Page 9 of Nobody's Fool

They listen, though grudgingly.

I exit the room. I hear footsteps echoing below me. Everything in here echoes. I start toward them. As I do, some degree of sanity returns. I remind myself again that I’ve hallucinated before. I mentioned that already, with my murdered fiancée, Nicole. I had entireconversations with Nicole. At one point, Hallucination Nicole even talked me down from a bridge from which I planned to jump. She had sagely advised and then convinced me—a hallucination, mind you—to go home to my pregnant fiancée (now my wife), Molly.

Before you think me completely insane, I eventually learned these hallucinations were not my fault. They were a side effect of a terrible drug, one that nearly killed me, blended with whatever weird chemical makeup courses through my body and, not to dismiss my own role in this, a past that had involved excess drinking.

But once I stopped taking the drug, the hallucinations stopped.

Still, wasn’t a hallucination the best explanation?

It can’t be Anna.

It makes no sense.

And yet, in another way, it might explain everything.

It is funny how fast your perception changes. I’m already accepting that what I’ve believed for the past quarter century was wrong.

Only one way to find out.

Everything echoes in here so I can clearly hear her heading down the stairs. I follow, taking the steps two or even three at a time. I can see her. She has hit the ground level.

“Stop,” I say.

I don’t yell. No need to yell with all the echo in this place. But more than that, I don’t want to scare her. I simply want her to stop running.

“Please,” I add. “I just want to talk.”

Perhaps she saw the crazy look in my eye and just figured that I was a threat. Perhaps, like Tuna Himmler, she had just wandered in, seeking a little shelter from the outdoors, a safe place to sit and reflect and let down her guard.

But she didn’t look poor or down on her luck or any of that. I spotted what looked like a thick gold bracelet on her wrist. Her camel coat reeked of cashmere and big bucks.

She is almost at the main door.

I move faster now, caution to the wind and all that. I see Maybe Anna reaching for the knob that will lead her outside into the Lower East Side night. No time to delay. Her hand lands on the knob and turns it. I leap toward her and grab her by the forearm.

She screams. Loudly. Like I stabbed her.

“Anna,” I say.

“Let go of me!”

I don’t. I hold on and stare at her face. She turns away from me, tries to pull away. I hold on tighter. She finally turns and looks up at me. Our eyes meet.

And there is no doubt anymore.

“Anna,” I say again.

“Let me go.”

“Do you remember me?”

“You’re hurting my arm.”

Then I hear a familiar deep voice: “Kierce?”

It’s Chilton. He’s in his tight white custodial suit, the sleeves rolled up his bloated arms like tourniquets. Chilton is Jamaican, a big man with a heavy Rasta accent, shaved head, hoop earring. He wants to be called Black Mr. Clean. No one calls him that, but to be fair, he isn’t far off.

Anna doesn’t hesitate. She uses the distraction to pull her arm free of my grip. I reach for her again, grabbing the camel—yep, cashmere—coat and making my move because in my peripheral vision I can see Chilton bearing down on me. Time is short. I don’t want to let her out of my sight, but I know that forcing her to stay would be the wrong move. Every mistake I’ve made in my life—and there have been plenty—has derived from moments when I’ve acted impulsively.

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