by Walter Marks
She reached up, snaked both hands around the back of my head and pulled me down to her. Her mouth was ravishing; her soft lips tasted of strawberry. Her tongue darted out of her mouth, flicking, exploring.
I pushed her away, fighting the need rising in me.
"Stop it," I commanded. "And go home."
Daisy's gray eyes were moist with desire. Her hands slipped up over her breasts and moved to the top button of her shirt. She undid it, then began on the second one. I grabbed her wrists and yanked her hands away.
"No, Daisy," I said. "Victor Janko is my patient, and you’re the woman in his life."
I felt the teasing caress of her hands behind my neck, then I shivered as her nails dug into me. Pulling me on top of her, she slid her hands down my back. Her fingers cupped my buttocks, holding them in a demanding grasp. She pulled me closer. Her thighs fitted against mine, and I could feel the heat of her sex seeking and finding my swelling cock. She began moving her hips, grinding herself against me. I felt her breasts, warm and firm, pressing against me through her shirt. She was wearing no bra, and suddenly I ached to see those twin mounds of woman flesh...to touch them...taste them...
I raised up slightly so I could open her shirt. I fumbled with the buttons till, with a choked moan, she pushed my hands away, grasped the neckline and ripped it open in one violent sweep. I saw the youthful ripeness of her beautifully formed, pear-like breasts, tipped by little pink buds.
I looked down at Daisy's face. Her skin was flushed, her eyes half lidded, her teeth biting into her full lower lip...as if it were soft candy. And suddenly she was not Daisy, she was Melissa. She opened her eyes and she was Melissa; her eyes were blue not gray and I heard her voice, saying please... please...please... And I knew it was wrong, but here were Melissa’s breasts with the hard nipples, and she was offering them, spreading herself open for me and her urgent passionate voice begging please... please... please...
This is wrong.
The desire drained out of me as quickly as it had come. I pulled away and stood up.
Daisy was breathing hard. The expression on her face changed from sexual excitement to disappointment and then to anger. We stared at each other; in a few moments we’d gone from adversaries to lovers and back again.
The tension was broken by the ringing of my cellphone, like a wake-up call.
"Don't answer it."
I picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"David? This is Emile Toussenel"
"Oh...oh, yes," I said. "What is it?"
"I’m calling about Victor Janko," he said urgently, "He’s had a bit of a breakdown. I’m in Ad Seg. Ben asked me to ring you."
"What happened?"
"You’d better get down here."
"I’ll be right there." I hung up.
"What's going on?" Daisy asked.
"It’s Victor. There's a problem. I have to go."
"What do you mean? What kind of problem?"
I turned my back to her and adjusted my clothing. I noticed Daisy’s poetry book on the floor.
"Can I go with you?" she asked.
"No," I answered brusquely. "Pick up your book. We’re leaving...right now."
CHAPTER 25
As I ran down the Ad Seg corridor, I saw two white-coated hospital workers wheeling a gurney out of Victor's cell. Victor was on his back, body strapped down with leather restraints. Eyes closed, he was breathing slowly and deeply.
"What happened?" I asked.
"He berserked," one of the men said.
Ben came out of the cell. "We had to sedate him," he explained. "Put him in a hospital room," he said to the orderlies.
They took Victor away.
The cell was a wreck; furniture overturned, paints and brushes scattered around the room, all Victor’s paintings slashed to shreds. The canvases hung like torn rags from their broken frames.
I saw Father Toussenel sitting on a chair. Stevie Karp was unbending one of the legs on Victor's cot so it would stand upright.
"What happened here?" I asked.
"Apparently Janko had a psychotic episode," Ben replied.
"Did anybody see him do this?"
"Yeah," Karp said. "I did."
"How did it happen?’
"It was weird. I checked on him when I came on duty around eight and he was fine."
"I thought you worked the day shift," I said.
"It depends. We switch around a lot — makes life easier for us guards. Tonight I wanted night for sure, so I could keep tabs on Victor. Y’know, this bein’ the night before his hearing, I wanted to be here...to like give him moral support."
Sure. Whatever this asshole tells me now will be complete bullshit.
Karp went on, "Then Father came to visit him, and he was okay — right, Father?"
"Yes," the priest said. "He wouldn’t pray with me, but when I told him I was praying for him, he thanked me."
Yeah. Father Emile was asking the Lord to bless and keep this sinner in the joint for the rest of his natural life.
"Then about an hour after Father left," Karp said, "I heard Vic raisin' a ruckus. I went over, and he was stompin’ around on the floor, makin’ funny sounds, and mumblin’ to himself. When I tried to calm him down he went ape-shit. Started yellin’ and throwin’ his paintin’ stuff against the wall — kickin’ over the chair and the easel. I tried to stop him, but — he was like ten times stronger than usual. He threw me against the wall like I weighed nothin'. Then he picked up his paintin’ knife — guess he’d sharpened it on the cinder blocks — and started cuttin’ his pictures. He was slashin’ like a maniac, like he must’ve done when he killed that woman."
This guy deserves an Oscar.
The truth was obvious — it was Stevie Karp who’d destroyed Victor’s work, to make it look as if Victor were dangerous. Victor had said it — Stevie would do anything to keep me in here.
"I got back up and tried to stop him," Karp said, "But he cut me."
He held up the palm of his left hand. There was a gash on it.
Superficial wound.
"Finally I managed to deck him with a rabbit punch," the guard said. "Then I cuffed him."
"He called me on my cell," Ben explained. "I was having dinner with Emile, and the two of us came right over.”
"What was Victor upset about?" I asked Karp.
"I dunno."
"Sounds like he was very angry. What did he say to you?"
"Just crazy stuff."
"About what?"
Karp didn’t answer. He looked uncomfortable.
"Tell me exactly what he said," I said in a demanding voice.
"You don’t wanna know."
"Come on, Stevie."
"Well," the guard said tentatively. "Like Dr. Caldwell said, he started talkin’ real psychotic."
"Just tell me."
Karp looked at me for a long moment. Then he let out a resigned sigh. "Well, for one thing, he accused you of humpin’ his girlfriend."
His words were like a punch to my gut. "Go on," I said.
"Well, see, ever since Victor found out you spent time with his girl," Karp explained, "He’s been possessed by the green-eyed monster. At first he was real casual about it ‑ talkin' 'bout how Daisy was so pretty she could have any guy she wanted, and what the hell was she doin' in love with a jamoke like him? But over the last few days, he started obsessin' on the idea — sayin’ how Daisy must be gettin’ real horny from goin’ so long without no lovin’. And that you was a cool lookin’ guy, much smarter than him, and bein’ a shrink and all, you knew how to do a number on Daisy and make her go for ya. Tonight I guess it all blew up in his head. When he went into his freak-out, he kept sayin’ 'I know it’s happenin’. I just know he’s doin’ her.'"
"How did you respond?" I asked.
"Respond? I responded by tellin’ him he was way off base, there was no way a doctor would do a thing like that to a patient. Hell, it ain’t ethical."
Jesus. It’s like he saw me with Daisy tonight.
&n
bsp; "I tried to reason with him," Karp went on. "Told him he was lettin’ his imagination run away, and he should just calm down, ‘cause he’s got his parole hearing in the mornin’."
He shook his head in pity. "It was really sad," he said. "But I take part of the blame myself; I said a word that really set him off. He was carryin' on about Daisy bein’ unfaithful and all, and I said to him, 'Victor, you’re actin’ real paranoid.' Paranoid. Sayin' that was like pushin’ a button. When he heard it, he went completely wacko. I shouldn’ta said that. I shoulda known better."
He looked down at the floor, real sad.
"Don’t blame yourself, Stevie," the priest said. "What Victor did was in no way your fault."
"Well," I said, "That gives us a good picture of what happened. Ben, If you don’t mind, I'd like to talk to you alone."
Ben nodded, then spoke to Karp and the priest. "Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us."
Karp headed for the door. "I’ll be at the guard station if you need me."
Father Emile picked up a broken frame. The remnants of a Victor Janko beach scene hung down, a mutilated, fragmentary picture. "Such a waste,” he said. “It’s terrible to see beauty destroyed, especially by it’s creator."
He paused, looking thoughtful. "But then...perhaps it’s a parable, like the story of God’s banishment of Lucifer, the beautiful yet evil angel. Like Lucifer, Victor was struck down by his Creator to keep him from perpetrating further evil. And for that we should be grateful. We should thank the Heavenly Father that Victor Janko cut up a bunch of paintings in a jail cell, and not some poor woman out on the street."
He crossed to the cell door, looked back at us with a benevolent expression, then left.
"Sit down, Ben," I said, indicating the chair. "We need to talk."
I took a seat on Victor’s cot. It was a little unsteady but it held my weight. I deferred to Ben. "What’s your take on all this?"
"Well," Ben replied, "I don’t know Janko well enough to see inside his mind. But he probably had some ambivalence about getting out of here. I’ve seen it before...guys goin' bananas when it's time for them to be released. For a variety of reasons, some inmates are afraid to leave here. They feel incapable of dealing with the outside world, or they feel guilty about their crimes and think they deserve more punishment. Or sometimes — and this may be true in Janko’s case — they have psychological problems that cause them to act out in stressful situations. And, to a prisoner, what could be more stressful than a parole hearing?"
"But something doesn’t make sense here, Ben," I said. "I know Victor — he’d never destroy his paintings. His reaction to stress is to withdraw, to put up a wall around himself. As you saw in my notes, I don’t think Victor’s psychotic. Oh, he’s loaded with neuroses, but even if he did go over the edge, he'd follow his own psychic patterns. He might sink into protracted dysthymia, but he wouldn’t act out violently, especially towards his art — that’s his biggest area of security."
"Hold it," Ben said. "Are you suggesting Victor didn’t destroy his paintings?"
"Yes."
"Then who did?"
"Stevie Karp," I replied.
Ben looked incredulous. "You think Karp made up his whole story?"
"Correct," I answered. "To convince us Victor was dangerous."
"That's hard to believe."
"It’s true."
"But when we got here, Victor never said a word. He never blamed Karp."
"Because he was afraid to rat out the guard," I explained. "Victor knows he has no chance for parole now, and his life here is totally in Karp's hands."
"Listen, I’ve known Stevie for a long time," Ben said. "He’s a tough son-of-a-bitch, but he’s a good guard. I can’t see him doing anything like this."
"But he had a very strong motive," I said. "When I explain it to you, you’ll see him differently."
"Okay. Explain."
"Well," I said, "Karp was abusing Victor. It was a sado-masochistic thing. Victor was Stevie’s slave, and the guard wanted to keep things that way."
"How do you know that?"
"I saw them together. One day when I came to visit Victor, Karp was forcing him to shine his shoes."
"Okay."
"And then...he made Victor kiss them."
"Kiss who?"
"The shoes," I explained angrily. "He made Victor kiss his shoes."
Ben gave me a dubious look. "Look, David," he said. "Even if they were into some sort of kinky stuff, it doesn’t mean Karp slashed his paintings."
"But this was about sex. Victor was 'servicing' the guard.”
“You saw that?”
“No. But it was obvious. Karp was determined not to lose his sexual partner."
"Refresh my memory," Ben said. "Was there anything in your report about this?"
"Well...no."
"Why not?"
"I...I felt bringing it up before the parole hearing would only complicate things."
"Complicate things?", Ben said, his voice rising in anger. "My God, man. I ask you to tell me what’s up with Janko, and you choose to leave that out? And you also left out your contact with his girlfriend. Since Janko thought you were having sex with her, don’t you think that’s kind of relevant?”
I had no answer.
"Let me ask you this," Ben said. "If you were sure Janko was being abused by the guard, why didn’t you get him out of there?"
"...Get him out?"
"Why didn't you order him transferred to a hospital room for observation? Or asked me to do it.” Ben said. "Then we could’ve sat down together and figured out a course of action."
Why hadn't I thought of that?
"If Karp was sexually molesting him," Ben said sternly, "Janko surely would’ve been better off in the safe environment of a hospital room. Didn’t you feel any responsibility to protect him?"
I had no reply. Ben looked at me, seeing my anguish. "I’m sorry, David," he said. "I didn’t mean to say you were irresponsible.
"No, no," I said. "You’re absolutely right. "
Ben shifted gears. “Look,” he said. "I know how you feel about Janko, and what happened tonight must be very upsetting. I’d like to help if I can. You can’t prove this sexual abuse, but maybe we can get Janko to bring charges...”
"He’d never do that," I said. “Unless you promise to set him up permanently in a hospital room.”
"That's impossible. We don't have the space." Ben looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, maybe we can figure something out — let’s discuss it again in the morning. But in the meantime, there’s another issue we should address."
"What’s that?"
"Your resignation. Since Janko’s parole hearing is now just a formality, it doesn’t matter which one of us testifies. So, when you think about it, there’s really no reason for you to resign. The whole issue is moot."
He looked at me earnestly. "Look, I'm sorry about going back on my word. I know you want to help Janko, and you can’t do that if you leave. And there’s another reason I want you to stay. You’re a damn good doctor."
"You just told me what a shitty doctor I am," I said. "And you’re right. I’m a liability around here. I...I’m really not qualified."
"That’s not true..."
"And don’t forget, Ben. You also think my judgment stinks. I’m the guy who wanted to recommend Victor Janko for parole — an inmate who, in your opinion, is a dangerous serial killer."
I turned and walked out the cell door. Ben's voice echoed in the hallway, calling after me. "David."
I ignored him. At the guard station I saw Stevie Karp sitting with his feet up on the desk. He smiled, and I felt a surge of rage at this evil man with his dark glasses and his absurd pony-tail. I remembered his admonition — “This is a bad place, Doc, with a lotta bad people in it. You hang around here any length of time, that bad is gonna rub off on ya.”
The sonofabitch was right.
CHAPTER 26
The morning sky was a gloomy gray over the h
igh school running track. The weather was as depressing as my life.
I’d spent an awful night playing over and over the incidents that brought on this disaster. When I got into bed, the scent of Daisy’s perfume on the pillows assaulted my senses, reminding me of my libido-driven stupidity. The only thing that had stopped me was a memory of Melissa. I wish it’d been strength of character.
As I was falling asleep, I heard a song running around my head. It was the old Jimmy Buffett tune — "Wastin' away again in Margaritaville / Searchin’ for my lost shaker of salt/ Some people claim that there's a woman to blame / But I know...it's my own damn fault."
Getting out of the car and heading towards the running track, my mind wouldn’t let go of my confusion, doubts, and feelings of inadequacy.
I still can’t figure Daisy out. I understand her actions last night — she was desperately trying to get me to help Victor.
But I still don’t get it. Why did she come on to me before last night? Didn’t she see that if she seduced me, I might start wanting her for myself, and actually try to block Victor’s release? Maybe she knew I’d feel guilty about wanting her, and those guilty feelings would force me to work even harder to secure Victor’s parole. That’s pretty subtle and calculating, but that’s exactly what Daisy is...
I was at the entrance to the "Speed" Culpepper Running Facility. It was 9:25 A.M. and the chain-link gate was open. I had on my Reeboks and my gym shorts. Maybe running would make me feel better. Just do It.
I walked over to a nearby oak tree, and began stretching my calves. I put my hands on the coarse bark of the tree, stuck my right leg back and pushed against the ground. My calf muscle was tight and felt achy. I straightened up, decided not to force it. It would be stupid to strain the muscle before I even used the damn thing.
I took a deep breath, did a couple of deep knee bends, and then started to run — to trot really. Not too fast at first, just getting the feel of using long neglected muscles. It was a cinder track and there was a definite bounce to my step as my padded running shoes struck the surface. I picked up the pace. Now my heart was pounding, arms pumping back and forth in a piston-like rhythm, the breeze blowing through my hair. It was exhilarating.
