by Jason Parent
Sam’s anger lessened as she collapsed into a seat, thinking how sad and lonely it must have been to be inside a place like Brentworth—visitor-less, friendless, hopeless. Frank sat two chairs away from her and kept his mouth shut, apparently content to let her run her investigation. So long as it furthers his.
They passed the time in silence, except for the tick tick tick of a plastic clock on the wall. Finally, when Sam had had just about all she could take of waiting, a buzz sounded. The door to the inner sanctum opened, and an elegant brunette wearing a white lab coat with the confidence of a lioness prowled through the doorway as if on the hunt. She was beautiful in a statuesque sort of way—hard, cold, and chiseled with seemingly perfect symmetry. Just over six feet tall in a modest heel, she wore a loose-fitting gray tunic under her coat that failed to hide her muscular frame. With every movement, the fabric of her shirt and slacks clung to her thick biceps and developed thighs as if they were spandex. The doctor clearly adhered to a strict diet and cardio and weight training regimen that put Sam to shame. She couldn’t deny the twinge of jealousy in her gut between the fluttering butterflies.
Frank bit off a hangnail, stood, then put his hands on his hips. He appeared ready to discuss business, neither attracted nor intimidated.
The doctor extended her hand. “Hello, detectives. My name is Mira Horvat, staff psychiatrist. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
While the doctor’s English was clear, it came with a slight accent that Sam couldn’t quite place. The word “visit” almost sounded as if it had begun with a W. Perhaps it was Ukrainian or Croatian, but Sam wasn’t up enough on her Eastern European dialects to know. Still, it gave Dr. Horvat a greater air of mystery to add to her beauty, and the sharpness in her eyes suggested a great mind behind them.
“Dr. Horvat.” Sam shook the doctor’s hand. “I’m Detective Samantha Reilly, and this is—” She paused but only for a split second. “—my partner, Detective Fred Spinner.”
Frank smiled and shook Dr. Horvat’s hand without missing a beat. “Nice to meet you, Doctor.”
Dr. Horvat knitted her brow. “I understand you have a consent form for Harlan Bowes’s medical records. May I see it? And may I also ask why you wish to see his records?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor, but we can’t disclose details of an ongoing investigation.” Sam handed over the document, confident it would produce what she needed. The signature was legit, and everything about the document was one hundred percent genuine. So, as Dr. Horvat took her time reading each line, Sam swallowed her impatience as best she could. The longer the doctor took with it, the more Sam thought she was about to hit a roadblock.
“Hmmm...” The doctor turned the paper over, though nothing was written on the back.
“Is there a problem, Doctor?”
Dr. Horvat smiled softly, her proud lioness features shifting to innocent doe as if by the flip of a switch. “I’m sorry, Detectives, but I’m afraid I cannot provide you those records based on this. You’ll need a subpoena and a court order to enforce it.”
Sam’s jaw dropped. “I don’t understand. Bowes has every right to his medical records and to grant that right to anyone he wants. Surely you’re well aware of that.”
The doctor’s placating smile didn’t waver. “Normally, I’d agree with you, Detective. But I saw Mr. Bowes last night in your custody and tried to get him released into my care as a matter of fact. He was clearly in no condition to consent to anything. Though the officers wouldn’t tell me what he was arrested for, it was abundantly clear that he was not in a rational or sane state of mind and can’t be held responsible for his actions. He should be here, at Brentworth, where we can attend to his psychological needs.”
“Oh, that’s a load of bull—”
Frank held up a hand. “Can you tell us when he checked in here?”
Dr. Horvat puckered her lips and glanced at the ceiling. “I don’t see any harm in that. About three months ago.”
“Thank you,” Frank said, matching her smile with one of his own. Apparently, he was of a mind that honey caught more flies than crap. At least he’d gotten something out of the doctor, albeit something they already knew. Detective Spinner was locking her into a story. “Did he stay long?”
“No.” Dr. Horvat frowned and scratched her chin. “And we were making so much progress so very quickly. My methods are... perhaps more progressive than most. What’s the expression? Like going cold turkey? You know, instead of gradual steps.”
She shrugged. “Anyway, I guess he felt he’d healed enough. We had no reason to commit him since he came in voluntarily and wasn’t a danger to anyone or himself.”
Sam stepped closer to Dr. Horvat. “Not a danger...” Sam shook her head and chuckled, then raised her palms. “Not a danger? That man tried to kill me yesterday!”
Frank touched her shoulder, but she shrugged away from his hand. “And you know something? Bowes thinks he was here yesterday.” She ground her teeth. “Something not right is going on here, and I will get to the bottom of it. Mark my words. If you have no part in it, it would probably be in your best interests to show us a bit more cooperation.”
Dr. Horvat didn’t so much as flinch, though her smile vanished. In its stead was a consistent look of indifference. “His attack on you is all the more reason why Mr. Bowes should be released into my care. As I said, when he came, it was voluntarily, and he left equally on his own volition. We could do little more than recommend he stay for additional treatment, but if he’s done as you claim, I feel he should be committed.” She handed the consent form back to Sam. “Now, I believe I’ve already said more than I should. If you’ll excuse me, I have—”
The entrance doors exploded open. Sam spun around, hand instinctively going for the gun at her hip, every muscle in her body tensing and ready to draw. When she saw two uniforms, she stood a little straighter, hand still by her side but fingers no longer flexing. The male officer looked familiar and carried someone in his arms.
“Tag?” Sam scrutinized the officer in a split-second, her mind taking in every detail. Officer Tagliamonte had been assigned to watch over her foster son. Her stomach dropped when she saw who was in his arms. “Michael!”
Tag gently laid the boy on the floor. “We need a doctor.”
“What happened?” Sam crouched beside the unconscious teenager, taking Michael’s gloved hand in hers.
Tag looked her in the eyes. A rookie at the time, the officer had been one of the first responders to the murder-suicide scene where Michael had been found. His father, Mark Florentine, had killed his wife, her lover, then himself, and an infant Michael had been found rocking against a wall with a gun between his legs, blood on his naked thighs. Tag was also one of the few people Sam trusted with Michael’s condition and how it could be triggered.
Tag gave her a knowing nod. “Alison—Officer Paltrow—touched his neck.”
“Step back,” Dr. Horvat commanded with such absolute authority that Sam rose and backed away before she even knew what she was doing. The doctor put two fingers against Michael’s neck as Sam reached out to stop her. She pulled back when she saw no reaction from Michael. Her son remained unconscious, not delving into another seizure.
“His pulse is elevated but not dangerously so.” The doctor stood and crossed her arms. “Would someone like to tell me the nature of this boy’s condition so that I might properly assist?”
Tag opened his mouth to speak, but Sam jumped in before he could. “He’s my... he’s family. He’s prone to seizures. He must have forgotten to take his medication.” She renewed her position by Michael’s side, scooped him into her arms, then sat him up.
His eyelids began to flutter. He smacked his lips. “Where... where am I?” His eyes exploded open, and he scuttled back from Officer Paltrow. “You! Where am I? Where’s Dylan?”
“It’s okay, Michael,” Sam said low. “You had a seizure.”
“You don’t understand.” His face pale, he stared pleading
ly at Sam. “They’re out there—those Indians—and Dylan’s still out there too. He’s not safe.”
“What’s he saying?” Frank squatted beside them. “Out where, Michael? The hospital?” He fingered the holster on his belt.
Sam glowered at him. “He just had a nightmare, Frank.” Her words came out in a low hiss. “We’ll talk about it more when we get him home.”
“No,” Michael blurted. “We have to help Dylan.” He placed his palm against the floor to push himself up then cried out in pain and slumped.
Sam took his hand in hers and turned it palm up. The glove was in tatters, and the flesh beneath it was raw and red. She glared at the officers who were supposed to have been protecting her boy.
“That wasn’t from us,” Paltrow said weakly.
Sam returned her attention to her boy. “Who’s Dylan, Michael?”
“A friend... a friend from school.”
“He’s been hanging out with a classmate after school these last two days.” Tag pressed his lips together. “They like to try to ditch us, and today, they almost succeeded. We didn’t see anyone else out there, though.”
“Michael, what’s your friend’s last name?”
“Jefferson. His father works here, actually.”
“Find him,” Sam snapped. “And call in for backup. That boy could be in trouble. Check with his father here, his home—you know the drill. And Tag, call me as soon as you know something.”
Tag and Paltrow exchanged a look then turned on their heels and left.
“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” Dr. Horvat tapped her foot, her arms crossed. “This boy may need medical attention.” She sniffed the air. “Though from the look and smell of it, I’d say it’s pretty clear what we’re dealing with here.”
“Oh yeah, Doctor?” Sam rose. “What’s that?”
“Bloodshot eyes, the distinct odor of marijuana—I’d say this boy was smoking and perhaps was overcome by a touch of paranoia.” She chuckled. “Quite common for a boy his age, particularly now that it’s legal.”
“Not legal for him,” Sam said. She squinted down at Michael, and the overpowering, skunky aroma finally hit her. Worry dissipated into disappointment. She helped Michael to his feet. “I’ll take him home, doctor. We know what this is and have it under control.”
She sighed, softening a little. “All right, at least let me get someone to clean and dress those wounds on his hands. Come on back.” She smiled warmly at Michael. “We’ll get you all patched up.”
Sam nodded but held Michael by the arm. “Send someone out to look at it right here.”
“That’s not really how we do things here, Detective.”
Sam rubbed her temples. “Just... send someone out, please.”
“Very well.” She again smiled at Michael then, almost flirtatiously. “It was nice meeting you, Michael. Detectives.”
She bowed slightly then turned and walked toward the doors leading farther into the hospital. After the receptionist buzzed her in, the doctor disappeared through them.
Sam led Michael to the chairs, and she and Frank each took a seat beside him. With her eyes, she signaled a camera mounted in the corner. “We’ll talk about it on the way home,” she said with a hand over her mouth. The three sat in silence as they awaited Michael’s medical attention. Twenty minutes later, a nurse with nylon gloves cleaned and dressed Michael’s hand.
“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” Sam slammed her palm against the steering wheel and glared at Michael through her rearview mirror. With the three of them safely on the road, all her worry and stress and love for him came boiling to the surface. And it came out all wrong, pride and disappointment getting in the way when all she wanted to do was hold him tightly. “Why in the hell would you ditch your protective detail? To smoke weed? Of all the stupid, stupid things—”
“I’m sorry, okay?” Michael sulked. He crossed his arms and averted his gaze from the mirror. Then, much lower but not quite under his breath, “It’s not like I asked for them.”
She’d only been trying to protect him. How dare he treat me like I’m the bad guy? Her hackles up, she knew she was heading toward making a bad situation worse but couldn’t stop herself. “They were there to protect you, and for good reason, it seems. I thought you were smarter than this.”
“I wouldn’t need protection if I wasn’t living with you.”
Sam gritted her teeth and was about to bite when the sting of his words pierced her. Brow furrowing, she let out a breath, her eyes starting to tear up until she remembered Frank sitting beside her. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “We’ll talk about it later. For now, tell me about the Indians.”
Frank shifted in his seat. If he’d been pretending not to listen, he wasn’t pretending any longer.
“I’m sorry.” Michael slouched. “I didn’t mean it like it sounded. It’s just, why does everyone else get to have normal, fun lives, but I’ve gotta have these stupid visions and people trying to use me or kill me all the time?”
“Michael, I—”
“It doesn’t matter. I know it’s not your fault or your problem.”
“Your problems are my—”
“Anyway,” Michael cut her off and scooted forward, “shouldn’t you be focusing on finding Dylan?” He stared at her reflection in the rearview, hurt and anger in his eyes. “They could have him right now. Don’t you care?”
“Of course, I care!” Sam growled, then bit her tongue. “Officers Tagliamonte and Paltrow—and probably the whole freaking department—are looking for him as we speak. If he’s still at Brentworth, they’ll find him and report.”
She didn’t know if that were true, but she would check in on their status as soon as she got Michael home safely. Tag wouldn’t let her down. She tried her damnedest to make her voice even and asked, “Could you tell me what you were doing at Brentworth with your friend?”
“Just hanging out.”
“Smoking weed?” Again, Sam couldn’t help herself despite the little voice in her head telling her to go easy on him.
“Yeah. I wanted to try it. So I did. Is that so terrible?” He gave her a smug grin. “Can’t be any worse than bringing a minor to the house of a murderer.”
Her face flushed with warmth, this time from shame rather than anger. “Please, Michael.”
Frank shifted in his seat again. He cleared his throat. “May I suggest—”
“No!” Michael and Sam said in unison.
Chided, Frank folded his hands on his lap and faced forward.
Sam considered what to say. Michael had hit below the belt. Though Jonathan Crowley hadn’t technically murdered anyone—his ex had been tied up in his basement, still breathing when they’d found her—Sam had still used Michael’s unique gift to help her solve a crime. She’d put him at risk and had broken a long list of ethics regulations in order to put a bad man away. She’d been a different person then, willing to take down criminals at any cost—before she’d realized that Michael meant more than the job.
She squeezed the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. “Just tell us what happened.”
Michael sighed. “You know what happened. We ditched the cops you had following me and went into the woods behind the hospital. I know it was stupid, but Dylan has a really cool hangout spot back there. And yeah, we smoked a joint, but we didn’t go back there for that. We just went to hang out. You know, do kid things, which is kinda hard to do when your only friend is an adult and a detective.” Michael choked up on those last few words.
A lump formed in Sam’s throat. Whatever anger she’d felt had drained from her like water down a sink.
Frank turned in his seat. “Inside Brentworth, you mentioned seeing someone out there, that it wasn’t safe. What did you see?”
Sam sneered at Frank, but Michael sat up straighter. “Indians. Well, not real ones. Dylan had binoculars, and I was looking through them at Brentworth when I saw—or at least I thought I saw—three
or four people wearing those same stupid masks the guy who attacked Sam had on. They were there one second, gone the next.”
Sam caught Frank’s grave look and knew he was hanging on to Michael’s every word. Whatever had happened out there, he certainly believed Michael. His conviction brought home the danger even more so for her.
“Anyway,” Michael continued, “Dylan said it might have been the weed making me paranoid—he never saw them. But I was scared, and we ran back toward the hospital. I twisted my ankle, and Dylan carried me, like, the whole way. That’s when Officer Paltrow grabbed me by my neck. I don’t remember anything after that except my vision and waking up with you two hovering over me inside Brentworth.”
“You ran back to the hospital, toward the people you saw?” Frank asked.
“Yeah, I know.” Michael shrugged. “It doesn’t make much sense, but it was getting dark, and we were afraid if we ran any other way, we might get lost. So we took our chances with the hospital. Dylan’s father works there and could’ve helped us once we got inside.”
Michael stared at the floor and sighed. “The more I think about it, though, the crazier it sounds. One guy attacked you, and I saw—or maybe I imagined—at least three of them. Like I said, Dylan never saw them. Maybe the pot went to my head like he and that doctor said.”
Sam’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t say anything. Marijuana did tend to make some users paranoid, but hallucinations didn’t seem likely unless that Dylan kid’s joint was laced with something. But Michael seemed lucid enough, if a bit tired. Still, she didn’t want to worry him by sharing where her mind was wandering. More than one masked moron was not a comforting thought.
Bowes’s chant played through her head. Ten little Indians standing in a line. One toddled home and then there were nine.