Dr. Hollanda Lang, known to everyone as Holly, did not belong with the staff of misfits. She had passed up a lucrative private practice as a clinical psychologist to work for the state Social Services Department. When people asked her why, she told them she was absolving her liberal guilt. Holly found it embarrassing to admit how deeply she cared about helping people.
And La Reina appealed to her precisely because of its quirky reputation. Her opinion of the medical establishment was not high, and here among the outcasts she found some original thinkers she could relate to. Her one disappointment had been in the lack of challenge in her cases. Until they brought in the boy from the woods.
Holly looked down at the pale boy now, wondering what it would take to communicate with him. In the two hours since he’d been brought in, the boy had not spoken. She had finally gotten the curious onlookers cleared out of the room and felt the boy was at least beginning to relax with her.
There was a sound at the door behind her. She turned, annoyed at the interruption.
Sheriff Gavin Ramsay stuck his head into the room.
“All right if I come in?”
“Could I stop you?”
“Sure. Just say go away.”
Holly felt the muscles tighten at the back of her neck. She knew her aversion to police was an unreasonable throwback to her campus protest days, but she couldn’t help it. “Come on in,” she said.
Ramsay nodded to her. “Thanks, Miss Lang. I’ll make this as short as I can.”
“It’s Doctor.”
“Oh, right. Dr. Lang. Sorry.”
She made herself relax. “That sounded pompous, didn’t it? Shall we try first names? I’m Holly.”
“Gavin,” he said.
Not a bad looking man, Holly decided, if you liked the macho type. Sort of a younger Marlboro Man. She had seen him around Pinyon and thought it was a pity that he had to be a policeman.
“How’s the kid?” he asked.
“Doing well enough.”
“Has he said anything yet?”
Holly looked quickly at the young patient. The green eyes regarded the sheriff warily.
“We’re just getting acquainted,” she said. “So far I’ve done all the talking.”
“I’d like to ask him a few questions.”
The boy seemed to shrink a little in the bed.
“Suppose we step out into the hall,” Holly said.
“Sure.”
She followed Ramsay out through the door and looked up at him when he turned. Holly was five-eight in her stocking feet, and well built. Not many men could make her feel small. Gavin Ramsay could, and she resented it.
“I wish you’d give me some warning before you barge into the room.”
“Sorry. The door was ajar.”
“Well… no harm done, I suppose.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.”
“You must understand it’s part of my job to keep my patient from being disturbed.”
“Fair enough,” Ramsay said, “but you’ve got your job and I’ve got mine.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’ve got a couple of hunters missing and a dead man downstairs in the pathology lab.”
“What has that to do with this boy?”
“I don’t know that there’s any connection, but I want to find out. From the looks of the kid when they brought him in, he was out in the woods for at least three days. That’s about how long our man downstairs has been a corpse.”
“You’re not suggesting that this boy has anything to do with it?”
Ramsay’s eyes flashed blue fire. “Why not, because he’s a minor? Last week a twelve-year-old in East Los Angeles set his mother on fire because she found his heroin stash. A seven-year-old girl in Beverly Hills drowned her baby brother in the swimming pool because he got too much attention. Two boys in Glendale hung a baby girl from a swing set. The boys were six. Want to hear more?”
“No, thank you. I’ll concede that there is no age limit on criminal behavior, but I won’t jump to the conclusion that this boy is guilty of anything.”
“Holly… Dr. Lang… all I want to do is talk to him.” Gavin raised his arms. “See, I didn’t even bring any handcuffs.”
“Well, he isn’t talking yet. He’s had a frightening experience, and it may take a while. Shouldn’t you be trying to find out who he is?”
“I should and I am. I’ve put his description out on the wire. So far he doesn’t fit any missing-boy report.” Gavin looked back over her shoulder into the room. “You will let me know if he says anything?”
“Certainly, Sheriff.”
He started to go, then turned back. “Is there any chance we can get back to using first names?”
She held a stern expression for a moment longer, then relaxed. “What the hell… See you, Gavin.”
“See you, Holly.”
The boy’s eyes followed her as she came back and sat in the chair next to the bed. She smiled at him, studying his face. The two deputies who brought him in had said there was something ‘weird’ in the way he looked. Probably a trick of twilight and their imaginations. Holly saw only a frightened boy of perhaps fourteen. High forehead, straight nose, firm mouth. The eyes were a deep, lustrous green. Certainly nothing there that could be considered ‘weird.’
“Getting sleepy?” she said.
The boy’s head rolled from side to side on the pillow.
A response. The first sign he had given that he understood. Holly kept her voice gentle. “I’ll just sit here for a while, then. If you feel like talking, fine. If not, that’s fine too.”
The boy’s eyes never left her. Holly thought she could see his body relax, just a little, under the hospital sheet and blanket. She picked up a magazine from the bedside table and pretended to read. She did not leave until she was sure the boy was asleep.
3
During the next three days Holly spent many hours at the boy’s bedside. She could not coax him to speak, but his face brightened when she came into the room, and she was cheered by the small sign of recognition. They watched television together and listened to music. Holly talked about whatever came into her mind, and read to the boy from the books and magazines in the hospital’s library.
On the morning of the third day the administration chief of staff met her outside the boy’s room. Dr. Dennis Qualen was a soft-faced man with steely gray hair. He was always careful about his diction, as though he was being recorded.
“So, Dr. Lang, how is it going?”
“We’re making progress.”
“Really?”
“That sounds like you have doubts.”
“No, no. Perhaps our definitions of progress differ. I’ve read the reports and can find no indication that there is anything wrong with the boy.”
“Nothing physical.”
“Exactly. Which leaves us with mental illness.”
“Let’s say psychological trauma.”
“Terminology aside, have you considered turning the boy’s case over to someone better equipped than we to handle him?”
“Who did you have in mind?”
“The State Youth Authority, for instance.”
“That’s for juvenile criminals.”
“I understand from Sheriff Ramsay that there is a very good chance this boy might fit into that category.”
“There is no evidence of that.”
“Perhaps not, but I must consider the best course for the hospital.”
“And I have to consider the patient. Listen, Doctor, I’ve seen cases like this before––loss of the power of speech due to some psychic trauma. If you give me another week, I’m sure I can show you marked improvement.”
“A week is out of the question.”
“Doctor, believe me, I can help this boy if I’m just given the time.”
Dr. Qualen fingered the medical school emblem on his tie clasp. “You may have two days.”
“I could do much more in a week.”
<
br /> “Two days. After that the boy will be turned over to the Youth Authority. I cannot take a chance on him becoming violent.”
Without waiting for further discussion, Dr. Qualen spun and marched away down the hallway. Holly suppressed an urge to give him the finger. She went into the boy’s room.
He was sitting up waiting for her.
“Hi,” she said. “Sleep well?” She looked over at the vertical window. It was cranked open three inches to the tough mesh screen outside. “Fresh air always helps me sleep. But then, I guess you’ve had all the fresh air you want for a while.”
Holly pulled her chair over to the bed and sat down. “I want you to do something for me today. I want you to think about the time you spent out there. No, don’t turn away from me. It’s important now that you think about it. Then maybe we can talk.”
Before she could go any further, Dr. Wayne Pastory sailed into the room. He wore his white jacket over a pale yellow Izod Lacoste shirt. He touched the glossy black hair he was so proud of, which he wore combed straight back in a style of the past.
“Well, well, well, so this is the wild boy I’ve been hearing about. How are we doing, fella?”
Holly glared at him. She did not like anything about Wayne Pastory. With his sharp features and bright little eyes and the quick way he moved, he reminded her of a weasel. She didn’t like his reputation either. He had been kicked out of a genetic research project at Stanford for faking the results of an experiment. No charges had been made, but Pastory’s name had gone on an informal medical blacklist.
He walked over to the bed and reached down. The boy shied away from his hand.
“What’s the matter, son? I just want to check your pulse.”
“His pulse is normal, Doctor,” Holly said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “So are his temperature and blood pressure. It’s all on the chart.”
“Good. If you’ll stand by, I’d like to look him over.”
“I am not a nurse,” Holly said, spacing her words carefully.
Pastory studied her, his mouth quirked in a private smile. “Sorry, Doctor. I meant that you and I would make the examination together, of course.”
“The examination has been completed.”
Pastory stroked the end of the gold cross pen that peeked out of his jacket pocket. “Aren’t you being overprotective of this patient, Doctor?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Have you given any thought to what we have here?”
“What we have is a boy who’s been through a terrifying experience. A boy who could use some rest and quiet.”
“What we have,” Pastory went on, ignoring her, “just might be the first survivor from Drago.”
“There’s no reason to assume he’s from Drago,” Holly said. But over Pastory’s shoulder she saw the little muscles tighten around the boy’s mouth.
“But the possibility does exist,” Pastory said. “And think what this could mean to us if he is one of the Drago people. No one really knows what happened there. If we were to produce a flesh-and-blood survivor… the opportunities would be limitless.”
“You’re thinking of taking him on the Johnny Carson show?”
“Of course not. I’m speaking strictly of the importance to medical research.”
“Doctor, this is just a lost, frightened boy.”
“Maybe, but I read the report of the deputies who brought him in. They mentioned some facial peculiarities.”
“Take a look at him,” Holly said. “Do you see anything peculiar?”
They both looked down at the boy in the bed.
Holly felt a sudden chill. Did the hair grow a fraction lower on the boy’s forehead than a moment ago? And his eyebrows… she did not remember them being so heavy. And was there a new hardening around his mouth? She looked away for an instant, then back at the boy. The impressions faded. She must not let Pastory plant suggestions in her mind.
Pastory leaned down over the bed. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “There’s… something.”
“He’s tired,” Holly said. “I think you’d better leave us.”
“Are you in charge here, Doctor?”
“Until I’m told differently.”
For a moment the two faced each other. Pastory was the first to look away. “I’ll be back,” he said.
With a last searching look at the boy, he left the room.
Holly turned back to the bed. What was it she had found strange about his face a moment ago? He looked normal enough now. Just a poor confused boy.
* * *
The hopeful mood in which Holly had begun the day was dissipated by the encounters with Qualen and Pastory. The boy had withdrawn once again, and she was sitting at his bedside feeling discouraged when Gavin Ramsay stopped by.
“Got time to talk?”
Holly glanced at the boy, who had fallen into a light sleep. “Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something?”
“Hey, I’m just trying to be sociable.”
“Were you being sociable when you told Dennis Qualen we had a dangerous criminal here?”
“He’s the chief of staff; he’s entitled to know what I’m doing here. However, that’s not quite the way I put it to him.”
Holly drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Sorry. This day hasn’t begun well for me. Not your fault.” She got out of the chair. “There’s a patients’ lounge at the end of the hall with a coffee machine. I’ll buy.”
They walked to the lounge, which was brightly furnished with comfortable chairs, checkerboards, card tables, and a pinball machine. An old man in a wheelchair stared at the television set, where a game show was silently in progress. The old man did not seem to miss the sound.
Holly dropped coins into the machine. It spilled a stream of brackish-looking coffee into two plastic cups. They carried the cups over to a table and sat down.
“Any word yet on who he is?” Holly asked.
“Nope. As far as I know, he might have stepped off a flying saucer.”
“That’s not very funny.”
“You’re right, it isn’t.”
They sat for a minute sipping at the hot brew, not saying anything. Holly watched him over the rim of her plastic cup. Finally she said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Ask,” he said.
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Waiting for your kid to snap out of his trauma so I can ask him what he was doing out in the woods.”
“No, I mean what are you doing here in Pinyon?”
“Everybody’s got to be somewhere.”
“Are you happy being sheriff of a county with a population that could fit into a high school gym?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“There was talk a while back about you running for governor.”
“Any such talk was strictly the fantasy of my ex-wife and my ex-father-in-law.”
“Forrest Ingraham.”
Ramsay gave her a long look. “That’s the man. What else do you know about me?”
“Oh, a little. You went to Willamette University, enlisted, of all things, in the army, fought in Viet Nam, won some medals, came home, went to law school, married Forrest Ingraham’s daughter, were elected sheriff, got a divorce.”
“That sure covers the high spots. Don’t I have any secrets?”
“Lots, I’ll bet. They’re none of my business. I just wonder why you stay here.”
“I like it. Oh, I’ve had other offers. From the police departments in Cleveland, Buffalo, and Jersey City. Would you leave La Reina County for any of those?”
“I suppose not,” she said, laughing softly.
“Well, then.”
“Why do you have to be a policeman? Do you get some kind of kick out of it?”
His expression hardened. “Sure. I get off on clubbing down peace-marching college kids and locking up widows who can’t pay their rent.”
“Oh-oh, did I touch a nerve?”
“Y
ou’re damn right. You ACLU types who spit out policeman like something that tastes bad give me a pain in the ass.” He paused for a deep breath. “Sorry. We’d better get off this before I go into one of Jack Webb’s old Dragnet speeches.”
“I guess we aren’t ready for a personal conversation.”
“I guess not,” he said.
They got up and dropped their cups into a trash container near the door.
“Just one thing,” she said. “I don’t belong to the ACLU.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” he said.
* * *
Holly’s breakthrough with the boy came that night while she sat in the chair next to his bed. She snapped off the television set after The Love Boat.
The Howling Trilogy Page 38
