by Leo King
She decided to leave the jury out on him for the time being.
Outside the office, Richie joined her. “Everything OK, Sam?”
Sam took his hand and squeezed it. “Yeah. Let’s get going. I have some things that I need to do.” In her other hand, she tightly squeezed the charm.
Regardless of what happens with Kent, I need to start cutting the negative influences out of my life.
Once she got home, it took her only a few minutes to collect the sensitive material that Kent had warned her about: her notebook containing all of her notes for her story, her partially finished manuscript of Chapter Three, and her silver pen. All three were placed in a knapsack and put in the back of her car.
Only then did she call the police. The dispatcher said that an officer would be there in a little while.
After hanging up with the police, Sam gave Jacob a call. To her surprise, she got his answering machine. She left a brief message. “Jacob, I’m going to extend my stay at Richie’s room for a few more days. We want to have lunch with you once we finish with the police today. Give me a call, OK?”
Hanging up the phone, she saw that Richie was in her office across the hallway. She had instructed him not to touch anything, so he was walking about, hands in his pockets, looking around.
“Find anything?” she asked. It was a rhetorical question.
To her surprise, he said, “Actually, I think you found the important part earlier.”
Sam peered at him, confused at his statement. “What do you mean?”
“Well, see this?” asked Richie, pointing out the photocopier. “The area that’s disturbed the most is around the copier. Like you said before, someone opened it up and took something out. But the rest of the office just looks like someone just threw everything around.”
She blinked and looked more closely at the way things were strewn about. She realized that he had a point. With the exception of the copier, which was methodically opened and dissected, the rest of the room looked like a child had had a temper tantrum.
“So you think that the purpose was to take something from my copier,” Sam said, joining him in the room, “and then they just trashed the room to throw us off?”
“That’s how I’d write it,” Richie said, flashing a grin.
She chortled. He was a successful novelist, after all. “All right, writer boy. Then what was the reason for messing with my copier?”
He got a look of extreme concentration, and then shrugged. “Hun, I got nothing.”
Sam laughed out loud and patted him on the lower back. “Well, at least you have a cute butt.”
“Not as cute as yours,” said Richie with a wink.
Despite what she’d been going through, Sam blushed again. She was just about to lean in to kiss Richie when the phone rang. Hurrying over, she picked it up. “Hello?”
“Hey, Sam,” said Jacob. “Sorry, I was busy dealing with my attorney. Ya know, moving money around and that sort of thing.”
“Ah, OK,” she said, not wanting to think about attorneys after just having such a negative experience with Kent.
“Anyway, you and Richie want to do lunch? How about Acme Oyster House?”
Sam thought about it. She could really go for some Cajun food, and Acme Oyster House was one of the best in the city. “Sounds good. Why not come over? The police should be here any minute. You can give your statement and then we can go eat.”
There was hesitation before Jacob said, “You know I don’t like the police much. But for you, Sam, anything. Just remember not to mention me kicking anyone’s ass.”
“Right, right,” she said. “Just please come. I need friends near me.”
After another pause, he said, “All right, Sam. I’m on my way.” He hung up.
She looked up at Richie as he placed an arm around her, thinking that she really needed to try to lean on friends more. She was so used to toughing it out alone, she needed to remember that there were people she could trust.
Jacob arrived just before the police did, and, unsurprisingly, three officers answered the call. The interview didn’t take long, with Richie and Jacob doing most of the talking, recounting the events from the previous night. Sam only spoke enough to say that she had been in the car during the incident and to relate how she had witnessed the assailant being chased from the townhome.
The police took down everyone’s story and then walked around the first floor of the townhome. Again, she was not surprised that they took a long time, taking photographs and making copious notes. Even though they said it was to catalogue the attack, she was sure that they were investigating her—just as Kent had predicted.
Whatever the police were looking for, they didn’t find. After being there a little over an hour, they left.
Sam quickly ushered Jacob and Richie out of the townhome, locked it up, and said, “OK. Let’s go eat lunch.” She wanted to get out before she went nuts.
Lunch at Acme Oyster House was mercifully quiet, the restaurant only having local traffic. The police presence in the French Quarter on the way there had been unmistakable. Uniformed officers and members of the SWAT team were on every corner. Even more than before, Jacob’s comment about New Orleans being a police state seemed a reality.
Sam was grateful that the restaurant wasn’t busy. It gave her a chance to take out her notebook and silver pen and finish up her notes on her story. All in all, she was proud of how it was turning out. Now that she had made up her mind to write things that could never happen in real life, alleviating any fear of the third chapter coming true, she had never been so inspired. All that was left was for her to figure out the ending—but she had time for that.
Near the end of lunch, Jacob said, “Hey, here’s an idea for tonight. Let’s go clubbing. There won’t be too many people, since it’s a Sunday night, but there’ll be just enough to keep up your alibi.”
“Clubbing,” she said. She smacked her lips in between spoonfuls of seafood gumbo. “That’s something I haven’t done since I was, what, twenty-four?”
“Twenty-five,” he replied with a wink. “We went to House of Blues and Howling Wolf that night.”
Sam nodded as she remembered that night. They had gone to the two most popular clubs in New Orleans. She had gotten pretty drunk, and he had knocked out some guy who had tried to feel her up. It was one of the few times she’d ever seen him get violent. She sweated a bit at that memory. “Oh, yeah. Now I remember why I haven’t gone clubbing lately.”
Jacob chuckled. “Yeah, well, this time it’ll be different.”
“She’ll be OK if I’m with her,” Richie said. He was eating jambalaya like a native, gulping down the spicy rice and sausage mixture as if it were candy.
Sam reached down and squeezed his thigh gently. Her man was standing up for her. She thought it was adorable.
Richie said, “But if we’re going to do this clubbing thing, I’ll need to know what to wear. Last night, you two pretty much declared me a fashion victim.”
“True,” said Jacob. “While this isn’t Ibiza, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb if you don’t look good.”
She smiled to herself as they got into a conversation about Richie’s lack of taste in “cool” clothes. This was what she needed. To be with people who really cared about her. Not lawyers and doctors. She needed more friends like these two. When this was over, maybe she would find some more. That Dixie woman seemed pretty cool. And, of course, there was Uncle Rodger.
When she came back to the conversation, Richie was saying, “So, Sam, what do you think? We can hit the shops after your appointment with Dr. Klein?”
She knew she looked lost, because both Jacob and Richie were snickering at her. She stuck out her tongue and then said, “All right, fine. Doctor, then clothes, then clubs. Got it.”
The rest of lunch went quickly, with the conversation centering on where to shop for clothing and what clubs to hit that evening. They decided that clubs in the French Quarter would be best, as it would ens
ure that Sam would be seen by the eighth precinct. She liked the idea of Ouellette’s own people being part of her alibi.
It was close to three o’clock when she and Richie walked into Dr. Klein’s office. Sitting in the reception area, she decided what to talk about. While she was no longer legally obligated to see him, having only been compelled during the first ten years after her release from Acadia Vermilion Hospital, she still saw him once a month for any necessary changes in medication. But the recent string of events had her re-evaluating what was necessary.
While they were waiting, Richie leaned over and whispered, “So, Sam, I have to ask. This Dr. Klein seems to operate out of a very exclusive location. Is he one of those celebrity psychiatrists?”
Sam was leaning forward with her charm firmly secured in her hand. “In a manner of speaking. Dr. Klein treats a limited clientele, mostly only the rich, old families of New Orleans. He sets appointments whenever a patient needs to see him.”
“So he’s on call and lets you choose the hours? Lucky you.”
She giggled and said, “Hun, at a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer, I think it’s more ‘lucky him.’”
A few minutes later, the receptionist called out that Dr. Klein was ready to see her, and she headed into the office.
“Ah, Samantha,” said Dr. Klein. He had been standing in front of his bookcase, almost as if it were the blocking in a play, when she entered. “It is good to see you again. I was wondering when you would come to see me, what with the recent string of murders und the police investigating you.”
Sam shook his hand. Despite everything about him that seemed off-putting, she reminded herself that he did give her what she needed to sleep well at night. “Thank you for seeing me so soon,” she said, taking a seat. “The truth is that the medication you’ve been giving me—well, it hasn’t been very effective.”
He walked around the desk and took a seat as well, sitting straight, hands on the desk before him at a perfect angle. He sniffed and said, “Ah, I suspected as much. We should increase your dosage, then, ja?”
She shuddered at the idea and shook her head. “I think I’m starting to become resistant to it.”
With a methodical stroke of his beard, Dr. Klein asked, “Why would you say that, Samantha?”
Sam frowned and said, “My nightmares. They’re starting to happen while I’m awake, like they used to. They’re the same as before. Dreaming of Grandpa after he murdered Papa. Blood and death everywhere. It hasn’t been this way since I was in college.”
He pulled his hands into his lap. “Und your memories of that horrible event, when your grandfather murdered your father?’
Every time he asked it, she never knew what to make of that question. It was almost like he was saying that she witnessed the murder, when that clearly wasn’t true. “The same as always.”
He stared at her for a moment too long. “Well, we may have to try a new medication. It sounds like you are having a rough time of it, Samantha.”
She frowned, wanting real advice and not just pills. “Dr. Klein, please,” she said, squeezing her charm, trying to stave off the rising anxiety. “Lately, I don’t feel quite like myself. I feel like there is something inside me, gnawing at me, clawing to get out. Something that feels downright evil.”
Nodding, Dr. Klein asked, “Tell me, Samantha, have you had any periods of blacking out? Have you had any periods of not remembering what you were doing?”
Sam started to sweat. He was obviously insinuating that she had some sort of disorder. But this was the first time he had ever broached the topic so openly. It was unnerving. “No… I… I mean…”
Sam bit her bottom lip. It was getting hard to focus, and her vision was starting to tunnel out. For the longest time, she just stared wordlessly at him, feeling like she was looking down a long hallway. She could barely feel the charm in her hand.
The wave of nausea eventually passed. When she again looked at Dr. Klein, she saw something on his face that she had never seen before—a small smile.
It looked wicked.
“Excellent to hear, Sam,” he said.
She stared at her doctor. It had been many years since he had called her Sam, always insisting that she use Samantha. Once again, her vision tunneled out, everything around her feeling distant and unclear. She glanced at the clock and realized that she had been staring at him for over five minutes. She also realized that she had dropped the charm on the floor and stepped on it, grinding it into the carpet.
Dr. Klein nodded sympathetically. “Well, zat was very informative. I am sorry that you are suffering so much, Samantha. I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to fix zis as soon as possible.”
“Wait, what?” said Sam, looking around. “What do you mean?” Her feelings of alienation and confusion were overwhelming.
He walked over to her and patted her shoulder. “The war for your mind is almost over, Samantha Castille. Together, we will cure you of ze damage done to you by that terrible man, your grandfather.”
He went to the doorway, as he always did when the session was over. “For now, I suggest you break up with zat Richie Fastellos. He is no good for you right now. You need to focus on yourself, not on being in a relationship. And throw zat charm away. Mementos of your mother are not going to help with the anxiety. We will get you a new, better medication, my dear. Science will save you.”
Her stomach sank like a brick. She had come to her psychiatrist for help, and instead, she was more confused and upset than ever. Picking up her charm, she said, “Wait, Dr. Klein, please! A few more minutes. There are some things I need to say.”
Dr. Klein’s eyes narrowed. He seemed honestly annoyed. “What do you vant, Samantha? You are wasting my time. Haven’t you learned by now zat I will cure you if you trust me?”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” said Sam, desperation growing in her voice. “It’s just… I’ve always thought that a healthy relationship was good for someone.”
“Ah, zat is true,” he said, nodding his head. “But you are not capable of a healthy relationship. You cannot love, not in your present condition. Even now, what you feel for zis Richie is more of a codependence. You must learn to fix yourself before you can be with another person.”
She was stunned. Deep inside, a part of her felt like laughing hysterically while the rest of her felt like crying.
“How can you say that?” she asked. “How can stuffing me full of pills be better than finding someone to love, who will love me in return?”
Dr. Klein sighed and got up to pace around her. “You are still suffering from ze same trauma you had when you were ten years old. I have told you many times, Samantha, that this will take years upon years to fix. Today, we have hit a true breakthrough. But before we can move forward with treatment, we must first remove all unhealthy crutches from your life, such as Richie und zat charm.”
Sam shook her head. She felt so many emotions: confusion, anger, frustration, anxiety, fear—all rolled into a needle that stuck deep into her heart. No. There’s no way he’s unhealthy for me. No way in hell.
“I can’t break up with him,” she said. “I love him.”
“You do not love him, Samantha,” Dr. Klein said, his voice thick with irritation.
“No.” Sam was adamant. “No way. I will not break up with him. Throughout all this, he’s been the one thing that has kept me sane.”
“You are not sane!” His shout reverberated throughout the room. He was right in her face.
She recoiled, feeling as defenseless as when she was a child.
“You are very ill, Samantha,” said Dr. Klein harshly, although he was no longer shouting. “You have not been well since your father died. You should be confined to a place where you can be of no harm to yourself or others. But your lawyer made sure zat was not possible. However, do not mistake being free with being healthy. You are very sick, und until we cure you, that sickness will continue to consume you.”
Sam wanted
to scream. His words hurt because she knew they were true. She was not OK. Deep within, she felt something laughing at her, at the entire situation.
“I’ve accomplished so much—” she started, her body trembling.
“You’ve accomplished nothing,” he said, contempt in his voice. “I vill speak plainly. You have something evil hidden deep inside you. I’ve done everything in my power to hold it back. But if I am going to free you from it, you need to give me complete und total control. After all, I am a doctor. I know what’s best.”
Sam stared at him, her head spinning. Sitting down, she squeezed her charm so hard she felt she might break it.
“Now, if you vant to get better,” Dr. Klein said, sitting back down, “just trust me. You will get better, Samantha. We will get through this. We will persevere. Und when the rest of the world sees what we have done, they will know that it was my science zat brought the monster inside you to its knees.”
She looked up as he said that. Her mouth hung open. Monster… inside… me?
Any confusion she had about him vanished. Suddenly, she realized why he was more concerned about stuffing her full of pills than listening to her problems. It was never about her care. It was always about the prestige of “fixing” her. I can’t believe it. This guy doesn’t give two craps about me. I’m just an academic paper to him. God, I’ve been so stupid!
With that realization came a complete aversion to him. She had to cut all ties. She had to get away.
“You’re fired.”
Dr. Klein blinked and, in an incredulous tone, said, “I beg your pardon. You cannot fire me, Samantha. The state has—”
“That expired ten years ago and you know it,” she said, standing up. “Maybe it’s time I found a new doctor. You’re obviously more interested in keeping me doped up than in fixing me.”
He rose. “Now wait just a minute, Samantha. No one else has ze right to treat you. You are my patient. I have earned zat right.” His voice, despite the incredulous tone, had a rising touch of panic.
Sam smirked. “Not anymore, Dr. Klein. Last time I checked, this was still America, and I’m still free to choose my doctors.”