Drug of Choice

And Shine fired. There was a spurt of flame from his waist; Clark threw himself to the ground and rolled. Another shot and still another. He rolled across the wet grass, down toward his car.

“Give up, Clark. It’s over. You’ve had it.”

Another shot rang out. But by now he had moved away from Shine. He got up and ran for his car, jumping behind the wheel. A shot shattered the rear window. He started the car, and drove off.

In the rear window he saw Shine standing in the street, and then starting to run inside.

Where, he thought, do I go now?

He knocked on the door for five minutes before there was an answer. The door opened; he saw the sleepy face of Jerry Barnes.

“Christ! Roger!”

Clark pushed him aside and entered the apartment. He closed the door behind him and locked it.

Jerry stepped back.

“Now wait a minute, Roger. Just take it easy.”

“I’m taking it easy.”

“Just relax. I know you’ve been through a lot, and—”

Jerry was moving toward the phone.

“Don’t, Jerry. Don’t touch it.”

Immediately, he moved back, holding up his hands. “Okay, okay, Rog, take it easy, right?”

Clark sat down. He was suddenly very tired. “Jerry,” he said, “what happened?”

“Nothing happened, Rog. Everything’s fine. Everything is just—”

“Everything is not fine. The whole damned town is after me. The cops are chasing me. I just got shot at. A nice girl turned me in. Everything is not fine at all.”

“Rog, they’re worried, that’s all. They’re concerned about you.”

Clark said, “You got any more martinis?”

“Sure. Always. But—”

“Make two,” Clark said. “Big ones.”

Jerry hesitated, then went into the kitchen. It was clear he was humoring Clark, and that he was afraid of him for some reason.

“Jerry,” he said, “do you know the whole story behind all this?”

“Yeah, sure, Rog,” Jerry said. “Everybody knows.”

“Everybody?”

“Yeah, we thought it was very, uh, disturbing.”

“You bet it’s disturbing,” Clark said. He got up and went into the kitchen, where he heard Jerry pouring the drinks.

“It’s disturbing as—”

Abruptly, he was struck on the back of the head.

He fell, in a moment of pain and dizziness, but sat up immediately. Jerry was standing over him with a soda bottle in his hand.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Clark said. Jerry looked confused. “I was trying…”

“To knock me out? Thanks.” He rubbed his head, which throbbed painfully.

“It always works in pictures,” Jerry said, putting the bottle down.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Well, it’s for your own good,” Jerry said. “You ought to realize you’re a sick man. You need time to recover, to get back on an even keel.”

“And you were just trying to help,” Clark said.

“I don’t know,” Jerry said. He looked embarrassed. “Here. Take this. Drink it and get the hell out of here.” He gave Clark the martini. “It’s all I can do for you, Rog.”

Clark looked at the martini and continued to rub his head. He was getting nowhere with Jerry. He was getting nowhere with anybody. It was all—

“I’m a sick man?”

“Look, Rog, it’s an illness. Just like any other kind of illness. You’ll get well, but it takes time. We all have faith in you.”

“Jerry,” he said slowly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It was quite a shock to all of us,” Jerry said.

“What was?”

“The whole business.”

“What business?”

Jerry turned, picked up a newspaper clipping from on top of the refrigerator, and handed it to Clark.

He read it quickly. The headline said DOCTOR COMMITTED. The story was brief and vague, describing how Dr. Roger Clark, a resident at the Los Angeles Memorial Hospital, had attacked a medical secretary, Miss Janice Connor. She had called the police and Clark had been retained in custody by the police; later, when she declined to press charges, he was released into the care of Dr. Harvey Blood for institutional treatment.

“Oh,” Clark said.

“I got to admit,” Jerry said, “you don’t seem too crazy to me, just a little confused.”

“You’ve been clearer yourself,” Clark said. He tapped the article with his finger. “This is a frame, Jerry.”

“A frame?”

“Yeah. This guy Blood arranged for me to be shipped off to a Caribbean island, where they give the guests all these drugs, and then—”

“Now, Rog…”

“It’s the truth, I swear it.”

“I’m willing to believe you, Rog, but I’m not the one you have to convince.”

At that moment, he heard sirens in the distance, but coming closer.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Jerry said innocently.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Clark said. He went to the bedroom and looked in. Linda was there, cowering in the bed, still holding the telephone.

“Thanks for everything,” Clark said.

He ran.

He drove off just as the first of the police cars pulled up in front of Jerry’s apartment building. It was now four in the morning; the first dawn was lightening the sky over the mountains to the east.

Time was very important now. In daylight, they would have him, and daylight was only a few hours away. He felt his old anger returning, the blind rage which made him sweat and shiver.