The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [72]
Jay snorted. “Crap on a cracker, I told you he makes my brain hurt.”
The man in the wheelchair laughed and opened his eyes. “That's a good sign, Jay. It means it's working. Hello, Marty. It's nice to see you—you always remind me silence is the better part of wisdom. Who's your friend here?”
“This is Travis,” Marty said. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Nice to meet you, Travis.” He held out a gloved hand. “My name is Caleb Sparkman.”
Jay snorted. “Sparkman, Sparky—what's the difference?”
Travis shook his hand. “I hope we're not bothering you.”
“Not in the least. Rather, you're a fine distraction.”
Travis glanced around the deserted park. “Distraction? From what?”
“From the voices,” Marty said.
Travis pulled his hand back. Sparkman smiled up at him. “Don't worry, friend. They're not real. Although they can be quite annoying.”
Jay let out a bark of laughter. “A little more than just annoying.” He circled behind the wheelchair and leaned on the handles. “See, here's the story, Travis. The professor here used to teach at some of the community colleges around town. Physics and math and crap like that. Only then the voices started talking in his head, and they told him to do stuff.”
Sparkman folded his hands and nodded, listening to the story right along with the others.
Jay kept talking, rolling the chair forward a few inches, then back a few. “At first it was just weird little stuff, you know, like shredding all of his files so no one could know what he was thinking, and setting up a machine to make some kind of radio interference so the security cameras in his classroom wouldn't work. Only then it got worse, and the voices told him parts of his own body were being used to track him. Isn't that right, Sparky?”
“It is,” he said in an agreeable tone.
“So you know what he did next?” Jay said, eyes glittering. “He cinched a belt around each of his thighs for a tourniquet. Then he took a hatchet, just like the voices told him to do, and he chopped off his own legs.”
Travis staggered back a step. He should have tried to hide the horror he knew was written across his face, but he couldn't.
“That's not quite accurate, Jay,” Sparkman said, his tone pleasantly argumentative. “The hatchet was too small for the job, as it turned out—I was a good mathematician but a poor carpenter. I lost consciousness before I completed the task the voices gave me. One of my students came upon me in my office, and I was taken to a hospital, where doctors completed the amputations.”
Jay laughed and clapped his hands. Marty was silent, gazing at the gold dome of the Capitol.
The bitter coffee churned in Travis's stomach. “You were ill, weren't you?”
Sparkman nodded. “Very much so. But the doctors helped me understand the effects of my psychosis. Knowledge is a powerful thing—a tool that can help you accomplish any task—and it helped me control my illness.”
Jay clapped him on the shoulders. “But you still hear the voices, don't you, Sparky?”
“I always will. But I've learned not to listen.” He smiled up at Travis. “Still, even after all these years, it's hard to ignore them. They hate not being listened to, and they can get rather vociferous. Which is why the distraction of conversation is most welcome.”
Travis turned his head, letting the morning light blind him. Shock melted into sorrow and understanding, and he let out a sigh. What would they think if they knew he heard voices in his head as well—the voices of Jack and all the runelords who had gone before him?
Marty touched Travis's arm. “You should tell Sparkman about your magic.”
“That's right,” Jay chimed in. “You should have seen it, Sparky. It was freaking amazing. He started a fire just by saying a word.”
“Really?” Sparkman appeared interested but not surprised. He looked up at Travis. “You're a magician, then. Were you employing some sort of legerdemain?”
Jay's eyebrows drew together in a thick scowl. “It was