CHAPTER 96
It’s only been two days since my lawyer got me out of this mess . . . sort of. I mean, being locked in a nuthouse with a bunch of psychos and lunatics is no picnic. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, they say. Not only that, but they still suspect I had something to do with all the shit that went down at Gilgo Beach—which is ridiculous. And the charges are still pending against me in New Jersey. Supposedly, Levy’s going to file some legal shit that should get the case down there dismissed, though. Apparently, the cops in Jersey fucked up and violated my rights, so whatever evidence they found can’t be used against me. Isn’t it great how the law doesn’t give a crap whether someone did or didn’t do something? They’re more concerned about how you found out about it.
Anyway, it’s been kind of interesting here. Aside from my roomie, Curtis, who’s as wormy as they come, they’ve got this one real skinny dude with long, greasy hair. He walks around talking to himself and swatting imaginary flies that seem to be hovering around him all the time. He keeps saying that God is angry because we’ve forsaken him and that we should be prepared for Armageddon—whatever the hell that is. The dude thinks that any day now a giant asteroid is going to crash down and destroy the world. He’s trying to get all the whackos here to pray, but no one pays attention.
Then there’s this spaced-out girl who doesn’t talk at all. She can’t be more than twentyone. She probably could be hot if she just took a shower, washed her hair, and maybe put on a tight pair of jeans. She just sits by the window and draws pictures of scenery—but not scenery like you would think. I mean, yesterday, she drew this tree with a trunk that looked like bones and branches that looked like fingers. Not only that, but the leaves looked like eyeballs, ears, and noses. She drew a pair of lips in the sky, which I figure was the sun. Weird shit, man. And when I went over to look at what she was doing, she got up and ran away. The chick just left me there staring at the picture. I will say this, though, as fucked-up as it was, I couldn’t stop looking at it. Everything in the picture looked real. The details were dead-on. The noses looked perfect, and the ears did, too. This chick sure can draw. Problem is, she draws some psycho shit. I guess that’s why she’s here.
I’m minding my own business when two orderlies come over to me.
“Time for you to meet Dr. Freud. Please follow us,” the taller one says.
Freud? They’ve got to be kidding me.
They bring me into this room, put me in a chair, and wrap leather straps around my wrists. I can’t move, so I sit there waiting for a few minutes. Then some freaky-looking old guy in a wheelchair rolls in. This dude has to be at least a hundred years old. What’s left of his hair is sticking out so far sideways, I’ll bet he hasn’t brushed it in a month. He looks at me with one eyeball while the other eyeball is staring at the wall to my left.
“Mr. Sullivan, I presume,” croaks outta this guy like a fart from a frog.
This dude is so scary-looking I’m afraid to answer, so I just look away.
“Something wrong, Mr. Sullivan?” he croaks again.
“Uh . . . I’m just not feeling too good right now.”
“That will change shortly,” he says, as he rolls up next to me and pulls a needle from a pouch in his lap. Then he grabs my forearm, wipes it with an alcohol pad, and sticks me.
“A little stab will do ya,” I say, channeling Nicholson’s Randall Patrick McMurphy.
“Truth serum” is the last words he says.
* * *
“How are you feeling now, Tommy?” Dr. Freud asked, the frog in his voice now a soft whisper.
“Never better, man,” Tommy answered as if in a dream.
“Then it’s time to begin. And I promise if you help me understand a few things, you’ll feel even better.”
Tommy smiled. “Whatever you say.”
“I want you to go back to when you were a little boy and tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”
Tommy took a deep breath. “The beach—we always go to the beach.”
“Are you at the beach now, Tommy?” asked Freud.
“Yeah, I’m walking in the sand with Mom and Dad. We’re at the Cape for the very first time.”
“Wonderful, Tommy. How old are you?”
“I’m gonna be five years old this week,” Tommy answered, with the energy of a young boy. “And this trip is my birthday present.”
“What a nice gift. Please take me to your favorite part of the trip.”
Tommy began to giggle. “Throw me as high as you can, Daddy.”
“You’re doing great, Tommy. Tell me more.”
“We’re in the ocean, and Dad’s tossing me up over the waves as they come in. Mom is standing just outta the water hollering—‘Be careful, Joe! He’s too young for that.’ Dad yells back, ‘Relax, honey. He can handle it. My son ain’t no wimp.’ I’m bouncing with the waves, and Dad grabs me with one hand and rolls me onto his shoulders. I climb up with one foot on each side of his head while he holds my hands. Then I stand straight up and dive into the water again. I’m having a super time.”
“I’m happy to hear that, Tommy. Is anyone else with you?”
“No, just Mom and Dad.”
“You don’t have any brothers or sisters?”
Tommy frowned. “No, just me. I wish I did, though. I mean, I always wanted a brother, but Mom and Dad did a bad thing.”
“What do you mean, Tommy?”
“They shouldn’ta done it. It was a mistake.”
“What was a mistake, Tommy?”
“I hear them talking downstairs. I’m at the top of the steps, I can’t sleep. Mom’s crying and saying to Dad that it was wrong and she wants him back.”
“Wants who back, Tommy?”
“I don’t know his name. Mom says she wants Dad to talk to the doctor who arranged it and to get him back. Dad says it’s impossible; five years is too much time. She says she doesn’t care. She wants him back.”
“Wants who back, Tommy?” Freud insisted. “Please tell me.”
“My twin brother. They gave him away when we were born. I heard them talking about it the night we got back from my birthday at the Cape.”
“Did you tell them you overheard their conversation?”
“No, not ever—even after Dad lied to me when I got older and told me that my brother died when I was born.”
“Why didn’t you tell him, then?”
“I don’t know. I think maybe I didn’t remember it or something, but now I do.”
“Yes. You do, Tommy, and together we’re going to try and remember a lot of things from your past.”
“Like what?” Tommy asked, his eyes still closed.
“Like your friend Troyer, for instance. I know you don’t like to talk about him, but I’m very curious. Do you think I could meet him?”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
“Why is that, Tommy? It should be very easy for you to introduce us.”
“I would if I could, but I don’t know where he is. He took off when we were back at Camp Lakewood, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“Really, Tommy? I thought he was always with you.”
“No, I don’t think so, and I would know.”
“You know you can’t lie to me, Tommy,” Freud says, in a soft yet stern voice. “It’s not possible.”
Tommy shook his head. “I’m not lying. I really don’t know where he is. I’d tell you if I did.”
“Come now, Tommy. We both know he’s right there inside of you. Just call to him and he’ll come out.”
“That’s craaazy, man,” Tommy slurred. “He can’t hear me. I’m sure he’s long-gone and probably out of the country by now.”
“Very well, Tommy. We’ll come back to Troyer a bit later. Perhaps while we wait for him, you can tell me what happened to the bartender, Jamie Houston.”
Tommy’s face turned red, and he began to cry. “I wish I knew, really.” He began to quiver. “I left her in the tall weed grass by Gil
go Beach.”
“Well, maybe Troyer knows. Perhaps you could ask him for me.”
“Like I said before, I don’t know where he is, so how can I ask him?” Tommy was inconsolable and whimpering like a baby.
“Now, now, Tommy—crying isn’t going to help. You need to relax and calm down.” Freud paused and looked up at the camera lens that was filming them. “In fact, maybe we’ll take a short break.” He spun around in his wheelchair. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, and when I return, I expect you to be dry-eyed and ready to talk with me again.”
Freud left the room and met up with Detectives Stone and Watts, who were watching the session from another room.
“Is something wrong, Doctor?” Stone asked. “I’m confused. You told us that this wonder drug of yours would enable you to dig deep inside his mind and that he wouldn’t be able to lie to you.”
“Yes, Detective, that is what the drug is supposed to do. Quite honestly, I’m not really sure why Mr. Sullivan is reacting this way. Perhaps Troyer is so deep down inside of him he really doesn’t believe he is real. I need to go deeper to access him.”
“Well, then, why did you stop?” Watts asked.
“It’s his first session, and I didn’t give him a very strong dose of my serum. I could give him another dose by injection, but I think I’d rather end this session early as a precautionary measure. Next time, I’ll hook him up to an IV drip, where I can control the dosage during administration. That will help me to dig deeper inside his mind.”
“When do you think you can do that, Doctor?” Stone asked. “We’re still hoping that he has some information about the girl that may help us to locate her.”
“I understand, but I have to be careful. Too much of this drug all at once may be very harmful to Mr. Sullivan. Especially given his history with the experimental drug he’s been taking. I’m sure it is still in his system, and I don’t know what type of reaction to expect. We could be playing with fire here, and if we push too hard and he switches to Troyer, anything could happen, including the possibility that we could lose Tommy altogether.”
“So how long, then?” asked Stone.
“Give me a day or so to get back to you. Right now, I think it’s best to return him to his room and let him rest. He’ll come out of it in less than an hour. Later on, I’ll see how he’s feeling and let you know when I think it is safe to try again.”
CHAPTER 97
I wake up with a massive headache but not like my usual ones. This one is all the way behind my head, and it runs down my neck and into my back. I look over at the other bed, and Curtis isn’t there. The last thing I remember is being strapped to a chair, and some strange-looking doctor, in a wheelchair, is sticking me with a needle. I get up, walk over to the door, and try the knob. It’s open, so I push through and head down the hall to the lounge. I’m betting Curtis must still be in the lounge with all the other fruitcakes.
I walk into the lounge, and there they are: all the whackos just sitting around doing all their nut job shit. They couldn’t care less that I just came through the door . . . except for Curtis, who runs up to me and almost knocks me over.
“Where you been, Tommy?” he asks me, trying to hug me like we’ve been best friends since the war. “I was worried about you.”
“Hey, back off Curtis,” I say, pushing him off. “They had me in with some Loony Tunes doctor who looks like that dude from the Science Channel.”
“That would be Dr. Freud. Everyone says he looks like Stephen Hawking. He’s the head doctor and senior psychiatrist here. Did he inject you with anything?”
“Yeah—why?”
Curtis groaned. “Uh-oh. That can’t be good.”
CHAPTER 98
It’s been about four weeks now since I first checked into this shithole they call a hospital. I’ve gotten used to all the nut jobs, fruitcakes, and whackos and—if you want my opinion—I’d say the staff here is just as crazy as the patients. In fact, I think everyone here is off-the-wall loony.
I’ve had so many sessions with Doc Cyclops I’ve lost count. At least half the time he hooks me up to this IV drip he calls “Enlightenment” and I have no recollection of anything we talk about during those sessions. One thing I will say, though: I still can’t look the dude in the eye, and I do mean eye—as in one eye—because his other one won’t stop rolling around long enough for anyone to look at it. In fact, I don’t think that sucker even works. Anyway, even though I don’t remember what we talk about when they hook me up to the IV, during the regular sessions I remember everything. He’s been telling me that when I’m under the drip, he goes deep inside my mind trying to bring Troyer out, but so far it hasn’t worked. He thinks Troyer knows where the bartender is, and he wants me to help access Troyer from inside my head. From the way he talks, I’m actually starting to believe my migraine medicine messed up my brain and that Troyer is really just a figment of my imagination. Cyclops thinks that the reason he can’t bring Troyer out of me is because I stopped taking the pills.
Aurora’s come to visit a bunch of times, and I’ve talked to her about it, but she thinks it’s impossible and that they’re just trying to brainwash me. The fact is, I’m so twisted up right now I haven’t got a clue.
A couple days ago, I told Aurora to go back home to Cape May for the start of the summer season. Not that I really want her to leave me here alone, but I don’t think it’s fair. She’s got a life, too. For whatever its worth, she said she’d wait for me and check back from time to time. I told her I wouldn’t forget about her, either, and that as soon as they let me out of this joint, I’d be on my way down to the Cape.
Wouldn’t you know it? Dear ole Dad never has come around to see me. I knew he was just blowing smoke at my lawyer. Speaking of Levy, he actually got the whole case dismissed down in Jersey, too. I’ve got to say, that guy is good. Although he did tell me to be careful, because they could always reopen the case with other evidence if something new turned up.
The detectives from Manhattan also stopped coming around after the first couple weeks, when they realized that Cyclops couldn’t get Troyer to come out of me. I guess they finally gave up hope of ever finding out where the bartender ended up. Too bad—I really wish I could have helped them with that shit, but I honestly haven’t got a clue what happened to her after I dumped her at Gilgo Beach.
Anyway, I’m sitting here in the lounge watching TV and just chilling. Some new guy they just brought in the other day is sitting a couple chairs over. He’s watching TV, but I don’t think he’s seeing it. He’s got that thousand-yard stare going on, and drool is dripping down his chin.
Some orderly walks in through the double doors, grooving to his iPod. He takes the plugs out of his ears and comes over to me. “Hey, Sullivan, you got a visitor. Follow me.” He turns around, sticks the plugs back in his ears, and swerves off.
I get up and chase after him. Halfway down the hall, I catch up and tap him on the shoulder. He turns around looking all annoyed, and takes the earplugs out again.
“What is it, Sullivan?”
“Uh, I just wanna know who’s here to visit. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and Aurora’s gone back to the Cape.”
“Hey, man, I don’t know who it is. The guy just said he’s family.”
My heart starts pounding because I figure it has to be my dad, and I’ve got no clue what to say to him. In fact, I’m not even sure I want to see the prick.
When we reach the door to the visitor’s room, I look through the small glass window. I can’t believe my eyes, so I rub them and look again, and get this: he’s still there. Fuckin’ Troyer.
EPILOGUE
Seven months, four days, and ten hours is a long time to be cooped up in a place like Haverstraw Psychiatric Hospital. It’s nothing short of amazing that I’m walking out of here a free man today. Aurora should be here to pick me up soon. I look out the window at a fresh blanket of snow on the ground, with still more coming down. The trees are covered, and so are the cars i
n the lot. I never really appreciated the calm and beauty of a winter snowstorm, but being here with nothing much to do all day has given me the time to think about that shit. Get this: I even took up reading books and writing in this journal Dr. Freud gave me. He said it would help me to keep track of stuff.
I have to say, he’s an okay dude, that Freud—even though it’s still tough to look him in the eye. Yeah, Cyclops never gave up on me. He still calls me his pet project and says that “Enlightenment” never worked better on any other patient. He said it was touch-and-go for the first month or so, but he was finally able to break through and get deep down inside my head.
I’m pretty much cured now; I just have to stay on this medicine he prescribed. And as long as I do, I’ll never hear from Troyer again. Yeah, that’s right. As it turns out, Troyer was just a figment of my imagination. He never existed at all. Doc says I made him up, partly because I wanted the twin brother my parents sold when I was born, and partly because of all the other bad shit that happened to me while I was growing up. The experimental drug just triggered something inside my head and brought Troyer out. Wacky shit, if you ask me.
I also found out that I never actually had sex with Ellen at the banana tree, and I didn’t strangle her, either. The Pillowcase Killer was real, and I actually witnessed him rape and murder Ellen. Believe it or not, he was some dirt-bag mountain man who lived in a shack in the woods about a mile from the camp. They caught him the year after I stopped going to Lakewood.
I recently learned that my father died of a massive heart attack a few days after they released him from the hospital. I suppose I can let myself believe that he really intended to come to see me, like Levy said, but knowing Dad, I could never imagine him showing up to visit me. Still, when I think about him, I get all teary and emotional. I just don’t understand why I even give a shit about him, but I do.
On another note, a few months ago, Jamie Houston turned up alive. Turns out her throat wasn’t cut nearly as deep as I thought, so she got up and walked to some house on the beach, where she recovered. Then she took off. Apparently she was very unhappy with her life and she decided to use the opportunity to disappear for a while. She finally came back and told everyone what had really happened.
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