Dylan pinched the paper from the tweezers and popped it in his mouth. What the hell? It had to be better than electroshock.
He dry-swallowed, smiled slowly, and said, “Thanks, Doc. The warden know you’re my drug dealer now?”
Kowalski sat down on the edge of his chair, hitched it a couple of inches closer to the couch, and leaned forward.
The doctor was out ; the man on the chair was not a psychiatrist or a medical professional. He was scarcely even a man. He was a big fat zero waiting for something to come make him count, fill up the hole.
Welcome to monster world, Doc.
“You are going to fucking remember,” Kowalski said, the obscenity jarring not only because it was the first time Dylan had heard him use anything stronger than “heck” or “darn” but because the word was uttered with the same smooth, pseudocaring voice Kowalski used when he was shrinking kids in front of visitors.
“You are going to fucking remember every whack,” he said, then leaned back and waited.
“Eighty-one,” Dylan said.
“Is the LSD taking effect?” Kowalski checked his watch, as if he genuinely thought he could time street-drug reactions.
“Forty, done. Father, forty-one,” Dylan said to remind Kowalski of the Lizzy Borden poem.
“It’s starting,” the doctor said.
What a stupid fuck . Dylan could say or do anything he damn well pleased, and the fool would write it off to the acid. “Your beard’s on fire.”
“Ahh,” said Kowalski with satisfaction.
“You ever drop acid, Doc?”
“I . . . I have taken it experimentally.”
Kowalski was lying again. He wanted to seem cool for some reason, wanted to impress a teenage axe murderer. How pathetic was that?
“Good thing you got lab stuff. That street shit’s got some kinky side effects. A kid in detention over in St. Paul got hold of some. His brother said it was pure angel dust. This kid, he’s like Superman all of a sudden. Ripped the door off its hinges. Then ripped the face off a guard.”
Kowalski’s skin paled.
Be scared, you piece of shit, Dylan thought, and enjoyed his petty victory. Meanness and fear were the only kind of power left to Drummond’s inmates.
The doctor pushed his chair back the three inches he’d infringed upon.
“Okay, Dylan, we’ve got work to do. Today, we’re going to go back year by year until we get to the night of the murders. Are you ready to start?”
He was talking in the voice of a TV hypnotist, dreamy and smarmy. It didn’t strike Dylan as funny. It creeped him out. The whole thing, saying fuck, threatening—and there was no way it wasn’t a threat; people on the outside might mistake it but a kid in juvie, never—then acting like everything was normal, was majorly creeping Dylan out. Anxiety, the scalp-crawling, bone-breaking kind he’d learned in the courtroom, started pouring into him, freezing his blood.
Shit. Not on acid, he begged the cosmos. This crap on acid, and a guy could live in la-la land for good.
“You don’t fuck with me, I don’t fuck with you,” Dylan said desperately.
The doctor had no idea what he was talking about. “That’s right,” he said soothingly, doing Dr. Kildare now instead of a hypnotist on Ed Sullivan.
Kowalski’s left eye snapped from gray to green, then flashed red. It was happening. “Jesus,” Dylan breathed and wondered how many hits were on that scrap of blue.
“Close your eyes,” the doctor crooned.
Dylan did, not because he was told to but to shut out the red eye and whatever else was to come. It didn’t help. The colors were in his mind.
“Go back.” Papers rustled like snakes uncoiling. One began to uncoil in Dylan’s skull. He didn’t see it; he felt it. Great scaling scales sliding over one another. Then he saw it: blue sparks in the black, sparks struck from the snake’s back as the huge metallic sheets of its skin slid over each other. He opened his eyes.
“Close,” Kowalski murmured.
“Fuck you.” The last letters of the word
He dry-swallowed, smiled slowly, and said, “Thanks, Doc. The warden know you’re my drug dealer now?”
Kowalski sat down on the edge of his chair, hitched it a couple of inches closer to the couch, and leaned forward.
The doctor was out ; the man on the chair was not a psychiatrist or a medical professional. He was scarcely even a man. He was a big fat zero waiting for something to come make him count, fill up the hole.
Welcome to monster world, Doc.
“You are going to fucking remember,” Kowalski said, the obscenity jarring not only because it was the first time Dylan had heard him use anything stronger than “heck” or “darn” but because the word was uttered with the same smooth, pseudocaring voice Kowalski used when he was shrinking kids in front of visitors.
“You are going to fucking remember every whack,” he said, then leaned back and waited.
“Eighty-one,” Dylan said.
“Is the LSD taking effect?” Kowalski checked his watch, as if he genuinely thought he could time street-drug reactions.
“Forty, done. Father, forty-one,” Dylan said to remind Kowalski of the Lizzy Borden poem.
“It’s starting,” the doctor said.
What a stupid fuck . Dylan could say or do anything he damn well pleased, and the fool would write it off to the acid. “Your beard’s on fire.”
“Ahh,” said Kowalski with satisfaction.
“You ever drop acid, Doc?”
“I . . . I have taken it experimentally.”
Kowalski was lying again. He wanted to seem cool for some reason, wanted to impress a teenage axe murderer. How pathetic was that?
“Good thing you got lab stuff. That street shit’s got some kinky side effects. A kid in detention over in St. Paul got hold of some. His brother said it was pure angel dust. This kid, he’s like Superman all of a sudden. Ripped the door off its hinges. Then ripped the face off a guard.”
Kowalski’s skin paled.
Be scared, you piece of shit, Dylan thought, and enjoyed his petty victory. Meanness and fear were the only kind of power left to Drummond’s inmates.
The doctor pushed his chair back the three inches he’d infringed upon.
“Okay, Dylan, we’ve got work to do. Today, we’re going to go back year by year until we get to the night of the murders. Are you ready to start?”
He was talking in the voice of a TV hypnotist, dreamy and smarmy. It didn’t strike Dylan as funny. It creeped him out. The whole thing, saying fuck, threatening—and there was no way it wasn’t a threat; people on the outside might mistake it but a kid in juvie, never—then acting like everything was normal, was majorly creeping Dylan out. Anxiety, the scalp-crawling, bone-breaking kind he’d learned in the courtroom, started pouring into him, freezing his blood.
Shit. Not on acid, he begged the cosmos. This crap on acid, and a guy could live in la-la land for good.
“You don’t fuck with me, I don’t fuck with you,” Dylan said desperately.
The doctor had no idea what he was talking about. “That’s right,” he said soothingly, doing Dr. Kildare now instead of a hypnotist on Ed Sullivan.
Kowalski’s left eye snapped from gray to green, then flashed red. It was happening. “Jesus,” Dylan breathed and wondered how many hits were on that scrap of blue.
“Close your eyes,” the doctor crooned.
Dylan did, not because he was told to but to shut out the red eye and whatever else was to come. It didn’t help. The colors were in his mind.
“Go back.” Papers rustled like snakes uncoiling. One began to uncoil in Dylan’s skull. He didn’t see it; he felt it. Great scaling scales sliding over one another. Then he saw it: blue sparks in the black, sparks struck from the snake’s back as the huge metallic sheets of its skin slid over each other. He opened his eyes.
“Close,” Kowalski murmured.
“Fuck you.” The last letters of the word
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