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Method of Madness

Page 4

by Brad Kelln


  "And then I star­ted to no­ti­ce stuff with the kids. First of all, Kyle, the ol­dest, ne­ver used to put salt on anyt­hing, but then one night at din­ner, he to­ok the salts­ha­ker and sal­ted everyt­hing on his pla­te. I was so surp­ri­sed I didn't know what to say. I lo­oked at Cam but, as al­ways, he ne­ver no­ti­ced anyt­hing. I went to say so­met­hing to Kyle but de­ci­ded aga­inst it. I didn't want to sca­re him." She ga­ve Dr. Cla­ric a lo­ok as tho­ugh this was com­mon sen­se.

  "And then it was Sa­rah. She was only ten, three ye­ars yo­un­ger than her brot­her, but she of­ten ac­ted much ol­der. I al­ways felt li­ke we had a re­al con­nec­ti­on and I co­uld talk to her. But things star­ted chan­ging. Sud­denly, she was a stran­ger to me. I didn't un­ders­tand her, how she tho­ught, or anyt­hing. I didn't know what to say to her. She was dif­fe­rent."

  "She was gro­wing up," Dr. Cla­ric of­fe­red.

  "It was mo­re than that," Cat­he­ri­ne rep­li­ed ang­rily. "I know my own da­ugh­ter and so­met­hing hap­pe­ned so that I co­uldn't re­cog­ni­ze her any- mo­re."

  "Okay," he re­len­ted.

  "And then it was my hus­band. I ca­me in­to our bed­ro­om one ti­me and the­re he was go­ing thro­ugh my ap­po­int­ment bo­ok. When he saw me he drop­ped it back on the dres­ser. I was so surp­ri­sed, I didn't know what to say. I wan­ted to yell at him, de­mand to know what he was do­ing, but I co­uldn't. I just co­uldn't." Te­ars fell sud­denly, wit­ho­ut any war­ning, and she co­uldn't find her tis­sue fast eno­ugh to catch them. It to­ok her a few mo­ments to col­lect her­self.

  "Oh ye­ah," she star­ted aga­in. "The­re was one ot­her thing that re­al­ly con­vin­ced me. Kyle ran in­to the kitc­hen on­ce to get so­met­hing to drink. He ran in and threw open a cup­bo­ard, only it was the wrong cup­bo­ard! It was li­ke he didn't re­mem­ber whe­re we kept the glas­ses. How co­uld that hap­pen un­less he was an im­pos­ter?" She lo­oked at Dr. Cla­ric as if she ex­pec­ted an ans­wer.

  Dr. Cla­ric shrug­ged, un­wil­ling to com­mit one way or the ot­her. It was an unu­su­al sce­na­rio but the­re we­re ot­her exp­la­na­ti­ons. That's the prob­lem with hu­man per­cep­ti­on, he tho­ught, the­re's al­ways a hund­red dif­fe­rent ways to in­terp­ret the sa­me event. The kid might just ha­ve had his he­ad in the clo­uds and wasn't pa­ying at­ten­ti­on.

  Cat­he­ri­ne sig­hed he­avily. "I was in the gro­cery sto­re and no­ti­ced a guy in a wo­ol over­co­at and ba­se­ball cap be­hind me. He wasn't right be­hind me, and he wasn't fol­lo­wing me up and down every ais­le, but he was the­re. I know he was the­re watc­hing me. I tri­ed to get a lo­ok at his fa­ce but he kept tur­ning his he­ad. He ob­vi­o­usly didn't want me to see him."

  "Did you tell an­yo­ne abo­ut what was go­ing on?" Dr. Cla­ric as­ked.

  She lo­oked at him li­ke he'd sa­id so­met­hing ri­di­cu­lo­us. "What wo­uld I say? Who'd be­li­eve me? I didn't think the­re was anyt­hing I co­uld do. I didn't think the­re was anyw­he­re I co­uld go un­til…" She se­emed re­luc­tant to con­ti­nue.

  "Until what?" Dr. Cla­ric ur­ged.

  "I se­arc­hed the In­ter­net," she ad­mit­ted. "I se­arc­hed the In­ter­net and fo­und Web si­te af­ter Web si­te on elect­ro­nic we­apons. The­re we­re re­se­arch re­ports, de­ta­ils of the we­apons, ac­co­unts from pe­op­le af­fec­ted by them, everyt­hing." She stop­ped aga­in and wa­ited for a re­ac­ti­on. "You sho­uld check. I'm not joking. It's all the­re."

  Dr. Cla­ric nod­ded.

  "When I star­ted chec­king stuff on the In­ter­net, everyt­hing star­ted ma­king sen­se. I fi­nal­ly knew what was go­ing on. I was be­ing stu­di­ed. I was a part of so­me ex­pe­ri­ment."

  "An ex­pe­ri­ment?" Dr. Cla­ric sa­id, unab­le to hi­de his skep­ti­cism.

  "Yes," she sa­id emp­ha­ti­cal­ly. "The­se we­apons aren't per­fec­ted. The gov- ern­ment is still tes­ting them on pe­op­le and re­cor­ding the re­sults. So­me­ti­mes they go so far as to rep­la­ce pe­op­le in yo­ur fa­mily with im­pos­ters who are the­re to re­cord yo­ur re­ac­ti­ons and ma­ke you go thro­ugh lit­tle tests. It's a re­al­ly ela­bo­ra­te set-up. You wo­uldn't be­li­eve the things I re­ad abo­ut on the In­ter­net."

  She watc­hed him for a mo­ment be­fo­re spe­aking. "You don't be­li­eve me."

  "It's not abo­ut be­li­ef or dis­be­li­ef. I'm just lis­te­ning."

  "Well that's how this hap­pe­ned, whet­her you be­li­eve it or not."

  Dr. Cla­ric nod­ded, not wan­ting to dis­co­ura­ge her from con­ti­nu­ing to vent. "What hap­pe­ned next?"

  "Once I re­ali­zed that I was part of an ex­pe­ri­ment, I star­ted watc­hing everyt­hing I did, everyt­hing I sa­id aro­und my own fa­mily. I lo­oked for clu­es that I was right, that Ca­me­ron, Kyle and Sa­rah we­re no lon­ger the re­al Ca­me­ron, Kyle and Sa­rah. I didn't ha­ve to lo­ok too hard. The clu­es we­re everyw­he­re. Everyt­hing they sa­id, everyt­hing they did was sud­denly un­nat- ural. Not­hing ma­de sen­se any­mo­re. I star­ted to ke­ep my dis­tan­ce from them. I didn't want to gi­ve them too much da­ta to re­port. I didn't want them analy­zing me. But this just ma­de them all the mo­re an­xi­o­us to get in­si­de my he­ad. They star­ted to se­ek me out, as­king, 'What's wrong?' li­ke they didn't know," she la­ug­hed de­ri­si­vely. "They knew exactly what was wrong, but they just wan­ted to drag it out of me." Cat­he­ri­ne fell si­lent.

  Dr. Cla­ric wa­ited but it didn't lo­ok li­ke she was go­ing to con­ti­nue. "What hap­pe­ned next, Cat­he­ri­ne?"

  "One of them let it slip."

  He wa­ited for her to ela­bo­ra­te but she didn't. "Let what slip?"

  "Kyle cor­ne­red me one day, just be­fo­re the end. He as­ked what was wrong, and I sa­id not­hing. He let it slip that be­ca­use I wasn't co­ope­ra­ting, my 're­al' fa­mily wo­uld be hurt."

  "What did he say?"

  "The fa­ke Kyle as­ked, 'Don't you lo­ve me?' me­aning that if I didn't go along with everyt­hing, they'd kill him."

  Dr. Cla­ric bri­efly con­temp­la­ted not as­king his next qu­es­ti­on but re­len­ted. "Are you su­re that's what Kyle me­ant?"

  "The fa­ke Kyle."

  "Okay, the fa­ke Kyle."

  "I'd know my own son," she sa­id ang­rily. Then her exp­res­si­on sud­denly chan­ged, as if she'd tho­ught of so­met­hing hor­ren­do­us. "Oh my God, and then I kil­led him. I kil­led all of them." She gas­ped for air as te­ars flo­wed down her fa­ce.

  Dr. Cla­ric le­aned for­ward and mo­ved the box of tis­su­es clo­ser to her. He lo­oked at her with con­cern but re­ma­ined si­lent.

  Cat­he­ri­ne's body he­aved with each bre­ath. She lo­oked as tho­ugh she might be ha­ving a se­izu­re.

  "Cat­he­ri­ne," he as­ked gently, "do you want to ta­ke a bre­ak now? Start aga­in so­me ot­her ti­me?"

  She snif­fed and to­ok anot­her tis­sue to dab the cor­ner of her eyes. "No. No. It's all right."

  "Are you su­re?"

  "No, I'm not su­re. I don't think anyt­hing will ever be all right aga­in. How am I sup­po­sed to get over what's hap­pe­ned? So­me­one to­ok my li­fe away from me." And then she star­ted to sob aga­in. "And I ha­ven't even told you the worst part.

  "When I fi­nal­ly co­uldn't ta­ke it any­mo­re and went to Cam to get ans­wers abo­ut what was go­ing on, he didn't even lo­ok li­ke him­self."

  "What did you see, Cat­he­ri­ne?"

  She lif­ted her te­ar sta­ined fa­ce. "The god­dam­ned De­vil!" she yel­led and star­ted to la­ugh hyste­ri­cal­ly.

  SIX

  God­damn fuc­kin'Mic­ha­el Wen­ton, Wa tho­ught as he slam­med the do­or of his cram­ped lit­tle apart­ment at the end of Ing­lis Stre­et just out­si­de of down­town Ha­li­fax. He'd ta­ken the day off work be­ca­use he
just co­uldn't con­cen- tra­te. He bla­med Wen­ton for the mess his per­so­nal li­fe had be­co­me. Ed­ward Car­ter may ha­ve be­en the cri­mi­nal, but Wa be­li­eved that Wen­ton knew mo­re than he'd told an­yo­ne.

  The un­suc­ces­sful me­eting with Glo­ria the pre­vi­o­us we­ek, not to men­ti­on the hor­ren­do­us hal­lu­ci­na­ti­on, still nag­ged at him. He ho­ped he hadn't bur­ned the last brid­ge to re­con­ci­ling with his wi­fe. Fuc­kin' Wen­ton.

  The sight of this hi­de­o­us lit­tle shit­ho­le ma­de him crin­ge. He sto­od and sur­ve­yed the cram­ped di­ning ro­om/li­ving ro­om, sha­king his he­ad. I sho­uld be at ho­me. I sho­uld be with my fa­mily. This who­le thing has ta­ken my li­fe.

  He went to the small ca­bi­net aga­inst the wall and sto­oped to rip the do­ors open. He'd purc­ha­sed this che­ap ca­bi­net at a se­cond­hand sto­re be­fo­re his kids vi­si­ted for the first ti­me. He told them the ca­bi­net was off li­mits. He wan­ted a pla­ce whe­re he co­uld sa­fely, sto­re his li­qu­or, a pla­ce the kids wo­uldn't sno­op thro­ugh. Alt­ho­ugh the ca­bi­net wasn't a work of art, it did ha­ve a lock so it su­ited his pur­po­se. He re­ali­zed that he'd ha­ve to find so­met­hing el­se now. He'd rip­ped the do­ors open and crac­ked the che­ap wo­od aro­und the flimsy me­tal lock. Anot­her fuc­kin'prob­lem to add to the list.

  Wa lo­oked in­to the ca­bi­net and fo­und it vir­tu­al­ly empty. He wasn't much of a drin­ker but he'd be­en de­ve­lo­ping a tas­te for li­qu­or ever sin­ce he'd se­pa­ra­ted from Glo­ria. Right now the ca­bi­net only held a qu­ar­ter of a bot­tle of vod­ka. He pul­led the bot­tle out and sto­od up, won­de­ring if he had so­me- thing in the frid­ge for mix.

  This is stu­pid! I might as well go in­to the sta­ti­on. I'm no go­od to an­yo­ne loc­ked away in this apart­ment. If I drink myself in­to a stu­por it just me­ans Ed­ward Car­ter and Mic­ha­el Wen­ton win.

  Wa wal­ked to­wards his small conc­re­te pa­tio and pul­led the glass do­or open. He still held the vod­ka bot­tle in one hand as he step­ped out on­to the cram­ped plat­form. If he le­aned way out, he co­uld al­most see the har­bo­ur. Al­most.

  His apart­ment was on the sixth flo­or of a ten-sto­rey bu­il­ding. His par­ti­cu­lar unit fa­ced out on Ing­lis Stre­et, di­rectly over the ma­in ent­ran­ce. He res­ted aga­inst the ste­el ra­iling and lo­oked out in­to the stre­et.

  Wa twis­ted the top off the bot­tle and to­ok a long drink. He ma­de a fa­ce as he swal­lo­wed-he de­fi­ni­tely wasn't a se­aso­ned drin­ker.

  He bent over the ra­iling and watc­hed the light traf­fic. The slight bre­eze felt go­od and he star­ted to calm down. He lo­oked down at his hands, at the bot­tle. "I don't ne­ed this," he sa­id and set the bot­tle on the conc­re­te pa­tio.

  Wa went back in­si­de for a hot sho­wer. He tur­ned the sho­wer tap fully on­to hot and then le­aned aga­inst the sink, sta­ring at his ref­lec­ti­on in the mir­ror.

  "What's be­co­me of you?" he as­ked his ref­lec­ti­on. "What are you do­ing?"

  Ste­am was ri­sing out of the stall be­hind him and cre­eping ac­ross the ro­om to set­tle on the mir­ror. Wa's ima­ge was slowly fa­ding.

  "May­be you sho­uld ha­ve go­ne to church mo­re," he chuck­led. "Altho­ugh it didn't do my ne­igh­bo­ur much go­od." It wasn't a very funny joke and he reg­ret­ted even thin­king abo­ut the Mer­cer tra­gedy.

  The fog was spre­ading down the mir­ror now, inc­hing past his ref­lec­ti­on and fil­ling in every ava­ilab­le spot.

  He sig­hed. What's that pra­yer pe­op­le are al­ways sa­ying in church? The Lord's Pra­yer? His ima­ge was lost in the mir­ror now, and he tur­ned aro­und and un­but­to­ned his shirt. I re­mem­ber. "Our Fat­her, who art in He­aven, hal­lo­wed be Thy-"

  Don't. A vo­ice ec­ho­ed from be­hind him.

  Wa star­ted and tur­ned back to the mir­ror.

  "What the fuck?" The vo­ice had de­fi­ni­tely co­me from im­me­di­ately be­hind him. He sta­red in­to the mir­ror aga­in. He co­uld just ba­rely ma­ke out his own out­li­ne but it was oddly pro­por­ti­oned now. He le­aned for­ward and wi­ped away the ste­am.

  Wa lo­oked for his ref­lec­ti­on, but ins­te­ad he saw a dis­fi­gu­red fa­ce. The black sun­ken eyes we­re fra­med by a fa­ce of torn, dis­fi­gu­red flesh. A lar­ge ton­gue was ba­rely con­ta­ined by yel­lo­wed rot­ting te­eth. It smi­led at him.

  Wa lurc­hed back­wards, ba­rely catc­hing him­self aga­inst the si­de of the sho­wer stall so he wo­uldn't fall in­to the scal­ding wa­ter. When he fo­cu­sed on the mir­ror aga­in the ima­ge was go­ne, rep­la­ced by an even co­ating of ste­am.

  SEVEN

  Dr. Cla­ric le­aned back in his cha­ir. He ne­eded to fi­nish a re­port on a vi­olen­ce risk as­ses­sment but co­uldn't con­cent­ra­te.

  His of­fi­ce was a small ro­om in Dark Al­ley, the cor­ri­dor of the Ma­xi­mum

  Se­cu­rity Psychi­at­ric Cent­re whe­re the cli­ni­cal staff of­fi­ces we­re ho­used. It was the only wing wit­ho­ut lights in the eve­ning be­ca­use staff wor­ked nor- mal ni­ne to fi­ve ho­urs. Bo­oks, pa­pers, pens and pen­cils, a te­lep­ho­ne, com- pu­ter and a small clock fil­led all the ava­ilab­le spa­ce on Dr. Cla­ric's desk. Even the bo­oks­helf and the small tab­le in the cor­ner of the ro­om we­re fil­led to ca­pa­city. The­re we­re two ot­her cha­irs apart from his desk cha­ir. Cli­ni­cal staff of the MSPC didn't see cli­ents in the­ir of­fi­ces be­ca­use of the se­cu­rity risk, so no staff mem­ber had much spa­ce.

  He co­uldn't get Cat­he­ri­ne's story out of his he­ad. She had such con­vic­ti­on. He knew her de­lu­si­ons we­re strong, as strong as any pa­ti­ent he'd ever wor­ked with. In ad­di­ti­on, her ca­se was pro­bably among the sad­dest he'd ever se­en. Des­pi­te all of his ex­pe­ri­en­ce with the men­tal­ly ill, it was still hard for him to comp­re­hend the se­ve­rity of an il­lness that wo­uld ca­use so­me­one to mur­der her en­ti­re fa­mily. Dr. Cla­ric knew that no amo­unt of tra­ining or ye­ars of ex­pe­ri­en­ce co­uld fully pre­pa­re a psycho­lo­gist for a pa­ti­ent li­ke Cat­he­ri­ne Mer­cer. Her depth of pa­in ca­used him to cross a pro­fes­si­onal bo­un­dary-he felt sorry for her. Even tho­ugh he didn't ha­ve a wi­fe and child­ren he knew the­re was no gre­ater pa­in than lo­sing the pe­op­le you lo­ve, es­pe­ci­al­ly if you're the one res­pon­sib­le for the loss.

  At the co­re of it, Dr. Cla­ric tho­ught, Cat­he­ri­ne's cri­me is so­met­hing so hor­rib­le, so un­be­li­evab­le, that you don't want it to be true. You just want to wa­ke up and ha­ve everyt­hing, ever­yo­ne, in the­ir right pla­ces aga­in-but you know that won't hap­pen.

  Not­hing will bring back Cat­he­ri­ne's de­ad hus­band, da­ugh­ter and son. Not­hing can re­pa­ir the hor­rib­le kni­fe wo­unds that she inf­lic­ted or era­se the me­mo­ri­es of be­ing ar­res­ted still so­aked in her fa­mily's blo­od.

  Dr.. Cla­ric knew pe­op­le we­re al­ways des­pe­ra­te to exp­la­in a tra­gedy li­ke this. We ne­ed to se­pa­ra­te our­sel­ves from this kind of ran­dom vi­olen­ce so we can sle­ep at night. He knew that pe­op­le wo­uld ne­ed to bla­me Cat­he­ri­ne. She had a men­tal il­lness. It was her fa­ult for not ta­king ca­re of her­self. She was to bla­me. The­se exp­la­na­ti­ons pro­vi­ded an il­lu­si­on of pro­tec­ti­on. They al­lo­wed pe­op­le to be­li­eve Cat­he­ri­ne Mer­cer was de­fec­ti­ve, da­ma­ged, dif­fer- ent. Men­tal il­lness hap­pe­ned to ot­her pe­op­le.

  Dr. Cla­ric le­aned for­ward, res­ting his hands on top of his mo­ni­tor. It se­emed al­most too con­ve­ni­ent. Cat­he­ri­ne Mer­cer is psycho­tic and that's why she kil­led her fa­mily. That exp­la­ins everyt­hing. Or do­es it? His pro- fes­si­on ta­ught him not to do­ubt his cli­ni­cal jud­ge­ment. He was awa­re that de­
lu­si­onal pe­op­le can so­me­ti­mes be very con­vin­cing, which is why pro­fes­si­onals ne­ed to ha­ve fa­ith in the col­lec­ti­ve ex­pe­ri­en­ce of ye­ars of psychi­at­ric and psycho­lo­gi­cal prac­ti­ce. So why is Cat­he­ri­ne's story bot­he­ring me?

  He knew that her ca­se was not comp­le­tely unu­su­al. So­me of it even ma­de go­od cli­ni­cal sen­se: the­re'd be­en ot­her ca­ses of psychi­at­ric di­sor­der in her ex­ten­ded fa­mily. She'd had an unc­le di­ag­no­sed as ma­nic-dep­res­si­ve; the­re was a co­usin with schi­zoph­re­nia; and she'd be­en di­ag­no­sed with an an­xi­ety di­sor­der when she was in her early twen­ti­es. Her cur­rent psycho­sis didn't simply ap­pe­ar out of now­he­re.

  Dr. Cla­ric sat back and re­ac­hed for his mo­use. He qu­ickly bro­ught up his Web brow­ser and clic­ked on the se­arch but­ton. He typed in "elect­ro­nic we­apons" and wa­ited. A few hits ca­me up on the scre­en but no­ne se­emed to fit the desc­rip­ti­on. He re­tur­ned to the se­arch en­gi­ne and typed in "mind cont­rol."

  As he was wa­iting for the re­sults, a dif­fe­rent di­alo­gue box pop­ped on­to the scre­en. It was his e-ma­il no­ti­fi­ca­ti­on prog­ram aler­ting him to a mes­sa­ge from a col­le­ague. He clic­ked "re­ad" and scan­ned the mes­sa­ge that pop­ped up.

  He lo­oked at his watch. It was 2:45 p.m. and the­re was a me­eting star­ting at three. Dr. Ge­or­gia O'Con­nors, staff psychi­at­rist and cli­ni­cal le­ader, was sen­ding out re­min­ders to the te­am.

  He clo­sed the e-ma­il and re­tur­ned to the re­sults of his se­arch. The scre­en was fall of matc­hes. So­me si­tes cla­imed to be ma­in­ta­ined by sci­en- tists, ex­perts in the fi­eld of non-let­hal we­aponry, ot­her si­tes we­re cre­ated by "vic­tims," and so­me we­re ma­na­ged by en­ti­re gro­ups de­vo­ted to il­le­gal ex­pe­ri­ments aga­inst nor­mal pe­op­le. He bri­efly scan­ned the con­tents of the Ci­ti­zens Aga­inst Go­vern­ment Ex­pe­ri­men­ta­ti­on si­te be­fo­re he clic­ked back to his se­arch. Dr. Cla­ric was stun­ned. He didn't know that the­se ur­ban myths abo­ut sec­ret go­vern­ment ex­pe­ri­ments and cons­pi­racy had such inc­re­dib­le fol­lo­wings. It was no won­der that psycho­tic pa­ti­ents felt jus­ti­fi­ed in the­ir de­lu­si­onal be­li­efs: all the so­ci­al va­li­da­ti­on they ne­eded was right at the­ir fin­ger­tips.

 

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