He climbed back in the car and continued on to the Blue Ridge Mental Health Facility.
Just past the cleft where the road passed between two steep vine-covered hills, the ground opened into the shallow bowl of a valley. Through a picket line of scabby trees a sprawl of low, decrepit buildings was visible.
BRMHF had been the last destination for the hard-core crazies in the commonwealth of Virginia. Schizophrenics, uncontrollable bipolars, borderline personalities, delusionals, souls lost forever. Security was high--the patients (that is, inmates) were locked down at night in secure quarters (padded cells). The eight-foot chain-link fence enclosing the ten-acre grounds was "designed to provide comforting boundaries to patients and nearby residents alike" (it sported a live current of 500 volts).
The hospital had served its purpose well until two years ago, when it had been closed down by the state, and the patients were shipped to other facilities and halfway houses. BRMHF was soon overgrown with foliage and the place was forgotten.
Dr. Aaron Matthews was intimately familiar with the hospital; the patients here had found him a confidant, confessor, judge . . . a virtual father over the course of nearly four years. When he thought of home he thought first of this hospital and second of the Colonial house in Arlington, Virginia, he'd lived in with Margaret and their son, Peter.
Matthews now braked the Mercedes to a halt and examined the place carefully for signs of intruders though a break-in would have been very unlikely. The current to the fence had been shut off long ago but the chain link was intact and the grounds were patrolled by five knob-headed rottweilers, as raw and brutal as dogs could be, teeth sharp as obsidian; they hunted in packs and once or twice a week killed one of the deer that often strolled through the gate when it was open.
He listened carefully again--no sound of approaching cars--and unlocked the two tempered steel locks securing the gate. He drove inside and parked.
Then he lifted Megan from the trunk and carried her inside, pushing through a door with his shoulder. He'd reversed the locks on the doors--you could simply push in from the outside but couldn't get back out without a key.
He stepped into the lobby.
Asylums smell far more visceral than do regular hospitals because even though their province is the mind, the by-product of mental pathology is piss, shit, sweat, blood. This was still true of the Blue Ridge Facility years after its closing; the air stank of bodily functions and decay.
Through these murky halls Matthews carried his prize in his arms. Feeling every ounce of her weight--though it wasn't the weight of a burden; it was the weight of treasure: a golden or platinum artifact, solid and perfect.
Matthews carried Megan into the room he'd fixed up for her. He laid her on the bed and undressed her. First the blouse and the bra. Then jeans and panties and socks. His eyes coursed up and down her body. Yet he touched her only once--to make sure her pulse was regular.
Taking her clothes, he left the room, locked her door with a heavy padlock. He thought about stopping to see his son but the boy was in a different part of the hospital and Matthews had no time for a visit now. Tate Collier still troubled him. He left the building, got into his car and started through the gate. He'd driven only ten feet before he heard the thump-thump-thump of the flat tire.
Oh, not now! His mood suddenly darkened. And he fought once more to keep the blackness at bay. He thought of Megan. It buoyed him just enough to keep him functional. Matthews climbed out and walked to the rear of the car.
He took one look at the slash mark in the Michelin and leapt toward the driver's door to get to the pistol in his glove compartment.
Too late.
"Don't move." The young man held the rusty machete, left over from the groundskeeping Matthews had done when he'd brought his son here. He gripped the long knife awkwardly but with enough manic determination to make Matthews freeze and raise his hands. The boy's muscles were huge.
He blurted, "I'll give you my wallet. And there's--"
"I want to know what's going on."
The young man's voice was astonishing. What a beautiful patois. Carolinian and Caribbean and some succulent English, which tempered the two. This man could fuck any woman he wanted simply by telling her she was beautiful.
"Don't hurt me," Matthews said desperately.
A flicker of uncertainty in the brown eyes.
"What've you done with Megan?"
Matthews frowned. "Who are you?"
Ah, young man, asked the silent therapist within Matthews, you're not a fighter at all, are you? You're out of your element, brandishing that knife like a squash racket . . . And why do you feel so guilty, why do you feel so unsure?
The pistol was in the glove compartment only feet away. But his assailant was riding on pure nerves. With his strength it wouldn't take much for the boy to injure Matthews seriously, without even trying. Besides, while he believed the young man wasn't dangerous Matthews had learned that premature diagnoses can be very risky.
He smiled and lowered his hands. He nodded knowingly. "Wait, wait. You're not . . . You must be Joshua."
The boy's face squirreled up into a frown. "You know me?"
"Sure, I know you," Matthews said smoothly. "I was hoping we'd get a chance to talk."
Chapter Eleven
"You startled me," said the soothing voice of Aaron Matthews. "I didn't mean to react the way I did." He glanced at the tire, laughed. "But, then again, you did attack my Mercedes with a machete."
With his voice trembling (love that voice, love it), the boy said, "I thought you'd just brought her here on a date. To show her some of your property or something. Then I saw you carry her inside. What the hell's going on? Tell me!"
"Wait. Carry who inside?" Matthews frowned.
Show her some of your property?
"Megan. I saw you two."
So he's thinking real estate development. Matthews shook his head, glanced toward the hospital. "You mean just a few minutes ago? Well, I carried in some bags of cleaning supplies. And a tarp. I bought this place and I'm turning it into condos."
A minuscule lessening of his suspicion. Not believing your own eyes, are you? How often we don't. Also, in his face was a suspicion that the young man himself had made a stupid error here. You don't do well with embarrassment, do you? A gift from the African-American executive mom, I'd say. The one with practiced elocution and the Chanel scarf over her shoulder and the defensive eyes?
Matthews noted, however, that the boy continued to hold the rusty blade firmly in his hand.
"Where is she? What were you doing with her car?"
"Joshua," Matthews said patiently, "I just dropped Megan off at my weekend place up the road." He pointed into the woods. "A couple miles from here. She wanted to get a head start on making lunch."
"Why'd you switch cars at the Metro?"
"Megan's got a friend. Amy." He paused.
Joshua said, "I know Amy."
"Amy's borrowing her car. We left it at the Metro for her and took the Mercedes."
The boy frowned. "I didn't think Amy had a license."
Matthews laughed. "Oh? She didn't share that with us. I wondered why she didn't want us to drop it off at her house."
Good, Matthews told himself, giving his performance high marks.
"But wait . . . I didn't see Megan in your car when I was behind you."
"You were following us?" Now a frown--at the boy's odd behavior.
"Yes, I was following you. How did you think I found you?"
"I assumed that Megan told you about me. And that we come up here sometimes."
Joshua blinked.
Matthews studied the young man for a moment then tilted his head and said with sympathy, "Look, Joshua, don't do this to yourself."
"Do what?"
Oh, the desperation Matthews could see in the olive eyes was so sweet . . . He nearly shivered with pleasure. He whispered, "You should forget about her."
"But I love her!"
"F
orget about her. For your own good."
Matthews realized he'd been right. The man had probably arrived at Hanson's office toward the end of the session, planning to confront Megan--and presumably the doctor too--about Hanson's advice on breaking up.
A little obsessive-compulsive, are we?
Or just too much testosterone in the blood?
If it weren't for romance we poor psychiatrists would have nothing to do. As Freud said, more or less, love's a bitch, ain't it?
"You talked her into breaking up with me so you could see her!" Joshua said.
"Megan said that?" he snapped. "Well, it's not true. That's completely unethical and I'd never do it."
Joshua blinked at the vehemence in Matthews's voice. The therapist had deduced that the boy would be a rules-and-regulations victim. Thanks to the other parent, of course--Dad the soldier.
The therapist continued, "She decided to break up with you on her own, Joshua. And then we started going out."
"That's not what she said. She said you told her to break up with me."
"No, Joshua. That's not the way it was at all."
"But she told me!"
"Well, we can't blame her for not being completely honest all the time, now, can we?"
"Blame her?"
"See, Megan has trouble taking responsibility for certain things. Not unusual, not a serious problem. We all suffer from it to varying degrees. It's hard for her to express her inner feelings. Given her parents . . . You know Tate and Bett?"
Hearing the names, the familiarity in Matthews's voice, the boy's defenses slipped a bit more. But he was still dangerous. Too confused, too much in love, riding on too much emotion. Matthews decided he couldn't win the boy's confidence; he'd have to go in a different direction.
"I've met her mother, not her father," Joshua said.
"Well, believe me, they're to thank for a lot of her problems. Her lying, for instance. And the way she'd lose her temper sometimes. It could be bad, couldn't it?"
"A couple of times. But who doesn't blow off steam?"
The question told Matthews that the boy was buying the argument. He laughed. "Joshua, put that thing down and go home. Forget about Megan. This is only going to mean heartache for you."
"I love her." He was nearly in tears.
By now Matthews had pegged the boy the way a geologist recognizes pyrite. An underachiever terrified of his parents. Military dad. Supermother cutting a swath through America Online or TRW. A couple who probably were--to use Megan's tired adjective--great people. And so Joshua wouldn't let himself be angry with them.
But the anger was there inside him. It had to be. But where?
Let's find out . . .
"Joshua, you don't understand. You--"
"Then tell me."
"It's not appropriate--"
Joshua persisted. "Tell me! What is going on?"
Matthews's eyes went wide, as if he were losing his temper. He said, "All right! You want to know the truth?"
"Yes!"
Matthews started to speak then shook his head as if he were struggling to control himself. "No, no, you don't."
"Yes I do!" The boy stepped forward, menacingly.
"All right. But don't blame me. The truth is, Megan didn't like you."
The young man's face froze into a glossy ebony mask. "That's not true!"
Matthews's mouth grew tight. "She told me that the first night we slept together."
Joshua gasped. "You're lying."
"You don't think we're lovers?" Matthews asked viciously, as befit a man no longer fearful but angry.
"No, I don't."
"Well, then how do I know about that birthmark just below her left nipple?"
Joshua couldn't hold Matthews's cold eyes and he looked down at the moss covering a fallen tree. His hands were shaking.
"What do we think of her pubic hair? A bit sparse? And what does she like in bed? She likes men to go down on her all night long. And she loves to get fucked in the ass."
But not by you apparently, Matthews observed, noting the young man's shocked face.
"Stop it!"
"During our first session she asked me how she could get rid of you."
"No."
"Yes!" Matthews spat out. "You know what she called you? The white nigger."
The eyes glazed over in pain as the scalpel of these words incised the young man's soul.
"She'd never say that."
"You were the big minority experiment. She wanted a black man to fuck. But somebody who wasn't too black of course. She thought you'd be a good compromise. About as white as they come. But then she decided she'd got herself a clunker. She told me she had to drink a half bottle of Southern Comfort just so she could kiss you!"
"No!"
"She and Amy'd stay up all night making fun of you. Megan does a great impression of you. She's got you down cold."
"Go to hell!"
"Joshua, you asked for this!" Matthews shouted. "You pushed me, so you're going to hear the truth whether you want it or not. She wanted your pathetic face out of her life. White nigger. You were a toy. She told me again this morning. When we were fucking on the desk in my office."
The boy erupted. And while Matthews's words might have driven someone else to act ruthlessly and efficiently it drove Joshua manically forward toward Matthews, out of control. He dropped the machete and flailed away with his fists. "She never said that!" he cried. "She never said that never said that never said that--"
Matthews fell to the ground, covering his head with his left arm. And when he rose a moment later he was holding the machete.
The young man froze.
Matthews studied him for a moment--the boy suddenly realizing that something very bad was going on.
Joshua lowered his arms. "What are you going to do to me?" he asked in a soft, pathetic whisper.
Matthews tasted the extraordinary voice one last time and stepped forward, swinging the machete into Joshua's throat.
The boy gave a gurgling scream and stumbled forward. Matthews leapt back, away from the boy's swinging fist, and slashed his arm deeply. Then his leg. Joshua fell onto his back, cradling the gash in his throat.
Matthews plunged the rusty blade into the young man's abdomen. But with astonishing strength Joshua pushed Matthews off, twisted away, and rose to his knees, choking and coughing. The blood flowed between the fingers clutching his torn neck as Joshua crawled fast, like an animal, back through the gate toward the hospital. Matthews didn't bother to pursue him. Joshua got thirty feet into the field surrounding the hospital before collapsing in a stand of Queen Anne's lace, which turned a deep purple under the spray of his blood.
Matthews slowly walked toward him. Then stopped. He heard an animal snarling, growing closer. He backed quickly away from the quivering body.
The rottweilers appeared from behind the house. They paused, stood rigid for a moment then charged forward hungrily. Matthews stepped out of the gate and swung it closed as the dogs swarmed in a single muscular pack over the body, which had looked so strong and impervious moments ago and was now just ragged meat.
Matthews leaned against the bars of the gate, enraptured, watching the young man die. Joshua fought hard--he tried to rise and struggled to hit the dogs. But it was useless. The big male rottie closed his enormous jaws on the back of Joshua's neck and began to shake. After a moment the body went limp.
The animals dragged him into the ravine for the feast. His body vanished under the mass of snarling, bloody mouths.
Matthews quickly changed the Mercedes's tire and climbed into the car then sped down the rough road. He'd bury what remained of the boy's corpse later. He didn't have time now. Too many things to do. He was thinking that this was just like when he was a practicing therapist. Busy days, busy days. There were people to see, people to talk to.
I'm here to change your life forever.
*
Who is he? Who?
Megan McCall floated on a dark ocean, that o
ne question the only thing in her thoughts. She opened her eyes and gripped the thin, filthy mattress she lay on. The room swayed and bobbed.
She was dizzy and nauseated. Her mouth painfully dry, her eyes swollen half closed. She rolled onto her back and examined the small room. There were flaking cushions mounted on all the walls, bars on the windows.
A padded cell.
And the whole place stank so bad she thought she might puke.
She sat up briefly, trying to find a light. There was none. The overhead lamp had been removed and the room was dark. Maybe she--
Suddenly roaring filled her ears. Her vision dissolved into black grains and she collapsed back on the bed, passed out. Sometime later she opened her eyes again, managed to sit up then waited until the dizziness passed and she stumbled into the tiny bathroom. The drug he'd injected . . . it was still in her system. She'd have to take it slow.
Megan sat down on the toilet, spread her legs and finally worked up the courage to examine herself. No tenderness or pain. No come. He might have groped but he hadn't raped her. She sighed in relief then urinated and washed her hands and face in the basin. She drank a dozen handfuls of icy water. As she stood--careful, careful, take your time--she caught sight of herself in the metal mirror bolted to the wall. She gasped. Pale and haggard, blond hair knotted and filthy. Eyes red and puffy. And frightened. Megan stepped away from the mirror quickly.
She looked for her clothes. Nothing. She couldn't find anything to wrap herself in. No sheets or curtains. This started a crying fit. She huddled into a ball and sobbed.
Wondering how long she'd been unconscious. A week, a day? She wasn't hungry so she guessed it was still Saturday. Maybe Sunday at the latest.
Was anyone looking for her?
Did anyone know she was missing?
Her parents, of course. She'd missed the lunch. Which she'd been going to blow off anyway. Thank God she hadn't called her mother and told her she wasn't coming, the way she'd planned. If that had happened they still wouldn't miss her.
And Amy . . .
Should have told her where I was going.
But, no, Crazy Megan wouldn't hear of that. C.M. was embarrassed, didn't want anybody to know she's been seeing a shrink. Fuck. She should've gone to Juvie Detention after all. Ten days in jail and it'd be over with. But Megan had to pick the nut doctor.
Speaking in Tongues Page 9