The Devil in Silver

The cops watched quietly as Josephine and Scotch Tape checked the Devil for injuries. Scotch Tape and Josephine helped the Devil to its feet and walked it back to its room. Josephine pulled the silver door open and all three shuffled inside. Soon Josephine and Scotch Tape returned to the police, who were grouped by the nurses’ station. Pepper and Loochie sat on the floor, surrounded by them. Pepper’s hands were bound behind him. Loochie held up her torn right hand as if signaling a waitress to bring the check. Dorry had been walked to the other side of the nurses’ station where she’d collapsed. A young cop sat with her and held her hand tenderly because he thought she looked just like his great-aunt.

The cops and the staff milled around, still coming down from the chaos. A tall cop pointed toward the silver door and asked, What’s wrong with that one? Scotch Tape frowned and shook his head regretfully. He said, That’s the sorriest case we got. Doctors don’t know what to do for him.

How could Scotch Tape talk about the Devil like that? Pepper wondered. As if it was just another patient and not the thing they’d seen. Could anyone work so hard to deny reality that he’d mistake the Devil for a man?

In a way it felt better to focus on such questions than to remember his friend, Kofi, being shot to death. A pair of syringes in his hands. What had he really planned to do with them? They weren’t knives or swords. Was he going to poke the Devil into submission?

Pepper had seen Kofi’s face just before the shooting began. A thought seemed to pass across his friend’s eyes. Pepper wished he might know what that thought was. Had it been something ridiculous? Maybe wishing he had one last quarter, even after all that had proved so damn useless. What was that last thought? Sitting on the inoperable toilet, Pepper feared he might fall into a loop. One where he wondered about Coffee’s last thoughts for hours and days and weeks. Until he might drive himself screwy trying to grasp at one last connection with the man he’d come to know. Better to think of anything else. Something concrete, tangible, real.

Kofi’s blood traveled up to the fluorescent lights when he was shot.

Now Pepper couldn’t get that image out of his head.

Kofi’s blood, up there, on the ceiling.

The next the morning Loochie and Dorry and Pepper were returned to Northwest, much to the staff’s unhappiness. When the security officers left, the staff put each patient into restraints. Dorry had been in her own room for years. Loochie was moved to a room of her own as well. Loochie’s previous roommate, the Haint, hardly waved good-bye as Loochie took her stuff out. And Pepper was returned to his room.

Where Coffee’s messy, empty bed looked like an open grave.

Though Pepper lay in restraints, he curled his head back as best he could because he kept wishing, praying, he’d catch sight of Coffee once again. When the pipes in the bathroom rattled, Pepper forgot and called out for Coffee, asked if he’d share a can of soda. But of course Coffee never answered.

The day after that, each member of the revolution had long meetings with Dr. Anand. Debriefings. Pepper was the last.

They sat him down in conference room 2. Dr. Anand was already at the table. Miss Chris sat in attendance. And a man whose gray flannel suit was more memorable than he was. He had an iPad propped up on the table. This guy didn’t look at Pepper. He just tapped at the screen with one finger. (He was there to make notes for any potential legal actions that could be brought against the hospital at some future date.)

Dr. Anand placed both hands on the table and didn’t bother with any introductory talk. “Pepper, we’re looking for some kind of explanation for what happened.” He put up one hand before Pepper could respond. “We’ve already met with Dorry and Loochie, so we’re looking for a simple and clear explanation. Simple and clear, please.”

Pepper nodded, but what could he tell the man? Did he believe what Dorry had said? He’s my son. Coffee thought he’d been searching the Internet telepathically. And look how that part turned out. He’d thought those digits would save his life, but they were just a wrong number in Oakland. Good work, Kofi! How’s that for clear? Pepper saw no way of summarizing all this, so he said nothing.

Dr. Anand looked disappointed. He sat back in his chair. He said, “Miss Chris will need to take some blood and check your blood pressure.”

Miss Chris rose. The blood-pressure strap in one hand. “Doctor says I to do it and you gone let me do it, hear?” She spoke as if Pepper was a dog, but there was something desperate in her voice. “You hear?” she repeated.

Miss Chris was scared of him. They probably all were. He didn’t feel pressed to reassure them. He felt like seeing them squirm.