by Lee Goldberg
"Won't she be able to see me go into the men's dorm, from whatever break room she's in?"
"Huh-uh." Maloria led him out of the Control Room. "They ain't no men's dorm in Module Two." She rolled her eyes at him, gave a fat-lipped smirk. "And Dr. Dindren wouldn't be in it, if they were."
This made no sense to Matt. "There's no men's dorm?"
"Nope. Module Two only got isolation cells, on account of it a forensic unit."
Thought about that. "'Forensic.' Meaning . . ."
"Meaning For Fucked-Up Ma'fuckahs Only. Understand? It only for residents so jacked, they a danger to theyself or others."
"Aha." Not good. "And why . . . why, if there was a men's dorm, wouldn't Dindren . . . ?"
Maloria didn't bother to turn as she waddled out into the quad, but he could hear the cackle in her voice. "Boy, I let you find that out for yahself."
With this in mind, Matt wasn't totally surprised (at first) by what he found behind the door marked "Isolation Cell 7."
There had been no great trick to getting into the forensic unit; Maloria had let them in through the front door with a key from her key chain, as in Module One, and navigated him past two aides who were playing poker. But there the resemblance to Module One had ended. Whereas the architect of Module One had unsuccessfully attempted to make the unit look like a college dorm, the architect of Module Two had unsuccessfully attempted to make the unit not look like a prison. Partial faux-wood paneling didn't conceal that the walls were fireproofed cinder block. Cheerful sayings taped to the wall ("Spring Has Sprung!") couldn't erase the fact that the overhead lights were protected by metal cages or that the only utensil available was the spork. Brown paint couldn't hide the fact that all the doors were metal, not wood, or that every fifty feet the hallway was bracketed by a retractable steel riot gate.
No, it was all too clear what Module Two was, Matt thought as they walked quickly down the hall. It was—as Maloria had said—a place to keep seriously fucked-up motherfuckers.
# # # # # #
So Dindren was in the right place.
Matt stared at him carefully as he stood with his back to the door, which was open a crack. When Maloria had led him to a steel portal that looked no different from the previous six, peeked in the slit, and whispered, "He up," Matt had felt a wave of relief.
That wave was swiftly ebbing.
"Dr. Dindren," he said. "Nice to meet you. My name is Matt."
"Oh, please let's dispense with the niceties," came a husky whisper in the toffiest of British accents. "My friends all call me Jonna."
Matt doubted this very much. He blinked hard, taking in the creature before him. If Dindren had any friends, they had missed their cue to come rescue him long ago.
Dindren looked like shit. Where was the solemn, nearsighted professional whose face had graced the page that Matt had torn from the library book? Gone was the trim black beard (though the shadow of it still lingered); gone, the Coke-bottle glasses; gone, the suit, the tie, the steepling fingers with the manicured nails.
Dindren's fingers now shook too much to steeple. They clutched each other like abandoned twins in a fairy tale, fighting off hypothermia. They were raw and chafed, with nails chewed to the quick.
What else? Well, Dindren had traded in his suit and tie for soiled pink scrubs with a repeating daisy pattern. His thick, wheat-colored hair was no longer gelled into a banker's part; it was lank and oily and fell to his shoulders, and had been razor cut in a rough approximation of the style Jennifer Aniston had popularized more than a decade earlier. Also like Jennifer Aniston, he had breasts, and (like her nemesis), lush, bee-stung lips. Unlike Jennifer Anniston (or her nemesis), he had an Adam's apple, a five-day shadow, thin gray teeth that leaned inward, and one eye so consumed with pinkeye that the pupil seemed to be floating in a sea of blood.
And he shook all over.
"Charmed," he said, producing a hand, "I'm sure."
Matt took his hand and shook it (cool, damp, and as limp as a sock), making a mental note to get some antibacterial soap at the first opportunity. Afterwards, as casually as he could, he wiped his palm on his pants leg.
Dindren noticed, but the insult only fed his drag act. Sitting on his mattress, ankles crossed demurely, he wrapped his arms around his shins and gently propped his chin on his kneecap at a winsome angle.
"And to what do I owe the pleasure?"
That red peeper made Matt's skin crawl. And—what the fuck? Was Dindren male or female? He couldn't tell. Shifted nervously from foot to foot, saying, "Ah, you don't know me—that is, we haven't met before—but I had written ahead to the administration to arrange a visit with a former patient of yours, Jesse Weston? It was really important that I meet with him. But when I arrived—this afternoon, actually—I was told that he'd been transferred. So I asked Maloria if she'd arrange it so I could . . . ah . . . speak with you."
At the mention of Weston's name, Dindren's unbloodied eye went all hazy. When Matt had finished, Dindren pursed his thick, chapped lips. "Jesse, Jesse," he said, rocking gently.
And that was about it.
"They said he'd gone away sometime in the last few weeks," Matt prompted.
A slow nod. "'Gone away.' Yes." Cheeks sucked inward in a wry pout. "You could say that, couldn't you?"
"I guess what I'd like to know is, where exactly did he go away to? Is he near here? Or out of state?"
"Hmm. You could say he returned to his former state."
"His former . . ." Matt tried to remember where Weston was from.
"Never you mind." Dindren's bloodred orb rolled Matt's way and settled on him with a barely suppressed tremble. "I'd like to help, but I try not to discuss my patients' pathologies with strangers." His jittery hands clasped together and pressed against his cheek like a 1920s pinup. "You wouldn't happen to have any Necco Wafers, would you?"
"Um, not . . . on me." Matt's head throbbed. He'd come all this way for this?
"I like the chocolate ones the best."
"Who doesn't? Look, Doc . . ." Matt hunkered down in a crouch in front of him, his knees cracking loudly. "I don't have much time."
"Would you like some of mine? I have quite a bit to spare."
"No. What I really need are some answers."
"What I really need are Necco Wafers."
Matt felt his face prickle with heat. The guy was clearly messing with him. But could he help it? He was ill, after all. Matt held out two hands in mock surrender, gave him an encouraging smile. "Whatta you say we drop the Necco thing, okay?"
Dindren's lips peeled back to reveal the gray, leaning teeth. Huskily: "Whatta you say we make out?"
Before he could tell them not to, Matt's hands snapped forward and grabbed Dindren by the shoulders of his pink daisy scrubs and gave him a shake, trying desperately to break through to him. "Help me, goddammit! Help me or I'll—"
Dindren jerked back, sprawling. His scrubs fell open at the shoulder, where Matt's hands had pulled the laces free.
Matt stopped, sunk heavily onto one knee, staring. Unable to take his eyes off Dindren's left breast. Silenced not only by his shame of exposing it, and the surprise that it was actually real, but by disbelief at the sight of the raw half-moons that covered it.
"Are those . . ." He couldn't process what he was seeing. "Are those bite marks?"
Dindren, panting, pushed himself upright. Eyes bright, he roughly pulled the flap of his scrubs back up and attempted to conceal the fresh red crescents.
"See anything you like?"
Matt fought off a wave of nausea—barely. "What . . . What the hell is going on in this place?"
"Little of this. Little of that." Dindren was shaking harder, grinning in a tight gray rictus. Whispered: "Let's just say that—to paraphrase the Immortal Bard—'something is rotten in the state of Carthage.'"
Matt vaguely remembered the line—or something like it—from Hamlet, which he'd had to read in high school. But what caught his attention was the word rotten. He made
the connection.
"Rotting Jack."
The words electrified Dindren, who scrambled backward in a panicky crab walk to the padded wall. He flattened against it, eyes wide. "What did you say?"
"Rotting Jack. Jesse Weston's profile in the Encyclopedia of Psychopathology described how Weston had suffered from a delusion: he believed there was a guy named Rotting Jack that only he could see, and whose touch could cause lesions and madness."
"Yes."
"And you said just a minute ago that Weston had returned to his 'former state.' Meaning, after years of treatment, the delusion returned."
"Yes."
"And let me guess—that's when the administrators starting disappearing, and you went off the deep end, and the night shift began using the residents as chew toys."
Dindren's jaw worked. For the first time, the mask of saucy dissipation began to slip, revealing a look of active interest in Matt, an interest bordering on hope.
"What do you know," he said slowly—and without any hint of a British accent—"about Rotting Jack?"
So Matt told him his own story, told him about Mr. Dark, the leering, ghostly presence he'd glimpsed in dreams while his wife, Janey, had died of cancer. Told him about how he'd been trapped beneath an avalanche for three months and how afterwards he'd felt the phantom's presence more acutely. How afterwards, he'd been able to actually see and smell evil and madness in the faces of his friends, in the form of physical decay and rot. Told him about the massacre his best friend had caused at the sawmill, and what he'd had to do to stop it . . . and how he'd wandered since then, pursuing—and being pursued by—the mysterious Mr. Dark.
There was a long pause when he'd finished. Rocking back and forth, Dindren ran his tongue along the upper ridge of his gray, leaning teeth. Stared down at the trash on the isolation-room floor, the Twix wrapper, the bent lollipop stick.
"I see," he said finally. "And so you're—what?—in self-imposed exile until you discover the truth about his nature—and yours?"
"You might say that. But if you were able to diagnose Jesse Weston, it sounds like you could save me the effort, if you wanted to."
Dindren stopped rocking. But he didn't look up. "What are you asking?"
"I'm asking if you think I've got what Jesse Weston had."
As still as a statue. "In a word," he said quietly, "yes."
Matt's heart started to pound, even though he'd come to the same conclusion.
"So my next question is, I guess, am I . . ." He had trouble even forming the words. "That is, was Jesse Weston actually crazy?"
A sly half smile. "And by extension . . ."
"Yeah. By extension, am I? And is Mr. Dark—or Rotting Jack—real?" A long pause, while Dindren continued to study the floor. "Or don't you know?"
"Oh, I know." He lifted his half-bloody gaze to Matt. "After years of studying Jesse? I know. But it's going to cost you."
"I don't have any Necco Wafers."
"Understood."
"Or much cash."
"I have no use for money."
"So what do you want?"
A pause. Dindren's smile became brittle. His eyes widened, became bright with emotion. Leaning towards Matt, he peeled back his chapped, bee-stung lips and silently mouthed GET . . . ME . . . OUT . . . OF . . . HERE.
Matt looked at him, feeling bad, genuinely bad for the mess in front of him. But what could he do? He tried to picture himself on the run through the woods with this guy in tow—this guy, who wasn't even a real guy anymore, and who was in no shape to travel, and probably had more mental problems than he could count.
"Sorry," Matt said. "But I can promise you this: that when I get to Olympia, I'll report this place for what it is and get you the help you need."
The vulnerable light in Dindren's eyes extinguished. Its place was taken immediately by a leer of dissipated raunch.
"'The help I need?' I'll tell you what I need, and you won't find it in Olympia."
"And that would be . . ."
Dindren batted his crusty lashes at him. "Like all girls, I just wanna have fun."
"Right . . . And I just wanna get information."
"You don't know what you want. But I do. After years of studying Jesse and similar cases in medical records, in folklore, in primitive mythologies? I do. I filled his case file to bursting with theories, facts, and information. And I'll share it with you, too. But first . . ." And here Dindren scootched closer, batting his bedroom eyes, and bit his lower lip. "You're going to have to put your fist . . . in my mouth."
Matt stared at him. "My . . . ?"
"Fist. In. My. Mouth." Giving Matt a nice gray grin.
Matt was at a loss. Then he wasn't. "Hell no. Hell no." He stood up. "Why would you even ask for that?"
"Why?" Dindren frowned a little, as if it hadn't occurred to him that it needed explaining. "Well, ah—it's Matt, isn't it? Well, Matt . . . do you know what the biggest thrill is, for a doctor? The biggest kick, the biggest payoff? It's not the money or prestige. It's the moment that the patient makes the decision to hand himself over, bodily, to your care. That's the moment that he proves that he trusts you. It's positively sacramental, that moment. I miss it. I want to feel it again: that trust." His eyes narrowed sleepily. "Also, I like the taste."
Matt backed away. I don't trust you for shit, he thought. But what he said was, "I think I should go."
"I know." Sadly, drowsily. "But you'll be back . . . If you want to know whether it would work."
"'Work'?"
As if to a small child: "Yes. What you're considering doing: I can tell you whether it would actually get rid of Mr. Dark."
Matt took another step back. "And what do you think I'm considering doing?"
"Why, killing yourself, of course."
CHAPTER FOUR
Matt shoved out the door, banging loudly into the chair that Maloria had been dozing in.
"I'm awake," she said automatically, jerking upright, disoriented.
"Sorry that took so long. C'mon, let's get out of here."
"Arright, hold up." Getting stiffly out of the chair. "You find out what you was looking for?"
"No. But at least now I know where it is. Let's go back to the Control Room."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"
He turned. Maloria had one eyebrow arched, and her fat hands on her fatter hips. Not a good sign. "What's up?"
"What's up?" Her head started a dangerously cobra-like side-to-side sway. "What's up is that I ain't yo' full-time Sherpa. I said I'd take you to Dindren, and I did. So now we square. 'Cause I got responsibilities, you know? I gotta get back to Module One, make sure them no-count ma'fuckah's ain't doggin' that white chick's shit."
Matt paused. She had a point.
He had an idea. "You've got a master key, right—one that opens the Admin and Control Room doors?"
"Uh-huh. Which I need, and you ain't gonna get."
"I'll give you one hundred bucks for it."
"Lucky for you, I got a spare." She held it up. "An' I'm always misplacin' this one, on account of my thyroid actin' up."
Matt reached for it, and she pulled it away.
"Only my thyroid don't kick in for less than two hundred, if you know what I mean."
Matt gave her a low-lidded look. "One fifty."
"I feel an attack comin' on right now." She pried it free of the ring, dropped in his hand. But not before pausing to say, "And BTW? My thyroid don't take checks."
# # # # # #
Maloria escorted him out of Module Two, and they parted company at the quad. Using her key, he let himself back into Admin via the kitchen (six roaches, a lot fewer knives, and the weird wood-and-leather cuffs still hung inexplicably from the rack).
Back in the Control Room, there was good news and bad news. The good news was that, as Matt had suspected, the file cabinet marked "Treatment Plans / Overflow" was not—as it should have been—locked. In fact, it had no lock.
Nice, Matt thought, pulling out a metal drawer and sc
anning ahead for the Ws.
The bad news was that not only were the treatment plans in an unlocked file cabinet, but someone had long ago stopped bothering to file them alphabetically. Even worse, not only were there Joneses filed under S and Millers under Q, but pieces of Jones' file were in Miller's folder, and pieces of Miller's were in Jones'.
It was a mess.
It was such a mess that three hours passed before Matt felt like he had found most of Jesse Weston's file. Even then, just when he had decided to quit looking, he would find a psych profile or incident report or med plan with Weston's name on it, and he'd decide to search a little further.
There was only one interruption. About two hours into his search, right after he had found a big chunk of Weston's drug records, the door had creaked open behind him and he'd turned to behold a member of the Wu-Tang Clan.
Or so it seemed. Matt supposed that the guy was probably an aide, just one whose official uniform consisted of a black hoodie with a red Chinese-dragon print, and a do-rag covered in dollar signs. He had a yin-yang symbol tattooed to his neck, a Black Belt magazine in one hand, and a bag of Famous Amos cookies in the other. Clearly looking for a place to kill a few hours.
"'Sup," the aide said.
"Hi. I'm Matt." Matt held out his hand. The aide stared at it blankly, like he had no idea what Matt wanted him to do with it. Matt cleared his throat. "I'm the swing. And you're, uh . . . ?"
The aide glowered at him. "Darak."
"Right. Maloria asked me to organize these files."
Darak quirked one corner of his lips and gave a bored shrug. "Fine with me," he said, and made as if to come in and kick back.
"Actually, Maloria mentioned that you might show up. She said that if you did, I was supposed to tell you to go clean the men's washroom in Module One."
Darak stared at him with eyes as dull and hard as ball bearings. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and just for a second, Matt thought there'd be trouble.
But Darak just slapped the Black Belt magazine against his thigh, gave a tight smile, and said, "Well, ain't that a bitch." And left.
Matt let out a relieved breath and dumped the file into his rucksack.
