Antoinette van Heugten

by Saving Max (v5) (epub)

  Danielle’s eyes widen. “What are you saying—that I’m the one to blame here? That Max isn’t safe with me?” Her voice is an invitation to battle, steely and removed. “Or maybe it’s just that no one has had the mettle to question a diagnosis rendered by the superlative doctors of Maitland—” she looks pointedly at each face around the table “—even when no basis for such a diagnosis exists.”

  There is silence. The eyes of the brain trust are glued to their folders. Cowards, she thinks. One of the interns starts to say something, but Reyes-Moreno inclines her head ever so slightly. He stops, a well-trained puppy.

  “Ms. Parkman.” Reyes-Moreno’s green eyes are unrelenting; the voice a soft hammer. “We invite you to obtain a second opinion; however, I urge you to do so immediately. It is your refusal to accept what we are trying to tell you that is causing your son more damage, perhaps, than his underlying mental illness, which is grave enough in itself.”

  Danielle’s anger ignites. “Are you telling me that I don’t know my own child? That I’m so innately selfish that I would fail to admit the truth so I could cause my son additional harm?”

  Reyes-Moreno looks at her as if she is a deadly virus just identified under her microscope. “Frankly, we find it extremely disturbing that you have failed to observe the warning signs. This a progressive disorder, as you must be aware.”

  “What warning signs?” All she can think of are the lies in the entries—that she is a bad mother, that Max’s “psychotic behavior” is something Danielle has blithely ignored. Redrises into her throat, but she manages to keep her voice level. “Max has been seen by reputable psychiatrists long before he came here. Not one of them has ever suggested that he might be violent in any way—much less schizoaffective. And no one—except you people—has conspired to strap my son down, shove a piece of plastic into his mouth and shoot 450 volts of electricity through his brain.” She points her index finger at Reyes-Moreno. “Forget about lawsuits, Doctor. You’re going to jail.” She marches to the door.

  “Max is not just suicidal. He is dangerous.” Reyes-Moreno’s words are black bullets.

  Danielle turns and stares at her. The remainder of the team freezes. “What?”

  The eyes are snapped whips. “Max has completely lost touch with reality. He is convinced that the Morrison boy has been torturing him. More specifically, he believes that there is a voice in his head that keeps him advised of Jonas’s secret plot to harm him and, ultimately, to have him done away with.”

  “That’s absurd!” Danielle strides across the room and stands directly in front of Reyes-Moreno. “Do you people honestly expect me to buy this? What are you trying to accomplish with these monstrous lies?”

  Reyes-Moreno’s eyes are wide, alarmed. “I have no idea what—”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Danielle puts her hands on her hips. “So now Max believes that boy wants to kill him? Just how do you know that? Did he whisper it to you in a secret session? In a moment of some profound psychological breakthrough?” Her patience is gone. She leans forward and slams both of her open palms flat on the table directly in front of Reyes-Moreno. The crack of sound causes the doctor to recoil. Danielle leans so far forward that her face is inches from Reyes-Moreno’s. “Why don’t you tell me what in the hell is going on here, Doctor? I won’t call it a conspiracy if you won’t call it the truth.”

  Reyes-Moreno pulls back just as Dwayne stands up and grabs Danielle by the arms. The doctor stands, obviously shaken. “Danielle, you need immediate psychiatric treatment.”

  Danielle twists away with a harsh laugh. “Like hell, lady. By the time you people are through with me, I’d be foaming at the mouth and baying at the moon.” Danielle shoots her a scathing look. “You have my son formally released from this execrable excuse of a hospital immediately, do you hear me? And if I don’t have his goddamned records in one hour, I’ll have an injunction slapped on you people so fast your heads will spin.” Danielle then leans very close to Reyes-Moreno—so close she can see the lines on her lips. “Am I making myself clear?”

  Reyes-Moreno doesn’t flinch. “You won’t reconsider?”

  Danielle’s voice is ice-blue. “No.”

  Reyes-Moreno sits down, pulls a document from her file, and hands it to her. “I’m sorry to say that we anticipated your reaction.” Danielle snatches the paper from her and scans it. “Our temporary restraining order against you was granted by the judge this morning,” the doctor says calmly. “I hope you understand how much we regret that your actions and attitude required that legal action be taken to protect Max.”

  Danielle shoots Reyes-Moreno a black stare; her voice is hardened tar. “What lies did you tell the court about me? Are you aware of the penalty for perjury, or do you people care as little for the truth as you do for the welfare of your patients?”

  Reyes-Moreno shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. In any event, that is for you to take up with the court.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” snaps Danielle. “I have every intention of pursuing Max’s rights—and mine—in a court of law.” She stands. “But right now I’m going to get my son the hell away from you people.”

  Reyes-Moreno raises an eyebrow. “In violation of the temporary restraining order?”

  Danielle’s legal mind races through the arguments and likelihood of success if she fights the T.R.O. She thinks of the schools; the principals; Maitland’s psychiatrists; the scars on her arms—and now the team’s damning reports of Max’s deranged behavior and Danielle’s abject refusal to accept the wretched facts. What judge in the world wouldn’t summarily grant Maitland its remedy? The poor boy desperately needs the marvelous care of this impeccable institution and to be kept away from his lunatic mother. Danielle has no credible evidence to offer the court and, after her outburst today, no hope of getting any. She has no witnesses, except possibly Marianne, to call in her favor. Even if Marianne would testify that Danielle is a good mother—and Danielle believes she would—she is afraid that if Marianne sees the entries, she might feel compelled to urge Danielle to accept Maitland’s diagnosis. Not to mention the fact that Marianne would be compelled to recount Max’s violent encounters with Jonas.

  The restraining order will be in place for ten days, and then there will be a hearing on the temporary injunction, which will be in effect until a full-blown trial on the merits. Danielle will just have to wait. She will file her own lawsuit and present a well-reasoned explanation for violating the order. One thing she is damned sure of: she is not leaving Max in this place. The chips will have to fall where they may.

  Danielle meets Reyes-Moreno’s green gaze with her own. There’s no point in bluffing. The old girl has poker eyes, and she’s seen her hand. The reason Danielle’s a really good lawyer is that she knows when to shut up. This is the battle, not the war. The immediate goal is to get Max out of here; hop on a plane; and get back to New York.

  “Do I have your agreement?” Reyes-Moreno’s words hang black in the air.

  “Absolutely not,” says Danielle. “I’m going to get a second opinion, and I want your written statement that you will fully cooperate with whomever I choose—including a summary of your diagnosis and all underlying observations that support it. And I want it today.” She stalks past Reyes-Moreno. “Got it?”

  She closes the door behind her. Hard.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Danielle’s head is spinning. Despite her bravado in front of Reyes-Moreno and the others, a cold panic rises in her as she strides from the conference room and strikes a blind path away from the building. She must get control of herself. She can’t give way to the fear and hopelessness they would have her feel. She has to think of a way to get Max out of here—and not get arrested doing it. She knows one truth: whatever they have done to him—whatever he is now—he’s not the same Max she brought here. If he has indeed spiraled into madness, it happened here in this ghastly hospital. Any lingering doubts about her own j
udgment are gone. She stands stock-still and then marches toward the familiar white building.

  She has to see Max. She doesn’t care about the temporary restraining order or Maitland’s decree that she not enter the unit unaccompanied. She’s going to plant herself in his room and stay with him. If he’s crazy, she isn’t leaving until she sees it with her own eyes. Still, she thinks as she nears the building, there is no reason to invite further confrontation. She peers at her watch as she rounds the corner to the back entrance. It is almost eleven-thirty. That means that the nurses have lined up their charges and walked them the few hundred yards to the cafeteria for lunch. They won’t be back for at least thirty minutes, maybe more. There is a chance that Max is with them, but she doubts it. She knows from the endless hours she has spent in the unit waiting room that some patients are routinely left in their rooms to sleep, particularly those undergoing heavy medication changes. Like Max.

  She swings her purse over her shoulder and goes into the unit. The place is deserted. She walks down the cold hallway, her heels emitting a surreal sonar ping with each step. She opens Max’s door just enough to slip in. The bed is mussed, but empty. She takes in the twisted sheets, the indention in the pillow—and then notices something new. Thick brown leather restraining straps hang unbuckled from the metal bed rails. The wide bands meant to enclose her son’s wrists are open, as if awaiting his return. How long have they been restraining him? Is it only at night or also during the day? Her heart clutches. She takes a step toward the straps, touches one, shivers. She checks the bathroom. Empty. She races down the hall, her mind a wild vortex. The rooms blur as she hurtles past them. Every door is closed. Just before she reaches the lounge, she notices that the door to Jonas’s room is ajar. She pushes it open and steps inside.

  The sight that greets her is monstrous, unspeakable. She claps both hands to her mouth, trying to stifle the scream that tears at her throat. Wild spurts of red stab and soar at the ceiling; stripe the walls. Her eyes are pulled to the bed. There lies Jonas, his body laid open—full of bloody, gaping holes—his beautiful blue eyes open and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, as if stunned by the psychotic artwork his life’s blood has made. Danielle fights the overwhelming urge to vomit. She rushes to his side and grabs his wrist. A sickening smell fills her nostrils as the slick of fresh blood slides onto her fingers.

  “Oh, God, Jonas, please…” she cries. There is no pulse. She grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him to her. “Breathe, Jonas. Please be alive.” His body is warm, his sweet smell mixed with an acrid, sour odor. She slides her hand up to his neck, the carotid artery. There is no beat. She has to get help. Maybe there’s still a chance. She spies the nurse’s call button on the wall opposite the bed. She scrambles to reach it, her feet slipping in blood, so much blood. It is an eternity before she manages the few steps to the other side of the bed. Her red finger is just about to press the white button when she sees it.

  He lies motionless in a slurry of blackened blood, his white T-shirt and underwear spattered with crazy, crimson spurts. His legs and arms are curled in the fetal position. His eyes are closed.

  “No!” She slips and slides toward the form, finally rolling it over. Frantic hands cup his face. She shakes him. “Max! Max!” He lies listlessly in her arms. She searches desperately for a pulse. The strong, steady beat pierces her horror with joy. He is alive. Alive. She makes a frenzied search of his body for wounds. There are none. The blood is Jonas’s, not his. She moans and starts to cradle him, to pick him up, to get him out of there, to get help—and then she sees it.

  Clutched in her son’s hand is something silver, sinister. It is her metal comb, coated in the ruby rage of the room. In a blind panic, she grabs Max and rips off his bloody T-shirt. Max rouses briefly; grabs her; and tries to speak, but then slides back onto the floor, unconscious. Danielle wrests the comb from his hand; wipes it; and stuffs it and the shirt into her purse. Moaning, she grabs Max’s arms and drags his body across the bloody floor, his limbs leaving a trail of smeared, unholy red in their wake. The agonizing moments are almost at an end; they are steps away from the door—when it opens.

  Nurse Kreng stands in the doorway. Her scream splits the silent death of the room, the stark white of her uniform shrieks murder to the unholy red on the walls.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In the beginning there was blue. She felt it all around and above her as she was rushed from the jail to the courthouse for her arraignment and bond hearing, flanked by a court-appointed lawyer and a female guard. The color of the sky and the turn of the world have gone on, but her life is forever changed. Even her skin feels gray and tainted, unfamiliar to her. She has spent four tortured days in that cage without sky; without air; without Max. He must be wild by now. He has been charged with murder; she with a variety of lesser felony charges—accessory after the fact and obstruction of justice—to name but two.

  Unbelievably, she made bond. At least now she can try to get Max out of Maitland, where the ad litem urged and the judge ordered that he remain until his competency hearing. She doesn’t know which terrifies her most: the thought of Max still at Maitland or the knowledge that, at sixteen, he may be certified as an adult and thrown in the county jail until trial. If deemed a juvenile, at least he will not be surrounded by hardened criminals—she hopes. Everything hinges on his competency hearing in ten days. She cannot overcome her shock. Everything is an unspeakable nightmare.

  Danielle’s only telephone call on that terrible day was to Lowell Price, the kindly managing partner. He was, as she expected, stunned and horrified by the news that Max had been arrested for the murder of a young boy—a psychiatric patient, no less. Fortunately, she reached him before the Times picked up the story and flashed it across the wires. During their brief, tortured conversation, she asked for something she’d never asked for before—help. And help in the person of A. R. Sevillas is due to arrive at any moment. Danielle sits in his office in Des Moines, waiting. His secretary said he is running late—probably representing some other criminal. Her hands shake. She has to get Max—and herself—out of this hellish mess.

  The door opens. Danielle turns and, for a brief, horrifying moment, stares into the brown eyes of a man she has not only met—but with whom she has shared passionate intimacies. Tony stands stock-still, the doorknob in his hand. “My God, Lauren?” His face lights up with a huge grin as he strides across the room. Before she knows it, she is in his arms. “How did you find me? I mean, I’m glad you did. When you can celled dinner, I thought—”

  “Oh, Tony!” Danielle bursts into tears and shakes her head. He holds her tighter and whispers wonderful, unintelligible things into her ear. She wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face into his crisp, white shirt. The now-familiar smell of him only makes her cry harder.

  “It’s all right, Lauren. Whatever it is, let me help you.” He takes her by the shoulders and looks into her eyes. He exudes a quiet confidence that calms her enough to form the words she has to say.

  She takes a deep breath. “My name isn’t Lauren.”

  He misses a beat, but recovers quickly. “I see. That can’t be what has you so upset.”

  “No, it isn’t.” She walks to the chair across from his dark, burled desk. “Please, Tony, sit down. I have a long story to tell you.”

  Sevillas glances at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a client coming in. She’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  Danielle shakes her head. “You don’t understand. She’s already here.”

  Confusion fills his eyes, and then he blanches. “You don’t mean—”

  “I’m Danielle Parkman.”

  Tony falls into his chair, his eyes never leaving her face. “You can’t be.”

  Shame fills her. “I’m afraid I am.”

  “Are you telling me that it’s your son who is accused of murdering that boy at Maitland?”

  Danielle resists the impulse to reach across the desk and touch
his hand. Instead, she forces firmness into her voice. “Max didn’t kill anyone, Tony. Please believe me.”

  He glances at the stack of pleadings on his desk and then looks at her, alarm and betrayal in his eyes. “I want to believe you, but Jesus Christ, Laur—Danielle.” The intercom buzzes. His voice is harsh. “No interruptions. None.”

  “Tony—”

  He raises his hand, visibly distressed. “The first thing I have to decide is whether or not I can represent you or your son at all, given our…relationship.”

  “Oh, Tony, please. You’ve got to help me.” She hears the outright panic in her voice. “I’m so sorry—for all the lies, for everything—”

  “I can’t make a decision yet,” he says tersely. “My better judgment tells me to walk away.”

  “But you—”

  He holds up his hand. “I’ll let you know what I decide after I’ve heard all of the facts. So let’s get the preliminaries out of the way.” He opens a side drawer, from which he takes a creamy white envelope. He leans forward and hands it to her. Danielle grasps the envelope and slides her finger under the seal. “I take it you’re a lawyer,” he says dryly. “At least your firm is behind you.”

  “Yes,” she murmurs. Lowell informed her that although the firm will pay for her bond and not fire her—for the moment—she has been placed on unpaid leave, which means they are waiting for the outcome of the trial to can her. Lowell also told her that the firm will make no statements to the press, and, for her own sake, he has instructed her not to contact any of her colleagues. She knows he wants to protect her from any incriminating statements she might make to Georgia or others who may be called to testify at trial. She also knows that he wants no one in the firm even remotely involved in a sordid murder trial. She looks at Tony. “Lowell Price is a good man.”