Mickelsson's Ghosts John Gardner (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📖

time—surely not more than five minutes or so—have gotten back to his car, driven it to its garage, wherever that was, and made it back here to his apartment before Mickelsson. Softly, with the head of his cane, Mickelsson knocked. He waited—probably just a second or two, though it seemed forever—then tried the doorknob. It was locked, of course. He looked up and down the hallway—no one in sight—stepped back across the hallway, then threw himself with all his weight and might against the door. It gave, with a splintering sound like an explosion, then snagged for an instant, caught by the chainlatch. The instant he felt that snag, he knew he was in terrible trouble: impossible as it might seem, the man was certainly inside. He tried to stop, reverse himself, but there was now no going back; he was thrown into the room by the momentum of his rush. They stood facing one another in the room’s yellowed dimness, clutter all around them, two huge animals squared off, each more frightened than the other. They stood braced, staring at one another for an eternity, Mickelsson’s heart striking wildly at the root of his throat, stealing his breath; and then the fat man moved, lunging toward a dresser, jerking a drawer open and drawing out a gun. Mickelsson stood motionless, trapped in a nightmare, but now the fat man’s mouth opened, round as a fish-mouth, showing blackness within, and he bent a little, as if cringing in shame, and slammed the fist that held the gun toward his own chest, clutching himself, his mouth still open, eyes narrowing to slits, squeezing out tears. Though Mickelsson’s mind wheeled, one thought came through clearly, as if someone else were thinking it: he’s having a heart attack. “The broken heart,” he remembered, and felt, along with his own heart’s pain, a vast surge of pity. Still the fat man hadn’t gotten his breath. Judging from the look on his face, the pain was unspeakable, so violent that it blasted from his mind all thought of Mickelsson. Seconds passed—minutes, for all Mickelsson knew. Again and again Mickelsson told himself that he must shout for help, and never mind the consequences to himself—no one knew the arguments better than he—but each time, he did nothing, mentally begging the man to die quickly, lose that expression of pain and, worse, bottomless, childlike disappointment. At last the fat man’s knees buckled, a strained, babyish cry came from his throat—a cry to Mickelsson for help—and, turning toward the bed, trying to reach it but too far away, he tumbled like a load of stones onto the carpet. Mickelsson bent down for a look at the eyes. They squeezed shut, dripping tears, then weakly fell open and were still. He cringed away, clutching his stomach, and, leaving the man as he was, hurried to the door. There he stopped, dizzy with fear and confusion. Clumsily, he ran back to the chest beside the chair facing the television. The glass refrigerator tray was there, but no sign of the money. He stood stupefied, swaying in disbelief, then hurried back to the door and closed it. He stood for a moment breathing in heavy gulps, hands over his ears, trying to think. He wouldn’t remember clearly, afterward, how he hunted through the room, pulling out drawers, throwing the mattress from the bed, emptying the wardrobe. In one corner stood a Kero-Sun space-heater, not working. He lifted it from its place, moving it aside, and saw, behind it, an old ratty sweater. He almost left it there, then on second thought picked it up and found, tucked inside it, a large, aluminum-foil-wrapped bundle. Even before he tore the foil off, he knew this was it. It occurred to him only now to wonder how much time had elapsed, and whether anyone had passed outside the door. Tentatively, as if it might be filled with electricity, he touched the bank-banded money. It was miraculous that, in all this junk, he should find it. With steady fingers he dropped some of the money-packets into the pockets of his overcoat, the rest into his suitcoat. Then, unsteadily, numb all over, he straightened up and moved toward the door. The fat man lay on his side, knees bent, eyes partly open. He had holes in his shoes. Mickelsson moved past him, then paused. Suppose he wasn’t dead. Suppose, against all odds, someone should wander in and find him, even now save his life. He looked in horror at the silver, lioness-headed cane and imagined it flashing down, sinking into the fat man’s temple. “Holy God in Heaven,” he whispered, fully understanding at last that, though not with the cane, he had murdered the man. He moved in a kind of dream toward the door.

Upstairs, in Donnie’s apartment, Mickelsson dropped the money, all of it, onto the threadbare carpet. She was silent. Though he did not count—nothing could have been farther from his mind—it was clear that he’d given her more than the fifteen thousand she required. Neither of them said a word. She suddenly turned, her hand over her mouth, and fled to the bathroom. He heard her vomiting. He meant to leave, but, strange to say, he found himself sitting down, dazed, in the chair where she liked to read or listen to her records. He imagined himself on his knees, counting the money, but did not stir. His mind was crowded, swollen with the image of the dead man’s calm face.

She appeared at the bathroom doorway.

Solemnly, Mickelsson rose, buttoned his overcoat, and leaning on his cane, moved toward the door. She watched.

“Prafessor,” she said.

He opened the door, stepped out, and softly closed the door behind him.

PART THREE

1

He knew, of course—everybody knew—about murderers returning to the scene of the crime, but it was necessary. Partly he felt—for all practical purposes believed—that whatever happened to him from this point on was fated, as all things material are. He seemed not his own man, only an