Mack (The King Trilogy #4)

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  So in the meantime, I would take on a few patients of my own. It was very unorthodox, but it would show the troops I was willing to roll up my sleeves.

  Interestingly enough, Dr. Wilson had twice as many patients as anyone else, which was why I had Shannon put me on his calendar late Friday afternoon.

  “Dr. Valentine! Come in. Come in!”

  I entered Dr. Wilson’s untidy office and introduced myself, thinking how he reminded me of my father. He had thinning gray hair, a round belly underneath his white coat, and large brown eyes. I liked him immediately.

  “So,” I said, taking a seat in the black pleather chair facing his desk, “I’ve spent the week evaluating workloads and noticed you have more than your fair share of patients.”

  He sat back down behind his desk—a cluttered mess of files and sports knickknacks. “Yes, well, I tend to get many of the patients the other doctors don’t want.”

  “That is not acceptable. We don’t get to pick and choose who we help.”

  “Not all of the doctors feel they’re equipped to handle every case,” he replied.

  They all had general degrees in psychology—same as me. Okay, not the same as me. I had three specialties: neuropsychology, cognitive and neurolinguistics psychology, and psychometric and quantitative psychology. Basically, I was a thoroughbred psycho. (That would be me using my humor there. You see…psycho is short for psychologist, which insinuates that—oh, neverthehellmind.)

  “I will correct this immediately,” I said. “In the meantime, I plan to handle a few of your cases. Simply let me know which ones you recommend I take.” I wouldn’t want to undermine any current treatments.

  Dr. Wilson puckered his wrinkly lips in contemplation. Behind him sat a wall of medical books that hadn’t been touched in years—probably since the day he started working here. The inch of dust had to be a health code violation, but I would let it slide. Because I was a wild woman. (See. There’s my humor again. I wasn’t wild at all and—oh, forget it.)

  “That’s very kind of you, Dr. Valentine. I’ll think it over and give you a list on Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Great. Oh, and before I forget, I wanted to ask about the patient in room twenty-five.”

  Dr. Wilson sipped from his chipped “#1 Dad” mug on his desk. It was probably filled with vodka. The man had to be under a considerable amount of pressure and seemed suspiciously happy. (That wasn’t a joke, in case you were wondering.)

  “Ah, you mean our infamous Mr. John Doe,” he said, setting down his mug.

  “But we’re a voluntary treatment facility. John Does—” i.e., people who suffered from amnesia or refused to give an identity “—go to County.”

  Dr. Wilson smiled. “Yes, he checked himself in a week ago. Paid for three months of treatments and then asked to be put in a room and left alone until he was ready to talk.”

  “That’s insane,” I said flatly.

  Dr. Wilson laughed with a husky voice that reminded me of a rent-a-Santa. Ho, ho, ho… “Why, yes. I suppose it is. And what better place for him than here.”

  “So the man doesn’t want to be treated, and we have no idea why he’s here?”

  “Not a clue. But isn’t it interesting?” Dr. Wilson seemed genuinely excited by this very inefficient use of our facility’s space. I couldn’t understand why.

  “He can’t stay. There are people who require our assistance and are being turned away.”

  “He did pay for the space,” Dr. Wilson pointed out.

  “It’s not a matter of money; it’s our obligation to help the community. But there’s a nice five-star hotel down the street that will gladly accept his money and offer him solitude.”

  Dr. Wilson nodded. “Yes, well, I do see your point.”

  I stood, extending my hand. “Good, then. It’s been very pleasurable speaking with you, Dr. Wilson.”

  He rose from his seat, reaching out to shake my hand. “I look forward to working with you, Dr. Valentine.”

  I thought that the interaction had gone extremely well; however, when I got to the door, Dr. Wilson threw at me, “I hope you don’t mind addressing the matter directly with our John Doe? The rest of my day is very full.”

  I offered a cordial nod. “Of course, I’ll see to it immediately.” Not as though I cared about hurting John Doe’s feelings. We had a job to do here.

  And, to be quite honest, I was now curious to meet this Mr. Room Twenty-Five.

  ~~~

  Darkness was the one thing in this world I didn’t care for—probably because I felt most comfortable with facts. Seeing objects equated seeing facts. There is the floor. There is the couch. Facts.

  Guessing where things were—I think the leg of this table is around here somewhere—ouch!—was inefficient, useless. It was why night-lights were invented.

  So when I entered John Doe’s dark room, the first thing I wanted was to bring in some light.

  “Mr. Doe?” I said to the dark figure seated in the corner of the small room, staring at me like an eerie scarecrow waiting to frighten the shit out of anything that crossed its path. “My name is Dr. Valentine. I’m the new director. May I turn on the lights so we can discuss the reason you are here?”

  “I asked not to be disturbed.” The man’s deep, masculine voice felt like a cold, chilling slap. Yet strangely, it was also…Well, I didn’t know, really. Hypnotic, perhaps.

  I squinted, my eyes straining to see his face but only able to make out his silhouette—broad shoulders, short hair, and fit-looking arms from the shadows of biceps I was able to spot. I could also see he wore dark pants—likely jeans—and a white tee shirt.

  “That’s exactly why we need to talk,” I said. “It’s come to my attention that you are not here to seek therapy—”

  “Leave.”

  My mouth flapped for a moment. “I’m sorry, but you—”

  “I said leave,” he growled.

  Sadly for him, intimidation didn’t work on me. Not that I was stupid and wouldn’t get out of harm’s way. The question was, did he intend to harm me?

  “And if I don’t?” I asked, testing the waters. His response would tell me everything I needed to know.

  I waited for a reply.

  And then I waited some more.

  He’s not going to answer me. Fine. This was silly and a completely unproductive use of my time. I would just have to see him with my own two eyes. My gift would do the rest.

  “Okay. These lights are going—” I flipped the switch, and the moment my eyes met his, I was hit by a hard wave of…

  “Holy fuck,” I gasped.

  I flipped off the lights, turned, and left the room. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What was that?

  CHAPTER THREE

  That was not real, Ted. That was not real, I repeated to myself, fleeing back to my office through the brightly lit corridors, panting the entire way. I rushed past Shannon, who was trying to get my attention about some meeting, before I slammed my door shut.

  Holy shit. I held my hand over my heart. The muscle pumped at a vigorous pace, a direct result of my body’s fight-or-flight response.

  I leaned forward, planting my hands on my knees, catching my breath. Super. I’m having a nervous breakdown on my first week of work. That was the only explanation for what I’d just seen.

  But what had I seen?

  Oh, God. Those eyes. They were a vivid blue, like something straight from a Monet. And his face was so…

  Crap. I couldn’t recall what he looked like. I only remembered what he felt like: Rage. Pain. Hate. Thirst. Danger. I felt them all, right down to the marrow of my quaking bones.

  I blew out a breath and put myself upright, my head spinning with a potent elixir of sensations and emotions. Yes. Emotions. Goddamned emotions!

  There was a light knock at my door, and I quickly smoothed down my bob and brushed my hand over my puckering white blouse to flatten it.

  “Yes?” I said calmly, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.

  Shanno
n’s blonde head peeked through the door. “Dr. Valentine, sorry to disturb you, but I have those reports.”

  All I could see was her passive-aggressive smile. And this time, I felt irritated by it.

  Holy shit. I care?

  “Sorry?” I had no clue whatthehell she was talking about. All I could see were those eyes. So blue. So…beautiful.

  “The reports,” she clarified. “The ones you wanted before I left for the weekend.”

  Oh. Those. “Thank you, Shannon.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked, handing me a folder. “Your face is red.”

  I touched my cheek. I was, in fact, flushed, and I was pretty damned sure that tickle in the small of my back was nervous beads of sweat.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Just a little overworked this week. That’s all.”

  “Well, I think you did great—you catch on quickly. Especially for someone so young.”

  I wasn’t certain if she meant it. She may have simply been probing for my age.

  “Thank you.” I gave her a polite nod and went to pack my things for the day, feigning calmness. Home would be a more suitable place to digest the event. Whoever that man was, something about him was…wrong. So very, very wrong.

  No. That makes no sense. Don’t project this onto him. Logic would say that the event was in my head—triggered by something external, something indirectly related to him. For all I knew, an ordinary apple could’ve evoked the same response. An apple or a breeze or something random that my mind inadvertently connected with.

  But deep inside my gut, this didn’t feel random at all. And neither did my instant obsession with Mr. Room Twenty-Five.

  ~~~

  That evening I took Bentley for a long powerwalk on the beach, ignoring the fact it was mid-February and unusually cold outside. Normally, I wouldn’t risk lowering my body temperature and getting sick. And normally, I would’ve gotten irritated with the way Bentley stared, as if to say, “Hey, lady, you suck at being a dog owner,” but tonight my mind was filled with other worries. At least, that was what I guessed the knot in my stomach and heaviness in my heart meant.

  What happened to me today? I thought while stretching on my wood-framed balcony overlooking a not-so-pacific view of the Pacific, the roaring waves rippling with moonlight. My brain feels like that ocean. Rolling and thundering with an invisible, unstoppable force all its own. A door had been kicked open inside me. But why would flipping on the lights and locking eyes with that man do this?

  Once again, an image of those vivid cobalt blue orbs played in my head, but I still couldn’t remember his face.

  Whatever this was, I wouldn’t be solving it tonight. Perhaps in the morning I might resort to calling my father. He was a retired psychologist, now living in Scottsdale, Arizona, with my mother to pursue a life of cactus gardening, golf, and sunshine.

  No. You don’t require help. You’re still Ted Valentine. You’re in control. Capable. You can deal with this.

  Of course, those were all just empty words because I had zero explanation for what was happening.

  Thinking that a well-rested mind might help, I went to bed early. That night I dreamed of running down a steep dirt hill, the sun burning my back while I was chased by a man with a gleaming silver sword, his face covered in blood. When I was unable to run any further, I looked down at my muddy burlap dress. I was already bleeding from a deep wound. I then looked up at the approaching man, and all I could see were two stunning blue eyes framed by a face covered in deep crimson.

  Then it all faded away.

  ~~~

  The next morning I craved sausage. Sausage and eggs and cheese. I felt ravenous—like a person who hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  I shuffled through my freezer, wondering why all of my food was so healthy and bland. Frozen chicken, peas, and some plain spaghetti Lean Cuisines. Inside my refrigerator were bags of prepared salad, bottled water, turkey, and bread. No mayo, dressings, hot sauces, or anything fatty or spicy.

  “Who is this person?” I said under my breath, running my hands over the top of my head and catching a glimpse of Bentley sitting there staring at me judgmentally.

  “For fuck’s sake! What are you looking at? Haven’t you ever seen a person go crazy?”

  He continued staring as if to say, “No. You’re my first, you crazy bitch.”

  “Yeah, well…fuck you back, Bentley!”

  He practically rolled his eyes at me and headed for the little grassy side yard through his doggy door, seeking better company outside. Tree. Squirrel. Hermit crab. Whatever.

  I went back into my depressingly sterile-looking bedroom—white comforter, white armchair, reading lamp, a white dresser, and a clock—slipped on my jeans and a tee and grabbed my car keys, heading straight for the drive-thru. I purchased two breakfast croissanwiches and a mocha with extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup. I inhaled everything, noticing how each bite of the salty fat tasted like an orgasm in my mouth, born from some dark delicious world and better than any sex. Yes, I’d had sex. And I’d had orgasms, too. They were pleasant when I was lucky enough to achieve one, but I’d never understood why so many people obsessed over getting off. I much preferred a good jog or a hot bath. Those were beneficial to my health. But this morning, my taste buds felt like they were connected to every part of my body. I’d even caught myself moaning at a stoplight while I chewed a piece of gooey melted cheese.

  Crap. What’s happening to me? The cheese wasn’t even real.

  I found myself heading for the center, desperately needing to see Mr. Room Twenty-Five one more time.

  ~~~

  My black BMW came to a screeching halt in my parking space. I turned off the engine, jumped out, and rushed inside, doing a crazy-speed walk toward the residents’ wing. Somewhere inside the mental chaos, I heard the weekend staff greeting me as I walked the long corridor, but I could only focus on one thing: him.

  When I got to his door and stared at the small rectangular window absent of light, a cold shiver swept through my body.

  Ohmygod. I couldn’t believe it, but I felt genuinely frightened.

  Doesn’t matter. I need to see him. I twisted the handle and pushed. My breath immediately caught as I spotted my mystery man sitting in the corner, facing the doorway as if expecting me.

  “Hello,” I said, my voice full of pathetic and unfamiliar quivers. “Do you remember me from yesterday?”

  He didn’t reply, nor did that seductively muscular silhouette flinch an inch.

  “I’m going to assu-u-umme that you do,” I stuttered, pushing a lock of my hair behind my ear. “This will sound crazy—and the fact that a psychologist is saying that is humorous, I get that—but I need to know who you are.”

  “Why?” he said in a jarringly deep voice that filled the room.

  I stepped back but stopped myself from running out the door as I had yesterday. Instead, I focused on his question. I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to share with someone what had happened to me. And somewhere in the back of my discombobulated head, I believed him to be the only person on the planet who might comprehend. Nevertheless, telling a patient that they’ve triggered a possible psychotic break in their doctor wasn’t wise. (A) It would not instill confidence. (B) It might make them feel guilt over something they truly weren’t responsible for. (C) They were not here to help me; it was the other way around.

  I straightened my back. “Well, I ru-run this facility, and it’s my job to know who we’re treating. I have to ensure you’re getting the right help.” I balled my hands into tight fists, hoping he wouldn’t notice them shaking.

  A long moment passed, and I watched the shadows of his menacingly thick arms rise up as he laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the chair.

  I was getting the impression that this man wasn’t sick and that something else was going on.

  Either way, he hadn’t answered my question. Either way, I needed to know. Either way, it felt like my life depended on the answer
.

  “Who the hell are you?” I asked again, my voice filled with false bravado.

  A stiff-drink-worthy moment passed, and I felt his blue, blue eyes burning into me, though I couldn’t see them.

  “My name is Mack.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mack. His name was Mack. But the way he’d said it, it could’ve been Satan or Dark Angel or the name of some mythological creature born from temptation where one’s sinful fantasies were fulfilled.

  “Mack,” I repeated, drinking it in.

  “Yes. And you should leave here before it’s too late.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?” I asked, trying my best to sound serious versus condescending and skeptical. These new emotions were like crazy little fuckers shooting off firecrackers in my head.

  “You might die.”

  Okay. Not encouraging. “Meaning, you intend to kill me?” I tried moving toward the emergency call-button to the side of the door—every room had one—but the novel sensation of a hot messy panic had my feet stuck to the floor.

  Another long, tense moment passed, and I felt genuinely torn between jumping right into treating this disturbed man and helping myself. Of course, I wasn’t sure how to do either. Not enough information. And then there were all of the things going on inside my body. Every frantic heartbeat, every shallow breath made me feel alive for the first time. The only way to describe it was like that scene in the Wizard of Oz. Black and white shifting to Technicolor. So even if I wanted to walk away, I couldn’t. The brilliant colors were what had always been missing from my life.

  “I would never harm you. Intentionally, anyway. But the threat I refer to is my curse,” he said, with a bleak seriousness that had me believing him for one sad mental-moment. However, this man was delusional. Plain and simple.

  “So this curse will cause you to kill me,” I concluded.

  “Let’s just say that it makes me a hazard.”