Forgotten Place

by LS Sygnet

  Forgotten Place

  By LS Sygnet

  Copyright 2012 LS Sygnet, Smashwords edition. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without permission except in the case of brief quotations.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or paper print, without written permission from LS Sygnet.

  The Eriksson Series by LS Sygnet

  Daddy's Little Killer

  Beneath the Cracks

  Forgotten Place

  …and coming soon, book 4, The Chilling Spree

  Preface

  Before reading this book, I must forewarn and claim caveat lector. First, I have worked with the mentally ill since the mid 1980's, and you could say that it has been my passion, my life's work, the one thing that no matter what else came along, I always remained tethered to in some way, shape or form.

  Yet not all of the things in Forgotten Place are created by my imagination. And while I have seen some horrific things in a historical context only, those treatment modalities are either no longer used, or are done in a humane manner. Yes, I'm sure you've guessed, there is some dark age psychiatry in this book. It is brief, and not particularly explicit, but it's there.

  Over 20 years ago, I saw the old "treatment room" in a state psychiatric hospital. It was kept mostly intact to serve as education, a stark example of how much psychiatry has advanced over the years. I remember that it scared the crap out of me. I cared for people who suffered such "treatments" doled out in the 1950's and 1960's, heard their stories, wondered how much was true, how much was confabulation if not downright delusion… until I saw that treatment room.

  I felt a wave of gratitude that things have improved in the last half-plus-century. For if things had not improved, I would not be able to do what I do professionally.

  So when you read "that segment" of Forgotten Place, know that it is rooted in a historical reality that psychiatry cannot erase, but no longer practices anymore. Just like physicians no longer bleed folks with leeches, or lop off limbs as a first resort.

  Sygnet

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  The Eriksson Series by LS Sygnet

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 1

  The dull misery of springtime segued into torrential summer storms with damp, chilly nights. Moisture beaded on windowpanes whether rain fell or not. Autumn was soggy. Wet leaves fell and rotted on peaty earth. Cold winds, dank and moist chilled even the well-insulated bodies to the bone. By wintertime, the local's promises that it never snows in Darkwater Bay felt empty to me. Who cared about a few flakes, when the perpetual rain and fog only abated for dark dreary skies?

  It felt like life at the pole without the sixty-below wind-chill. Even daylight felt like dusk, and it didn't last long enough to pull me out of the boggy depression that made only one activity appealing – curling up in bed and sleeping through life until my bones mended and I could escape wet-hell and all its varied shades of gray.

  I curled into a ball at the end of the sofa and let the natural gas flame in the fireplace hypnotize me through another vapid day of existence. The sparkling white wine glowed in the dancing orange-yellow light. I watched the little bubbles appear at the bottom of the crystal and effervesce to the top before disappearing.

  The crisp bite normally appealed to my palate, soothed me in a complimentary way by the sweet, fruity flavor. Tonight it tasted bitter as Alka-Seltzer on my tongue. This is what depression feels like. I don't have the energy to move, the desire to fix this, the will to push forward. Random thoughts on the futility of my existence bubbled in my brain, much like those in the wine glass. Would prison be worse than life behind the closed doors of my heart?

  If he really cared, he wouldn't have listened when you threw him out and told him things were finished. So much for his dire warnings about not leaving, this mythical point of no return.

  Invariably, my misery came back to rest at the feet of Johnny Orion. Part of my psyche knows he's a convenient excuse, the face that for some reason I attached to my misery, the broad shoulders strong enough to carry the blame for mistakes I no longer wanted to own as mine. The other part of my psyche isn't quite willing to be so dishonest.

  If it weren't for Orion, you wouldn't know that Wendell is alive and well, that he doesn't hate you. On the contrary, he loves you enough to teach that meddling dolt Orion how to cover your mistakes and throw the blame onto someone who deserved his day in court.

  Until recent weeks, I never understood how vast the disconnect between the heart and the psyche truly can be. My mind is ripped in two, one hemisphere hating Johnny for interfering in my personal life, the other lauding him for making obvious the subtle plan I tried to put into motion when my ex-husband died.

  My heart? I simply tried not to listen to its yearnings, or how much it suddenly despised the lack of company. And that loss went far beyond the presence or absence of Johnny Orion.

  I stopped returning calls.

  I started having my groceries (mostly wine) delivered.

  If I could've paid the doctor to make house calls to evaluate my shattered bones, I'd have done that too. I went so far as to hide in the sanctuary of the third story room of my house where all the precious mementos from a life long dead had been squirreled away while the housekeeping service did its thing once a week.

  Maya started leaving threatening messages. Statements like, don't make me break in to see that you're all right, Helen. This has gone beyond ridiculous. Call me back.

  Sometimes I wonder if we don't learn passive-aggressive behavior by studying psychology. She wanted a return call? Fine. During normal business hours, I'd call and leave messages for her at home. Maya's a savvy woman. That tactic won't work forever, nor will my excuse that she's got enough on her plate dealing with work and chemotherapy to be worried about little old me and my nicely healing gunshot wound to the shoulder.

  One of the nicest things about natural gas fireplaces is that the flame doesn't die until you shut off the fuel source. Snuggled under an afghan, I watched the fire lick the ceramic logs until my eyelids grew too heavy to remain open.

  That was when my real misery began. It takes a lot of conscious effort to keep thoughts of my father from haunting me. It's a skill I have not mastered during sleep when the subconscious mind slips
into the driver's seat.

  His face had not fully materialized through the haze in my mind when reality jerked him away from me again. The shrill sound jarred me awake and left me feeling lost and confused. Telephone ringing. Hadn't I switched it over to voicemail? Perhaps this was the dream and I would hear Dad's voice if only I would answer this time.

  I reached for the cold plastic appliance and clicked on. "Eriksson."

  "She lives."

  Thud. Or maybe it was a splat. There was a distinct sound when my heart hit the floor.

  "Please don't hang up the phone."

  I swallowed half my tongue and whispered, "Okay."

  The soft laughter warmed the bone-deep cold that hadn't seeped away for months. "This is a hell of a lot easier than I expected, Doc. Should I be worried?"

  "Why are you calling, Orion?"

  Hope deflated on a soft sigh. "People are worried. For some inexplicable reason, they thought I might make more headway talking some sense into you than anyone else has. But..."

  My mind's eye saw him shrug.

  "I appreciate the concern, but it's really unnecessary. I'm fine."

  "Yeah, I figured that much out on my own. Shelly Finkelstein wants to know when you'll be cleared for active duty. Something about her intent with that contract you signed in October not including months of convalescent leave as part of the eight month deal."

  "How very sensitive of her. Perhaps I should contact a lawyer and see what it would take to buy my way out of our arrangement."

  "Helen, I wish you wouldn't do that."

  Yeah, we both knew what he wished.

  "Are you all right? Am I allowed to ask that, to tell you that I'm worried too?"

  "I said I was fine."

  "Have you started physical therapy yet?"

  "Last week." Damned rules. I didn't understand why they insisted on seeing me at the hospital for outpatient therapy. Hadn't I made it clear as a bell that I was more than willing and able to pay for private therapy at home? My sole consolation came from being the first appointment of the day. Arriving at six-thirty drastically decreased the odds of bumping into people who knew me.

  The ache in his voice floated into my ear like a dagger searching for its most direct path to my heart. "I take it therapy is going fine too."

  "Is this really why you called me?"

  Don't ask what I expected him to say. I'm not sure. Like I said, I've had issues with disconnects between the brain and my heart, not to mention the separate halves of my brain. Maybe he'd do me a favor and get pissy with me, defensive at least. It would inspire a little bit of energy. It takes a lot of vigor to sustain rage.

  Orion plays dirty. This much I learned when he butted into my little problem and decided that Eddie Franchetta made a much better murder suspect than I did.

  "I miss you, Helen. I keep praying every day that you'll pick up the phone and call me, that maybe you miss me a little bit too. How much longer do I have to stay away to prove to you that everything has worked out for the best? What more can I say or do to convince you that I would never betray someone I love the way I love you? Tell me, because it's killing me, having you so close but never seeing you or hearing your voice."

  "Stop."

  He did, damn him. My heart squeezed painfully at the respect he always gave me. We sat breathing at each other for a long time. Johnny tipped his toe in to the piranha-infested lava pool of conversation first.

  "I'm sorry I hurt you. It wasn't my intent to make things worse. I wanted to give you a little bit of peace, Helen."

  My vocal chords felt like molten guitar strings stretched ten times too taut. "I know."

  "Please tell me I didn't make things worse. I'll go to Levine if I did and –"

  "It won't be over for years. But no, it's not worse than it was. They're convinced that…well, that things are progressing as they should've from the beginning."

  "You still hate me."

  "We can't have this conversation."

  Silence became as taut as my vocal chords.

  Then, at last, "We could have it face to face."

  "No, Johnny. You have to let this go; let me go. I meant what I said. When I've mended enough to leave, that's what I'm going to do. I don't belong here. I don't want to belong here."

  "But your contract –"

  "Let Darkwater Bay sue me. Do you think I care?"

  "Yes," he murmured. "I know how much you care, Helen. I'm not talking about me. You care about the people out here. You cared enough not to let what happened to Gwen Foster go. You cared about my detective. You cared about dead homeless guys and even a dead drug dealing biker whose worst crime was being too stupid to keep his mouth shut. I saw how much it hurt you when Maya was in the hospital facing a fight for her life. Do you think I don't understand what you're doing? None of this can hurt you if you avoid it. But the people who love you are hurting. They're suffering because you're pushing them all away."

  I believed that my tears dried up and left me almost two months ago. Orion proved that theory wrong. My eyes stung, burning liquid overflowed and scalded my cheeks. "They're better off without me," I whispered. "You are better off without me."

  "You're crying..."

  I dashed at the droplets clinging to my chin. Cleared my throat. "I'm not."

  A soft knock sounded on the window to my left. "Let me in, Helen." Johnny stood outside under the lanai at the back of my house. His dark coat hung to the knees. Even through the darkness, I could see the water droplets clinging to the leather skin. He looked as sad and fatigued as I felt, standing desolate in the cold with his cell phone pressed to his ear. "Baby, please let me in."

  I dropped the phone, heard it clatter when it hit the floor, and buried my face in my hands. Why wouldn't he stop? Why did he have to come back – not just the voice that made my soul weep and my heart ache, but to see him...

  His voice floated up from the tiny speaker on the floor. "Doc, please."

  The afghan tightened around my shoulders. Too late. He's here. I saw him. I don't have the strength to send him away. The heart exerted its control over what my brain screamed must be done. I drifted to the back door. Fingers trembled with uncoordinated effort. The deadbolt twisted.

  Johnny pushed the door open and stepped inside, carried on a blast of frigid North Pacific air. One foot kicked the door closed while his arms swept me up into the embrace I ached to feel. I melted into it, into the strength I lacked.

  He separated from me long enough to peel off the coat. It hit the floor with a soft whoosh before Johnny crushed me against his chest again. No words, just arms and breathing and pain leeching slowly away. He didn't grope. There were no kisses. The heartbeat in his throat slammed against my forehead. It was the only tell that Johnny felt anything at all.

  I suspected it was a response to fear. How much time did he have before my anger returned, before I pointed to the door and demanded he leave, before I started railing at him over the intrusion into my life, not to mention onto my property by scaling the wall around the fortress once again?

  He couldn't know that I lacked the energy for any of it. Could he?

  One arm scooped behind my knees and lifted me. Silently, Johnny walked across the room and sat in the recently vacated corner of the sofa. Imagine the gentlest embrace of all time – made from steel bands. That was the way he held me. A nose burrowed into my hair. Inhale. Hold. Slow release.

  "Johnny –"

  "Shh."

  "I don't –"

  "Not tonight, Doc. No talking. No fighting. No rejection. Tonight, you need me to hold you, and that's exactly what I'm going to do."

  When I woke the next morning, tucked into bed in the same sweat suit I had worn the day before, I wondered if the comfort of my recurrent Dad dream was merely replaced with another. There was no dent in the pillow beside my head. The bedding was undisturbed save for where I slept without moving. The telephone wasn't bleating on the floor. The gas logs in the fireplace radiated warmth and colo
r into the drab world around me. Not a single clue had been left behind to prove the visitation from Johnny was corporeal.

  I wandered through the house looking for water droplets on the floor near the back door, a smudge on a windowpane from his knuckles knocking, evidence that he had come to me and chased away my demons one last time.

  There was nothing. I felt a little bit of hope evaporate like wisps of smoke. Push it aside, brain says. Let it go. Do what must be done. Mend yourself and flee for parts unknown. Leave Darkwater Bay behind.

  My heart was too tired to protest. With weary resolve, I dressed for another session of physical therapy.

  Chapter 2

  One of the aspects of Metro State University Hospital that made it a great institution was the fact that by virtue of being part of a university hospital system, research was a huge part of its mission. At the same time, that fact also provided its greatest flaw. It was also a teaching hospital.

  I try not to get irritable about such things. God knows, I was an intern at one time too. Anybody with a license, whether it's in medicine or nursing or clinical psychology has to learn a few things hands on. I simply wanted to avoid being the guinea pig that trained a would-be practitioner. My surgeon was the chief of orthopedics. No pun intended, but it was the only bullet I dodged during this ordeal.

  Student nurses cared for me. I even had a pharmacy intern show up to talk to me about the pain medications prescribed on discharge.

  The real kicker was Amy Peterson. Amy had the misfortune of an internship in physical therapy in December, the cold month of Helen Eriksson's mad dash through rehab. I give her credit for having the guts to stand up to me. I think the therapist supervising her was more than a tad bit intimidated by my dagger eyes and razor-sharp tongue.

  It's hard to imagine me going from depressed and living in seclusion at night to being a viper coiled and ready for attack by the crack of lighter fog the following morning. These are the idiosyncrasies of my personality, I'm afraid. Any news that falls outside the strict boundaries of what I want to hear brings out the venom.