“Then you knew he had a gun?” the judge asked.
“Yes, Your Honor. There’d been a skirmish between the two gangs, and Flood had been beaten pretty severely. I suppose that’s what finally pushed him over the edge. In a sense it was like the beating he’d received from his cousin in his childhood, and Flood could never let something like that just slide. He had to get even, and he had to arm himself to make sure that it didn’t happen to him again. I think that toward the end he even forgot why he’d gotten mixed up with the gang in the first place. Anyway, when Heintzie’s grand and final war came, Flood was caught up in it-hooked on crisis, hyped on his own adrenaline, not even thinking anymore-a loser. I suppose it’s sort of ironic. He set out to destroy the gang, but in the end they destroyed him. And what’s even more ironic is that all Flood really wanted to do when he started out was to try to find a way to hurt me. He knew that I cared about my losers, so he thought he could hurt me by destroying them. In the end, though, he became a loser himself and wound up destroying himself: I suppose that his plan really succeeded, because when he destroyed himself, it hurt me more than anything else he could have done. It’s strange, but he finally won after all.” Raphael looked up at the ceiling. He’d never really thought of it before, and it rather surprised him. “I guess that’s about it, Your Honor,” he told the judge. “That’s about all I really know about Damon Flood.” He sat quietly then. It had not really done any good; he realized that now. Denise and Frankie had been right. The categories and pigeonholes were too convenient, and using them as a means of sorting people was too much a part of the official mentality. But he had tried. He had performed that last service that a man can perform for a friend-he had told the truth about him. In spite of everything, he realized that he still thought of Flood as a friend.
“Mr. Wilson?” the judge asked.
The prosecutor rose and walked toward Raphael. “Mr. Taylor, from your observation then, would you say that Mr. Flood was definitely not the leader of this-ah-group?”
“No, sir. It was Heintzie’s gang, and it was Heintzie’s war. The gun was Flood’s, though. I think it’s what they call escalation. About all Heintzie wanted to do was put a few people in the hospital. Killing people was Flood’s idea. In the end, though, he was just another member of the gang-a loser.”
“Uh-” The prosecutor looked down at his notes. It was obvious that he had not expected the kind of testimony Raphael had just given them. “I-uh-I guess I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
“Miss Berensen?” the judge said.
“Your Honor, I wouldn’t dignify any of this by even questioning it. My only suggestion would be that Mr. Taylor might consider seeking professional help.”
“That’s enough of that, Miss Berensen!” The judge sat for a long time looking at the bandaged and sullenly glowering young men seated behind the defense table. Finally he shook his head. “Losers,” he murmured so softly that only Raphael could hear him. Then he turned. “Mr. Taylor, you’re an intelligent and articulate young man-too intelligent and articulate to just sit on the sidelines the way you’re doing. You seem to have some very special talents-profound insight and extraordinary compassion. I think I’d like to know what you plan to do with the rest of your life.”
“I’m leaving Spokane, Your Honor. I came here to get some personal things taken care of. Now that all that’s done, there’s no reason for me to stay anymore. I’ll find another town-maybe I’ll find another rooftop and another street full of losers. Somebody has to care for them after all. All my options are open, so I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see what happens tomorrow-trust to luck, if you want to put it that way.”
The judge sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Taylor. You may step down.”
Raphael got his crutches squared away, stood up, and went carefully down the single step from the witness stand. Then he walked smoothly up the center aisle with the stately, flowing pace of a one-legged man who has mastered his crutches and is no longer a cripple. He hesitated a moment at the door. There was still the matter of the two derelicts who had been found shot to death in downtown alleys. He realized, however, that he really had no proof that it had been Flood who had so casually shot them as a means of proving to himself that he did in fact have the nerve to shoot another human being. Raphael also realized that he would prefer to leave it simply at that. A suspicion was not a certainty, and for some reason he did not want that final nail driven in. If it had been Flood, it would not happen again; and in any case, if he were to suggest it to the prosecutor or anyone else, it would probably delay the escape from Spokane with Denise that had become absolutely necessary. The bailiff standing at the back opened the door for him, and Raphael went on out.
The two young women who had been in the courtroom were waiting for him in the hall. “Mr. Taylor,” the blond one said, “we’re from the department of-”
“I know who you are.” Raphael looked directly into the face of the enemy.
“We’d like to talk to you for a moment, if you’re not too busy,” she went on, undeterred by his blunt answer.
“I am, but I don’t imagine that’ll make much difference, will it?”
“Really, Mr. Taylor,” the brunette one protested, “you seem extremely hostile.”
“You’ve noticed.”
“Mr. Taylor,” the blonde said, “you really should leave social theory to the experts, you know. This notion of yours-it just isn’t consistent with what we know about human behavior.”
“Really? Maybe you’d better go back and take another look then.”
“Why are you so hostile, Mr. Taylor?” the brunette asked. She kept coming back to that.
“I’m bad-tempered. Didn’t you study that in school? All of us freaks have days when we’re bad-tempered. You’re supposed to know how to deal with that.”
He could see their anger, their frustration in their eyes under the carefully assumed professional masks. His testimony had rather neatly torpedoed their entire case, and they were furious with him. He’d done the one thing Frankie had warned him not to do.
“I’d really like to discuss this theory of yours,” the blond one said with a contrived look of interest on her face.
“Oh really?” Raphael was very alert now. He knew that he was on dangerous ground.
“And you really ought to try to control your hostilities,” the brunette added.
“Why? Nobody else does. Could it be that you think I should control my hostility because I’m a defective and defectives aren’t permitted to dislike people?”
“We’d really like to talk to you, Mr. Taylor,” the blonde said. “Could we make an appointment for you at our office-say next Tuesday?”
“No. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.”
“We really think we could help you, Mr. Taylor,” the brunette said, her eyes hardening.
“I don’t need any help,” Raphael told her. “There’s not one single thing I need you for.”
“Everybody needs help, Mr. Taylor,” the blonde said.
“I don’t. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.” He set the points of his crutches down firmly and began to walk down the hallway toward a waiting elevator.
“We’ll always be there,” the blonde called after him., “Don’t hesitate to call-anytime at all.”
She sounded almost like old Tobe. That made Raphael feel better somehow. He was almost safe now-close enough to safety at any rate to take the risk. “If you girls really want to help, you ought to learn how to type,” he threw back over his shoulder. Flood would have liked that.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the blonde demanded.
“It’s a sort of an inside joke,” he replied. “It’d take much too long to explain.” He stepped into the elevator.
“You’ll call,” the brunette yelled after him in a shrill voice. “Someday you’ll call. Someday you’ll need our help. Your kind always does.”
He might have answered that, but the elevator door closed just then.
It was good to have it all over. In a very personal way he had put Flood finally to rest, and now it was over.
It was just before noon when he came out of the courthouse, and the autumn sun was bright and warm. He went down the several steps to the sidewalk and started up toward the intersection, moving along beside the low retaining wall.
At the corner the bald, skinny philosopher was delivering one of his speeches to the indifferent street. Although Flood had reported seeing him in various parts of town, Raphael had not really been certain in his own mind that the crazy orator who had greeted him on that first snowy night in Spokane was still roaming the streets, or if he had ever really existed at all.