You've Been Warned

by James Patterson

  Up ahead, I see the brick wall of a building getting close in a hurry. It’s a dead end in the worst sense of the word.

  I can’t bear to look at this. I close my eyes and cover my face with my arm.

  Then WHACK! BAM! CRASH! As though my life is a cartoon.

  Everything goes black.

  Chapter 66

  “WHAT’S THE NAME of this hospital?” I ask the thirty-something doctor as he looks up from the clipboard in his lap.

  “Our Lady of Hope,” he answers.

  “And how did I get here again?”

  “A cabdriver dropped you off. He said you started screaming in his backseat so he slammed on the brakes. That’s when you hit your head on the divider. Apparently, it knocked you out.”

  Dr. Curley, as his name tag reads, squints at my hairline. “Now, are you sure I can’t get you some more ice for that nasty bump?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. “I’m okay.”

  But I’m clearly not, and he knows it. The nurses and doctors in the emergency room were quick to grasp it too. All it took was five minutes of my rambling on about bizarre photographs, devils, a recurring dream, the Ponytail, and subdermal cockroaches before the consensus concern for my head officially had nothing to do with the nasty bump on it.

  Kristin, say hello to Dr. Curley — our staff psychiatrist here at the hospital.

  I’m sitting across from him in a small office near the waiting room. There’s no desk, no pictures on the wall, no phone — just two folding chairs. Cozy.

  “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” I ask.

  Dr. Curley, a warm and fuzzy type with a mop of longish blond hair, taps his pen a few times on his clipboard before shrugging. “Do you think you’re crazy?”

  “I must be if they called you down here to see me. Don’t you think so?”

  “Don’t read too much into that.” He leans in as if sharing a secret. “Between you and me, the hospital is usually just trying to get their money’s worth from having a shrink on staff. And they like to protect their butts.”

  “Though I suppose I can’t blame them in my case,” I say.

  He glances down at the notes he’s been taking. He certainly seems nicer than my ex-therapist, Dr. Corey, and from what I can tell, he doesn’t smoke a ridiculous pipe.

  “Well, you’ve definitely had an eventful week,” he says, looking up again with a reassuring smile. “I’d like to try something if you don’t mind. Won’t take long, I promise.”

  I listen to him explain his “simple exercise.” All I have to do is fill in the blank.

  “For example,” he says, “I consider myself a blank person. And you would answer . . . ?”

  Nothing.

  I sit there like a lump. “It sure would be easier if this were multiple choice,” I say, stalling, trying to figure out what the game is here and if I really want to play.

  He chuckles. “I suppose you’re right. Just remember there are no wrong answers, so don’t overthink it. All I ask is that you be as honest with your answers as possible.”

  “Because there are no wrong answers,” I say.

  “That’s right.”

  He repeats the sentence for me. I consider myself a . . .

  “Decent person,” I answer.

  “See? Nothing to it. Okay, next one,” he says, picking up the pace. “The world is getting more blank.”

  “Dangerous,” I say. No indecision about that one.

  “I think most people are . . .”

  “Lonely.”

  “When I’m under stress I like to . . .”

  “Work in my darkroom.”

  “If I could change one thing about myself it would be . . .”

  “My career. I mean, I’d like to be more successful at it. I’m a photographer.”

  “The last person I got upset at was . . .”

  “Myself.”

  “The most important person in my life is . . .”

  Without thinking, I open my mouth to answer “Michael.” I barely catch myself. I can’t tell him that!

  “What’s wrong?” asks Dr. Curley.

  “Uh, nothing,” I say, shifting in my seat. “I had to think about it for a second. The most important person in my life is Connie, my best friend.”

  He nods. He’s been nodding all along, only this one is a little different, slower. Does he know I’m lying? Of course he does. The guy’s no dummy.

  “Okay, last two,” he says. “I had a blank childhood.”

  I hesitate before answering. “Difficult.”

  “And last, the thing I’m most afraid of is . . .”

  That’s easy. “Dying.”

  Chapter 67

  I WATCH AS Dr. Curley makes a few more quick notes, his pen gliding back and forth across his notepad. Given my lack of sleep, the effect is like the swinging pocket watch of a hypnotist. I can barely keep my eyes open. But I do not want the dream to come again!

  “Still with me, Kristin?”

  I snap to. The pen’s down, and he’s staring at me. “Yes. Sorry about that,” I say.

  “Quite all right. No problem.”

  “So, did I pass?”

  “Like I said, there are no wrong answers. No trick ones either. But I do appreciate your honesty.”

  “What now?” I ask. Speaking of honesty.

  He adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “Here’s what I’m thinking,” he begins. “It’s getting late, you’re miles from home, you’ve suffered a minor concussion, and you’re clearly exhausted. How would you feel about spending the night here at the hospital?”

  When you put it that way . . .

  The thought of not having to make the trip back to Manhattan immediately appeals to me so much. So does the prospect of — at long last — a good night’s sleep. Who knows? Maybe being in a hospital will stave off that damn dream, the burning smell, the bug thing.

  “Sure, why not?” I say.

  Dr. Curley tells me to “hang out and relax” for a moment, as he needs to clear it with another doctor. He leaves, closing the door behind him.

  I sit and wait. I’m getting a little bit antsy now. And paranoid? Of course.

  A few minutes go by, followed by a few more. I’m hanging out, but I’m definitely not relaxing. Where is he? C’mon, c’mon. I’m clearly exhausted, remember?

  I get up from the chair and walk to the door, opening it just enough to poke my head out. Sure enough, I spot Dr. Curley down the hall, talking on his cell phone. He’s standing with another man, who I assume is the doctor he mentioned. But I can’t quite see him thanks to Curley’s bushy blond hair.

  Then Dr. Curley shifts his feet, and I manage to catch a glimpse of the other doctor’s face. I immediately do a double take, and my heart does a little flip-flop. Make that a big flip-flop.

  I know him!

  Or at least I used to.

  Before he was murdered in my hometown of Concord, Massachusetts.

  Chapter 68

  THIS IS A MONSTER CLUE in the ongoing mystery called “my life of late.” It has to be.

  I whip my head back from the hallway, quickly shutting the door. I’m alone in the room and desperately want to keep it that way.

  I have no idea how Dr. Magnumsen, my pediatrician from my hometown, could be alive, let alone working in Brooklyn. What’s more, he hasn’t aged a day. He looks exactly as he did when I last saw him.

  Back when I was twelve years old.

  The doubts creep in like a heavy fog. Is it really him? Maybe this doctor just looks like Floyd Magnumsen. Right down to the cleft chin?

  I know one way to find out. Walk right up and ask. If I’m right, he won’t even have to answer. Given the past — why and how he was killed — the look on his face will say it all.

  Christ, listen to yourself, Kristin! If you’re right, that means you’ll be talking to a dead man!

  And if I’m wrong? If I go into that hallway and make another insane scene?

  Suffice to say, the hospital will put me
up in a room, all right. One with wall-to-wall padding. And a little window so they can watch me at all times.

  But it’s Magnumsen; I know it is.

  Like I know I saw my father. I even have the pictures to prove it.

  Wait. Pictures!

  I rush over to my shoulder bag and grab my camera, checking for film. It’s ready.

  Am I? And for what? The next test?

  I pause by the door, swallowing hard, my cheek resting against the cool wood. I need to be quick and I need to be quiet. I can’t let anyone see me take the shot. Not Dr. Curley, and especially not Magnumsen. Why is that, Kris? Because the dead don’t like having their pictures taken?

  Carefully, I peek into the hallway again. The two men are still together, but Dr. Curley and his blond hair have moved again, blocking my shot.

  Camera raised, I watch through my lens, waiting for the Kodak moment. C’mon, Doc, move a little!

  He doesn’t. The man’s a statue.

  Which means I am too. How long can I stand here before someone —

  Now!

  For a split second, Dr. Curley shifts his feet as he tucks away his cell phone. I’ve got the shot! More proof that I’m not a mad person, just that the world has gone mad all around me. Makes sense — if you’re in my shoes, anyway.

  Right as I snap the pic, I hear a scream over my shoulder. I spin to see a very pregnant woman hunched over at the entrance to the emergency room. She screams again, and two nurses rush toward her.

  She’s pointing at the room I’m in — looking and pointing right at me.

  She screams again and utters just one word: “Satan!”

  And she’s not the only one looking my way. So is Dr. Magnumsen.

  If I wasn’t sure before, I am now. It’s been nearly fifteen years, but it’s as if I haven’t aged a day either. This man who molested me — my pediatrician — recognizes who I am in an instant.

  The wretched look on his face says it all.

  Chapter 69

  “KRISTIN, PLEASE unlock the door,” says Dr. Robert Curley in the perfect tone for reading Dr. Seuss to preschoolers.

  I don’t. I don’t even respond to this complete fraud.

  “Whatever’s bothering you, I’m sure we can help.” Did you say “we,” Robbie?

  I hear the strain in his voice as he tries to remain warm and fuzzy. There must be a book somewhere, How to Talk to a Nutcase. Lesson one: Never, ever lose your cool.

  “C’mon, Kristin, I’m not the enemy,” he says.

  It’s an interesting choice of words, and I speak up.

  “Is he with you?” I ask. “Is he still out there?”

  “Is who with me?”

  Ha! I know Floyd Magnumsen is standing right there; I can feel it. Why is Robbie playing dumb now, I wonder? Unless, of course, he’s part of all this.

  I fall silent again, listening as Curley repeatedly tries to coax me out of this tiny box of a room. It’s no use, and he knows it. His frustration mounts, and soon warm and fuzzy turn to piss and vinegar.

  “JUST OPEN THE DOOR!” he yells. “OPEN IT THIS INSTANT.”

  Curley begins pounding the door with his fist. I keep my eyes glued on the knob with its push-button lock, terrified that it might pop out from all the rattling.

  “YOU CAN’T STAY IN THERE FOREVER!”

  We’ll see about that.

  The shouting and pounding stop, quickly replaced by whispering. I press my ear against the door. Magnumsen is talking. I can barely make out what he’s saying, but what I do hear is enough.

  “The key. Who has the key? We have to get her out of there.”

  Immediately, I grab one of the chairs and try to wedge it under the doorknob. It’s not tall enough. Now what?

  Although I may be desperate, I’m not stupid. I won’t be able to hold off Curley and Magnumsen once they have the key.

  But I know someone who can.

  My hands trembling, I dial a number on my cell. I’ve got one bar of signal, and it’s flashing in and out. Through bursts of static, the line rings once, then twice.

  On the third ring, I hear footsteps out in the hallway followed by a key sliding into the lock.

  Pick up! Pick up! Pick up!

  The door flies open, smacking against the wall. I don’t see Magnumsen. Dr. Curley immediately grabs for the phone, but I won’t let go. I’m clinging to my cell like a pit bull when I hear another pop of static and the voice I’ve been waiting for.

  “Hello?”

  I scream the name of the hospital as Curley and I fall to the ground in a tug-of-war. One by one, he begins prying my fingers loose. It hurts like hell.

  “Help, Michael, you have to save me!”

  Chapter 70

  “ARE THE DOORS LOCKED?” I whisper. “You checked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you absolutely sure? I know I sound a little crazy right now.”

  Michael reaches for a button on the ceiling of the limo and lowers the tinted-glass divider halfway. “Vin, the doors are locked, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” grunts Vincent. But just to be nice, Vincent unlocks and locks them again.

  Up goes the divider with a mechanical hum. Michael and I are in our own little world again. I’m lying across the backseat with my head in his lap as he gently caresses the nasty bump below my hairline. That bump is real. So is the rest of what happened. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he assures me.

  What I wouldn’t give for him to be right. For the time being, though, I’ll take being out of that hospital.

  “I didn’t think that awful jerk Curley would ever release me,” I say.

  Michael nods. “He was pretty stubborn, wasn’t he?”

  “What did you say to make him change his mind?”

  “Oh, nothing, really. I simply suggested that since you came to the emergency room voluntarily, you should also leave that way.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you said?”

  Michael flashes his trademark smile. “Well, I did mention one other thing.”

  I knew it.

  “I told him that by the time I was done suing Our Lady of Hope Hospital for false imprisonment, it would be renamed Our Lady of Bankruptcy.”

  That’s the man I love.

  Michael doesn’t press me for details on what happened, and as much as I want to tell him, I’m torn. He just came to my rescue and vouched for my sanity. If I try explaining everything right now, what’s he supposed to think? I’m afraid he’ll tell Vincent to turn the limo around: “Quick, let’s get her back to the hospital!”

  Besides, I don’t want to work myself into another frenzy quite yet. I’m finally feeling a little relaxed. Or maybe the word is safe. Either way, it occurs to me that the last time I felt this way was the last time I was in this limo with Michael. Does that mean something in this damn puzzle? What part does Michael play?

  “I did it again, didn’t I?” I say. “I interrupted one of your business dinners.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Michael takes a peek at his platinum Rolex. “As long as I return in time to pick up the check, no one will care.”

  “Do you really have to go back to the restaurant?” I ask as I take his hand.

  “I’m afraid so. Besides, what you have to do is get some rest.”

  He couldn’t be more right. My body’s officially running on fumes. Except I don’t want him to leave me. Couldn’t we just drive around in his limo for the rest of our lives?

  “Michael?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you make love to me?”

  He answers with a soft kiss to my lips, barely touching them with his. Just what I need.

  Slowly, he undresses me. For a moment my eyes drift from his, and I glance up through the sunroof into the night, the long steel cables of the Brooklyn Bridge hovering above. They’re lit with a dreamy yellow hue that reminds me of a vintage photograph, something beautiful and lasting.

  Timeless.

  Chapter 71

>   IT’S SO HARD saying good-bye to Michael as we pull up to my building, I almost break into tears. It’s even harder to be alone again in my apartment. It feels like forever since it’s been home sweet home for me.

  The second I get inside my door and lock it, lock myself in, the phone starts to ring. I don’t want to answer, but maybe it’s Michael. He’s had second thoughts and he’s coming over. Please, let that be it.

  I pick up on the fifth ring, and it’s an operator. “I have a collect call from Kristin Burns.” I want to throw down the receiver, but I think about it and I accept the call.

  I hear my own voice. “Help me. Please help me. Somebody make it stop!”

  Now I throw down the receiver. MAKE WHAT STOP? WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS HAPPENING? HOW CAN I GET A PHONE CALL FROM MYSELF?

  The nasty bump on my forehead is definitely real and already ripening to a deep purplish bruise. It’s well beyond any cover-up stick, so I fiddle with a new hairstyle — bangs down.

  Then I throw on a T-shirt and sweats and crawl into bed. I should be asleep before my head, bump and all, hits the pillow.

  So why am I still awake?

  Five minutes, ten minutes, a half hour passes, and all I can do is toss and turn. The past few days play over and over in my head, an endless loop of fear and confusion. All the stress that seemed to melt away in Michael’s arms begins to seep — then gush — back in.

  There’s only one thing I can think to do.

  I jump up and grab my camera. I can almost hear the voice of Dr. Curley playing his little fill-in-the-blank game with me. When I’m under stress I like to . . .

  I close the door to my darkroom and start to develop the shot I snapped at the hospital. I don’t rush, since there’s little doubt as to what I’ll see. Dr. Curley wasn’t standing there alone; I know I didn’t imagine it. And that goes for everything else too.

  Now, if I could just figure out what it all means, or at least how it could be happening.

  I hold up the picture. There was a time I couldn’t look at the face of Dr. Floyd Magnumsen without breaking into tears.

  His hands were so cold. He always wore gloves during my checkups, except for that one time. Why is he locking the door? I thought. And then I understood: because he didn’t want anyone to know that he was a monster.