by R. R. Virdi
Without glancing up, he sniffled and addressed me. “Charles, I’ve decided it might be best for you to come back to the group.” His voice was something else. This guy made Ben Stein look like a color commentator for a women’s wet t-shirt contest.
I wanted to answer, “s’what?” but kept my mouth shut. I figured it wiser. A flat card laminated in plastic identified the man as Doctor Eric Cartwright.
Dry scratching sounds filled my ears. The doc’s free hand rested in a claw-like grip atop his head. His fingers ground back and forth through the fishing-wire-thin strands. More pepper than salt made up his hair. He looked work-worn. His hair and lined face didn’t help. Weary, almost bored brown eyes finally regarded me.
A violent percussion rang through my head the instant our eyes met. I nearly forgot how to stand, much less remain balanced. Horrible contortions gripped my muscles. My body tensed, ready to spring. An unnatural compulsion urged me to throttle the doctor.
Another vision. Charles grappled with the man before me, taking him to the ground. The doctor’s arm sprang out in panicked protest. The soft meat of his inner forearm struck Charles’ mouth. Things got savage. Charles opened his mouth, sinking his teeth into the doc’s arm. They screamed—the doctor in a wide-eyed animalistic wail, Charles in frenzied glee.
What in the hell?
I get visions all the time; the intense ones cause me some cerebral discomfort. This was something else entirely. I felt Charles’ anger. I never feel anything from the victim.
Okay, that’s not entirely true. I get a vague sense of feeling from them. Basic opinions, like they care about this person, or that person’s fishy. That’s about the extent of it. What I don’t feel is how profound their hatred for someone is, and it’s never had a physiological effect on me.
Until now.
What the hell did this guy do to prompt Charles to go frickin’ Lecter on him? A shiver-inducing train of thought went through my mind. What if the doctor was what I was hunting? Why else would Charles attack him? It was a fair bet to assume Charles had been restrained after his attack and confined to his straitjacket. Immobilized, isolated—perfect prey for later. It all tracked. I was missing only one thing.
Proof.
If I tried to gank the doctor now, I could wind up murdering an innocent person. Not only would that not be all-too-groovy with my bosses up top—whoever they are—but I couldn’t bear it. I’m not in the hurting people business.
“Charles?”
His simple question brought me back to the squiggle-infested room and the notion of “group.” I made sure my first response would put me back in his good graces. Biting a fella doesn’t make you all that endearing to them. “Sorry,” I mumbled. I hoped it came across as both sincere and sheepish. I wanted Charles to appear contrite because, let’s face it, I sure wasn’t sorry the doc had got chomped.
“Sorry?”
“For...” I gave a simple nod to his arm.
His gaze followed mine, and he comprehended. With pursed lips, he mulled over it for a moment. A satisfied look fell over his face. “That’s good,” he said. “I was hoping you’d apologize. If you behave, we won’t have to put you back in the jacket.” I was surprised he didn’t bring up my escape, or the fact I had defaced the walls. But, hey, if a cop lets you off with a warning, you don’t question it, right?
His voice took on a solemn tone. “Just remember you’re on probation. I won’t tolerate another violent outburst.”
I gave a curt nod.
“Good. The group is waiting.” He beckoned with two fingers.
I waited for him to turn. There was no way I was going to walk side-by-side with him. He didn’t seem perturbed about leaving his backside exposed to me. Considering Charles had attacked him once already, his decision spoke volumes. There were two options. He was a monster and incredibly confident that I was no threat to him, or a vanilla mortal that believed I—Charles—was sincerely remorseful about assaulting him. So I followed Dr. Cartwright, who may or may not have been a monster, to group.
The grounds were beautiful, not the stark surroundings people expect when they hear the word “asylum.” Not dark, desolate and full of overgrown, untended shrubbery. Spring light shone over a vast, neatly manicured lawn. All manner of trimmed hedgework festooned the place. Some were shaped in serpentine lines snaking to a conical top. Others were less intricate but no less pleasing to look at. A series of perfect cubes, their bases left bare, ran in parallel lines, forming a wall of sorts.
A playground sat to the right—the sort you’d see in public parks—where several patients seemed content to play. It was adorned with swings, monkey bars and spinning blocks with the letters X and O built into a frame. The entirety of it was set in a rectangular field of woodchips.
We headed to the far end of the grounds where columns of trees stood at the outermost edge in a tight formation. I stopped as we drew closer to the woods. My eyes narrowed and I leaned forward, trying to peer into the trees. That was a prime location for something to hide. Even from where I stood, I could tell how dense the woods were. At night, it’d be impossible to see in them. Perfect hiding spot or hunting grounds if patients or the staff ventured out late.
I glanced down to my forearm on instinct. I had lost an hour.
Forty-three left.
A ring of people sat up ahead. I suppressed a groan upon seeing the metal folding chairs. Near the group was a circular fountain that wasn’t working at the moment. Doctor Cartwright waved an amicable hand toward an empty seat.
I followed his gesture and sat down, studying the members of the group as the doc took a seat of his own. A thin man with a wiry shock of dark hair sat closest to me. He gnawed compulsively at the nail of his middle finger. Humming drew my attention and caused me to turn to its source.
The noise came from a stunning woman. Shoulder length blonde curls flitted in the breeze. A few flopped over her eyes of polished turquoise. Fair-skinned with one heck of a smile. A gentle vibration emanated from between her teeth as she hummed, all the while rocking in her cross-legged position atop the seat.
My weight shifted as I leaned over to strike up some dialogue. For investigational purposes, I swear.
Doctor Cartwright cleared his throat and all attention was instantly upon him…including that of the pretty blonde. I was starting to get an idea of why Charles had bitten him.
My focus shifted to everyone else around me, trying to take in everything I could. I had summed up enough about the doc for the moment; I wanted to take mental notes of how everyone reacted to him.
“We’ll begin with you.” He gestured to one of the patients I hadn’t bothered to look at yet.
My mistake.
“Well,” she said and I froze. She paused after that singular word but her voice clocked me with the force of a baseball bat across my skull. My stomach sank into an endless pit and my blood ran a few degrees cooler. “I was…involved in something terrible about six months ago,” she went on.
The muscles in my neck rusted and fought my decision to face her. As they ground away in objection, I willed my eyes to look at her.
My heart followed my stomach into that pit.
Even in this place she retained her striking beauty. Her face was slightly longer than it was wide. The sunlight complemented her skin perfectly—beige tinged with shades of gold. A warm glow danced through waves of chestnut tresses, loose and hanging to her shoulders. Her hair looked disheveled, unkempt. Eyebrows, a bit smokier in color than her hair, were furrowed together in deep concentration. Her jawline ended in a rounded chin. Her lips were pursed. She did that when thinking. Occasionally she chewed on them. They weren’t perky or pouty, but full. Her lips were lengthy, wide, defined and shaped by her entire mouth. Attractive.
Her molasses eyes no longer carried steely resolve. They were softer now, unfocused—lost. Garbed like the rest of us, her posture carried less strength.
She caught me staring and I couldn’t break contact.
> “Ortiz.”
Chapter Five
Camilla Ortiz.
The FBI agent who had crossed my path during my last investigation in New York. Six months ago I had gotten her involved in my pursuit of an Ifrit, a form of malevolent Djinni from Middle Eastern culture. It had killed people by granting wishes that went horribly wrong. Example: you’re an elderly gentleman wishing for oodles of money and a hot piece of tail to shag. Sounds great...until your heart gives out during a heavy romp.
Ortiz went through a hellish gauntlet because of me. She was almost immolated by an Elemental of fire. A pack of Salamanders tried to reduce her to a pile of goo with their corrosive spittle. Her car blew up. Then there was the bit where I tossed her out a hotel window.
Don’t look at me like that; it was a good idea at the time.
And I had gotten her killed. It was only due to a miracle that she was still alive. The worst part? My ineptitude caused her death and I wasn’t even the one responsible for bringing her back. I couldn’t save her. I didn’t save her. Someone else did, and they had paid the price.
Imagine swallowing sand till your throat runs dry. Add a sledgehammer to the temples and, for the cherry on top, screwdrivers to the eyes. That’s what it felt like looking at her after what I put her through. She didn’t recognize the man staring back, what with my new body and all. Ortiz didn’t hear me whisper her name. Thank God.
“I saw—experienced things,” Ortiz continued. “And it’s strange; I know how to deal with them but…”
One thing I’d learned about Camilla Ortiz is that she was made of iron and all things strong. Looking into her eyes now though.... Well, it would’ve been wrong to say she looked weak. Ortiz had never been weak but she looked vulnerable.
“I can handle what I endured,” she said. “But it’s the choices that just...they hurt.”
“What choices?” The first bit of emotion showed in Doctor Cartwright’s empathetic tone.
White teeth flashed as her lips folded under them, and she began her habit of chewing. Ortiz answered after a moment. “Choices between work and doing what’s right. And then there are the answers.” Ortiz twiddled her thumbs, and looked away for a second. “I was led to believe I would’ve finally gotten some when things were over. I didn’t.”
Ouch. I had promised her those answers at the end of the case. Instead, I had left her, unconscious and alone on a church pew. No answers, no one to help her deal with it. My fault.
“People died.” She wore a pained expression, one that I mirrored. “And…I can handle what I saw when I’m awake, but at night…I can’t control the nightmares.” Her voice was a whisper. Admitting that was hard for a person like Ortiz. She was one helluva tough woman. But as strong as anyone is, it’s still not that hard to feel lost.
When you go through a crucible like the one I’d taken her through, you don’t come out of it with answers. You’re left with questions—questions I failed to answer. Unanswered, they had buried themselves in some far corner of her brain and found their way out at night, plaguing her with the worst of notions.
“The man who I thought had the answers...” She paused to reconsider for a moment, and I went rigid. “I thought I could trust him. I was wrong.”
The knife in my gut twisted. My lips compressed as I rubbed them in a fervent manner. Listening to her was hard. I debated getting up and leaving, but that would be suspicious. My job was never easy; this was taking it to another level. I’d worked alone for the longest time and Camilla Ortiz had changed that. I could trust her, and she had trusted me. I had broken that trust. There were moments when I could have told her it all. I didn’t. Now she was here.
The doc’s hand enveloped hers. “Thank you,” he said, before scratching away on his clipboard.
Ortiz gave a gentle bob of her head before taking up silence. That’s how the rest of the group session proceeded for me.
Silence.
Oh, people talked—they shared their stories—but I heard none of it. Everything was muted. Ortiz’s soft whisper and trying tale had deafened me. Guilt’s not so light on the brain. It’s a pillow weighed down by lead, suffocating all thoughts. It leaves you empty.
When “story time” progressed to me, I waved a hand and motioned to be skipped. The doc gave a reluctant nod to the next person, the attractive blonde beside me. I had lost interest in her since Ortiz had spoken. Group ended minutes later and we dispersed.
It was still light out, so there was time to enjoy the day. Some patients wandered to the edge of the woods, talking genially with one another. A handful went off to the playground. The rest remained single and shambled off to wherever. Even the doc had gone, leaving me with Ortiz.
Soundless—that’s how she approached. No whisking of her clothes as she walked, no crunch of grass. Silent. I didn’t move. I wanted to walk away, to continue the case, but leaving her again... I couldn’t do that. It’s not that she would’ve known, but I would.
“Charles.” She smiled. It was genuine and made me feel shades of anguish and pleasure.
Returning it in an equally sincere manner wasn’t easy. My cheeks felt like rubber, refusing to stretch. Her smile deepened and something churned in my stomach. It felt like a lie when I grinned back.
She hadn’t lost any of her strength. I could feel it as her arms wrapped around me in a tight hug. Ortiz may have been struggling with some issues, but she was still an iron wrought gal deep down.
“Hey,” I said, finally remembering how to speak.
“Hey.”
I didn’t know what to say. What do you say to a woman like Ortiz after putting her through hell? “Hey, sorry about exposing you to the world of deep dark nasties, but thanks for tagging along. Sorry about giving you the swan dive treatment out of a window? Oh, and the nearly turning you into an extra crispy FBI agent? Sorry about that. The car thing? My bad. Didn’t mean to get it blown up. You got good insurance? And yeah, the whole getting you killed thing—no hard feelings?” Is that what you say?
“Charles?”
I snapped back to her. “Yeah?” I croaked. My throat had lost all sense of moisture.
A breeze wafted by, casting some of the chestnut locks off her shoulders. “Nothing,” she said. “You just seemed lost.”
I didn’t answer.
“I was worried, you know. Some of us heard you screaming last night.”
Charles had been screaming? So why didn’t anyone go to help him?
“Nightmare?” asked Ortiz. I picked up something in her voice. It wavered slightly. Of course, she had been having nightmares too. Talking about them probably wasn’t her favorite subject at the moment.
“Not sure.” I shrugged.
She gave an understanding nod. “I’m sorry about the jacket. It was harsh. At least you’re out of it now.” She flashed me a reassuring smile. “They didn’t take your drawings though. That’s a good thing, right?”
Drawings?
“Where are they?” Charles might have seen something before dying; maybe he was being stalked and caught a glimpse of the creature.
My sudden response caused Ortiz to blink in surprise. Her gaze faltered and drifted down to my waist, then to my arms. Her head sprang up in an almost Rock'em Sock'em Robots fashion, eyes narrowed.
The soft flesh of my forearm panged as she took it in an industrial clamp grip. “What the fuck is this?” Those attractive lips peeled away from her teeth like a wolf baring fangs.
Shit!
She gestured to the tattoo. It had changed again. Group had cost me an hour.
Forty-two left.
I don’t know what compelled me to give her the answer I did. Stupidity, likely.
“The answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything?” I suggested with a hapless shrug and smile.
Nails burrowed into my arm. A row of acute pressure ran along my skin. Guess Ortiz wasn’t a fan of the book.
“I knew a guy with a tattoo just like this,” she said, her v
oice guttural. “He took me through a monstrous shitstorm...then left.”
I winced. She must’ve assumed it was from her talon-like grip, because it loosened. For a second, I feared Ortiz had put it together and realized who I was.
I widened my eyes, feigning surprise. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her voice was a low growl as she glared at me. “The guy left me alone and asleep in a church. Kind of hurts a girl’s feelings.”
I would’ve appreciated the joke if she wasn’t staring daggers at me.
“When I woke up, there was a body.” Ortiz’s gaze faltered for a moment.
That would’ve been Norman, the man whose remains I’d inhabited at the time. When I finish a case, I sort of leave it behind. My work has a strict carry-on policy. No bodies allowed after you’re done with ‘em.
“The man I was working with was dead.” Ortiz placed a great deal of weight on the last word. Her eyes fell back to my arm. “He had a tattoo like that.”
“Like what?” I shrugged nonchalantly.
“One with numbers that counted down by the hour.”
“That’s crazy!” My voice didn’t quite give credit to the lie. It was a bit too put on.
Her eyes narrowed further, becoming angry slits. Ortiz was smart; I figured that out early on. She wasn’t like most people. She didn’t try to rationalize or delude herself when it came to monsters. Yes, she was a bit thrown at first, but who wouldn’t be? After that, she had come to accept their existence. That took guts and brains.
She reaffirmed my notions a second later. “There’s something going on here, isn’t there?”
“No.”
“Liar.” Ortiz didn’t miss a beat. She didn’t even consider the possibility I might have been telling the truth. From what I could gather, Camilla Ortiz seemed to possess a rare talent that let her separate fact from fiction with an uncanny ease. It was damn near instinctual. She could not be lied to. I’d forgotten about that.