Touch of Madness

by C. T. Adams

  “Good morning, Ms. Reilly. I’m Dr. Watkins. I’m a neurologist. I was called in after the … incident yesterday afternoon.”

  I opened my eyes to see that he had used the dimmer switch to up the light so that he could see more clearly, but had kept it dim enough that it wouldn’t be painful to my hypersensitive vision. There was a button on the side of the bed to change positions. He held it down until I was propped in a sitting position.

  Dr. Watkins was a tall, gangly man with crisply cut graying hair and a hang-dog face. His eyes held a keen intelligence and more than a hint of kindness. I would’ve guessed his age in the fifty to sixty range, but it was hard to tell. Other than the gray, he’d probably looked exactly the way he had now for the past twenty years, and would for another twenty should he live that long. He held out his hand and I shook it. He had a good, firm handshake. The skin of his hand was rough, and I wondered briefly what hobbies he had that would give him calluses. Not that it mattered, but I was curious.

  Without my really willing it, my mind slid into to his. Gardening: he was an avid gardener. Digging in the earth relaxed him, helped him get rid of the inevitable stress of dealing with patients who were generally frightened and in pain.

  With a blink, I was back in my own head. He was talking, but I’d only missed a word or two.

  “ … I want to congratulate you. We’re going to do extensive testing, but at first glance both your brother and Melinda Simms appear to be back to normal. A truly miraculous feat.”

  His expression held equal parts awe and astonishment. “I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve been working with Eden zombies for most of my career. It’s absolutely amazing.” He turned to look at the printouts spewing from the nearest machine. “But my concern now is for you. Whatever you did appears to have caused you some slight brain trauma and swelling. It triggered the onset of a major migraine headache with light and aural sensitivity and nausea.”

  I nodded and immediately regretted it. He noticed it, and a small frown crossed his face.

  “Have you had migraines prior to this?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “When was the last one?”

  “Last week. It was right after I used my psychic gifts to heal someone for the first time.”

  He took a pen from his pocket and folded open the file. His hand sped across the page with a soft scratching sound as he took notes. His large hands shouldn’t have been able to move with such delicate finesse.

  “And after that healing, did you collapse?”

  “No, but I was working with … someone else that time.”

  He made a little harrumphing noise and scribbled some more. “When was your last migraine prior to the one last week?” His gray eyes locked with mine over the folder.

  “Not for years.”

  “Approximately how many years?”

  I thought about it and couldn’t remember for sure. It had been when I was in high school. “Probably a decade anyway.”

  “Two incidents isn’t exactly conclusive, but it’s probable that the use of the psychic talent is triggering the migraines.”

  I gave a minuscule nod. The less I moved, the less it hurt.

  The doctor sighed. He looked from me to Tom, and back. “All right. We’ll need to do more tests to determine if there’s any permanent damage. But until we know more about what’s going on … no more healings. And you need to rest for the next couple days. I’m going to schedule an MRI for you for early next week and compare it to the one we took yesterday after your collapse. I’ll check to see if there are any from when you had the concussion a few years ago. Your brother mentioned you’d had X-rays, but couldn’t remember if they’d done an MRI. I’ll let you check out of the hospital tomorrow if the migraine is under control, but I want you to take it easy.”

  He took a deep breath and I could tell he was annoyed. He lowered his voice until it was actually at a really comfortable level for my hypersensitive ears. “The media are going to want interviews. So far, the hospital management is allowing me to call the shots because of your condition. But if possible, you need to avoid them even after they overrule me. I never said that, though. Is your phone number unlisted?”

  I managed to stop myself from shaking my head. “No. I run my own business out of the house.”

  His face took on a sour look, as though he’d bit into something bitter. “You’ll need to unplug the phone or change the number. Distraught families are going to want you to heal their sons and daughters. I heard on the news that a prince from the Middle East announced an offer of ten million dollars to heal his son.”

  At that, my jaw dropped and it caused a brief spasm in my temple. “You’re kidding me!”

  Tom shook his head no. Apparently he’d heard about it, too. Wow. That was a lot of money. Not worth dying over, of course—but … damn.

  “Katie—” Tom’s voice held a warning. Apparently I’d looked interested. I wasn’t … much. But damn! Ten million dollars. “Don’t even think about it!”

  “I’m with your fiancé on this one.” The doctor said. “No more healings for now. Agreed?”

  I tried to hide my shock at his use of the word fiancé, but my voice was a little higher and breathier than normal when I replied. “Agreed.”

  Dr. Watkins slid his pen back into the pocket of his lab coat. He closed the folder and tucked it under his arm. “I need to go talk to your brothers. They’ve been pestering the hell out of me, but I’ve insisted on only one visitor at a time.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Tom and I said it in unison. It made me smile—for a brief second before the pain spiked behind my eye again.

  “You’re welcome.” He smiled at the two of us. “The nurse will be by in a few minutes with the medicine for your headache. I’ll check back to see how you’re doing in a couple of hours.” He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  “Fiancé?” The lilt in my voice made it a question.

  The light was dim, but I saw a flush rise to Tom’s cheeks. “Joe and I got into it in the hallway. He was going to have them throw me out after they rushed you to the ER. I told him they couldn’t throw me out, because I was your fiancé and had more right to stay than he did.” He hung his head but thrust out his jaw. “I’m sorry, Kate, but I couldn’t stand to let them send me away. I had to be here. I had to.”

  “I don’t mind.” I took his hand in mine and squeezed it until he would meet my eyes. “What was the fight about?”

  Tom shook his head no, letting me know he wouldn’t tell me. “It doesn’t matter. He was scared. He was frightened and lashed out. I was just the closest target.”

  “Asshole.”

  Tom squeezed my hand, hard. “Don’t,” he admonished me. “I don’t blame him, and neither should you. Loving you is just terrifying. Because it’s always something.”

  “I don’t do it deliberately.”

  “I know.” He gave me a tired echo of his usual smile. “But that doesn’t make it any easier on the rest of us. I swear, I’ve considered taking you up to a cabin in the middle of the wilderness, but I’m pretty sure you’d somehow manage to piss off the local bears.”

  I was spared coming up with an appropriate answer to that by the arrival of the nurse with my medicine.

  I met with Bryan for the first time post-healing after they’d taken away my lunch tray. My headache was finally gone.

  Whatever it was that Dr. Watkins had prescribed, along with a stomach full of amazingly exceptional hospital food, had done the trick nicely. I had a whole new appreciation for the absence of pain. Tom was more than willing to relinquish his place at my bedside once he knew for sure I was going to be okay.

  Meeting with my baby brother was amazing. More than amazing. Bryan was just back. It showed in every move he made, in every word out of his mouth. And boy was he being mouthy.

  “What in the hell did you think you were doing? Are you insane?”

  I shrugged and looked him square in h
is handsome, animated face. “I wanted you back.”

  “You idiot! I would never risk you for me. Never.” He was stalking back and forth across the hospital room, his face flushed. Even his hand gestures were exaggerated. It was exactly the way he’d acted when we’d argued as teenagers. It made me grin in delirious joy.

  “It was worth it.”

  “Worth it—” He stopped at the end of my bed to glare at me. “Damn it, Katie, it’s not like I’m not grateful, but you have to stop risking yourself. Yeah, you’re tough. But one of these days you’re gonna go too far—” He stopped talking in mid-sentence and glared at me through lowered lids. “You’re smiling again.”

  “I’m sorry, Bryan. Really I am. It’s not that I’m not taking you seriously. But … it’s you. It’s really, really you. You’re yelling at me and I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.” I could barely get the last sentence out, my throat had tightened so much. God I’d missed him. I looked up and said a silent prayer of thanks as I held open my arms for him.

  Bryan stepped forward into the hug, carefully avoiding the various tubes still sticking out of my arms. He gave me a tight squeeze and said. “You realize you’re making it really hard for me to be pissed at you right now.”

  “Good. I don’t want you to be.”

  He touched my arm while still warm against my chest. The scars were still an angry crinkled pink against my pale, pale skin. He traced the knife wound Brooks had made, nearly the full length of my forearm, to remove the Thrall eggs as though I’d break. “I can’t even imagine the things you’ve been through since I’ve been out of it, Katie. No wonder Joe is such a basket case.” He let go of the hug and took a small step back. I shifted my legs to give him room to sit on the edge of the bed. “You know he’s out there, driving the doctors crazy, wearing out the floor tiles in the hall.”

  He rose up to get a better look at me, and the mattress shifted slightly under his weight.

  “But he won’t come and talk to me.”

  “No.” Bryan’s face fell. “He won’t. He’s just unbelievably angry with you. Keeps saying that if you insist on getting yourself killed, he can’t stop you, but he doesn’t have to watch. Katie, what the hell has happened between the two of you? I don’t get it. I mean, you’ve always fought, but this … this is different.”

  The hurt in Bryan’s eyes was hard to bear. I wanted to explain it away, but I wasn’t sure I could. Bryan had turned into a zombie before I got engaged to Dylan. He’d missed so damned much history between Joe and me.

  “You know I’m Not Prey, right?”

  “Yeah, I heard. What’s up with that?”

  “Make yourself comfy, bro. This is going to be a long story.”

  I tried to give him the Reader’s Digest Condensed version of my life while he was out. Even that took time. He tried not to interrupt too much, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself. By the time we’d finished, my throat was parched and it was nearly time for dinner.

  “My God, Katie, no wonder Joe’s half-crazy. What the fuck.”

  “Yeah, but what was I supposed to do? Can you tell me one thing I could’ve done differently?”

  “You could’ve left Dylan to the Thrall. If you’d done that one thing, let him live with the consequences of his own stupid choices, none of the rest of it would’ve happened.”

  I shook my head no, but took his hand. “I couldn’t do that. I loved him. I couldn’t just leave him to die or be infested, any more than I could leave you to your own private hell—despite the fact that taking Eden had been your choice. Besides, once Larry knew I had psychic talent he’d decided he wanted me as a possible queen. If I hadn’t gone in, he’d have just come after me.” Larry had been Monica’s predecessor. He’d wanted me and Monica to duke it out to become queen. I still remembered the burning excitement in his eyes as he’d tried to bite me.

  Bryan couldn’t meet my eyes. “You don’t know that’s true.”

  “Actually I do. Larry as much as said so before I fought him.”

  Bryan sat quietly for a moment, mulling that over. “But you still won’t leave things well enough alone. Not if there’s any chance.” He patted my leg with one hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful as hell to be back but I can see why Joe can’t handle it.”

  “Do you see any solution? I mean, I am what I am.”

  “Yeah, and he is what he is,” Brian grumbled. “I’ll work on it.” He rose from the bed and started for the door. He turned to look at me with his hand on the doorknob, his expression grave. “Because I’m telling you now—I will have my family back.” His expression softened. “But right now I need to get out of here. I’ve technically been released from the hospital. Joe and Mike are making all the arrangements to sneak me out without the press seeing me. The other girl and her folks did a press conference, but I so don’t want to go there.”

  “Where are you going to stay?”

  “I’ve got some options. Joe offered to let me move in with him, but he’s living with Mary, I’d just be in the way. Mike said I could come back there, but I don’t really want to.”

  “So—” My tone made it a question.

  “Tom suggested that I take his place. If that’s okay with you?”

  I smiled. “It’s fine. It’s great.”

  “I love you, Katie. And I’m sorry … for everything.” A shadow passed through his eyes. I knew what caused it. It was the guilt for having done the drugs in the first place, for needing to be rescued.

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  He crossed the room, giving me a quick impulsive hug, then left. The room seemed awfully empty without him.

  A tray was wheeled in for my dinner shortly after he left. None of it was particularly appetizing this time, from the thin tomato soup to the hamburger that bore more resemblance to shoe leather than actual meat. There must be a different cook on the dinner shift. I’d honestly never had trouble chewing green beans before in my life. Still, it was food. Not particularly good food, but it was healthy, good for me, and I was hungry enough that I was willing to eat pretty much anything.

  I tried to kill time watching television, but couldn’t find anything I wanted to see. I kept channel surfing, hoping there would be something I could enjoy. It reminded me of the Springsteen song, you know the one, “57 Channels (and Nothin’ On).” If I had a gun I might’ve even followed his example. Fortunately, I didn’t. And before too long Mike came in with the plan for how to get me out of there.

  The dial on my watch read 10:15 P.M. Moonlight reflected off of the snow piled outside the windowsill. Distant stars sparkled, barely visible because of the orange glow of the street lamps outside. The lights in the room were turned off, as though the occupant were sleeping. The bed, however, was freshly made, the room completely clean except for the flowers. Those had been promised to the nurses as a gift for all the bother they’d been through.

  I felt like I was in the middle of a prison break. Representatives of the local, national, even international news agencies had surrounded the hospital, and every one of them was trying to find a way to get the interview. They had been driving hospital security absolutely nuts and had camped out on the lawns near the main entrances and exits of the hospital.

  I checked my reflection in the mirror one last time. There wasn’t much light in the room, but there was more than enough for me to see by, Dr. Watkins had thought the light sensitivity was part of the migraine. But the headache was long gone, my EEGs were normal, and still bright light was intensely painful for me. I shook my head, making the black nylon wig I wore over my hair sway. I looked utterly ridiculous, like Sydney Bristow, superspy—on a particularly bad hair day. Still, passing for an employee was my best chance of getting out of the room and off the floor unnoticed.

  I patted the pocket of the pants. The small plastic identification badge belonging to Miles MarDougal was still in the pocket. He’d given it to me, along with the pass code for the door to the research wing of the hospital. If a
nyone ever found out, he’d be in deep trouble; could even lose his job. But I wasn’t telling and he sure as hell wasn’t, so we should be safe.

  I checked my watch again. Time to go. I grabbed the lightweight black tote that held my personal items, took a deep breath, and stepped through the door and into the hall.

  Squinting against the bright fluorescent lights, I turned left and took a couple steps down the hallway toward the elevators, but came to a skidding stop at the sound of voices arguing at the nurse’s station.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We understand Kate Reilly has a room on this floor.”

  I recognized that voice. It was the reporter for Channel 4 News. I’d first run into her at the Shamrock Motel when Monica showed up. She’d seen me before; knew what I looked like. Up close, my disguise wasn’t going to fool her for a minute. Shit!

  “There is no patient by that name on this floor. Ms. Reilly checked out earlier this evening.” The nurse was curt, but it wasn’t enough to discourage the reporter.

  “What are you doing? I’m calling security!” I heard the sound of hurrying feet, and the nurse’s voice on the telephone calling for assistance.

  There was no time to run, so I did the only thing that I could think of. I ducked into the nearest room and hid behind the door.

  I heard footsteps right outside the door of the room where I was hiding. Someone opened the door across the hall. I heard them step inside, then call out to the people waiting in the hall. “She’s not here. Are you sure you’ve got the right room number?” A male voice asked.

  The female reporter’s heels clicked angrily against the floor tiles. “Damn it!” she swore. “Look at the cards on the flowers. It was her room all right, but she’s gone now.”

  I heard the man swear softly under his breath. “We may as well go. Security is on their way. I don’t know how she managed to get out of the hospital without being spotted, but apparently she did.”

  “Maybe she switched rooms,” the woman suggested.

  “Well, we don’t have time to check.”