In Dark Places

by Michael Prescott

  He took a look around. There was a large fish-eye mirror mounted behind him, which gave the Dawg riding shotgun a decent view of Gray. But the Dawg wasn't paying attention. He and the driver were involved in an intense conversation about the relative merits of NASCAR drivers.

  "Tell you what," the driver was saying over the radio's blare, "there hasn't been one of 'em worth a damn since Dale Earnhardt died."

  "Not even Dale Junior? You telling me you don't like Dale Junior? Everybody loves Dale Junior."

  "Dale Junior can kiss my spotted ass."

  Couple of good ol' boys. One of them would be dead soon. Maybe both. Gray smiled at the prospect. He'd never killed a bona fide redneck. He was looking forward to it.

  He slipped his right hand inside his left sleeve and carefully removed the screwdriver, positioning it between his second and third fingers, flat across his palm.

  When he held his hand palm downward, the tool was invisible.

  Up front the debate continued. "I'm just saying, okay, maybe he's not as good as his old man, but he's still pretty damn good."

  "Hell, my grandma could drive better than him, and she's ninety-two years old and blind as a mole."

  "I don't see how you can say that about Dale Junior. Everybody loves Dale Junior."

  "Dale Junior can kiss my spotted amp;"

  Gray separated his hands, placing one on each knee.

  Step one and step two had been accomplished.

  In Doc Robin's office he would finish the job.

  Chapter Nineteen

  "Hey, Dr. R." As he stepped into the waiting room, Gray showed the doc a big shit-eating grin, which he noticed she didn't return.

  "Hello, Justin," she said coolly.

  The two deputy dickwads hustled him through the waiting room, into the office. The doc followed. Gray gave her the eye over his shoulder.

  "Gonna poke around inside my noggin some more? I keep telling you, there's nothing to find."

  "I think we've found a great deal already."

  "You're an optimist. You say my brain is half-full. Me, I say it's half-empty."

  He was keeping up the patter, staying loose. Usually he liked to be a little blitzed when he pulled off dangerous shit like this, but right now he had some kind of major buzz going. Adrenaline or some goddamn thing.

  The deputies removed his handcuffs and leg irons, standard procedure in the doc's office. She didn't want her patient all trussed up like a prize turkey. Still, he had to be kept under some restraint. The two hacks sat him down in the metal chair and belted his wrists to the armrests, cinching the metal buckles.

  "It ain't enough I'm caged all the livelong day," he groused. "Even when I'm out and about, I gotta be friggin' immobilized."

  "It's for your own protection," the doc said.

  "Yeah, right. Everything you fuckers do to me is for my own good. When you put that helmet on me and nose around in my brain, that's for my own good too."

  "It will be, in the long run."

  He was strapped in good and tight now. Deputies Dumb and Dumber seemed satisfied. "I'll be in the other room if you need me," one of them said.

  Gray knew that the driver would sit in the van while his partner hung out in the waiting room. And he was pleased to see that Forrest Gump and his partner had kept their sidearms on their Sam Brownes, even while off-loading him. That was contrary to regulationsguns weren't supposed to be worn within reach of a prisonerbut he guessed the hacks were just too lazy or too butt-stupid to stow the guns like they were supposed to. That was good. He wanted the Dawg in the waiting room to be armed. There was no sport in icing an unarmed man.

  When they were gone, and the office door was closed, the doc pulled up the swivel chair from her desk, setting it between his chair and the computer gear, and sat beside him. She was looking good today, he noticed, even if she was dressed in her standard ensemble, a beige suit jacket, a blouse in pastel blue, a pair of neatly laundered slacks, and sensible shoes. He wished she would wear a skirt. He was sure she had great legs. And he wouldn't have minded seeing her blouse unbuttoned a notch or two to reveal more of the smooth, tight skin below her collarbone.

  "How are you feeling, Justin?"

  "Footloose 'n' fancy-free." This was true.

  "I'm serious. I need to monitor your progress."

  "My progress? I live in a cage, Doc. Only progress I make is when I walk from my rack to the toilet and back again."

  "I'm talking about progress inside."

  "Yeah, I feel ya. Hamlet's kind of progress." He smiled at her incomprehension. " 'I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space amp;' Didn't think I knew that one, did you?"

  "Honestly, no."

  "First time I was in stir, my roommate got hold of a Shakespeare play. We took turns reading it. Wasn't Hamlet, though."

  "Which one was it?"

  "The one about the fairies."

  "A Midsummer Night's Dream?"

  "That's the one. Gotta say, I made one hell of a Titania."

  "I'm sure you did." She rearranged some papers on her lap. "Well, let's get started."

  "Don't you want to know the rest of the story?"

  "Is there more?"

  "Darn tootin'. I didn't say where I found Hamlet."

  "Where?"

  "It was in Susan Miller's backpack."

  Her voice went cold. "I see."

  Susan Miller was one of the five teenage girls Gray had killed.

  "I went through her stuff," he went on blithely, "after I was done with her. Guess she was carrying it around for her English class. I figured I ought to read it, since I liked the one about the fairies. And I always try to further my education. We're a lot alike in that way, Dr. R."

  "Are we?"

  "Sure. You're furthering your education right now." He met and held her gaze. "By studying me."

  She broke their eye contact. "We need to begin."

  "You're the boss."

  "We'll start with the inkblots."

  He didn't like that. He wanted her to turn out the lights, start fiddling with the controls of her mind machine, quit looking at him. There was a chance she'd see what was hidden in his right hand.

  "Fucking inkblots again?" He sighed noisily. "Damn, I was hoping you'd bring some more interesting pictures. Naked ladies, for instance."

  "I don't have any pictures of naked ladies."

  "Some cheesecake shots of you and your daughter would do."

  Her saw her mouth tighten. "Justin"

  "I'm just talking, Doc. Little Meg Cameron amp; How old she be? Fifteen? Sixteen? That's a damn good age."

  "We're not going to talk about this."

  "Hope I didn't creep you out with my phone call. I just wanted you to know how much your daughter means to me. Some nights she's the only thing that keeps me going amp;"

  She got up, tossing the inkblot cards on her desk. Her hands were shaking. "All right, forget the preliminaries. We'll move on to the MBI."

  Gray suppressed a smile. The doc wasn't the only one who could get inside a person's head and push their buttons. And he didn't need no fancy machine.

  She attached the electrodes, pulled down the window shades, killed the overhead light, set the helmet on his head. First time he'd worn it, he thought it was heavy as a brick, but he was used to it now.

  She put the headphones on him, like always. He wished he could hear some raucous metal tunes on these things and not just the doc's calm, comforting PA-system voice.

  "Justin?" she said, the query coming over the phones. "Do you hear me?"

  "Ten-four and roger that, big mama," he said in the general direction of the stalk mike protruding from the headset.

  When she swiveled away from him to adjust the computer gear against the wall, he knew it was time to make his move.

  Timing was critical. Once the helmet was switched on, he'd be unable to act. Those magnetic fields did something funny to his head, got him all messed up. It was like he wasn't even
in the room anymore, like he was time-traveling or tripping on some really hard drugs. In the minute or two it would take her to make the final adjustments to the gear, he had to work himself free.

  He twisted his right hand sideways, crooking it at the wrist, and guided the screwdriver toward the strap's metal buckle. The idea was to jam the screwie's blade under the tongue of the buckle and lever it up.

  He glanced at the doc, still programming the machine. In their first session she'd explained to him that the helmet contained a whole bunch of magnetic coils. She could turn some of them off, turn others on, basically customize the helmet for each user. She liked to tweak the settings each time.

  Gray eased the tip of the screwdriver under the buckle, and pushed up on the metal tongue.

  "Okay. Ready to begin?"

  He froze, waiting for the doc to notice the screwdriver in his hand. Luckily, the room was dark, illuminated only by the glow of the computer screens. Besides, she still hadn't looked at him. She was studying the readouts on the monitors.

  "Justin? Ready?"

  He needed to buy time, release the buckle.

  "Hey, Doc, I'm sorry if I offended you a couple minutes ago." He tried again to pry open the buckle. "I was just, you know, playing."

  "You're always playing, aren't you?" Her voice was flat.

  "It's my nature. See, I"

  She cut him off. "Let's get started."

  He wanted to say something more, but abruptly the helmet switched on.

  He felt the familiar sensation of invisible claws hooking onto his scalp and dragging his forehead up under the helmet. There were blind spots in both of his eyes. The doc had explained that the voodoo current she passed through his noodle messed up his octopus areanot octopus amp; occipital amp; something like that.

  His concentration began to fail. He was losing focus.

  God damn it, he was so close.

  He thought he could still do it, could still unbuckle the strap. He only had to hold on to awareness and self-control for another few seconds. He tensed his body, fighting the effects of the current.

  "Justin? You seem to be resisting."

  "Maybe I don't wanna be your play-toy no more, Doc."

  His fingers jabbed the screwdriver against the buckle.

  "You're not a toy, and this isn't a game. Now I want you to relax. Take deep, slow breaths."

  The buckle shifted, coming partly undone. He strained to finish the job. But his fingers, damp with sweat, couldn't get purchase on the screwdriver.

  "This isn't working," Robin said, still watching the screen. "Your muscular tension is high. So is your heart rate. I'm going to boost the appliance's output a little. That should induce relaxation."

  "You're gonna force me to cooperate? How's that any different from tying me down for some of the old electric shock treatment?"

  That stopped her. "I don't want you to feel I'm mistreating you."

  "Well, I do." He'd gotten hold of the buckle at last. "I feel damn mistreated. Doc I'm like Nicholson in Cuckoo's Nest, you know? I'm getting fuckin' lobotomized here."

  The tongue of the buckle lifted another few degrees. One more good push, and he could snap it back, unhook himself.

  "Actually," she said, "I don't think it will be necessary to adjust the output. You seem to be settling down."

  He didn't know where the fuck she got that idea. His heart was still rabbiting in his chest.

  He flexed his wrist, jamming the screwdriver against the metal tongue, and the buckle popped open.

  His right hand was free.

  The rest was easy. Just reach over and unbuckle his left wrist. Had to do it fast, before the doc had time to see what was going down. Even in the dark, she might see that his hand was loose. If she yelled, the hack in the waiting room would come running.

  He tried to reach across his body with his free hand amp;

  Couldn't do it. Couldn't move.

  Oh, hell. The doc had been right, after all. Goddamned machine was taking control of him. He'd fought it off as long as he could.

  Now his head was going all ker-blooey, and his eyes were ticking back and forth like he was watching a Ping-Pong game. His hands felt warm and tingly, and his arms were a hundred yards long, his whole body stretching out like an elastic band.

  He felt his fingers splay. The screwdriver dropped to the floor, its fall muffled by the carpet.

  "Justin, can you hear me?"

  The question reached him from far off. He forgot whose voice it was. His mother's, maybe. Or was it Susan Miller, the one with Hamlet in her backpack?

  "Justin amp;?"

  No, it was the doc. He was in her office, and she was using him as her personal lab rat. There was something he'd been planning to do about that, but he couldn't remember. He was tired amp;

  "Justin?"

  "Yeah." He heard himself answer, but it was like somebody else was talking and he was only eavesdropping.

  "I want you to relax, Justin."

  He was relaxed. He was limp.

  "I want you to visit the beach. You know the spot I mean."

  "I know."

  In their first session he'd told her about a place up the coast, around Pismo Beach, where he'd stopped one time. It was so peaceful there.

  "I want you to go there. Are you there, Justin?"

  "I'm there amp;"

  He was, too. That was the weirdness of it. He was really fucking there. Oh, sure, part of him was still in a straight-back chair in an air-conditioned office, but another part of him was sitting cross-legged on the sand watching gulls swoop over the breaking waves. The air was misty, damp, but some sun was getting through. He breathed in the good salt smell of the ocean.

  "Just sit on the beach and be at rest."

  "At rest," he said, his voice merging with the sigh of the surf.

  Something had been worrying him, but he no longer remembered what. Didn't matter anyhow. Nothing mattered.

  It was a beautiful day at the beach. He was happy.

  He was free.

  Chapter Twenty

  Robin let Gray adjust to the trancelike state initiated by the bilateral magnetic fields. In the dim light cast by the computer screens, she could see that his eyes were half-closed, his mouth agape. His breathing was slow and regular.

  When she thought he was ready, she spoke to him again.

  "All right, Justin. Now it's time to leave the beach."

  "Like it here amp;" he murmured.

  "I know you do, but we have work to do. I want you to go to your parents' apartment, the one on Pine Street. The place where you grew up."

  When working with Brand, she had guided him to act as an observer. Gray, less resistant, could relive the experience directly.

  "Okay."

  "Are you there?"

  He nodded.

  "Last time, you told me that your father used to punish you. I want you to go to a time when you were punished. Can you do that?"

  "Don't wanna."

  "Can you?"

  A long pause. "Yeah."

  "Are you with your father now?"

  "I'm with him. I'm with my old man."

  "What's he doing?"

  "Yelling."

  "That's all? Just yelling?"

  "He's got amp; it looks like amp; oh, hell, he's got his damn belt off."

  "Does he hit you with the belt?"

  Snort of derision. "I wish."

  "What, then?"

  "He uses it to tie me amp;"

  "Tie you up?"

  "Tie me to amp;"

  "To what?"

  "The radiator. He ties the belt 'round my waist, hooks it to the radiator. That's just for starters."

  "What happens next?"

  "My hand."

  "What about your hand?"

  "My left hand."

  "What about your hand, Justin?"

  "He puts it on the radiator. He's got his shirt off. It's wrapped over his hand like a glove. He grabs me by the wrist and amp;"

&nb
sp; "He presses your hand to the hot radiator?"

  Gray winced, feeling it now. "Hurts like a motherfucker. That's what I tell him, them exact wordshurts like a motherfucker."

  "What happens when you say that?"

  "He says, my old man says, 'Watch your mouth.'"

  "And your hand amp;?"

  "He's holding it down."

  "What's he saying now?"

  "He don't want me shoplifting again."

  "What did you shoplift?"

  "Don't remember."

  She tried again. "What did you shoplift?"

  "Some fuckbook. Penthouse, Hustler, some shit like that. Would've paid for it, but they won't sell it to you if you're not eighteen."

  "How old are you?"

  "Thirteen. Christ, my hand hurts."

  "Is this the first time he's hurt you?"

  "Fuck, no."

  "First time with the radiator?"

  "No."

  She remembered something he'd said in a previous session. "You told me about a baseball bat amp;"

  "That's later. For taking his car without asking. He tries to bust my kneecaps. But he misses me, 'cause he's drunk."

  She returned to the radiator incident. "Is he drunk now?"

  "Maybe he's had a snort, I can't tell. Doesn't matter."

  "Why doesn't it matter?"

  "He's like this all the time. Drunk or sober, makes no difference."

  "Has he let go of your hand?"

  "By now amp; yeah."

  "Badly burned?"

  "Blisters all over."

  "You've got serious burns."

  "Damn straight."

  "Does he take you to a doctor?"

  "Not him. My mom does."

  "Your mom?"

  "To the ER. She tells 'em I was playing around the radiator. They bandage me up."

  "What do you say about playing by the radiator?"

  "I don't say shit."

  "Nobody asks you?"

  "Nobody cares."

  "If they had asked"

  "I'd tell them, yeah, I was playing around. I'm a stupid kid. I hurt myself like kids do."

  "Who are you protecting? Your dad?"

  "Fuck him."