by Jane Toombs
"Beware—the Black God of Evil stalks the halls. I saw him. Saw Macardit, the Great God of Darkness and he's here, he's come to claim his own."
Not the Bible, this was a new twist. Alma led Frank to the room where Simpson lay with all four extremities tied separately to the bed frame. He eyes bulged and white spittle frothed from his mouth as he raved.
"Come for the sacrifice, he took her, he took her. Macardit, black he comes, with his red eyes aflame."
"How long has this been going on?" Frank asked.
"Days said he was in catatonia all shift—not eating.
We got some supper down him but when it got dark he began to get agitated. I didn't think much of it at first—you know how he goes on. But he got louder and wilder, began rushing around, so I gave him his 100 milligrams of Thorazine.
Didn't touch him. We had to tie him down to protect other patients after he began dashing in and out of rooms, exhorting everyone to prepare for the coming of this black god he calls Macardit."
"Anything in his history?"
"Nothing like this."
Frank called Dr. Greensmith, still on Ten East.
"I can see any possible use in me traipsing over there," Greenie said petulantly. "Write a telephone order for the four-pointing and shoot him with another 100 milligrams of Thorazine. He'll run out of steam. I do hope you aren't planning to continue with this confusion all night."
No, Frank said to himself as he hung up. Not me, Doctor. I get to go home before the night is over.
But the word "confusion" stuck in his mind like a burr. He didn't have to deal with Dr. Greensmith for the reminder of the night but he still had to deal with himself. His confused self.
He didn't intend to give way after his shift to what was rapidly becoming an obsession with Sally Goodrow, but he had no confidence in his ability to stop himself from driving by her apartment again. Maybe he should have asked Greenie if Frank Kent couldn't have a double shot of Thorazine, too.
Chapter Eleven
In the Sunset West Motel unit, Sarah hung up the phone with exaggerated care. Her impulse was to slam it down, but that would be self-defeating when the person she needed to defeat was her son-in-law. And, to be fair to him, her daughter as well. Linda had certainly contributed to the decision Kevin had made and just now handed down to Sarah as an edict from on high.
Her gaze rested on Frank, sitting hunched over in the straight-backed chair by the little table. He was improving, though ever so slowly and, damn it, she wasn't going to have him snatched away from her by Kevin and Linda and sequestered in some nursing home that masqueraded as a convalescent hospital. He'd slide right back downhill in one of those places. She knew he would.
There was only one way to avoid Kevin's so-called "reasonable compromise."
"Frank," she said, "we're going on a trip."
He didn't look up or give any indication he'd heard her. He usually didn't, unless what she said involved CalafiaStateHospital and Thirteen West in some way. Most often he was obedient though, if she took hold of him and indicated what needed to be done. One blessing—he was now entirely continent. Which made what she intended to do more easily managed.
"We're leaving San Diego as soon as I can get a flight to Reno," she told him.
His head came up and he blinked. Not looking at her, he mumbled, "Leaving on a jet plane."
So she'd made some kind of connection, even if it was to a golden oldie song. As she picked up the phone to call Southwest Air, Sarah wondered if his brain would ever function normally again.
When she got through making arrangements, she hung up, crossed to Frank and took hold of his arm. "The flight's in two hours," she said. "Go to the toilet." Urging him onto his feet, she pointed him in the right direction and he shambled toward the bathroom.
"Saved you once," she muttered as she flung open her suitcase and began tossing in her belongings. "You're not getting another chance to backslide."
Kevin had informed her bluntly that he and Linda, out of concern for Sarah's welfare, had arranged for Frank "to be taken care of properly." The ambulance would be there at eight tomorrow morning. She should have him ready to go. Kevin wasn't paying for Frank's care, oh, no, he'd already consulted the welfare department, so the taxpayers could foot the bill.
No way.
If the state hospitals were still run the way they used to be in her day, that's where Frank would have been sent. But some years back, the legislators had seen fit to clean out the wards and send almost all the patients "back into the community." As if any community gave a damn whether those poor troubled souls lived or died.
The old state hospital system had its flaws, as she well knew, but people who couldn't function on their own at least got food and shelter and someone made sure they took their prescribed meds.
"Let it go, it's not your problem," Sarah muttered to herself. "Only Frank is."
At Lindbergh Field, she garnered a wheelchair to get Frank from the taxi to the ticket counter and then to the flight gate. Once they were in the air, she heard him making sounds she couldn't interpret until she leaned closer and discovered he was humming that same old jet plane song.
Feeling inexplicably cheered, even though she tried to tell herself it didn't mean anything, Sarah relaxed a little. There was no gain in worrying about what might happen when she got home to Minden. One day at a time was all she could manage. If Kevin was right in his pessimistic diagnosis of chronic brain damage, then she'd face that when she had to.
In the meantime, Frank was hers. She hadn't wanted him in the past when she could have had him and she was none too sure she wanted him now. All the same, she couldn't shake the feeling he was her responsibility.
* * *
The moon rose white and full in a cloudless sky. Frank stared up at it as he crossed the inner court on his way back to Thirteen West to walk Alma to her car. Frank figured, scientific or not, the full moon made the patients restless. A full moon for werewolves, madmen and lovers.
Enough of that.
But after Alma had driven away, he sat in the Corvette and waited, watching Dave's car. Fifteen minutes, thirty, forty-five...
Go home, he urged himself. But still he waited.
Dave finally appeared, walking slowly, hunched over as though exhausted. He got into his car but didn't start the motor. In the darkness it seemed to Frank that Dave had slumped over the wheel.
After a bit Frank eased out of the Corvette and, not closing his door, moved silently across the parking lot until he stood beside Dave's car. The muffled sound coming through to him made him realize Dave was crying.
Frank hesitated, his fingers already on the door handle. As he started to draw back, David looked up and saw him. Frank opened the door. "You okay, Dave?" he asked.
"Christ, no, I'm not okay," Dave yelled. "What the hell do you think? And the name's David, if you don't mind." He jerked the door shut, cranked the motor and rammed out of the parking lot, tires screeching.
* * *
Crawford Greensmith sat on the side of his bed, still dressed. He stared wearily at the wall, running a finger over his mustache. What in hell was he doing this for? Not a one of those he'd been forced to treat tonight but wouldn't be better off dead. But, no, he'd had to drag his tail over to keep a fifteen-year-old Mongolian idiot alive, had to make sure some old chronic alky got to surgery to have her appendix jerked so she could live to drink again. Cheers. The moon shining through the undrawn drapes reflected in the mirror above the dresser and he glared at it. Why even bother to go to bed? The entire patient population would undoubtedly be howling human wolves before dawn.
A copper pitcher containing plastic daisies sat on the dresser. He rose, dumped the flowers, extracted several small bottles, lined them up on the dresser and studied them. Seconal? If he was lucky he'd drop off and get a couple hours sleep before the phone rang. Wouldn't be left with a barb hangover, either.
Nembutal? Took forever to put him under, but he slept longer, didn'
t wake up at morning's vilest hour—three. But he'd be groggy if they called him right after he went down. Dalmane? He grimaced. He slept. He woke. It had some residual carry over, but....
He smiled wryly. No kick, that's it, isn't it, buddy?
None of the bubbly fizz the barbs added. Shrugging, he spilled out one red, one yellow capsule. One of each and to hell with the Dalmane. He could handled barbs—he'd run a thriving practice, hadn't he, on a lot more than a few miserable barbiturates. Why worry? Impulsively, he tipped out one more Seconal.
Not that he'd ever go back on the hard stuff. They'd be watching what he wrote when they finally gave him back his right to prescribe narcotics. Watching him like dear Nellie did here. He could feel those beady brown eyes probing every time the big bastard looked his way. He could almost hear Nellie saying, "I see what you're projecting, but what's on your hidden agenda?"
Crawford sat on the bed again, feeling the sag of depression. He was closer to forty than thirty. That bitch he'd been married to was long gone—he'd never make another mistake like Louisa. Or like his partner, his ex-partner, who'd practiced with him back in Illinois. His wonderful old pal who'd gone through med school with him had, as he'd put it, "searched his soul," and then turned him in to the Feds.
"It's for your own good, my friend," Lance had assured him. "I can't bear to see you destroy yourself—and you will if you don't get off Demerol."
Bullshit. Hurt the practice, that's all Lance had ever been afraid of. Write him off, too. Hustle, Lance, give them all the shaft, add those plaques until you drop dead of a coronary. And I hope it's soon.
Crawford rose and replaced the bottles, arranging the plastic daisies carefully over them in the copper pitcher.
He wouldn't put it past Nellie to have his apartment searched.
So, he was alone, so what? By choice. No problem to find a woman when he wanted one, not that sex wasn't overrated. Nothing so very earthshaking about shoving a prick in and squirting your desire away. Then what? She usually turned out to be boring. Or bitchy.
He lay back on his bed as the warm muzziness began to creep over him. To hell with Lance, and Nellie and Louisa. And screw the narcs. Crawford gazed up at the full moon through his window and smiled.
Another year and he'd show them all...
The phone rang.
* * *
Sally Goodrow raised her head and stared at the door. The tapping came again. Had David come back? It seemed unlikely. She got up from the chair and made sure the bottom button of her short quilted robe was fastened.
Putting her mouth close to the crack of the door, she asked, "Who is it?"
"Frank. May I come in?"
Sally stood back, astonished and apprehensive. Frank Kent? She looked at her watch. Almost two.
Leaving the chain on, she cracked open the door. "What do you want?" she asked.
"I'd like to talk to you," he said.
She shivered, then chided herself. You know him, he's no monster. Still she hesitated.
"About Dave—David," he added.
Sally unhooked the chain and Frank entered, moonlight streaming in behind him until she shut it out. He looked around, took off his jacket and sat wrong side to in a straight chair, resting his arms along the back. He didn't look at her.
She clutched her hands together, watching him, finally perching on the edge of the plastic lounge she'd been sitting on.
"If David does show up for work tomorrow, he'll be sporting a few bruises," Frank said. "Thought I should let you know."
"David? Why—what happened to him?"
"The last I saw, J. Bates was slamming him around."
"Who's J. Bates?"
"His friend. The one he lives with."
"Oh, him."
"You don't seem surprised," Frank commented.
"I—David told me, but not his name. How badly hurt is he?"
"J. Bates probably won't mar him for life, if that's what you're worried about. David's old enough and strong enough to take care of himself."
Sally frowned. "If you were there, why didn't you stop it?"
"I wasn't exactly there and it wasn't my fight. If I'd tried to interfere, the two of them would've jumped me."
"What do you mean you weren't there?"
"I followed David home. He didn't know it."
Sally blinked, taken aback. Followed him home?
"Just what are you trying to prove, Ms Goody Two-Shoes?" Frank asked. "I could have told you David couldn't get it on with you—did either of you really think he could? Or were you trying to humiliate him?"
"I was trying to help him!" Sally cried.
"Knowing he lived with someone jealous of every unaccounted-for minute of David's time?"
As though to herself, she muttered, "David did say he'd be mad." She broke off and jumped to her feet. "What business is this of yours anyway? You've got no right to come here and hassle me. I think you'd better leave."
Frank got up too, towering over her. She shrank back. "Why are you so afraid of me?" he asked. "Don't tell me you're not when I can see fear around you like a shield."
"You come here in the middle of the night and—"
"You're afraid of me in broad daylight with other people standing next to you. Why?"
"You—you're so big," she said. "Please go away."
"I can't help being big," he said.
She stared up at him, again noticing the pie-shaped wedge of yellow in his right iris. This oddity did nothing to alleviate her fear.
"Sally, I..." He broke off, reaching a hand toward her.
No, she cried silently, don't touch me, please don't... She backed away until she was against the counter between the living room and kitchen. He loomed over her and she moaned in fright. When he took her in his arms, she felt she was being crushed, smothered. Blackness gathered at the edge of her vision and her legs gave way....
When she came to awareness, darkness surrounded her except for a sliver of moonlight showing through a gap in the bedroom drapes. She lay on the bed. Had she been dreaming? She raised her head.
"I thought you might not be so afraid if you couldn't see me," Frank said.
Sally gasped.
"You fainted," he told her. "I couldn't go off and leave you unconscious."
Groping over the bed, Sally was relieved to find he wasn't there, at least. She strained her eyes but couldn't see where he was.
"You're carrying some heavy past baggage around with you, aren't you?" he said. "You're as bad off as I am."
What was he talking about? What did he want?
"Go away," she whispered.
"Yes, in a minute. But what harm can I do you sitting on the floor? I won't touch you."
"You've no right to be in my bedroom."
"I know that. Did some man rape you once? Is that it? Some big guy?"
Panic that didn't have anything to do with Frank welled up in Sally. Frantically she shoved it down, huddling on the bed, next to the wall. "I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered, forcing the words out. "Leave me alone."
"You're not afraid of David. Maybe because you knew ahead of time he wasn't a man, in one sense of the word."
Anger singed away some of the fear, enabling her to sit up. "I liked him even before he told me," she said. "He's nice. He's gentle. He understands. He doesn't force his way into my bedroom and make me—" Her voice trailed off.
"Make you what?"
"I—I don't know what I was going to say. You've got me all upset."
"I don't believe you're afraid of Frank Kent," he said. "It's not really me you fear, he's someone else, a man from your past. You're projecting him onto me and I wish you could stop."
She heard him move and, when she saw his dim outline rise until he stood beside her bed, she caught her breath.
"Sally," he said softly, "I'm very attracted to you. I'd like us to have some kind of relationship."
"Please go." Her voice trembled as she spoke.
He sighed.
"I'm sorry I frightened you, but I can't help how I feel any more than you can. Good night."
Her breath whooshed out when she realized he was actually leaving. Not until she heard the front door open and close, though, did she stumble out to put on the chain, returning to collapse onto her bed, shaking all over. Fragments of thoughts tumbled in her mind. Rape? She'd never been raped. What did he mean? Attracted to her? How could she ever bear to face him at work?
Eventually the trembling ceased and she began to relax. Poor David. He'd been so embarrassed. Humiliated, even, the word Frank had used. She hadn't meant for that to happen. What she'd wanted to do was help him and he'd wanted that too. They liked one another. When he kissed her he'd seemed to be aroused, but then...
With Em it had been so easy, why did Em have to get uptight and jealous? She'd never been afraid of Em, not even that last horrible night with the gun. She wasn't afraid of David, either. Frank was a different matter altogether. David and that man. J. Bates. What she'd been told about what went on between men seemed disgusting to her. How could David bear to—to do it with him like that? Or maybe J. Bates was the one who—
No, she didn't want to think about it. She wouldn't.
No matter what David did or didn't do, she liked him.
Laura Jean with her nightmares—the lab had proved they were nightmares, wasn't that true? Nobody would force a patient to have sex, not a person trained to help the mentally ill. There'd been no sperm. Surely a man wouldn't be cold-blooded enough to plan ahead of time, to bring condoms to work with him so he could do it to Laura Jean and not get caught. That was worse than sick. They wouldn't hire anyone like that.
God, what awful thoughts. It was all Frank's fault for coming here uninvited and unsettling her. She'd never fainted before….except in those childhood tantrums her mother used to tell her about. She didn't remember them, had outgrown them by the time she was eight and they'd moved west. She wondered why her mother had moved. Maybe she ought to recall why, but she didn't.