The Accidental Magician

by David Grace

  "Excellent." Kammler poured three glasses of wine and raised his own. "To new friends."

  Jones lifted his glass and touched it to Kammler's with a bright clink. The edge of Adams' fingers carelessly knocked his glass on its side, spilling the wine in a pale amber flood. Ignoring the mishap, Kammler smiled and took a deep draft.

  * * *

  February 11, 1950 - Washington D.C.

  "The next item on the agenda," General Hawks said, glancing down at his notes, "is Project HK 0641. Gentlemen?"

  The representative from the Department of Commerce raised his pencil and received a nod from General Hawks.

  "The initial tests are highly positive and Douglas, Lockheed, and Martin are all interested in licensing the technology. Commerce would like to see it moved to the development phase."

  "We at the State Department have serious reservations," a slender man in a black suit cut in. "We feel that the technology will destabilize the Middle East to an unprecedented degree. Given the Soviet Union's continued activity in the area, we feel that this might result in economic disaster for the region thereby leading to a potential Soviet takeover."

  "State is opposed," Hawks said, making a checkmark on one of his forms.

  Gerald Weaver looked up and caught the General's eye.

  "The President feels that this technology is too dangerous to be released at this time."

  Hawks pursed his lips but said nothing. Weaver's argument was the excuse the Administration would rely on for the record. Everybody knew the President was indebted to oil interests who would never allow the technology to see the light of day.

  Hawks turned to the last member of the panel.

  "Charles?"

  "The CIA agrees with State and the White House."

  "Very well. My superiors at the Pentagon feel that the potential weaponization of this technology constitutes a serious danger to the United States. That's four votes to one. Until further action, Project HK 0641 is to be designated as ULTRA-BLACK. Review and development of the technology may continue under the Army's Research and Recovery Administration but no licensing or release of the technology is to be allowed without the approval of this Committee. That completes this morning's session."

  Hawks looked around the table and lightly tapped his pen twice on the walnut veneer. Behind the General his aide made a note that Project 641 was to be added to the Forbidden List.

  Chapter Two

  Present Day - Wheaton, Maryland

  I looked around the anonymous office, the bare, scarred desk and the faded prints of fox-hunting British gentry and wondered what I had gotten myself into, but then decided that I had let too many things slip through my fingers to retreat into a cave now.

  "You can put up your own pictures if you like," Glenda Bierce offered when she noticed my frown. I paused then gave my head a quick shake.

  "No, this is fine. What did you say happened to the previous Director, Dr. Lang?"

  "He resigned, for personal reasons," Ms. Beirce said in a tone indicating that Lang's departure was none of my business. She briskly opened a large accordion folder. "Here are your keys, your staff identity card and your security passcard. I've taken the liberty of preparing a summary of the status of our current patients." Ms. Bierce held out a neat blue file. I leafed through the first few pages, then flipped to the end.

  "How many do we have in all?"

  "At the present time, seventy four."

  "For a facility this size I would have thought the population would be higher, a lot higher. How can the hospital sustain itself on such a low patient base?"

  "Our rates are quite substantial. Most of our patients are financially independent. They value our isolation and discretion." Ms. Bierce stared firmly at me as if she had not yet decided if I could be trusted to maintain Wheaton Fields's reputation for confidentiality.

  "Still, an institution this large," I glanced around as if to encompass the three story structure that must have contained rooms for two hundred patients or more.

  "The hospital is owned by the Pennobscott Foundation which I understand has substantial financial reserves. Of course, for any further financial details you would have to ask Mr. Clanton." Ms. Bierce pursed her lips.

  If that's any of your business, I heard the unspoken comment. I locked eyes with Ms. Bierce for a moment then looked away.

  "Here are your business cards," she continued, handing me a small gray box.

  Dr. Steven Westbrook, M.D.

  Chief Of Psychiatric Services

  Wheaton Fields Convalescent Clinic

  10 Bayberry Drive

  Wheaton, Maryland 20915

  301-555-9786

  "Is there anything else you need, Dr. Westbrook?"

  "What?" Ramrod straight, Ms. Bierce had closed the accordion folder and was staring at me, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Uhh, no, I don't think so. I'll read the patient summaries and then start fresh tomorrow."

  Ms. Bierce nodded and turned away.

  "Staff meeting at ten in room 204," she announced as she pulled the door closed behind her. I gave the blue file one last look, then wandered to the window. Beyond the thin steel bars was a small open area crossed by a tilt-slabbed sidewalk. In the near distance a boundary was formed by a solid wall of trees. I tried to match the scene to the pictures in the glossy brochure the headhunter had given me.

  Wheaton Fields surrounded by Autumn's orange blaze of sugar maples, aspen, and white oak. Verdant summer fields in all their bucolic glory. The tree-shaded main building outlined against a cloud-strewn blue sky. Each image tastefully captioned with words like 'restful' and 'serene', 'peaceful', and 'stress free.'

  "Wheaton Fields provides first class facilities in a secluded location. Our expert staff is trained to provide a confidential, restful, and nurturing environment in which persons suffering from the trauma of high-stress modern life can re-discover their emotional center and re-orient their lives from the negative influences that have plagued them. Our primary goal is to help our patients return to a happy, productive existence and to re-discover joy and satisfaction in their everyday lives."

  Judging from the brochure, Wheaton Fields was shooting for the Betty Ford clientele, but considering the hulking stone building, the 1930's architecture, the linoleum floors, and the empty rooms, reality didn't seem to match the brochure's promise. But, I reminded himself, that's not my problem. As much as some of the patients, I'm here to get a fresh start.

  Idly, I leafed through the patient roster, then paused and flipped back one sheet. Daniel J. Rivers, age 42, paranoid schizophrenic. Daniel J. Rivers? Former Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense, Daniel J. Rivers? Rivers had resigned from the Administration, what, a little over a year ago for health reasons? Good God, we had paranoid schizo running billion dollar weapons systems? How long had he been here? I scanned to the bottom of the page. Admitted ten months ago. I made a mental note to review Rivers' complete file the first chance I got.

  I flipped a few more pages then paused again. Elaine Adair? Hadn't she been nominated for an Academy Award a couple of years ago? Apparently she'd been at Wheaton Fields for about six weeks. And her problem is . . . . ? Reading between the lines the words 'speed freak' popped into my head.

  How the hell was this file organized? I flipped past several pages but I could find no plan or structure. Perhaps Ms. Bierce had added the sheets in random order just to frustrate me. I removed the fastener and sorted the summaries into alphabetical order, in the process moving Elaine Adair to the top of the list.

  Butter-colored beams of light were slipping between the window's bars. Time to go. I resolved that I would come in early tomorrow and finish reviewing the patient summaries. Squaring the blue folder on the center of my otherwise empty desk, I ended my first day at Wheaton Fields.

  Chapter Three

  Room 204 was bigger than I had expected with a bank of large windows overlooking the front lawn. Four leather club chairs surrounded a mahogany conference table. Armed w
ith a cup of coffee, I was about to take the seat at the head of the table when two of my senior staff entered. The woman, fortyish, plump, with a tangled halo of reddish-brown hair, paused in mid-sentence when she me then quickly extended her hand.

  "Dr. Westbrook? Dr. Margaret Riles. I guess you could call me your deputy."

  "Pleased to meet you." I looked at Riles' companion, a tall, thin man, all planes and angles.

  "Dr. Harold Gentry," he replied, a nervous grimace stretching his lips.

  "Dr. Gentry." I shook Gentry's hand, the long, boney fingers cold and limp. "And your position?"

  "Uhh, I'm the senior Clinical Psychiatrist. I supervise treatment teams one and two. Margaret handles three and four and any forensic psychiatric issues."

  "Forensic?"

  Riles gave me a nervous smile. "Sometimes we accept patients under special arrangement with the courts."

  "Wealthy serial killers?" I asked with a smile.

  "Occasionally."

  "I was joking," I replied, surprised.

  "The public institutions are overcrowded and if the patient is willing to pay the cost for a private facility, the government is usually more than willing to give him to us."

  "I've never heard of such a thing."

  "There are only eight institutions accredited by the U.S. Bureau of Prisons to participate in the program. We're the only one on the eastern seaboard."

  "Do we have any, ahh, transferees right now?" I picked up my blue file. "I didn't see anything in here . . . ." my voice trailed off as I flipped through the pages.

  "Actually," Gentry cut in, fingering his black plastic glasses, "there are two. Merle Turpin, a serial rapist from South Carolina and Gerald Fournier, a spree killer from Philadelphia."

  "I didn't even know we had a locked facility."

  "It's occupies a large part of the third floor," Riles said, glancing over her left shoulder.

  Uneasily I looked from face to face then closed the blue file. "I see that I have a lot to learn about Wheaton Fields. Well, let's--"

  The door banged open and a trim, red-haired man bustled into the room.

  "Sorry I'm late. Got hung up with a patient." The newcomer stuck out his hand. "Russ Mitchell. I'm your token Ph.D. Mostly, I supervise the non-medical staff and help out with overloads on day-to-day counseling and treatment emergencies." Perfect teeth, I thought as I stared at Mitchell's smiling, freckled face.

  "No problem, we were just getting started." Mitchell took the chair at the end of the table. "I don't know how much you know about me . . . ."

  "Practically nothing," Mitchell cut in, then laughed. "Sorry, I thought that was a question. Please, go ahead."

  "As I was saying, I did my undergraduate work at U.C.L.A. and got my medical degree from Duke. The Army paid for my education in exchange for a service commitment. For the past four years I served as the Chief of Psychiatric Services at the Walson Clinic at Fort Dix, New Jersey. About two months ago I resigned my commission--"

  "And what was that?"

  "What was what, Dr. Mitchell?"

  "Call me Russ. What was your rank when you resigned?"

  "Major.--"

  "Why'd you leave?"

  I clenched his jaw and took a breath. "Personal reasons," I answered in a flat tone. Mitchell's face reacquired its idiot smile.

  "Sure, none of our business, I guess."

  "What was your normal schedule with Dr. Lang?" I asked Riles, pointedly turning away from Russ Mitchell.

  "Ahhh, well, as Dr. Gentry mentioned, each of us runs two treatment teams which each consist of a psychiatrist or psychologist, a nurse, and an activities coordinator or a recreational therapist. Each team has between ten and twenty patients and meets with each patient between one and two hours per week. I also have four psychologists, including Russ, and fifteen licensed therapist-drug counselors who follow up with counseling and group therapy sessions. About half of our patients attend from one to three group sessions per week, plus their regular team interviews, plus extra counseling as needed.

  "Russ generally oversees the psychologists and Dr. Gentry oversees the therapists. They report to me and all four of us get together every Wednesday morning. I give you a separate weekly report every Friday afternoon. You meet with Mr. Clanton, the Executive Director, every Monday afternoon. Each treatment team turns in its weekly notes by close of business on Friday and you review them before our Wednesday meeting."

  "And the rest of the time?"

  "Well, Dr. Lang pretty much let us do our jobs, though he would drop into group or team meetings from time to time. Naturally, we brought any problems or administrative issues to him."

  I nodded and closed my worn blue file.

  "Is there anything special that I need to be concerned about?"

  Riles and Gentry quickly glanced at each other then back to me.

  "Not a thing," Riles said.

  "We're good."

  "Dr. Mitchell?"

  "Smooth as---", The phone at the edge of the table suddenly issued a series of agitated trills.

  I froze for an instant then grabbed the receiver. "Westbrook . . . . What - where? . . . Yes, I'll be right there." The plastic handset clattered as I threw it down. "Dr. Riles, would you lead the way to East 207? Apparently patient has knocked out an orderly and barricaded himself in Dr. Metrano's office."

  Before I could take a step toward the door Russ Mitchell pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial.

  "Russ--"

  Mitchell held up his hand.

  "This is Dr. Mitchell. We've got an incident. Cut off all the phones in the east wing, right now." The cell closed with a snap. "It's protocol," Mitchell explained. "The policy is to prevent an agitated patient from embarrassing the hospital with calls to talk-radio programs or threats to shoot the governor."

  "Makes sense to me," I agreed. "Okay, let's find out what's going on." Riles gave Mitchell a quick glance then headed out the door.

  Table Of Contents

  Cover Blurb - Story Summary

  Title Page

  "Jump To Table Of Contents" Reference Point

  Legal Notices

  Chapter One

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Fifty

  About The Author

  Fever Dreams excerpt

  Forbidden List excerpt