The Buddhists say — the mind is a monkey chasing its tail, suffering and desire going round and round. Hank had that monkey scampering inside his skull, treating his brain like a television remote. Pushing buttons. Throwing it down. Picking it up, chewing on it, drooling on it. Peeing on it. A goddamn electrical shitstorm of neurons and electrons blazed behind his eyes.
Then, something clicked. The static cleared and the picture came on.
Came on big-time. Snap, crackle, and zap. Digital high res, fiber-optic, surround-sound. ON.
Lights, camera, action. And what a picture. Almost like his perception and intelligence have become more acute in feverish overload. Burning up the wires. You and me, Jerry Lee.
Great balls of fire.
And he sees and hears.
His buddy, Allen Falken. Dead-Eye Doc himself.
A whole corridor of emptiness now filled up with detailed memory. The last face he saw before the icy black ink pumped out of his heart and down-flooded him inside until only his mind survived, hooked to the aqua lung of his heart and lungs and cast him into inner darkness to float in the nonspecific blackness inside his skin.
Last face. First face.
Allen. Smooth, Teutonic Allen, every hair in place and looking like a young, fit Billy Graham.
Handsome but not too handsome. Vain but in moderation.
There was some split screen going on, some interior backfill of images, the moraine of his life, the clutter of his personal album. But memory insisted on being very vivid, painfully boosting the resolution.
And it was like one of those Yogi Berra Zen pronouncements that illuminate a universe of everyday pain and comedy and hopes and dreams. The “This Is It” of your life.
Allen, sitting there, talking in his best bedside manner.
There was a sensation like when the roller coaster slows at the end of the ride, and Hank felt the loopy circuit of his eyes start to steady down, then stop. Hank rotated his eyes consciously, blinked consciously. Allen, absorbed in his casual soliloquy, missed it.
Missed it because Allen, good ole cautious, quiet Casper Milquetoast Allen, was saying that he finally took a chance.
No one’s looking. The syringe. Succinylcholine. A paralytic. Then turn off the monitor.
I see. At first it’s a mistake. Then it’s more like an accident on purpose. Uh-huh. Then it’s deliberate.
The nurse and the anesthetist take the blame.
The linx.
Blond woman. Young. Sharp and a little sassy. Liked her.
Allen. Fucker. Sitting on the bed. Patting my knee.
First you saved my life, then as an afterthought you killed me. I see. The first covers the tracks of the second.
Thought it would kill me. That’s the antiseptic thinking of the surgeon. But it’s hard to kill a man, Allen. Only sure way is to cut off his head.
Allen babbling on. Allen trying to come to terms with homicide. Didn’t mean to. Did. Didn’t mean to. Did.
She loves me. She loves me not.
Am I getting this right? And now the way is clear for Allen to court Jolene?
Allen and Jolene?
Think back to what he said. Okay. Jolene’s having lunch with Milt.
Now Milt must have a really big case.
Really big.
And Hank sees what Allen left out.
Whoever winds up with Jolene is going to get a lot of money.
It was information; and like Yogi said, it’s deja vu all over again. The old wager he had with Allen and Milt. Is the information of your life a cage that imprisons you or raw material for change. Nature or nurture.
Can I take this cockney wretch and turn her into a lady.
My Fair Lady.
In a tight spot, Hank. Well, no shit. You have to make the right move.
It’s a gift.
Maybe, just maybe, you get one last fight.
As sneakily as he could manage it, Hank eyeballed the casual, smug Allen, let his demented eyes rest on him for one burning second.
I’m gonna come back from the teeter-totter and add you to my body count. I’m gonna find a way.
Okay. Can’t quit.
Gotta.
Go.
All the way.
But for now, he has to keep his eyes moving in the blinky, loopy pattern. Even though all the voltage in his mind screams to focus and use his eyes to let the outside world know he is in here. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.
But if he focuses and winks and blinks consciously, then Allen will know he’s alert. And Allen has just confessed to him. Allen will turn him the rest of the way off.
Hank makes his only move.
He rolls his eyes.
Keep the eyes moving. Blinking randomly. Drool. Run laps. Let Herr Doctor Falken think you’re the vegetable. His creation.
Gonna.
Come.
Back.
Motherfucker.