Shadow Tag, Perdition Games

by L E Fraser

  In the parking lot, the boys climbed into the Hummer and rolled the windows down. Ear-piercing heavy metal music blared from the car’s speakers. Virgile’s older brother paused outside the truck, glancing over his shoulder at us. His expression was shamefaced as he mouthed a silent apology.

  The Landrys were one of the wealthiest families in the parish. The elder son was eight years my senior, and I could not recall his name. I’d heard he was a sensitive man who danced on the end of a puppet’s strings, vying for approval from a father who would always find him wanting. Virgile had a darkness in him that Mr. Landry viewed as masculinity, a necessary trait for any son of his. What he did not see was the emptiness in Virgile’s eyes that revealed an appetite for cruelty. People gossiped that he often vented his wrath on his older brother, who refused to fight back.

  I had also heard that Mr. Landry had financially abandoned his ‘effeminate’ elder son, and had forced the sensitive young man to join the military to finish medical school. If he had complied to win his macho father’s approval, his plan failed miserably. The boy had graduated at the top of his class but this had not warmed his father’s black heart.

  The crowd around us thickened, and Pearl tapped her fingers in the air. Her aqua eyes were bloodshot and wide, seeing something visible only to her.

  “W831780,” she yelled and her eyes twitched across the marshmallow clouds inlaid in the periwinkle sky. “W for why, why, why. 831780.”

  The concentration of bodies around us increased. Too many people were touching her—some with concern and others with spite.

  “It’s okay, chère. We’ll go on home now.” I gently took her hand and tugged her toward the parking lot, but she tore her hand from mine and refused to budge.

  “087138 W for why, why, why. 831780.” Her voice rose and her foot stamped out the tempo of her voice. “C, C, C! 831780.”

  People in our immediate vicinity formed a wide circle around us, as if Pearl’s misery was an improv comedy skit. Insensitive onlookers with camcorders eagerly lifted them above the crowd to immortalize Pearl’s suffering. Laughter swirled around us like water striders skittering on the surface of the swamp. Pearl’s bottom lip trembled uncontrollably, and she flicked her arm violently as if afflicted with palsy.

  Anger began to ferment in the pit of my stomach and I shouted at the claustrophobic crowd to move along and leave us in peace. The mob sensed drama, and the cluster of bodies tightened. Molten rage blurred my vision and a microscopic hum filled my head.

  A man in a shabby porkpie hat and stained undershirt exited the tacky tourist booth catty-corner to us. His beady eyes drilled into my father like a pair of smouldering coals.

  “You get on outta here. I don’t need no crazy retard outside my store. Get on, now!” He waved his hand as if he were swatting a mosquito.

  I moved in front of Pearl. “Chère, how many carrots in the garden?”

  “Six rows of sixteen. Ninety-six. Ninety-six carrots.”

  “They want you to come home.”

  “W831780.” Tears streamed down her pale cheeks. “C, C, C. W as in why. 831780. C, C, C.”

  “C…” My sluggish brain synapses fired a vital electronic signal. I turned to my father. “It’s not a letter,” I told him. “She means see. She wants us to see something.”

  “Get the freak outta my door!” the pudgy shopkeeper yelled again. “I got a business to run.” He grabbed my dad’s arm. The sudden movement unbalanced my father and he teetered. His prosthetic gave way. He fell with a grunt.

  I clenched my fists and swung around to face the slob with the roll of flab sagging over his plaid shorts, but my father grabbed my arm in an ironclad grip.

  “Let it be, Blu,” he ordered. “Help me up.” His face was crimson with humiliation, and pain had dilated his eyes to black agates.

  Confusion quashed my anger. I could not understand why my father would remain silent in the face of such disrespect. It was his responsibility to protect his blood, yet he stood passively with downcast eyes, accepting the scorn of an inferior man.

  “It was an accident,” the man said to the crowd, jutting his chin out self-righteously. “Y’all saw.” He looked at me without a hint of regret. “Go on now, get them on outta here.” He turned his broad back and sauntered back into his booth.

  Refusing to meet the eyes of the chortling crowd, I took my sister’s hand. “Please, chère. Let’s go home.”

  Her shoulders sagged and her hand turned limp in mine. The jeers of the apathetic multitude followed us as we limped to the truck. I scanned their faces as we moved through the crowd, but I could not fathom what Pearl had so desperately needed me to see.

  Four months later, I understood.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sam

  SAM HAD HOPED to avoid Ophelia and have security contact Emily directly to escort her to meet Fadiya. No such luck. The gossipy nurse was hovering in the lobby, wearing Mickey Mouse scrubs, better suited to a pediatric unit than a psychiatric facility. Her dark hair was in pigtails, tied with childish pink bobbles. She was chitchatting to an exasperated-looking security guard who kept trying without success to walk away. Relief flooded his face when he spotted Sam. He physically turned Ophelia’s broad shoulders and pointed. The nurse waved and trotted over.

  “Did I miss the email on casual Thursday?” she quipped, and tucked a file she held under her arm so she could straighten one of her pigtails.

  Sam stared at Ophelia’s get-up and wondered when Mickey Mouse and pigtails had morphed into symbols of professionalism. She didn’t feel the need to justify her presentable jeans and blue silk blouse, but she did anyway. “It’s easier to connect with teenagers if you’re not in business attire,” she replied and forced a smile.

  Ophelia wagged her index finger. “Don’t let Dr. Beauregard see you. He insists that we adhere to a strict dress code.” Her condescending smile complemented her chiding tone.

  It was common for nurses to exert power over student doctors, and Sam didn’t blame them. The daily care they provided motivated patients to work toward recovery. But she suspected there was more behind Ophelia’s overbearing personality. An insecure woman probably cowered beneath the bossy exterior. If Sam could find common ground, it would be a step toward developing a positive relationship.

  “How long have you worked here?” she asked.

  “Since before we opened. I worked with all the contractors and decorated.” She paused to call the elevator.

  Sam jumped in before Ophelia nattered in long-winded detail about her décor choices. “How did you hear about the clinic?”

  “Dr. Beauregard recruited me.” She pressed her lips together and didn’t elaborate, which was odd, Sam thought, given her loquacious nature.

  An elevator arrived and Ophelia ignored it. A few people got on and Sam watched, curious over why Ophelia had chosen not to ride it. A second later, the one they stood in front of opened. Ophelia waved Sam in, held her keycard to a pad, and stabbed at the button for the third floor.

  “Had you and Dr. Beauregard worked together before?” Sam prompted.

  “No.” Ophelia quickly changed the subject. “Fadiya’s family is arriving a little later, so you won’t have much time with her today. Speaking of her family, what do you make of that getup Mrs. Basha wears? It’s sickening that Islamic men—”

  Sam interrupted, which she’d already deduced was her only option if she wanted to get a word in edgewise. “It’s a religious option that many Muslim women recognize. They deserve the right to choose,” she said patiently, hoping to end the distasteful conversation, and wishing that the elevator would ascend more quickly. “So, why did Dr. Beauregard recruit you if you hadn’t worked together?”

  “You’d have to ask him.” She handed Sam the folder she held. “Record the time, date, and summary of your visit with Fadiya,” Ophelia said. “I hope you have legible handwriting.”

  Sam groaned inwardly. She’d hoped that
the clinic recorded session notes electronically. She had terrible handwriting and much preferred to be able to edit her thoughts. She opened the folder. The handwriting was exquisite—it almost looked like calligraphy. Sam flipped to the end and saw Ophelia’s signature.

  The elevator opened and an alarm rang, making Sam jump. Hoping it wasn’t warning passengers that the car was about to plummet to the basement, she quickly exited. A nurse hurried out of a patient’s room and peered down the hall at them. The woman waved at Ophelia and disappeared back inside the room. Ah, now it made sense: because the lockdown unit was up here, the alarm was a security measure to alert staff that someone had entered the floor.

  Ophelia turned right and then made a quick left and Sam trailed along behind her. She noted that there were multiple nurses, doctors, orderlies, and cleaning staff in the hallways. There would be less people around at night, but the probability of staff not noticing an intruder on this floor seemed low to Sam. They past a nurses’ station and she spotted a set of glass doors at the end of the hallway. She assumed they opened into the lockdown unit.

  A nurse looked up from the station and greeted Ophelia, who stopped to chat with him. She didn’t bother introducing Sam. Since she hadn’t accepted the internship, Sam supposed she couldn’t blame her. She stood off to the side as they talked and thought about the job offer. One concern was the insufferable Mathias Beauregard. If she learned a bit about his background, maybe his impressive achievements would make up for his unpleasant personality.

  Ophelia joined her again and Sam followed her down the corridor. “Do you know where Dr. Beauregard worked before coming here?” she asked.

  Ophelia stopped abruptly and turned to face Sam. Her expression was hard, and there was a coldness in her mismatched eyes that Sam hadn’t witnessed before.

  “How should I know,” she retorted aggressively, planting her feet apart and thrusting her fists against her waist. “I barely know the man, and I mind my own business, which is an example you should follow. Are you even accepting the clinical practicum?”

  Taken aback, Sam bit her tongue on a sharp response. Maybe jealousy had motivated the woman’s insulting reaction to her innocent question. Ophelia could have a crush on her boss and viewed Sam as a potential rival for his affections. A disgusting thought given the man’s arrogant personality, but unrequited love fit with Sam’s impression that Ophelia struggled with insecurity. A touch of flattery might defuse the negative vibe.

  “If I believe I can help Fadiya, I’d love to join your team.” Sam smiled. “I know I’ll learn a lot from you.”

  Ophelia continued to glare at her, hostility oozing from every pore. Then, abruptly, she turned and continued down the hall, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking as she walked. At the sliding glass doors, Ophelia held a card against a reader. The doors slid open revealing a corridor whose cement walls were painted a shade of seafoam green. Sam glanced up and saw two overhead cameras monitoring the entrance—one on either side of the door—and four in the unit’s corridor that covered the ten patient doors. The CCTV surveillance for the last patient room on the left must have a wide enough arc to cover the fire door that opened into the stairwell.

  If a rapist were sneaking onto the unit, it would be easier to creep up the stairwell than to enter the way they’d just come. It would be tough to exit an elevator with an alarm, trek past a nurses’ station, and make it all the way to the lockdown unit doors unseen. Even if an intruder made it without anyone catching him, he’d have to possess a keycard with security clearance to open the doors to the lockdown unit.

  “Is that stairwell door locked?” Sam asked, pointing.

  “You do understand the meaning of ‘lockdown’ don’t you?” Ophelia drawled sarcastically, as if Sam were the village idiot.

  Gritting her teeth, Sam asked, “Can staff use that exit without the fire alarm going off?”

  “Authorized staff can and we usually do during the day. Otherwise, the elevator alarm would drive the floor nurses nuts. At night, we’re supposed to use the elevator,” she said.

  “Why?” Sam asked.

  “Security protocol because there is less staff on the floor.” She stopped outside a door adjacent to the fire exit. “This is Fadiya’s room.” She held up her access card and shoved the door open.

  Sam put her arm across the doorway, blocking the nurse’s access to the room. “I’d like to speak to her alone.”

  Ophelia frowned. “It’s policy for authorized staff to remain with visitors.”

  “I understand,” Sam said agreeably. “But if I accept the internship, I’ll be alone with Fadiya. Can you call Dr. Armstrong for permission?”

  “I don’t need to call anyone for permission,” Ophelia snapped. “As head nurse, I have the authority to make the judgment call.”

  No matter what Sam said, she ended up offending the hypersensitive woman. It was frustrating and her patience was wearing thin.

  Ophelia glanced at her watch. “Her mother and brother are coming shortly so I’ll allow it.” She stepped aside. “You have ten minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ophelia laid her hand on Sam’s forearm. “I hope you can help Fadiya,” she said. “She needs to go home.” There was a sudden odd intensity in the nurse’s eyes.

  “Why’s that?” Sam asked.

  Just as quickly, a mask of indifference hid the deep compassion Sam was certain she’d seen.

  “No one should live like this.” Ophelia turned her back and strode toward the exit.

  “You are one strange woman,” Sam said to herself and stepped into a pleasant room filled with morning sun.

  A colourful bed quilt matched the pale green bed linens, and a large area carpet in hues of blue, green, and yellow softened the institutional setting. In the corner of the space, there was a private bathroom with a shower. The only indications that the room was in a psychiatric facility were the decorative bars on the large window and the absence of anything a patient could use to self-harm.

  Even though daylight flooded the room, the overhead lights and table lamps were on, which didn’t surprise Sam. At Bueton, Mussani had forbid members from extinguishing lights. The punishment for disobedience was swift and merciless. People had adjusted to sleeping in bright illumination or suffered sleep deprivation. The latter had been Mussani’s preference. Exhaustion had been a tool in his indoctrination arsenal.

  Fadiya sat in a teal armchair, gazing out the window at a pretty courtyard below. “The dahlias and hydrangeas are in bloom,” she said without turning from the window. “We grow them at home and the sisters sell them at our store in Uthisca.”

  “Did you make the soy candles they sold?” Sam asked.

  Fadiya turned with a startled expression. “I thought you were Emily,” she said.

  “I’m Sam. May I sit?” She gestured to the matching armchair on the other side of a white acrylic table, the legs of which were screwed into the floor to prevent a patient from moving it.

  Fadiya nodded, warily watching Sam. The teenager had huge eyes the colour of milk chocolate. Highly arched eyebrows accentuated the innocence in her face. She wore her long dark hair parted in the middle, which highlighted her symmetrical facial features. Her complexion was flawless and her skin was the shade of warm caramel.

  Fadiya studied her intensely. A smile gradually formed on her full lips.

  “I know you,” she exclaimed. “You were at Bueton.”

  As a clinician, Sam needed to establish a trusting and supportive relationship. As an investigator, she needed Fadiya to talk about her ‘affair’ with Mussani. Bueton was the perfect segue to achieve both goals.

  “I was at the sanctuary for a short time,” Sam said.

  Fadiya reached across the table and clasped Sam’s hand. “I am so pleased to see you. Has Mussani sent you?” She glanced around, as if expecting the deceased cult leader to pop out of the bathroom. “Can I go home to Bueton now?”

  Sam
squeezed Fadiya’s hand. “Not today.”

  Confusion shadowed the girl’s eyes. “Mussani said if I satisfied him he’d take me home.” She bowed her head. “Did I displease him?”

  Sam sidestepped the question by asking, “Does Mussani wear his ceremonial robe when he visits?”

  “He wears the coarse shrouds that the brothers wear. I can feel it.” Tears pooled in Fadiya’s eyes. “The maroon velvet robe with the braided gold edging is only for the worthy.”

  If the visits were an erotomanic delusion, Fadiya should describe Mussani in his ceremonial robe. That cloak had spiritual importance to cult members. It represented their Messiah’s love and devotion. Alternatively, Fadiya’s mind could have substituted her rapist for her Messiah as a defence mechanism to deal with the trauma. If so, perhaps her subconscious had protected the sanctity of the consecrated robe. Sam supposed that made clinical sense. What didn’t was why Fadiya hadn’t described Mussani in jeans and a crisp white shirt, which is what he wore outside the ceremonies and sexual rituals. Sam found it difficult to believe that a cult member would ever envision her Messiah in lowly hemp. Only Mussani’s minions had dressed in hemp, which was a key symbol of their obedience.

  She thought about it. The public believed everyone at the cult had worn the robes in the photographs the media had published. It made sense that an impostor would mimic what he knew from the newspapers, oblivious to the significance of his mistake.

  It wasn’t ironclad evidence that her hunch was right and a rapist was impersonating the cult leader, but it was a good start.

  “Tell me about Mussani,” she said conversationally. “Do you find his looks have changed from the days we lived at Bueton?”

  “I don’t see Father,” Fadiya replied sadly. “A brother blindfolds me before he enters the room.” She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “The brother turns out the lights.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Is that why Father is displeased? Does he think I shut off the lights?”