CHAPTER NINE
A red dot in the center of his forehead and a little unorthodox brushing of his hair transformed Hashilli Maytubby into the famous Doctor Moon, renowned psychiatrist from the mysterious Asian continent.
So easy to fool the educated class. The intelligencia kept their minds wide open; no need to pick the locks or crawl in through an upstairs window. An enigmatic smile and an exotic birthplace inspired confidence. The suggestion of bigotry closed avenues of inquiry.
Dr. Moon’s accent was television English. He slipped occasionally with his V’s and W’s, but people were careful not to notice.
The famous doctor was sensitive. His body language made that clear. His body language told his colleagues everything they needed to know.
Dr. Moon was a genius healer from the transcendental world of Buddha and Mahatma Gandhi. He entertained no questions about his history. He had no publications of note or research fellowships at prestigious institutions, but everyone remembered hearing his unusual name. They all knew the reputation of the famous Doctor Moon. Details and context be damned.
The doctor moved through Flanders Mental Hospital like a phantom, unhampered by duties or obligations. He had no patients of record. He wrote no orders. He attended group sessions when it pleased him, and it seldom did. Dr. Moon was a psychiatric consultant, which is to say, the state of Oklahoma paid him a substantial monthly retainer to do whatever took his fancy.
No one objected when he followed Marie Ferraro onto the hospital grounds where trustee-patients had minimal supervision. Marie’s miraculous improvement was the subject of much debate among the psychiatric residents. Bipolar patients usually languished for months in the depths of their depressive phase. In good times they wept. In bad times they attempted suicide. But Marie’s mood hit bottom and
rebounded like a Superball.
The nursing staff believed her recovery was the result of her relationship with the young schizophrenic, Robert Collins. Dr. Moon thought so too.
The mother of the woman living in Victoria Tiger’s guesthouse was friends with the man who had stolen evidence from Hashilli. At the Maytubby bonehouse. In full view of the ancestors. Power was at work here, the kind of power Grandfather never taught him to control.
Most psychiatrists wanted to vanquish or at least manage mental illness, but not the famous Dr. Moon. He recognized wisdom in the ravings of lunatics. Blunting those ravings with electroconvulsive therapy and drugs squandered a valuable resource.
What did Marie Ferraro and Robert Collins talk about when they were together? Were they mustering the forces of creation against him? Did they speak with Maytubby ghosts? Had they somehow made contact with Grandfather?
Dr. Moon followed Marie from a discrete distance. He milled about the grounds, feigning interest in the group dynamics of the outdoor client population. He followed her for most of the afternoon and well into the early evening. She was a charming woman, who devoted more attention to her appearance than the average mental patient.
Marie had the grace of a ballet dancer—her posture comfortably erect, her stride smooth and elegant. The wind brushed her hair in ways that would be envied by stylists in the finest New York salons.
Not beautiful. Not like an actress or a runway model, but Marie Ferraro was pretty. That word had not invaded Hashilli’s mind for a very long time.
Needs wait in ambush. Hashilli hadn’t wanted a woman since his teenage years. Even then, he’d not desired a particular female, just the generic female category. Just parts of women really. Curves and scents, sensual motions and beguiling smiles. He remembered buttocks and breasts.
Lust had no need for names and faces. It was good to know his body could still respond.
Marie Ferraro seated herself on a cement bench beside a koi pond donated to Flanders by a dentist with a crazy wife and a guilty conscience. She turned toward Hashilli. She smiled. She greeted him with a finger wave as delicate as a butterfly.
His clandestine intelligence-gathering mission was not so clandestine after all. He suspected this woman always knew when a man’s appreciative eyes fell on her. A kind of power he had not encountered until now. Woman magic.
A tiny sparrow hopped out of the underbrush and made its cautious way to Marie. Too late in the season for a fledgling, but the little bird could not fly. The woman extended her hand to the bird and it hopped onto her index finger.
Grandfather coaxed birds into his hand the very same way, but the old man had never shared the trick. So many things he never shared.
Did the sparrow believe this woman would offer protection? Would she?
Marie turned her attention to Hashilli once again and accelerated his heart rate with a fragile smile.
Available.
For a brief moment he envied the bird perched on Marie Ferraro’s finger. He wanted to hop between her hands, preen himself a scant two feet from her face, and inhale air that had been inside her.
Marie held the sparrow over her head, examining the bird in the waning sunlight. Hashilli could see now why the sparrow couldn’t fly. He could see why it sought the protection of another species. The little sparrow had no tail.
Probably lost those feathers to predator. Stray cats pass through the perimeter fence at will.
Marie whistled a poor imitation of a birdcall. She held the sparrow high over her head, offering it the opportunity to fly away. She had not seen the creature’s fatal disability, and anyway, her birdcall was unconvincing. Too full of wind for a songbird, too sweet for a bird of prey.
A shadow traced circles around the bench where Marie Ferro sat. Each circle was smaller than the last. Hashilli recognized the shadow. He’d watched for such a shadow his whole life. He wondered how the woman could be unaware of the manifestation of power at her feet.
Marie favored Hashilli with another smile just as a great horned owl dove from the sky and snatched the sparrow from her hand. When she turned to see what had displaced so much air, the little bird was gone.
“Her wings made quite a racket when she flew away,” Marie called out to Hashilli.
Could she be so blind to power? Hashilli walked over to Marie and took the hand that offered up the sacrifice. “Before long the sun will set. Time to go inside.”
Her hand was warm and supple. An exchange of energy passed between them, like static electricity in slow motion. Marie followed him as if he were leading her onto the dance floor. He suppressed the impulse to put an arm around her shoulders.
“My name is Doctor Moon,” Hashilli told her. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”
“Perhaps I have.”
“I’ve been studying your case,” he said. “You are a very special client.”
“How nice of you to say.”
Hashilli wondered if he and Marie Ferraro shared a common destiny.
“I want to see you privately,” he said. “As a private client, I mean.” The words sounded clumsy and coarse, even as he said them. He hoped she wouldn’t consider him boorish. He could take her as a private client against her will, if it came to that, but Hashilli wanted Marie to come to him willingly.
Marie looked young, but she had a daughter in college. Could she still bear children?
Could the spirits have another reason for pointing her out?
Was this Grandfather’s handiwork?
Owl Dreams Page 9
