The Upright Man (11 page)

This is what I intend to do, but I do not know why.
—G
ERARD
S
CHAEFER
,
SERIAL KILLER
,
I
NTO THE
M
IND OF THE
G
HOUL

WHEN
THE GUY FIRST APPEARED
, P
HIL
B
ANNER
was leaning against the car outside Izzy’s eating a hot mushroom-and-egg sandwich he hadn’t paid for. Not his fault—he always offered, and Izzy always said no—but it still made him feel a little guilty. Not enough to stop him eating it, though, or to keep from going back most mornings. The sandwich was good and thick and not really designed to be eaten with fingers, and the guy with the blood was probably in view for a few minutes before Banner lifted his head and saw him. When he did he watched for a good five seconds, still chewing and not really sure what he was seeing, before he hurriedly put the food down.

The man was walking right down the middle of the street. The road was empty because it was eight-thirty in the morning and very cold but it didn’t look like traffic would have changed the guy’s course. He looked as though he barely knew where he was. He was wearing a backpack that looked both new and tattered. He was lurching like something out of a zombie movie, one leg dragging behind, and when Phil took a few cautious steps forward he saw he was also covered in blood. It was dried, or seemed to be, but there was a lot of it. There was a big bump on the man’s forehead, with a nasty gash across it, and
innumerable other cuts and scrapes across his face and hands. Dried mud covered most of the rest, and just about all of his clothes.

Phil took another step. “Sir?”

The man kept on moving as though he hadn’t heard. He was breathing hard but steadily, the exhales clouding up around his face. In, out, in, out, as if the rhythm had become important to him. As if it was that, or nothing. Then slowly his head turned. He kept on moving forward but looked at Phil. His eyes were bloodshot and he had a couple days’ growth of beard. There was ice in it. It had been a long time since Phil had seen a man who looked so cold.

The guy stopped, finally. He blinked, opened his mouth. Shut it again, looked up the road for a moment. He seemed so interested in what was down there that Phil glanced that way himself, but saw only the short remaining stretch of town that he expected.

“Sir, are you okay?” He knew it was a stupid question. The guy self-evidently wasn’t okay. But it was what you said. You come across a person with a knife embedded in his head—not that that was likely to happen, in a town like this; frankly, choking on a fish bone was far more likely—you ask if he’s okay.

A change occurred across the man’s features, slow and uneven, and Phil realized it was probably intended to be a smile.

“This is Sheffer, isn’t it?” he asked. The movements of his face were cramped, as if his mouth was almost frozen shut.

“Yes, sir, it is.”

The smile broadened. “No shit.”

“Sir?”

The guy shook his head, suddenly looking more together, as if the shambling had been some habit he’d gotten into to keep himself going past the point at which he thought he’d have to drop. Phil realized that he looked slightly familiar.

“That’s some sense of direction,” the man said. “Say what you like.” His face crumpled.

Phil saw that Izzy and a couple local customers were now standing outside the diner, and that a similar audience was assembling across the street in the market’s small parking lot. It was time to take charge of the situation.

“Sir, have you been in an accident of some kind?”

The man looked at him. “Bigfoot,” he said, nodded, and then slowly fell flat on his back.

TWO
HOURS LATER
T
OM
K
OZELEK WAS SITTING IN
the police station. He was wrapped in three blankets and holding a cup of chicken soup in both hands. He was in the room they normally used for interviewing, on the rare occasions the Sheffer police had cause to interview anyone, and for storing coats and wet boots and has-no-other-home stuff the rest of the time. It had a desk and three chairs and a clock. It had previously been the kitchen area before that was moved upstairs to be next to the redone administrative space, and had a partially glassed wall that made it look a little like a room in some much larger and more urban law enforcement facility. It would have, at least, had the glass not been home to stickers celebrating the town’s Halloween parade. The stickers had been designed each year by the school’s most talented young art student, which was the main thing that kept the glass partition from looking businesslike: either someone had blindfolded the kids before handing them the paints or Sheffer was never going to host any famous hometown museum. Phil Banner had occasionally expressed the opinion that they should get them done by someone who could draw a little. He had been assured that when he had kids he would feel differently. He was going to wait and see.

Phil was standing with Melissa Hoffman. Melissa lived thirty miles away over in Ellensburg and worked at the small county hospital there. Sheffer’s own doctor, Dr. Dandridge, was well liked but older than God and significantly
less infallible, and so lately Melissa’s tended to be the number they called. She was in her late thirties, not at all bad-looking and she didn’t seem to know it. She was happily married to a thick-set guy who owned a small secondhand bookstore and chain-smoked Marlboro Lite. Go figure.

She looked away from the glass window. “He’s fine,” she said. “Ankle’s a bit messed up. Banged around in general. Little bit of exposure, but no frostbite. He’s vague on details but from what he said he got most of his big bumps a couple of days ago: if he was going to get a concussion, he would have had it already and probably not be here now. He needs feeding and sleep and that’s all, folks. He’s a lucky guy.”

Phil nodded. He really wished the chief was here, and not a hundred miles away visiting his sister. “But the other stuff.”

She shrugged. “Said he was okay physically. Mentally is another story.” She turned to the desk where the backpack the man had been wearing had thawed. Cold water covered the surface and had dripped through cracks to the floor. She took a pen from the pot on the corner and used it to poke around, holding the bag open gingerly with her other hand. “This thing is laced with alcohol, and you say he’d been drinking before.”

Phil nodded. It hadn’t taken him long to work out why the man’s face seemed familiar. “He was trying to break into Big Frank’s bar late one night last weekend. I had to request that he stop.”

Melissa looked at the man through the window. He appeared only dozily awake, and incapable of raising a rumpus of any kind. As she watched he blinked slowly, like an old dog on the verge of sleep. “Did he seem dangerous? Psychotic?”

“No. More kind of sad. Happened to run into Joe and Zack next morning, and they said some guy had been in there all evening, drinking it up by himself. Sounded like the same person.”

“So four days of drinking, most likely nothing to eat,
then a stomach full of sleeping pills. The signs for being in a happy place aren’t great. Still, he doesn’t come across like a crazy person.”

“They never do.” Phil hesitated. “He said he saw Bigfoot.”

She laughed. “Yeah, people do, from time to time. What he actually saw was a bear. You know that.”

“I guess.”

Melissa looked at him hard for a moment, and Phil found himself blushing when she smiled. “You do
know
that, right?”

“Of course,” he said, impatiently.

Now was not the time for a discussion of what Phil’s uncle had once thought he’d seen—or
felt,
more accurately—in the deep forest way up over the ridge. No one had ever taken that seriously, except perhaps Phil himself, when he was small. His uncle eventually stopped telling the story. More than a handful of towns up in the Cascades had their own local legends and BF displays, and you could buy lattes and muffins from more than one roadside stall fashioned in the shape of a big hairy creature. Not in Sheffer. Around these parts, Bigfoot was bunk. Or, as the chief liked to put it, BF was a pile of BS. A well-worn lure for a certain kind of tourist town, that was all, and Sheffer wasn’t that kind of town. Sheffer was quiet, genteel, and had once been used as the background of a whimsical television series. It had the rail museum and rolling stock. There were nice restaurants, and only nice people came to eat in them. The town wanted to keep it that way. The chief wanted it most of all.

But more than a handful of people had been standing out in the street when the Tom guy had said the word, and not all of them were locals. By the end of the day a few might pass on what had happened that morning to their friends and relatives. Phil knew what the chief thought about that kind of thing too, and he really wished he’d gotten the guy inside someplace before he could say the B word. A little honest publicity was one thing: you wanted to point out that a television star or two had spent the night in town over the last decade, that was better than fine.
Some reporters turning up to portray the town as a bunch of money-grabbing yokels would not be so good a deal. When Phil had called him on his cell phone, the chief said he would be back by early afternoon at the latest. Phil was glad about that.

“Going to see if that guy wants some more of Izzy’s soup,” he said, and Melissa nodded.

She watched as he went into the room, sat at the end of the table, and spoke gently to the man seated there. She believed Kozelek should really be examined for aftereffects of the sleeping pills he’d taken, but he was adamant that he didn’t want to go to any hospital, and she had no power to make him. He’d survived three very cold days and nights in the woods, and walked a very long distance in hard terrain. Given that, he looked in good shape for a guy who’d been out there trying to die. There was a case for saying he should be talking to someone about that part of things, too, but again it wasn’t something she could force. She privately thought that when his brain had thawed out properly, both that and talk of unknown species would gently fade away. Then they could just ship him back to L.A. or wherever it was he was from, and life in Sheffer would go on as usual.

As she turned to go she noticed something in the bottom of the open backpack. She stopped and took a closer look. In among the shards of glass and sodden fragments of drug packets were a few things that looked like tiny bunches of dried flowers.

She took one of them out, and saw they weren’t flowers after all; more like short, bedraggled stalks. The stuff looked as though it must have fallen into the man’s bag as he careened through the forest, knocked off passing bushes and trees.

Either that, or as if it had been bought from a man on a street corner somewhere, and had fallen out of its baggie.

Here was a man who said he’d seen things, and tried to break into bars by all accounts, and in his bag was a little bunch of natural-looking matter. How about that. Partly out
of professional concern, but mainly from good, old-fashioned curiosity, Melissa slipped the tiny bunch into her bag and then went outside to drive back to the hospital where, she was fairly confident, not much of interest would be happening.

AT
ABOUT LUNCHTIME
, T
OM
’
S HEAD BEGAN TO
really ache. It had been hurting a little before. Had hurt for a significant proportion of His Time Away, in fact. But this was different. This was worse.

Tom was still sitting in his chair in the office with the window. He had come to think of it as his chair, at least. He had spent the entire morning in it, therefore it was his. In His Time Away things had become simpler for Tom. He was inclined to think in basic terms. Possession was nine-tenths of the whatever. This was his chair now, and God help the man who tried to take it. Nobody seemed especially keen to, anyhow. The Phil guy popped his head in every now and then, but otherwise, since the doctor woman, he had been left alone.

The headache was a slow, rolling affair and had an expensive, professional quality to it. This headache knew its trade. It had relevant experience. It covered his head like a cold counterpane, heavy and insistent, and had begun to maintain outposts in other parts of his body too. His guts, primarily. He had told the doctor he didn’t want to go to the hospital at least partly to gauge her reaction. If she’d barked, “Think again, moron, you’re deeply, deeply fucked and we’re going to drag you by the hair to a scary place with machines with green readouts and then you’re going to
die
,” then he’d have gone quietly. She hadn’t, which meant there was a chance he was okay. He felt okay, in general, apart from the headache, and the feeling in his guts, which he was inclined to see as a subdivision of the headache. He’d read somewhere that there was a mat of neural tissue spread around the stomach, actually the second largest collection of such tissue in the entire body (
after the brain, of course). Hence gut reactions, gut feelings, blah, blah, blah. He could see this might make evolutionary sense: give the innards enough of a brain to enable it to send up signals saying “Don’t eat that rotten crap again, remember what happened last time,” much as his own had done when he’d made it back to his bag, in the forest. He was hoping the way it felt now was merely a sign of it being in sympathy with his head. If it felt this way on its own account, it was possible he should have gone to the hospital after all.

He was also hoping that the painkillers the doctor had left would start to kick in any minute. His head was making his eyes go funny. He was still hanging on to the idea that at some point he was going to stand up, go walking out into town, and find the ancient fucker who hadn’t mentioned the bears, but just at this moment the plan didn’t feel realistic. It seemed all too likely the old geezer could beat him up.