The Madman's Tale by John Katzenbach Read Free Book Online Page A

some medication and some additional instructions for the nurses there. He should get at least thirty-six, perhaps more, hours of observation before they consider shifting him into the open ward.” He handed the clipboard across to the smaller of the two men flanking Francis, who nodded his response.
    “Whatever you say, Doc,” the attendant said.
    “Sure thing, Doc,” his huge partner replied, stepping behind the wheelchair, grasping the handles and rapidly spinning Francis around. The motion made him suddenly dizzy, and he choked back on the sobs that were filling his chest. “Don’t you be so scared, Mister Petrel. Things gonna be okay soon enough. We’re gonna take good care of you,” the large man whispered.
    Francis did not believe him.
    He was wheeled back through the office, into the waiting room, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands quivering against the cuffs. He twisted in the chair, trying to get the attention of either the large or the small attendant, his voice cracking with a combination of fear and an unbridled sadness. “Please,” he said, piteously, “I want to go home. They’re expecting me. That’s where I want to be. Please take me home.”
    The smaller attendant had his face set, as if the pleas coming from Francis were hard for him to hear. He placed his hand on Francis’s shoulder and repeated, “You gonna be okay, now, hear me. It’s gonna be okay. Shush now …” He spoke as he might to a baby.
    Sobs wracked Francis’s body, emanating from deep within him. The prim secretary looked up from her seat behind the desk with an impatient and unforgiving look on her face. “Quiet down!” she ordered Francis. He swallowed back another sob, coughing.
    As he did so, he looked across the room and saw two uniformed state troopers, wearing gray tunics and blue riding pants above polished knee-high brown boots. They were both strapping, tall, taut pictures of discipline, with close-cropped hair and their curved and cocked officers’ hats held stiffly at their sides. Each wore a glistening leather Sam Browne belt, polished to a reflective shine, and a holstered revolver high on their waist. But it was the man that they flanked that quickly attracted Francis’s attention.
    He was shorter than the troopers, but solidly built. Francis would haveguessed his age to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He stood in a languid, relaxed fashion, his hands cuffed in front of him, but the language of his body seemed to diminish the nature of the restraints, rendering them less restrictive and more as if they were merely an inconvenience. He wore a loose-fitting single-piece navy blue jumpsuit with the title MCI-BOSTON stitched in yellow above the left hand chest pocket and a pair of old, worn running shoes that were missing their laces. He had longish brown hair, that poked out from beneath the edges of a sweat-stained Boston Red Sox baseball cap, and a two-day shadow of a beard. But what struck Francis first and foremost were the man’s eyes, for they darted about, far more alert and observant than the leisurely pose he maintained, taking many things in as rapidly as possible. The eyes carried something deep, which Francis noticed immediately, even through his own anguish. He could not put a word to it instantly, but it was as if the man had seen something immensely, ineffably sad that lurked just beyond the horizon of his vision, so that whatever he saw, or heard or witnessed was colored by this hidden hurt. The eyes came to fix on Francis, and the man managed a small, sympathetic smile, that seemed to speak directly to Francis.
    “Are you okay, fella?” he asked. Each word was tinged with a slight Boston-Irish accent. “Are things that rough?”
    Francis shook his head. “I want to go home, but they say I have to stay here,” he answered. And then piteously, and spontaneously, he asked, “Can you help me, please?”
    The man bent down slightly, toward Francis. “I suspect there are