by L E Fraser
Sam ignored the insult, using the question to segue to one of her own. “Did Dr. Armstrong ask you to stay with Fadiya overnight?”
“Why?”
“Aazar was looking for you two nights ago and you weren’t in Fadiya’s room,” Sam said, sipping her coffee. “I wondered if the plan had changed.”
“Maybe I was in the washroom. Am I allowed to go pee?” she asked caustically.
Sam sighed inwardly and held her tongue. Ophelia’s sarcastic responses and recalcitrant attitude made it difficult to socialize with her and near impossible to carry on a professional conversation. This wasn’t the first time Sam had witnessed the nurse’s toxic personality, but she suddenly had the sense that Ophelia was doing it on purpose now to drive her away.
“Aazar waited nearly an hour. You never showed up,” Sam said.
“At a little past midnight, I received a call to help in the withdrawal unit. He should have paged me.” She frowned. “I hope he wasn’t complaining. I’ve got enough to worry about right now.”
It couldn’t be a coincidence that someone had called Ophelia away while men entered Fadiya’s room.
“Who called you?” she asked.
Ophelia pulled down her sunglasses, scrutinizing Sam over the tops of the wire frames. “Security, I think, or maybe it was Doug Sullivan, the other practicum student.” She thought in silence for a few seconds. “It could have been Dr. Beauregard. I don’t remember. Why?”
“What was the problem?” Sam persisted.
“Bethany was having issues. Earlier, there had been an incident in the lobby when they brought Fadiya back from her hospital procedure,” Ophelia said.
She must be referring to the incident Aazar had told them about. Sam was curious if Ophelia had any more information. “What happened?” she asked.
Ophelia shrugged. “I wasn’t there. When I arrived for my shift, Doug told me Bethany attacked Fadiya for no reason. He wanted her kept under sedation and transferred to lockdown.”
“Is she up there now?” Sam asked.
Ophelia laughed. “He doesn’t have the authority to make that decision. Besides, security had a different take on what happened. Bethany was just talking to Fadiya.” She blew her breath out in a sigh. “I don’t know why Doug made such a big deal out of it.”
“So Bethany was the reason you weren’t in Fadiya’s room last night?” Sam asked.
Ophelia removed her sunglasses and peered intensely at Sam with her mismatched eyes. “What was Aazar doing here in the middle of the night?”
“Fadiya told him what happened,” Sam said quickly. “He wanted to discuss it but you hadn’t started your shift. He came back to find you.”
Ophelia studied her with a worried expression. “I didn’t abandon my post,” she insisted. “Is that what Aazar’s alleging?”
“Did Dr. Beauregard call you downstairs?” Sam asked.
“I told you, I don’t recall if it was him,” Ophelia said impatiently. “It could just as easily have been his know-it-all student.”
“If Doug was with Bethany, why did he need you?” Sam asked.
Ophelia scowled and replaced her sunglasses, shoving them up the bridge of her nose. “They had to call him too, I think. Lord Doug showed up about forty-minutes later.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I had just managed to settle Bethany when he strutted in and set her off again.”
Since Ophelia couldn’t remember who had asked her to go downstairs, continuing to question her was pointless.
“I hope Bethany is okay,” Sam said sincerely, remembering her awful encounter with the unstable girl.
Ophelia gathered her garbage from the table. “I don’t know. I worry about the night terrors and the significance of the wild animal she sees.”
“When I talked to her after the staff meeting, she told me about a fox in the withdrawal unit at night,” Sam said.
Ophelia stood and picked up her dishes. “I remember. That was the morning after someone had given her drugs.”
“Could her night terrors be manifesting into psychotic depression?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know,” Ophelia admitted. “Her symptoms are consistent with the residual effects of long-term Special K abuse, so I hope that’s the problem.”
“Special K?”
“Ketamine,” Ophelia replied. “It’s a dissociative anesthetic similar to PCP. The street name is Special K.”
Bethany hadn’t told Fadiya not to take candy from the wolf. She’d told her not to take cereal from the fox. Bethany knew who was giving Fadiya the ketamine. The same person had given it to her when her friend had disappeared from the withdrawal unit.
Sam stood and gathered her things. “I need to speak with her.”
“You have to get Doug’s permission,” Ophelia said.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” She walked into the cafeteria and put her dirty dishes in a plastic bin on a dish trolley.
Sam followed and took her arm to get her attention. “Ophelia, I think Bethany knows why the girls have been disappearing from the withdrawal unit.”
Ophelia tucked her sunglasses into her oversized brown bag. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s possible her friend didn’t leave by choice,” Sam said.
“Serena left on her own accord. Addicts make bad decisions all the time. It’s sad, but it’s life.” Ophelia wended her way through the labyrinth of tables and chairs, heading for the cafeteria exit that led into the hospital.
Sam followed on her heels. “Bethany told me that a fox gave her Special K that she didn’t want.”
Ophelia abruptly turned to stare at her.
Before Sam could tell her what she knew, a security guard rushed over. “Ophelia, you’re needed at the ambulance bay. They just brought in a patient on an involuntary hold. Dr. Beauregard wants you to handle intake while he talks with the sister.”
She blew her breath out again in another exaggerated sigh. “My shift doesn’t start for half an hour. Find someone else.”
“Doc said it has to be you. Looks like it could be a VIP,” the guard said. “Some rich game designer.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Ophelia asked irritably.
“Asperger’s,” the guard said. “His sister says he’s a danger to himself and others.”
Ophelia put her hands on her hip. “Asperger’s is on the autism spectrum. It’s not a mental health condition.” Her eyes narrowed and there was edginess in the aggressive way she stood.
The guard held up his hand to stop her from speaking. “Look, I don’t know anything about it. The ambulance just brought him in, and Dr. Beauregard wants you downstairs now.”
“I’ll go,” Sam offered.
“No, I’ll take care of it.” Ophelia smoothed the pink fabric of her smock across her thighs. “Someone needs to give his sister a reality check.” She pushed by the guard and strode toward the ambulance bay.
Sam followed, feeling uneasy about the rage in Ophelia’s eyes. They reached the ambulance bay doors, where Eli was slouched in a wheelchair with Danny standing stiffly beside it. A leather duffel bag sat on Eli’s lap. Sam had his phone—complete with an indoor positioning app Danny had written—and a cloned all-access keycard Aazar had given them. She’d drop both off after Ophelia processed Eli and he was alone in his room.
“She gave her brother six milligrams of Ativan prior to calling us,” the paramedic said, and lifted his eyebrow, in either disapproval or skepticism.
Ophelia knelt and studied Eli’s face. “This man does not appear sedated. With that much Ativan on board, he should be asleep.”
“He has a high tolerance,” Danny said.
Ophelia turned to her, a flash of anger in her eyes. “Can you explain why you’re admitting a man with Asperger’s to a psychiatric facility? And why does he have a high tolerance for a sedative that should only be given on an intermittent basis?”
Dan
ny matched Ophelia’s hard stare. “I discussed all this with Dr. Beauregard prior to calling the ambulance.” She looked over Ophelia’s shoulder. “Here he is now.”
“Danny, I’m so sorry we have to meet under these trying circumstances,” Dr. Beauregard gushed. “Our head nurse will get Eli settled, while you and I chat in my office and discuss next steps.” He reached out to shake Danny’s hand.”
Danny frowned and looked at his hand for a second before reluctantly offering her own. “Eli doesn’t handle other people well and needs his own room. Spare no expense.”
“Of course. Just as we discussed over the phone.” The doctor turned to Ophelia. “Take Eli up to 317.”
“You’re putting him in the lockdown unit?” she asked incredulously. “Don’t be ridiculous. He has Asperger’s.”
“Take him up to 317,” he repeated firmly, and brushed by her. With mawkish deference, he escorted Danny through the ambulance bay doors and ushered her to the elevators.
Dr. Beauregard’s obsequious behaviour was exactly what Sam had hoped for, and she released a breath of relief. During Danny’s initial contact, she’d emphasized how wealthy her brother was, completing her web of seduction by sharing the address of their multimillion-dollar Harbourfront penthouse. Predictably, the man now kowtowed to Danny in the same way he did with the wealthy Basha family.
The paramedics closed the ambulance doors and climbed back into their vehicle, leaving Eli seated beside Ophelia and Sam in his wheelchair. Ophelia stared after the departing ambulance, her rage almost a palpable entity.
Sam regarded her cautiously. Ophelia’s anger was unwarranted and Sam was hesitant to leave Eli alone with her. The plan they’d made two nights ago had been for Danny to pretend she’d sedated her brother prior to bringing him to Serenity Clinic, thus preventing anyone at the hospital from administering additional drugs. Ophelia was already suspicious and Sam wasn’t certain Eli could keep up the charade. More worrisome, however, was the abrupt shift in Ophelia’s expression and her stance. She struck Sam as unstable and she felt wary of the woman.
“I’d like to watch the intake process,” Sam told her. “Good learning experience.”
Ophelia grasped the wheelchair handles and rolled Eli through the doors and into the hospital. She continued to ignore Sam as they waited for an elevator. The doors opened and Ophelia turned and backed the chair into it, smoothly blocking Sam’s access. She laid her hand possessively on Eli’s shoulder and stared at Sam with her mismatched eyes.
“I’m the only one who can help him now,” she said.
The doors slid shut.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Eli
THE NURSE ROLLED the wheelchair out of the elevator and Eli jumped when an alarm rang. A radio played softly from somewhere on the floor, and Eli heard anguished sobs from behind one of the closed doors that lined the wide corridor. Along with the muffled cries of misery, the harsh odour of disinfectant was freaking him out. A shiver of dread scampered up Eli’s spine. The awful certainty that he’d made a dire mistake engulfed him. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. Being a valuable member of the investigative team required moving out of his comfort zone, he reminded himself. Sam and Reece never complained about his eccentricities and social ineptitude, but Eli desperately wanted to prove that he had what it took to be a kick-ass detective. So, here he was pretending to be mentally ill and already feeling trepidation over his reckless decision.
His escort spoke to a grouchy-looking nurse who had come out of a room. “This is Eli Watson. He’ll be in room 317. Check on Diana, please. Dr. Armstrong changed the dose on her quetiapine.”
She wheeled Eli down the corridor, turned right, and then left. She nodded to another nurse behind a reception desk. Once they were about a metre from the nurses’ station, she stopped and applied the wheelchair brakes again.
“My name is Ophelia,” she said. “You can walk from here.”
He was supposed to be doped up on sedatives. Eli had never taken tranquilizers, but he assumed he wouldn’t be able to walk. He sat motionless—his nerves strung as tight as piano strings—and tried to figure out what to do.
Ophelia smiled. “You can cut the act, Eli. I know you aren’t on Ativan. Up you get.”
His stomach gurgled as panic swelled in his chest. If he confessed he hadn’t taken the tranquilizers, she might give him drugs. If she gave him an injection, he wouldn’t be able to vomit it out of his system. He’d be helpless and imprisoned in a psychiatric lockdown unit. Eli snapped the elastic around his wrist, hoping the sharp sting would redirect his brain activity and stabilize his rapidly growing anxiety. Reece was right. He couldn’t do this. It was idiotic to believe he had sufficient acting skill to accomplish such a risky venture.
As if she had telepathy, Ophelia said, “Eli, I’m not going to drug you. Did you spit out the pills your sister gave you?”
Unable to trust what would come out of his mouth, he merely nodded.
“Come on, let’s go.” She left him in the wheelchair and strolled to a set of heavy glass doors.
Seeing no option, Eli stood and clutched his duffel bag with a shaking hand. He followed her, his heart careering in his chest, and wondered what had possessed him to volunteer to do this. Danny should have been the one they sent inside the facility. She would rock a task like this. Instead, he was already crippled by anxiety, which aggravated his physical tics. His free hand twitched and jerked beside his thigh as he strode robotically through the heavy glass doors. They slid closed behind him with a petrifying clunk.
They walked the length of the corridor. Perspiration pooled under Eli’s arms, gluing the fabric of his long-sleeved T-shirt to his armpits. Ophelia stopped in front of a door. The original blueprint of the old building and the hospital’s renovation blueprint that Danny had found flashed in front of Eli’s eyes. He discarded the image of the original and focused on the renovation blueprint. It rotated in his mind until it took on a 3D shape, the lines a shimmering blue, as if displayed on a transparent OLED screen. Knowing exactly where he was in the hospital—and how to escape, should it come to that—reduced a bit of his panic. He was about two metres from Fadiya’s room on the opposite side of the hallway. Adjacent to her door was the stairwell that descended to a street exit. Once Sam dropped off his phone and a security card, he could nudge open his door and have a decent view of Fadiya’s room. If he full out freaked, he could escape down the stairwell. Eli blinked and the rotating blueprint dispersed like dust motes until the specks evaporated from his inner eye.
Ophelia held open the door to his room and Eli marched in with his arms pasted to his side and his leather bag thumping against his shin. He dropped the duffel bag on the bed and reluctantly turned toward her. His eyes darted around the ceiling. Keeping secrets was tough for him, which Reece had pointed out multiple times in an attempt to persuade him to abandon the plan. Rather than taking the criticism personally and arguing, Eli wished he’d listened to his boss’s sensible concerns. Now he was here, he felt frightened and overwhelmed. The idea of being alone in the cramped room was terrifying.
Ophelia sat down in one of two armchairs by a window that overlooked a busy street. The window had bars. Shuddering, Eli took the chair on the opposite side of a circular table, noting that thick screws bolted the table to the floor.
“What’s the best part of Asperger’s?” she asked.
The question baffled him. No one had ever suggested there was anything remotely positive about his condition.
“The best part?” he echoed stupidly, his voice cracking like an adolescent boy’s.
She nodded.
He considered her question. “I have an eidetic memory,” he said. “But only for things that interest me. That is usually facts and data. I do not know if it is because of Asperger’s, but it can be very useful.” He cleared his throat and snapped the elastic against his skin to prevent his sudden urge to ramble about his photographic memory.
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“I’ve read about declarative memory being associated with high-functioning autism,” Ophelia said. “Do you find it useful for memorizing guided conversation to help you navigate social situations?”
Eli wished he had his phone. He felt naked without a device, exposed even. That rectangular screen was his comforting baby blanket. Without his phone to fiddle with, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He shoved his long-sleeves up his forearms.
“I have never used it for that.” Against his will, his arm lifted and his fingers tapped the air as he spoke. “The eidetic memory enables me to repeat a conversation verbatim. Danny, my sister, translates subtext and innuendoes for me.” He tried folding his hands on the table. “She is very good at reading people. She points out what I missed during the original conversation. I guess that is useful.” Danny’s insights into all the subtleties he missed usually made him aware that he had been a victim of ridicule. He decided to keep that to himself.
“What was your favourite subject in school?” Ophelia asked, staring at his naked forearm.
“Math.” He tugged down his sleeve to cover the cigarette burns his biological father had seared into his flesh when he was four. “You have an accent.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You can hear it?”
“A little, on certain words,” Curious, he asked, “Why do you try to hide it?”
“I worked hard to overcome it,” she said. “What was your least favourite subject in school?”
“English,” he answered, wondering why she was so interested in his academic background. These questions weren’t anything like the intake process Sam had rehearsed with him. “I do not understand symbolism and metaphors.”
“Literature is very subjective,” Ophelia said. “Nonliteral language is difficult for anyone on the spectrum.”