Destroyer of Worlds
Page 23
She nodded and did so without comment. On the other side of the room Martin busied himself looking at the painting of the cow standing in the field. Moomoo, as little Abby referred to it in her mother’s dream world.
Andrew finally looked up at Jim Chen’s round, pinched face. The man made more appearances than usual this week, sitting in on Vanessa’s sessions. He wasn’t fooled by his boss' occasional compliments. Vanessa had been making progress, working through the trauma by building an elaborate world where she took on her maiden name and the role of a psychiatrist, treating her dead husband’s ghost, fighting the memory of Hank Cowles. All the while, Andrew had hoped, coming to grips with the terror of what happened two years ago. Chen was simply making sure if the woman managed to find a way out he'd be seen as instrumental to her cure.
Now, so close to the top of her climb, Vanessa had slipped and fallen. How far, Andrew hoped to find out. He had to hope. Chen would fade into the background soon enough and let the weight of failure rest on his subordinate's shoulders.
“Is there something I can help you with, Jim?”
Chen shook his head, muttered, “No, Doctor Booth. I am sorry about this. You’ll get her back.” He lingered, uncomfortable in the silence. Andrew let it hang between them until Chen finally reached for his pager, excused himself, and was gone.
The men waited while the nurse finished with the restraints. Vanessa’s face was softer now, calm. She stared at him through narrow eyes but Andrew was certain she didn’t see him. On the bedside table was a blue plastic cup of water and a framed photo of the Union family. He reached out and took it, let it rest on his lap. Vanessa, Corey, Abby and baby Samantha. Beautiful in every way - most of all their smiles. A truly happy family.
Vanessa had survived only by the grace of God and a stray hiker lost on Cowles' wooded property. The hapless man had stumbled upon the shed, managed to dial 911 on his cell phone before Cowles, who'd concealed himself behind a tree opposite the shed door, ran him through with a pitchfork. Vanessa Union's death would have followed if the old man had realized the call went through. He did not.
Sometimes Andrew wondered if it would have been better if he had. For her, at least. Then at least she'd be with her family, truly with them. What happened to the victims in that shed was either a complete mystery, or a secret so terrible the police locked away the details forever.
And it was his job to hold this wo man's sad, frightened face, and turn it towards that place again.
Andrew returned the photo to its place beside the cup. He scooted forward on the bed, ran his hand over his patient's hair to straighten loose strands, then touched her cheek.
“Van, can you hear me?”
She didn’t respond except to blink once, but that was probably reflexive. How far down the hole had she gone this time? He stared into those frightened, half-asleep eyes, looking for awareness, maybe a stray image flitting across her irises, anything to indicate what she might be seeing right now.
There was a phrase she had written in the imaginary journal during a recent session. Worlds in yellow, something like that. She’d been a good poet before her world was destroyed. Andrew had read as much of it as possible from the notebooks found in her home. Hidden under the mattress. Seemed Corey never did know her secret. Or if he did, as she suspected, he never let on.
Worlds in yellow. Worlds within worlds. Paintings on the wall, doorways for escape. In the end, just an illusion. Andrew was still looking into her eyes when Robert Shard wandered in and mumbled something to Martin. Martin gave a quick summary but Andrew ignored their conversation. He kept looking for some opening in Vanessa’s soft gaze through which he could step through, find her and pull her out.
If she wanted to be found. If it was even the right thing to do anymore.
EPILOGUE
He’d been here before. Never in person but narrated from Vanessa Union’s mind. Her descriptions should not have been this accurate, not as someone who'd never stepped over these broken, stained tiles, never saw the dust caked on the caged bulbs above Andrew’s head as he walked. Yes, she was a poet, or had been, could infer and draw scenes from snippets of experience and overheard dialogue.
But not like this.
Keep it together, Andy, he thought, using the much-loathed nickname as self-punishment. There is an explanation, a reasonable one, not the inane consideration which just flitted through your mind.
The consideration that Vanessa did not know these halls, but Hank Cowles did, led back and forth every day for his outdoor constitutional. And as such, Vanessa would know.
Never that. Andrew couldn’t control every conversation that had occurred in her presence, couldn’t be there every minute to censor the input, especially with Robert Schard on his staff. The orderly shot his mouth off in her presence far too often. Still… This was too much to accept.
He turned left, not needing the casual gesture from the skinny white security guard beside him to know it was the right way to go. He should let the guard lead more, pretend not to know the place so well.
Jim Chen was waiting beside Hank Cowles’ cell door, second door on the left. His arms were crossed. The chief knew about his visit because of the manager approval required clause on the visitation form. Andrew had privately hoped Chen wouldn’t feel the need to be here in person. Of course he’d come, he thought. He’s probably starting to wonder if his shining protégé might be getting a little tarnished.
Chen kept his arms crossed and pretended to look stern. “You look surprised to see me, Doctor Booth.”
“A little.” He closed the distance between them.
Chen relaxed. “Andrew, listen. I can be a dick sometimes." He raised a hand in front of him. "Don’t deny it.”
“OK.”
The man gave the door beside him a quick glance. “It’s been three months, and Mrs. Union hasn’t spoken a single word since the relapse. No recognition, no motor responses outside of reflexive. I don’t understand what you’re hoping to accomplish here.”
Andrew sighed, looked down at his feet. What the hell was he thinking? His own staff had been making comments lately. Take a few days off, Doc, or, Focus on something else for a while, or the more direct, Get a life. The latter was from Robert Schard. Sometimes Andrew enjoyed his bluntness.
He could only think of one answer to Chen's statement. “Closure.”
“Closure?”
Andrew nodded. “There's nothing else I can do for her. Before she’s moved to Long Term tomorrow, the least I can do is see the man who put her there. Someday,” he shrugged, "maybe I can tell her what I’ve seen. Prove to her he’s powerless.” He looked down again at his scuffed black shoes. “I should have done this a long time ago. Might have made a difference.”
Chen looked away from the door. “The sheet said you’re only planning to look through the viewer. Nothing else? No interaction?”
Andrew raised his hands. “Nothing else.”
Chen nodded then stepped a few paces down the hall to wait beside the security guard. “Have your peep show, then.”
Andrew positioned himself in front of a door which Vanessa had described so vividly. He gripped the knob on the narrow panel but did not give the man inside any warning. That rule, at least, had existed only in his patient's imagination. He simply slid the panel aside and looked through.
Hank Cowles sat on the floor, legs spread before him, hands limp by his side and stared at the door. The skin around his neck was pulled so tight it looked too scrawny to support a head. Cowles’ face was stretched against his skull, no fat on his body, only atrophied muscles, blue veins under pale, translucent skin. A frightening skeleton who looked as if he hadn’t moved since coming here nearly two and a half years ago.
Bloodshot eyes stared up at him from the deep sockets. The old man’s right hand slowly rose from the floor, moved forward, pulled back, down, reached forward again, caressing the dog which had long abandoned him. Andrew’s chest tightened. Cowles had not been doing th
is pathetic pantomime when he’d first opened the viewport. This was a performance just for him.
His jaw hurt. Tension, fighting rage and disgust seeing this near-dead thing mocking the memory of his patient. He’d once been called the Destroyer of Worlds, but now he was a sick old man waiting to die.
Nothing more.
It felt good to see him like this, to understand the truth.
Cowles’ lips tightened then opened into a grin, his ghostly face dissected with a silent scream. Whatever teeth remained were black with decay. The grimace was unsettling; was wrong.
Andrew reached up and gripped the knob on the door panel. He’d had enough. Hank Cowles’ grin pulled in on itself until the lips were suddenly red, puckered into a kiss.
The hand stopped moving, rested on top of the invisible dog’s head.
Then dropped.
Ticking of claws on the broken-tiled floor.
Andrew slammed the window closed. He stayed like that, breathing, looking down at the light creeping under the door. No movement.
“Satisfied?”
He clenched his teeth to keep from screaming at Chen’s sudden voice. Hissing out a breath between his teeth, he let go of the knob. Andrew forced himself to look Chen in the eyes when he answered, “Yes. I’m done.”
“Good. Let’s leave the trash behind the door for more caring souls than ours.” He raised one arm in an after-you gesture. Even the guard nodded in enthusiastic agreement, going so far as to mimic the arm gesture.
Andrew Booth walked away from Hank Cowles’ cell. If that one, brief encounter shook him this much, how much worse had it been for Vanessa in those days trapped alone with him? Andrew wrapped his arms around himself as he walked, not caring what Chen might read into the gesture.
He had his closure. Maybe one day he could tell Vanessa about the visit, tell her that the old man could never hurt anyone again, that he could do nothing in his cell except slowly die.
To think anything else would be insane.
As they strolled down the hall, Chen recited what he knew about the residents behind some of the doors they passed. Andrew listened intently, trying not to hear the incessant scratching of claws against the door they were leaving behind.
COPYRIGHT
Copyright 2012 Daniel G. Keohane
Published by Other Road Press
Other Road Press
www.otherroadpress.com
Cover Design by Elderlemon Design
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The story contained herein, including names, characters and places, are works of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
OTHER NOVELS BY DANIEL G. KEOHANE
Margaret's Ark
Solomon’s Grave
Short Story Collection:
Christmas Trees and Monkeys
For additional titles and author information, please visit http://www.otherroadpress.com and Dan's website at http://www.dankeohane.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dan Keohane’s previous novels include Margaret's Ark and the Bram Stoker Award finalist Solomon’s Grave. His short fiction has been published in a variety of professional magazines and anthologies over the years, including Cemetery Dance, Shroud Magazine, Apex Digest, Coach’s Midnight Diner and more. He’s an active member of the Horror Writers Association and founding member of the New England Horror Writers. You can learn more about his work at his website: www.dankeohane.com. He used to be afraid of bees, but has lived in the woods so long that they've become his friends, and tell him many things.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE
SATURDAY
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
SUNDAY
I
II
III
SUNDAY NIGHT
MONDAY
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
TUESDAY
I
II
III
IV
WEDNESDAY
I
II
III
THURSDAY
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
FRIDAY
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
SATURDAY
I
II
III
EPILOGUE
COPYRIGHT
OTHER NOVELS BY DANIEL G. KEOHANE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR