“Mr. Chandler, do come in. You don’t mind if I call you Ramsey? You didn’t really mind not accompanying the others today, did you? No, I shouldn’t think you would. You don’t really enjoy these outings the way the others do. That’s been evident for some time, to me at least. Of course, you feign a certain enthusiasm, but then you feign a great many things, do you not?” She sucked on the cigarette, her eyes glinting like those of a shrewd rodent. “Is that not the case?” She exhaled an impressive cloud of smoke and leaned into it.
Even then, he tried to smile, nodding affably and shuffling his big feet.
“And you can stop that playacting, Ramsey. At least, I assume you can. Correct me if I’m mistaken.” A prideful fascination lay behind her stare, as though she’d discovered some new and astonishing germ beneath her microscope. “And don’t simply lean there in the doorway. Take a seat.” She stubbed her cigarette out in a marble bowl, immediately lighting another. “Does the smoke bother you? No, that’s right, you never complain about anything, do you? The perfect patient. So cooperative.” She smiled thinly. “Small wonder your treatment has progressed so remarkably.”
He kept his face blank while he studied her expression for clues as to how this scene should progress. Her features bore their customary expression of brittle intellect and slight malice, but a new line etched the flesh around her mouth, as if those muscles strained to suppress a smirk.
“I asked to see you here, away from my office”—she gestured vaguely at the bay window—“because I thought you might be more comfortable on your own home ground, so to speak.” She waited for him to meet her gaze, but his eyes had followed her gesture, straying to the window, then to the main building on the hill. “I’d hoped that, here, you might feel more inclined to, shall we say, a certain candor.” She emphasized the last word with a wave of the cigarette, and ashes dribbled. “I realize you’ve a battery of behavioral tricks upon which to fall back, answers you’ve trained yourself to give. Amazing”—she nodded—“all this time, you’ve been getting away with that. Truly amazing. It must have involved a tremendous amount of study on our part, did it not? I wonder how much of it was observation and how much reading and research.” Her tone of voice might have been appropriate to a lecture hall. “Hmm? Still we can’t expect explanations for everything right away, can we? We have time. A great deal of time in fact. And you’re a great deal more intelligent than you’ve ever let anyone realize, isn’t that so?” Despite the smile, her voice held only speculation, edged with just a touch of eagerness.
Outside, the trees swayed, flaming with color in the autumnal sunlight: flashes of gold, a surge of red on the gray hospital grounds.
“…for your own good. Don’t you agree?”
“I beg your pardon, Dr. Leland. I’m afraid I was admiring the trees. What were you saying?”
The soft rustle of his voice startled her, as it often startled people, emerging from his immense bulk as though some hapless child he had swallowed suddenly spoke. She sat back. “You do see that, do you not?” she repeated with a visible attempt at patience. “You’ve not really helped yourself through these pretexts, have you?” She tapped a cigarette pack gently against the arm of the chair. “What you’ve in fact accomplished is precisely the opposite—the evasion of help. But we’re going to correct that situation now, are we not? I intend having you transferred out of this residence and back into the main wing, where you’ll be under my direct supervision. I believe that’s best. We’ll meet daily. And I believe we will make significant accomplishments. Don’t you agree?” She paused, as though counting off the seconds. “Ramsey? I asked you how you felt about this.”
He turned from the window, his attention fixed on a massive and ornate mirror that covered most of the sunroom wall behind her. “Ridiculous name, sunroom.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He examined himself in the mirror. The smile, taut on his lips, added a far from reassuring note to his otherwise harmless visage. He adjusted it, nodded at the results. “Yes, that’s much better.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
He continued to assess his reflection dispassionately. “Yes.” The blond hair had receded so evenly from his forehead that his unlined face appeared disproportionately large, gaining an infantile quality, bland and cheery. “Hardly prepossessing.” His shoulders slumped, almost perfectly rounded, and after years of starchy hospital food, his stomach had grown too soft to stay properly in his pants. “Who could be afraid?” He smiled harder, showing his teeth, revealing just a hint of the ferocity that his padding cushioned from the world.
“…nothing to be gained by refusing to cooperate. I’d hoped you’d be more…”
“Dr. Leland, I hope you won’t mind my asking you a question.”
She waved her cigarette dismissively. “I’m glad to see you’ve joined me.”
He nodded an acknowledgment of her little joke. “For eight years, I’ve been a model patient here. What in my behavior first triggered your suspicion that all was not—so to speak—as it seemed?” The thin pitch deepened abruptly. “My motives in asking this, you understand, are purely academic.”
Never before had she heard his true voice, and shock rippled across her features. He also seemed taller suddenly—as though through some internal adjustment—and she stiffened in her seat. “Well, if you must know, something in the way you’ve responded to therapy has been troubling me for some time now and I—”
“No, Doctor. I fear you’re dissembling. Your suspicions are of fairly recent origin. Since the day you took up your position at this institution, your attitude has been as condescending and patronizing as those of your predecessors, those other good doctors whom I’ve allowed to believe were helping me.” He laughed—a damp hiss—and her hand twitched toward the phone table beside her.
“You do seem awfully sure of that.” She attempted a supercilious smile. “Interesting. Whatever could have given you the impression that the staff here were unaware of your true mental condition?” She shrugged with graceful disdain, as though reluctant to mention something petty and distasteful. “After all, you did kill your mother.”
“Shock tactics, Doctor?” He blinked. “Hardly up to your usual standards of subtlety. Not that I can’t comprehend your enthusiasm. Believe me, I do. You came into this room convinced you’d discovered the case history destined to establish your reputation. Surely you’re expecting to get at least one book out of this?” He showed his teeth again. “No, I’ll tell you when you noticed. A little over a month ago, was it not? Things changed then. You see, I’ve been involved in a little project.”
“This hardly seems—”
“That’s when I stopped putting all my energy into deception, you see. Though I must admit, you’ve demonstrated yourself more perceptive than I would have credited. I don’t believe any of the others here have noticed a thing. Have they?” His smile crinkled kindly. “Such arrogance, Doctor, seeing me alone. Such foolish arrogance.”
“Yes, well, we can discuss this further another time.” Reaching for the phone, she succeeded in keeping most of the quaver from her voice. “Two of the orderlies will be here in a moment to help you move your things. Perhaps you’d like to get started with your packing?”
“The expression on your face…how shall I put this? It seems quite independent of your words.”
He moved so quickly, she had no time to react. He jumped into her lap, crushing the air out of her, toppling the chair backward. The impact jarred a shattering pain through her skull.
On the floor, he sat on her chest, pinning her arms. “I don’t believe you’re being entirely truthful about those orderlies, Doctor. I believe you intended this as some sort of test to prove your theory, which of course you won’t have mentioned to anyone else as yet. Wouldn’t do to be wrong, would it? Yes, I believe you’re just that egotistical. Luckily, for me. Yes, I believe you’ve only just now found sense enough to be afraid.”
She hissed something a
gainst his weight. Beneath the fat, his muscles felt heavy as iron.
“Whether you’re lying or not, dear Doctor, I can’t afford to take the chance. You see nothing must be allowed to interfere with, well, with that project I mentioned.” She writhed beneath him, twisting her torso, kicking at nothing. Her eyes began to bulge. “And, no, I’m afraid we won’t be discussing it at a later date, because in a moment you will have ceased to exist.” She opened her mouth wide.
He reached behind him, brought down the end table, and the crash dried the unspent cry within her. “Don’t be afraid.” He picked up the phone. “I won’t hurt you,” he cooed as though to a small child. “You know Daddy would never hurt you.” With an indulgent smile, he removed his glasses and slid them carefully into his shirt pocket. “I loved my mother very much, Dr. Leland. Did I ever mention that?”
Tenderly, he began to twist the phone cord around her bulging windpipe.
He clutched the window frame. The circle of glass had steamed over again, and he wiped it clear with his forearm. Across the way, light had dimmed. How much longer did he need to wait? All the months of hiding and searching—even now the boy could be doing things to her that…
But he had to time this perfectly, because he knew how dangerous it could be. For her most of all.
Wrapping the blanket around his legs more tightly, he dragged the crate closer and resumed his post by the window.
XI
From the swirling chaos of his thoughts, one memory hardened into clarity: he recalled trying to reach the chair. Soaked with sweat, the boy twitched on the floor. His head thudded; muscles clenched in his throat, crushing his windpipe in anguished bulges. Slowly, the paroxysm ebbed, and the boy lay trembling, the chair an impossible distance across the room.
Tears and spittle streaked his face. He found he could barely move his fingers.
Time passed; he maintained some awareness of most of it. The linoleum felt lumpy on his back, and the stiffness in his shoulder finally forced him to twitch. Pain sang in his neck. As he writhed, a loud hum seemed to fill the room, vibrating across the ceiling. Sweat slicked his forehead, clammy, then hot as acid. Agony hollowed him.
The room went gray. He found himself in the chair.
He’d been on his way out—he remembered that much. His jacket still lay by the closet door, and he stared at it. Overhead light filled the kitchen cruelly, revealing the crusted dirt on the linoleum, the furring of dust on every surface.
got to clean
Stiffly, he rose, swaying.
never let them see
He almost fell back into the chair. I better check on her. With a grunt, he pulled himself erect and shuffled into the next room. She had a bad day. As he opened the door, the oblong of light swung across the mattress, unbalancing the room so that it seemed to tilt. Untied, she lay in the bed, clearly too exhausted to try anything, her mouth twitching in phantom grimaces. No moonlight penetrated the boarded window, but brightness from the doorway spilled across the jumble of laundry and blankets. Yellow locks stuck to her damp face, and through this tangled screen he saw the bruises that smeared her cheeks. Makes her look old. She’d cried so much the night before. Why couldn’t she understand? Everything I do is for her. He listened to the flutter of her breath.
Perry felt a clenching pain in his stomach. Everything. Shutting the door on her whimpered sigh, he wandered back into the kitchen and found a gray rag under the sink, left by some summer tenant. He wet it, wiped down the table, then the counter. So much dirt. Shivering, he had to lean against the counter until the dizziness passed.
Groceries. He remembered why he’d been going out. They had nothing left in the apartment. And she always wakes up hungry in the morning. He threw the rag on the floor, thinking it would remind him to clean the room later, and grunting, stooped to retrieve his jacket. Her best blouse lay beside it on the floor, and he held it to his face, imbibing her scent. Still bending, he felt the second seizure begin.
He grabbed the door frame as fire spouted from his groin, smoking into the cavity of his chest. He tried to shout, but his head filled with the throb of water, with the drum of giant wings. Dimming, the room revolved. Pain flared through his legs, and he crumpled. As he plummeted into swirling nausea, it seemed his head circled away from his body. Terror spurted the blood through him in a wave of misery, and he whimpered as a fountain of flame sprayed up within him. He kicked once, and a thin shriek spiraled through.
Something cracked loudly.
He floated on thickening murk. It receded, draining away down his legs, gurgling behind his ears.
He opened his eyes. A tiny, hopeless cry fluttered. For an instant, his hand had looked like…like something else.
When he saw what he’d done to the woodwork of the door, he gritted his teeth on a moan. Unable to stop shuddering, he threw his arms around his face and tried to muffle the sobs.
In time, the horror passed, as it always did. Standing straight again, he struggled with his jacket, but the buttons resisted his fingers.
got to get
He decided not to risk waking her by strapping her down, settled for just locking the bedroom door. Just this once. He wouldn’t be long. He fumbled with the window, then stumbled over the sill, but the chill seemed to wake only the outer parts of him, only the surface of his flesh.
we need
Feeling thick and stuporous, he made his way down the fire escape, grasping at the paint-blistered rail and trying to recall the purpose of his errand. At the bottom, he dropped as usual, but the fall seemed endless, as though he’d plunged into a well. Am I flying? His heart hammered. Cement drummed against the soles of his sneakers, and pain erupted in his ankle.
He put one foot ahead of the other. Got to be careful. Tonight, the alley offered scant shelter from the wind, seemed instead to funnel the blast directly into his face. Can’t make a sound. Even in the darkest places, he imagined he could feel them watching him. Too many of them lurked about for him to venture out during the day now, so he moved only in the dubious shelter of nighttime, and then only when they needed supplies…or when the madness came, and he needed to do other things. Not my fault. His thoughts reeled away from bloody memories. I can’t stop it. He emerged from the alley with his collar turned up and his shoulders hunched.
And I know they don’t feel it when I do it. He hurried around the corner. Besides, I got to. The wind moaned past him, and a DEAD END sign beat against a pole with a hollow, repetitive clatter.
I got to.
“If memory serves, it’s that very quality about goodlooking men that gets to one, I suspect—that type anyway. Sad and earnest.” Charlotte broke off for a moment and seemed to brood. “They’re quite like boys, so full of impossible longings, like my husband. For my part, I always wanted to help them somehow, to satisfy that terrible innocence. But truly such people are deadly.”
“You sound like such an expert,” Kit observed, smiling.
“I? Hardly. Only old and observant.”
“As though you were so ancient.”
Charlotte shook her head very slightly. “I’ve known only one love. And what has it done to me? He’s been dead longer than you, my dear, have been alive…and I still am hostage to our marriage. How many years since I’ve seen even the upper floors of my prison?”
“Charlotte.”
“Above our heads, the rooms stand shut, the furniture covered. Jade. Ivory. All those beautiful old things, screens and carvings, the framed scrolls. Alone with the dust.” She contemplated the fireplace. “Forgive me if I try my memoirs out on you. Truly, it’s just as well I can’t get upstairs now. All those years, I never grew accustomed to sleeping in that big bed alone…though I’d had ample experience of it even while he lived.”
“He was at sea that often?” Her friend didn’t answer, only listened to the crackle of the fire, and finally, Kit spoke softly. “Sometimes, just at dawn, it’s like I wake up in a different life or something. For just a second, anything seem
s possible. Then I remember who I am.”
“Katherine…”
“You’re always telling me what a romantic I am. But you’re the one. The way you go on about my old boyfriend. If you could have met him, you’d know how silly that is. He’d have bored you into a coma in five minutes flat.”
“I can’t recall whether I’ve asked you this before, my dear, but was this young man also a police officer?”
“Hell, no. Sorry. All day long, I hung out with rookies and hoods who spent all their free time pressing weights. All of them on the make all the time. All of them convinced they were God’s gift. Maybe the contrast had something to do with it. I mean, he did nothing all day but work on his philosophy dissertation. Or pretend to. And he hated himself, so of course he had nothing but contempt for anyone who loved him, which is where it gets funny, because I’m pretty sure I never did really. Not really. Besides, you can’t make somebody happy against their will.”
“I’m glad you see that at least.”
“It’s just his killing himself that makes it seem like such a big deal.” Resolutely, she kept her back turned.
“And who am I to lecture you on love, dear?” Her laugh sounded like fluttering cloth. “I’m the original widow on the beach, waiting for her dead husband. After a lifetime spent studying our local folktales, I’ve turned into one.”
“You still have the best view of the lighthouse from here.” Shadows drifted like rent silk across the dunes. “Waiting for her dead husband.” At last, Kit let the curtains fall. “Do you say things like that just to give me goose bumps?”
Brooding, he slid down lower in the front seat, and the shoulders of his coat bunched around his ears. For hours, he’d cruised, searching, parking on one dead street after another, waiting, watching. Pointless. He switched on the radio, spattering through choppy static to a news broadcast. Never find him again.
The Shore Page 10
