling, turned the cup around to where Seth could see that it had the number 9 written on it rather than the number 6.

“Oh, shit!” Seth said.

Smith slid the cup back through the slot, went to his cot, and sat down. Seth's heart thumped in his chest. What had he done, two inmates with the wrong medications? Maybe he had killed them both. But then maybe it would be alright. It was just one dose after all, and crazy
was
crazy. Maybe no one would know.

He finished the last three rooms and returned the tray to the med room. He went back to Smith's window, and his heart stalled at what he saw. Smith lay unconscious in the corner of his room, his head slumped over.

“Oh, God,” Seth said, looking about. “I've killed him. I have killed him sure.”

But the ward had fallen silent behind him. No one said that it would be alright, that he'd just had an accident, just a simple mistake and that no one could blame him.

His hands trembling, he fumbled for the room key, opening the door. Bending over Smith, he put his fingers on his neck to check for a pulse. He'd seen plenty of death in the war. He knew the stillness, the cooling of the skin, the smell of leaking bowels.

But in that single moment, the moment Smith's pulse tripped on Seth's fingertips, he realized his mistake, the biggest mistake of his life.

Smith came up, driving his fist hard into Seth's throat. Seth screamed, but nothing came out as his esophagus convulsed under the blow. He struggled to breathe, to stand, to make it to the panic button, now a million miles away.

If only he could get to the door, escape the madness intent on taking his life. But Smith hit him again, a driving blow that sent Seth reeling. Black spots swam in his eyes, and a high-pitched ringing wormed through his head like a corkscrew.

Through his fog, he could see the top of Smith's head, the thinning spot on the back where beads of sweat were gathered, and he could feel Smith's hands and his hot breath. Fire ripped up his groin and settled into the pit of his stomach like molten lava.

 

Roy caught Smith under the chin with his knee, snapping his head back against the wall. Smith slid onto the floor, his eyes rolling white. Santos pulled Seth from the room by his arms, and within moments the door to room six slammed shut.

Roy retrieved water from the medications room and dabbed it on Seth's face. Seth sat up and looked about, his eyes still filled with terror.

“It's alright now,” Roy said.

Seth rubbed his face and looked over at the locked door.

“The son of a bitch tricked me,” he said.

“Maybe we shouldn't tell Helms about this,” Roy said. “She ain't much for joking around. We'll all lose our jobs.”

Seth steadied himself on trembling arms.

“Roy, I got to tell you, I'm not so sure about taking this job anymore. It's a hell of a long trip we got ahead.”

“I'm mighty tired of sleeping under bridges, Seth, and there's a chance we could hire on with Baldwin after we get there.”

Seth looked over at room six. Robert Smith stood at the window with blood in the corners of his mouth. He smiled.

“But what about him?” Seth said.

Santos helped Seth stand, steadying him by the arm.

“You don't need him,” Santos said, grinning. “I share Bertha.”