Free Lizard People by Charlie Price Page B

“Put any weapons down, raise your hands, and walk slowly out the door. Immediately!”
    Gila screamed and started to change again.
    â€œNovikov’s Paradox!” Monitor swore. “This cannot happen!”
    â€œCome out immediately, hands in the air.” The voice was hard, unyielding, an anvil. “We will not negotiate.”
    Marco jumped into the front seat of the Garvins’ Suburban. As usual, the keys were in it. “Get in the back, quick!” he yelled at the two doctors.
    The truck started with a rumble, and Marco threw it into reverse, ramming into the closed garage door. The wooden door broke in the middle, sunlight leaked in. In his rearview mirror, Marco saw what looked like a SWAT team.
    â€œHalt! Halt! We will shoot!” The voice was getting even louder.
    Marco could see black uniforms, but he wasn’t sure whether the bullhorn man was behind him in the driveway or to the side, near the door they had entered. He jammed the vehicle into four-wheel, slid the automatic tranny into drive, and stomped down on the accelerator. The SUV’s tires squealed, and the big machine lurched forward into the plasterboard covering the back of the garage. The wheels smoked, the vehicle hesitated, and then the studs gave way and the truck bulled its way through the wall, snapping siding like kindling. Five or six policemen with guns drawn were stationed around the side yard. All seemed momentarily frozen by the spectacle.
    â€œDon’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Marco was screaming, and then they were in the alley and roaring north, back toward Marco’s house. He rocketed down the narrow gravel lane, shot across the neighborhood street midblock, and slid to a sideways stop just before his own backyard.
    â€œCome on!” he was yelling, running toward the oak tree, diving under its front branches. Gila and Monitor joined him in less than a second. Lizards both! He grabbed their arms and dragged them with him. Maybe it was the scales. Slippery. Or maybe it was the sweat on his palms, but at the last moment, he lost his grip and fell headfirst into the portal without them.
    The silence lasted a long time. Marco was cross-legged on his bed, hands together in front, meditation position again. Daylight let me see him more clearly. He was still wearing the same clothes he had on when I first met him in the admitting lobby. The fleecy vest was pilled up like he had been sleeping in it. His shirt was rumpled. Stains on his pant legs. And he was paler, except around his eyes. His breath was rancid and his hair was dirty. I couldn’t fit those facts together with how serene he seemed.
    â€œI do the Garvins’ lawn,” I said.
    He didn’t open his eyes.
    â€œMr. Bellarmine is my neighbor.”
    He didn’t move.
    â€œI’m going to find out what you’re doing,” I said.
    â€œIt’s simple,” he said, without looking up. “I’m looking for a cure for mental illness.”

Did He Hear Me?
    I had to get some food in me. I stopped at In-and-Out for a triple burger and then drove to the hospital. I waited in the admitting lobby until a woman, a nurse or mental health worker, opened the unit door and leaned out to see what I wanted.
    â€œI need to speak with Mrs. Lasalle,” I told her.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said, “I cannot say who is on the unit and who is not. Are you someone’s family member?”
    â€œUh, yes,” I said. “I’m Marco Lasalle, her son.”
    â€œNo, you’re not,” she said.
    â€œWait! Please. Okay, sorry. I’m Ben Mander. My mom was here for several hours on Tuesday. She must have met Mrs. Lasalle during that time, and I really need to speak to her, just for a second.”
    â€œWhy don’t you wait here,” she said, “until one of our staff has a few minutes to talk with you?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œI can tell you this,” the woman said,