According to Dr. Cans, each case of RNB was more than just useful symptoms. For every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction. Besides the more general reactions of headaches, exhaustion, and the maddening voice that whispered in their ears, Amy’s emotional instability was tied to her ability to stay focused at all times.
Amy had spent considerable time strewn across Claire’s bed, lamenting what she considered a ridiculous ability. As though being awake was a useful talent! But Claire could sense her despair beyond the drama. She had experienced a flash of hope with the realization of Miguel’s ability but his had an obvious usefulness. Amy could see no benefit in hers.
Far be it from Claire to bolster Dr. Cans’ reputation, but she had encouraged Amy to not give up just yet. Give the doctor a few weeks to see just what Amy’s ability might be capable of. Claire herself could see nothing promising, but Miguel had gone from being essentially blind to seeing everything around him. Maybe she could do the same for Amy.
Andre’s abilities had proven to be more physical than either Amy’s or Miguel’s had been. He had been a large, strong man and a college football star before moving home to a small ‘burb of Chicago to start and run his own construction business. He might have been a businessman, but he worked the same projects his crews worked, which kept him in shape and able to still play around with the kids in his neighborhood.
What he hadn’t realized was how abnormal that level of fitness was. Oh, not the fitness so much as the ability to become that fit. He’d confessed to her after one of his earlier individual sessions, before he had come clean with Dr. Cans about his pain, that she had ordered a physical workup, complete with full-body x-rays, which had shown considerable damage to Andre’s joints and multiple fractures in various stages of healing. Andre had looked blank as he’d described Dr. Cans’ theory.
“The accident at my construction site,” he had said, “the one that led to all of this. She claims it messed up whatever part of my brain sees pain as a problem, I guess.” He shrugged, as though it made no difference to him whatsoever. But Claire now knew otherwise. “So when it feels pain, it just keeps going.”
This condition had cost them all something, and it was a fact they all struggled with, the loss of something beloved. For Amy, it was her son and husband. For Miguel, it was his freedom - his ability to travel. And for Andre, an intensely physical man, it had been competition and exertion. For Claire, though, it was…something, she was sure. Everyone had something they loved. Didn’t they? She was married. She had a husband, one she loved. Or had loved. Or had thought she loved…
Claire shook her head and brought herself back to present. The book was still in her hands and she looked down, rubbing her thumb across the worn cover.
Faust. It was Goethe’s most prolific novel, reimagined in countless translations and mediums across the world. She couldn’t read German, but Dr. Cans had helpfully supplied her with an Italian translation, which she could, of course, read. She didn’t remember ever telling the doctor that particular fact.
She already knew the story from her time on the stage: an already talented, successful man sells his soul for even more talent and success. It was supposed to be a cautionary tale on the price of ambition.
It wasn’t a coincidence that Dr. Cans had casually given her this particular book. Faust was the opera Claire had been performing, in Italian, when she had her accident. The book was a message. She had felt Dr. Cans watching her as she had reached out tentatively to accept it from her. The doctor had been trying to tell her something; Claire just wasn’t sure what. The most obvious intent would be to caution Claire against ambition. But what ambition? Had she and the others become too obvious? Had their sudden interest in cooperating with the doctor raised some red flags? Did Dr. Cans suspect a plot was in motion?
Claire didn’t think that was it. Dr. Cans had spoken about how the others looked to her for direction. How they followed her lead. And how, if she wanted to get the others on board, she had to gain Claire’s trust first. If she knew their goal, wouldn’t she try to destroy Claire’s ability to influence the others instead of encourage it? So no, she didn’t think the doctor was hinting about the cost of staging a full-on rebellion. So what then?
Claire turned the book over, running her hands along the cover and spine. It really was a beautiful book. The cloth cover was worn in places, with threads showing along the warped corners, but the gold of the gothic lettering was bright and the pages looked to be weathered but pristine.
Claire cracked it open and thumbed through the pages, watching as the script flashed past. The book slammed closed at the end, but Claire hesitated. There had been something…something had caught her eye near the back. She flipped it back open and leafed through the final pages until she came to the back cover.
Assicurati che gli altri siano pronti.
Make sure the others are ready. Written in pencil across the aging back cover. It was light enough it almost faded into the background, unless you were already looking for something out of place.
Claire stared. Make sure the others are ready for what? The message was written in the same sprawling, lackadaisical hand that Claire had noticed in Dr. Cans’ notebook. A totally unprofessional script for someone of Dr. Cans’ standing, but very identifiable. She had obviously written it for Claire to find. Since most people didn’t bother turning all the way to the back cover once they finished with a book, putting the message there would hide it from innocent eyes; only someone looking specifically for subterfuge would purposefully find it. And even if they did, it could mean anything. Make sure the others are ready to comply. Make sure the others are ready to prove themselves. Make sure they’re ready for dinner.
Probably not that last one, but still, it was vague enough to be construed in many different ways. She had told the doctor before that she hadn’t decided if she trusted her or not. Claire got the feeling she was running out of time to decide.
Chapter 45
Claire
The soft knock at the door had Claire sitting bolt upright in bed. She had been wound tight all night, unable to close her eyes since…well, since she had found Andre in his room. With the exception of her session with Dr. Cans, they had all been confined to their rooms for the last 24 hours. They had even eaten their meals in the cells. Her hands shook as she tugged the blanket closer to her chest, the knock sounding again.
Was this it? Was this the reaction to Andre’s death that Dr. Cans had warned was coming? Were they to be removed from the relative comfort of their rooms and moved permanently to the clinic, where they could be observed around the clock? Claire had always referred to them as prisoners in the past, but now they would find out how true that was.
The knock sounded one more time, slightly louder, before pushing open quietly. Dr. Cans stepped inside, looking somewhat annoyed. During their somewhat unsettling session that afternoon, Dr. Cans had said some things that had almost sounded like warnings. And now here she was, coming to call at three in the morning. Claire didn’t know what she had expected: a big production, maybe. A show of force. Guards appearing to tow the prisoners away. But it was just the doctor. No army of attendants, no security guards to make the transfer. Just Dr. Cans, quietly slipping through the crack she’d made in the door and moving to Claire’s bedside.
“Claire,” she whispered, laying a light hand on Claire’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you answer? I know you’re not asleep.”
Yes, definitely annoyed. Which almost annoyed Claire, considering the doctor was sneaking into her room in the dead of night, not the other way around.
“It’s almost time. You and the others are leaving. Here, put your shoes on,” she said, reaching down and handing Claire the slipper-like house shoes that all the patients wore.
“What are you talking about?” Claire asked, confused. “Leaving? At three in the morning?”
“Yes, at three in the morning,” Dr. Cans snapped, sounding truly annoyed this time. It was only the se
cond time Claire had heard her express any emotion that belied her usually calm, unflappable demeanor and that, more than anything, got Claire moving.
Dr. Cans sighed. “That’s not fair. I’m sorry.”
She moved towards the foot of the bed and pulled herself up onto it, facing Claire and crossing her legs casually under her, like they were at a sleepover or a picnic instead of having an illicit conversation in a locked-down unit at three in the morning. Claire pushed herself all the way back against the simple black frame of the headboard, pulling her knees into her chest beneath the thin blanket that covered her.
“We’re going to try something new,” Dr. Cans said pleasantly, a sardonic smile tilting her lips. “A nighttime excursion designed to help you cope with the difficulties of the past two days.”
“Cope with the difficulties?” Claire parroted, incredulous. That was putting it mildly. “You mean Andre’s death? Is that one of the difficulties you’re referring to?” Her voice was loud. Much too loud for the silence of the early morning. “Because I’m not sure suicide can be called something as blasé as a difficulty.”
Dr. Cans shook her head. “I’m not talking about Andre’s suicide. I’m talking about Andre’s murder. And you’re right, it’s more than a difficult day or a bump in the road. But that’s the way Dr. Cans and people like her talk, and if you’re going to commit to a role, you go all in. I figured if anyone would understand, it would be you.”
Claire tried to decipher that. This entire interaction felt off. The woman sitting in front of her wasn’t the same person who had blown into their small, sad world and convinced them to play along, manipulating their paranoia and mistrust into some twisted semblance of cooperation. It certainly wasn’t the same person she had talked to earlier that day. The short skirts and towering heels had been replaced with worn jeans and sneakers, which explained how she was able to contort her legs into such a relaxed sitting position. She didn’t sound like herself, either. The formal language and distant, polite tone had been dropped in favor of biting words and dripping sarcasm.
It wasn’t just how she looked and sounded. The entire conversation felt different from Claire’s other interactions with Dr. Cans, who had always kept her emotions carefully concealed. Claire had felt polite interest at times, calculation and confusion at others. Pain had been mixed in here and there. But for the most part, Dr. Cans had been a smooth, blank canvas. On one hand, it had been a relief to not feel the wash of another person’s emotions swamp over her. But it hadn’t been natural. Not at all. Now, though, Claire could feel much stronger emotions coming from the doctor. Impatience, anxiety, excitement. Fear.
“Claire,” Dr. Cans said, shaking her out of her reverie. “I need you to focus. You’re really the only one who can. We need to move, and we need to move fast. We don’t have time for lengthy explanations. Look at me.”
Claire did.
“I need you to feel what I feel, and decide whether to trust me or not. You need to do it right now.”
The seriousness of the situation poured into Claire. This wasn’t a test. And it certainly wasn’t authorized. Dr. Cans may have used the right words to describe their outing, but Claire knew what she really meant. This nighttime excursion was life or death. This was truly an escape.
It suddenly didn’t matter that Claire had questions. It didn’t matter that the woman sitting in front of her was clearly not who she had pretended to be for the last month. All that mattered was that she was going to help them leave.
And Claire did trust her. In that moment, with nothing else to distract from feeling the strength of the woman’s convictions, she believed her completely. Claire could sense the intensity of her desire, the need to go. Dr. Cans was at the point of desperation and in that despair, had sacrificed a carefully-crafted persona, one that had fooled even Claire.
But why? Why would she drop the act now, and what was the purpose of the act in the first place? Claire swung her feet over the edge of the bed and shoved them into her thin, ugly institutional slippers.
“Trust?” Claire said. “I don’t know if I’m ready to commit to that just yet, but I do believe you.”
“Works for me,” Dr. Cans said. She stood easily from her folded position and glanced quickly at her watch. “We have exactly 12 minutes to get Amy and Miguel and get to the kitchen.”
“I’ll come,” Claire said, “but just one thing first.”
Dr. Cans stopped and looked back, and Claire was certain she saw a barely-repressed eye roll.
“You said Andre was murdered.” Claire had been the first one to find him. She had seen his body. Seen the evidence in his own hand. “But I saw him. I saw…everything.” She couldn’t say the actual words, couldn’t describe the horror at seeing the plastic knife, splintered and colored a deep red, almost black, clutched in his hand as he realized she was there, before closing his eyes for the last time. And she couldn’t describe the pain she saw in his eyes, that she felt pouring from him. Not the relief she was sure he had been hoping for, just pain. Just more of the same.
Hearing the question that Claire couldn’t quite bring herself to voice, the doctor reached for Claire’s hand. Holding it in both of hers, she looked Claire directly in the eyes.
“Andre didn’t kill himself. The thing living in his head did. It’s important that you know that. It wants us - ,” she stopped and shook her head, “It wants you all. It lies and it tempts and it tricks. It caught Andre in a weak moment.” She squeezed Claire’s hand tightly before releasing it. “Make sure it doesn’t catch you, too. Now, come on.”
Claire didn’t have time to ponder the doctor’s words. It was probably better that way, anyway. She had never admitted to anyone the voice she sometimes heard. The one that kept reminding her of how futile her life was. None of them had. But if Andre had heard it too, then maybe it wasn’t his fault. Maybe he didn’t give up. Maybe he just hadn’t been able to say no any longer. Maybe it really was the disease that killed him. Regardless, she had tossed her lot in with this stranger and she would see it through. If there was even the remotest of possibilities that she could get Amy back to her family, she would try.
Dr. Allison Cans, or the woman masquerading as Dr. Allison Cans, stepped quickly to the door, pulled it open a fraction of an inch, and peered out.
“All clear,” she said quietly, pulling the door all the way open for Claire to step through.
“Who first?” Claire asked, whispering.
“Miguel,” the doctor said. “Definitely Miguel.” And then, under her breath so that Claire almost missed it, “I hope he’s been practicing.”
“Why does Miguel get to go first?” Amy asked from behind them.
Claire jumped and Dr. Cans spun, putting herself between Claire and the unexpected voice behind them.
“Amy!” Dr. Cans scolded in a harsh whisper. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Her arms dropped to her hips and she closed her eyes, rolling her head around her neck like she had a headache.
Claire certainly had one. Amy had appeared from out of nowhere and though she’d whispered, her words seemed to echo through the silent halls. Claire peeked out from behind the doctor, a little impressed at her response time. She’d shifted herself between Claire and the possible threat smoothly, crouched, looking ready for a fight. Well, she was good at everything else. Maybe fighting was just one more thing on her list of skills.
Dr. Cans shook her head. “You’re here, you might was well come with us. One less thing to do.”
Dr. Cans turned and continued quietly down the hall. Amy looked at Claire curiously.
“Can you keep a lookout?” Claire asked her.
“Of course,” she said, matter-of-factly. “You know I’ve been practicing. But what are you doing with her?” Amy motioned towards Dr. Cans, slipping further down the hallway. “You don’t actually trust her, do you?”
“She says she’s getting us out of here, and we have nothing left to lose. So yes, I’m going to trust her
.” Claire turned to follow Dr. Cans, who was almost at Miguel’s room.
“She’s getting us out of here?” Amy parroted, her slinking becoming a light sprint. “In that case, I’ll go first.”
Miguel’s door was one hallway over and they reached it quickly, the three women strung out in a line down the hallway. Claire expected Dr. Cans to knock like she’d done at Claire’s door but instead, she motioned Claire forward.
“You’d better do it. He might expect a visit from you, but he could panic if he sees me first.”
It was a fair point, but it gave Claire pause. “You weren’t worried I would panic?” she asked curiously.
Dr. Cans grinned again. It was an odd thing to behold. It was a dazzling smile, full of life. Not at all like the tight, professional, detached smiles Claire was used to getting from her. It changed everything about her.
“Of course not,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re the glue, Claire. You hold people together.”
“Debatable,” Claire grumbled. “What made you so sure I would trust you enough to do something nefarious and slightly criminal with you?”
Dr. Cans kept moving, not sparing a glance back in Claire’s direction. “Because we’ve been building up to this for weeks.”
“I think I would remember an escape plan coming up sometime during our sessions,” Claire shot back.
“Shh,” the doctor scolded. And then, “Obviously I couldn’t just say it. There are cameras and listening devices everywhere.”
“Mr. Anderson?” Claire guessed.
“Nathan Anderson is a pompous waste of a man,” Dr. Cans sneered, distaste obvious in every drawn-out syllable. “He sees everyone as competition to be crushed. He’s so absorbed with gaining and retaining power and control over his surroundings that he’s going to lose it all.”
Burning Bridges (Shattered Highways Book 2) Page 26
