He turned and slammed the fire extinguisher into Percy’s arms so hard that Percy staggered backward and almost fell off the platform. “You do it,” Brutal said. “You’re running the show, after all, ain’t you?”
Percy gave him a look that was both sick and murderous, then armed the extinguisher, pumped it, cocked it, and shot a huge cloud of white foam over the man in the chair. I saw Del’s foot twitch once as the spray hit his face and thought Oh no, we might have to go again, but there was only that single twitch.
Anderson had turned around and was bawling at the panicky witnesses, telling them everything was all right, everything was under control, just a powersurge from the electrical storm, nothing to worry about.
Next thing, he’d be telling them that what they smelled – a devil’s mixture of burned hair, fried meat, and fresh-baked shit – was Chanel No. 5.
“Get doc’s stethoscope,” I told Dean as the extinguisher ran dry. Delacroix was coated with white now, and the worst of the stench was being overlaid by a thin and bitter chemical smell.
“Doc … should I .. .”
“Never mind doc, just get his stethoscope,” I said. “Let’s get this over … get him out of here.”
Dean nodded. Over and out of here were two concepts that appealed to him just then. They appealed to both of us. He went over to doc’s bag and began rummaging in it. Doc was beginning to move again, so at least he hadn’t had a stroke or a heart-storm. That was good. But the way Brutal was looking at Percy wasn’t.
“Get down in the tunnel and wait by the gurney,” I said.
Percy swallowed. “Paul, listen. I didn’t know—”
“Shut up. Get down in the tunnel and wait by the gurney. Now.”
He swallowed, grimaced as if it hurt, and then walked toward the door which led to the stairs and the tunnel. He carried the empty fire extinguisher in his arms, as if it were a baby Dean passed him, coming back to me with the stethoscope. I snatched it and set the earpieces. I’d done this before, in the army, and it’s sort of like riding a bike – you don’t forget.
I wiped at the foam on Delacroix’s chest, then had to gag back vomit as a large, hot section of his skin simply slid away from the flesh beneath, the way the skin will slide off a … well, you know. A done tom turkey.
“Oh my God”‘ a voice I didn’t recognize almost sobbed behind me. “Is it always this way? Why didn’t somebody tell me? I never would have come!”
Too late now, friend, I thought. “Get that man out of here,” I said to Dean or Brutal or whoever might be listening – I said it when I was sure I could speak without puking into Delacroix’s smoking lap. “Get them all back by the door.”
I steeled myself as best I could, then put the disc of the stethoscope on the red-black patch of raw flesh I’d made on Del’s chest. I listened, praying I would hear nothing, and that’s just what I did hear.
“He’s dead,” I told Brutal.
“Thank Christ.”
“Yes. Thank Christ. You and Dean get the stretcher. Let’s unbuckle him and get him out of here, fast.”
5.
We got his body down the twelve stairs and onto the gurney all right. My nightmare was that his cooked flesh might slough right off his bones as we lugged him – it was Old Toot’s done tom turkey that had gotten into my head – but of course that didn’t happen.
Curtis Anderson was upstairs soothing the spectators -trying to, anyway – and that was good for Brutal, because Anderson wasn’t there to see when Brutal took a step toward the head of the gurney and pulled his arm back to slug Percy, who was standing there looking stunned. I caught his arm, and that was good for both of them. It was good for Percy because Brutal meant to deliver a blow of near-decapitory force, and good for Brutal because he would have lost his job if the blow had connected, and maybe ended up in prison himself.