"I don't agree, Charlie," Jessica said evenly. "And besides, we have two beautiful kids. I think that's plenty."
Charlie gave her a dark look but fell back into silent mode for the rest of the ride back to the Upper West Side. He then made an excuse and went out for the evening.
The lithium took the edge off Jessica's mood swings, but it also caused her to gain weight. Looking in the mirror one morning several months later, she thought she looked like one of the "Before" photographs from a weight-loss advertisement. She started hearing comments about her "big backdoor" and sniggers from some of the students at NYCU. And Charlie didn't even bother to make his half-hearted attempts at sex with her anymore.
Jessica quit taking the drug. The excess pounds started to come off, though the mood swings returned. But they were mild, and she decided that she could deal with them without pharmaceuticals. In fact, she found once again that she was capable of prodigious amounts of work and creative thinking during the "up" swings. And whenever she was depressed, she found that smoking a little pot and sleeping a lot helped.
It wasn't like Charlie was around much to notice, especially after he announced that he would be running for the 8th Congressional seat in the November 2008 election. He was always off with Diane at some fundraising dinner or "fact-finding" junket.
The surprising thing was that in the middle of all this she'd let Charlie talk her into having a third child. It began when he started talking about trying one more time to have a son to "complete our family," not to mention how good it would look in his campaign literature.
When she pointed out that the psychiatrist said it could be dangerous for her to have any more children, he'd grown angry. "What does that quack know? This is all in your mind."
"Are you blaming me?" Jessica scowled. "Of course he's blaming you," said the voice, which had returned when she stopped taking the lithium. "That's what evil people do. Blame others to hide from their own sins."
"I just think that you could handle it if you wanted to," Charlie said, then decided that he'd rather avoid a scene. He tried to soften his approach. "Look, the girl I met, fell in love with, and married was so strong. She wouldn't have let some witch doctor tell her what she could and couldn't do with her own body. Where's my old pro-choice hellraiser?"
"Adulterer," whispered the voice. "Fornicator."
"Don't be so fucking condescending," Jessica snapped. "Why do you want to have sex with me? Aren't you getting enough from your whore Diane?" The understanding look disappeared from Charlie's face and was replaced with a sneer. "At least she's not fucking crazy ... or a fat cow," he spat. He leaned forward into her face. "If you do this, I'll stay with you. You can be a congressman's wife and attend your stupid little left-wing parties in Washington, D.C.—as long as you don't embarrass me. But I want a son, and if you won't give me one, then Diane will."
Jessica knew that the only reason Charlie was offering to stay married was because he needed her family's money and political connections. Otherwise, he'd probably be willing to take his chances on the fallout of the divorce and the exposure of his affair. So she agreed to have sex with him in order to be impregnated.
It was a clinical, loveless act. She would lay down on the bed at the appointed time, and he would finish as quickly as he could. There was no kissing, no lovemaking. Only procreation at its bleakest.
In January she'd given birth, and to Charlie's delight the infant was a boy. Charlie agreed to name him Benjamin, after her father. Afterward, he'd even treated her a little nicer. If not his lover, she could be the appreciated mother of his children and his political partner. He even started talking about the high-brow functions they would attend in Washington, D.C., after the election and suggesting that she apply to Georgetown if there were any openings in the political science department.
Jessica embraced the idea of being the political wife. She didn't need Charlie as a mate; it was more of a business partnership. The fantasies of life in Washington, D.C., even helped her deal with the familiar depression that returned with Benjamin's birth.
In fact, there were days when she had so much energy, she didn't know how to fill them. She'd written the essay "What Goes Around, Comes Around" by staying up all of one night, feverishly pecking at the keyboard. But it all came crashing down. First, there were the attacks on the article, which she'd expected and relished until the university regents sided with her detractors. And then that bitch reporter Stupenagel started looking into the allegations from jealous colleagues about the efficacy of her work, followed by more accusations of plagiarism and inaccuracies—all of which had some basis in fact; but everyone did it—she was just being attacked because of the essay.
Then came the night when she turned on the news and heard Charlie trying to put his spin on her work. "I don't need you interpreting me for the masses," she'd screamed. "Or using our son for cheap political theatrics!"
"Great, here we go again with one of your fucking mood swings."
She grabbed the crystal ashtray and flung it at him. "You re evil! Fornicator! Adulterer!" the voice screamed in her head.
"You're fucking nuts!" he'd shouted and stormed out of the brownstone.
Charlie hadn't come home that night or the next. As she lay in her empty marital bed, Jessica listened to the voice consoling her. Only then did she realize that it was more than just some disembodied figment of her imagination. It was the voice of God.
Still, she recoiled from God's repeated demand that her children needed to be sacrificed to save them from Satan. "Why them?" she complained. "Why not kill Charlie? He's the evil one. He's the lying, cheating son of a bitch."
"His soul is already lost," replied the voice. "But you can still save the souls of your children."
"But it's wrong," she cried. "It's murder."
"Is it murder to save souls from eternal damnation?" the voice argued. "I command it!"
"But I'll get caught," she whimpered. "They'll send me to prison."
"Oh, but you'll have an excuse," the voice reasoned. "You heard Charlie. Everybody will think you were crazy. They'll put you in a hospital for a little while and then all will be forgiven. But you have to be careful; if Charlie suspects, he'll have them put you away before you can save your children. They'll put you in that hospital anyway and force you to take the pills that make it hard to hear the voice of the Lord thy God."
"But I love my children," Jessica cried out in the dark. "I don't want to kill them."
"If you love your children, you'll do as I say," the voice said.
And at last Jessica had agreed.
As the day of the sacrifice approached, the voice told her to be more cautious. "You need to be the perfect wife and mother," it said. So outwardly, she accepted Charlie's infidelity and lack of affection. She talked eagerly of returning to her classrooms and didn't complain when he left for overnight trips and took Diane with him. But inwardly, the fire of holy retribution burned brighter and hotter with each day.
Adulterer. Fornicator. Liar.
He would lose his bid to damn her children to hell. Yes, she understood that others would accuse her of murder, but that was because they didn't see that in this case, the ends justified the means. Occasionally she quailed at the thought of what could happen to her—prison, or even the death penalty. But not if they think you're crazy, and think of what it will do to Charlie's fucking political career.
The warmer days of March arrived. The time was at hand. She'd taken the family Volvo and gone shopping in Newark to pick up the supplies she needed. She also found a map and planned where she would take the bodies so that no one would ever know what had really happened, and Charlie wouldn't be able to find them.
On the big day, she woke with her spirits soaring. She would do God's work, her children would go to heaven, and someday she would be rewarded by meeting them there. While Charlie bums in hell!
Jessica got up and fixed her husband a western omelet, bacon, and an English muffin. When she heard him st
irring, she fired up the espresso machine so that the coffee would be good and hot when he came down. She'd finished knotting his tie, resisting the urge to tighten it until the veins in his head burst. Then she'd kissed him goodbye and sent him out the door.
Are you ready? God asked.
Hineini, she replied. Here I am!
In the visiting room at Bellevue, Nickles guided Jessica through the questions. "Has there ... ever, um, yes ... been a period of time ... when you felt... much more ... self-confident than usual?"
Jessica considered the question. It had been a while, but yes, whenever she'd seen her name in the newspaper, fighting for a cause, she'd felt more self-confident then. She shrugged and marked "Yes."
Most of the remaining questions seemed no more penetrating or revealing. Was there ever a time ...
... she got much less sleep than usual and found she didn't really miss it? Well sure.
... she was much more talkative or spoke faster than usual? Yes, but didn't everybody?
... that thoughts raced through her head and she couldn't slow her mind down? Wasn't that just because she was smart?
... she was much more active or did many more things than usual? Everybody has energy highs and lows.
She began to wonder if anyone answered no to any of the questions, and if not, what did that mean for the entire population? That we're all crazy, I guess.
The only two questions she'd answered no to were about whether there'd ever been a time when she was more interested in sex than usual... no, never ... or if there'd been a time when she was much more social or outgoing than usual. "For example, you telephoned ... um ... friends in the middle of the ... night?" Nickles explained.
"I don't really have those sorts of friends," Jessica responded. The thought made her sad.
"Then you would mark 'No' on the MDQ."
When Jessica finished the questionnaire, Nickles studied the results before putting the clipboard back down on the coffee table and peered over the top of her pink glasses. "I believe ... um, ah, yes ... that my diagnosis is ... um hmph ... that you're bipolar," the psychiatrist said, "or what used to ... ah, yes ... to be referred to as 'manic-depressive,' which ... um ... is characterized by mood ... ah ... swings from abnormally high energy, the 'manic' stage, to debilitating depression, which in extreme ... ah, yes, um ... cases can be dangerous to others."
The psychiatrist turned to Lewis. "I will ... ah ... of course, write this up officially, but in essence the complete ... ah, um, yes ... diagnosis is Bipolar One with psychotic episodes—exacerbated by severe postpartum psychosis—with a ... ummmm ... schizophrenic personality disorder." Nickles removed her glasses and leaned across the table toward Jessica. "Let me ask you something, my dear," she said. "When you were ... ummm, yes ... sending your children to God, didn't it feel as if someone else was using your body?"
"Well, yes. It did sort of feel like God was moving me."
Nickles sat back. "There, you see," she said to Lewis, "classic schizophrenia ... ah, ummm, hmmm.... I believe that you have a ... hmmm ... insanity defense."
Lewis smiled like she'd just won the lottery. She patted Jessica on the knee again. "Don't worry, honey. When this unpleasantness is over, we'll find you a nice clinic where you can get well."
Nickles nodded. "Yes, there are some very nice institutions in upstate New York, as well as Vermont. Your parents are ... ummmm, aaaah... quite wealthy I hear, and I'm quite certain that I can arrange my ... hmmmm ... schedule so that I can work with you on a ... ah, yes, hmmm ... consultation basis."
Jessica looked from one smiling woman to the other. She began to hope, but then a voice spoke, only it wasn't God's. Murderer, it said. You killed your three babies and deserve to be punished. "Maybe I should plead guilty and get this over with," she blurted.
The other women scowled. "I don't want you to say anything like that ever again, especially where anyone else can hear you—not to your family, not to your best friend," Lewis said, her mouth now tight with anger. "It wasn't your fault, Jessica. You are suffering from a mental illness, which is why you said what you said and did what you did. But no more, do you understand me?"
Jessica looked again from lawyer to psychiatrist. She wanted to believe. "Well, God did tell me to do it," she said.
7
At the sound of the second knock, Karp answered, "Yeah, come in." The door opened and a lean-faced man with a pewter-colored crewcut poked his head into the room. "Coast clear?"
"No one here but us chickens. Have a seat, Espey." Karp walked around to his desk chair so that the new arrival could sit next to Guma.
As he had with Guma, Karp studied his friend for a moment. Tall and tan, S. P. "Espey" Jaxon moved with the fluid grace of a bullfighter. Even sitting down in the chair, he seemed poised to move his lean, muscular body in an instant.
Karp had known Jaxon for about as long as he'd known Marlene, V. T., and Guma, which placed the federal agent among his oldest friends. He'd been another of that generation of prosecutors who got started under Garrahy, but he'd grown tired of dealing with criminals by using law books and training in the art of trial practice. He opted for the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. He'd spent a lot of time in various posts, but his latest assignment with the bureau had been post 9/11 as special agent in charge of the New York office, specializing in anti-terrorism intelligence. Then, almost a year ago now, he'd suddenly quit the bureau and opted for a lucrative position with a private firm providing security for VIP clients.
Karp was one of a handful of people who knew that Jaxon's resignation was a ruse to allow him to operate under the radar to ferret out suspected double-agents and provocateurs within federal law-enforcement and intelligence agencies. That past spring, he'd become interested in a shadowy domestic group called the Sons of Man, who were apparently well-insinuated within the country's political, financial, legal, and military systems. How well, no one knew for sure, but apparently they weren't above using Islamic extremists to accomplish their own ends, which weren't completely clear either, except that they involved power and wealth.
There was no hard evidence proving it, but if there'd been any doubt that such a group existed outside of the imaginations of conspiracy buffs, it had disappeared when Jon Ellis, an assistant director of special operations for Homeland Security, was exposed as working for an independent organization bent on bringing the United States, and eventually the world, under a single all-powerful government. Trying to prevent his unmasking, Ellis had tried to kill Karp, but had fallen into a trap instead, and ended up killing himself to protect his secrets.
Jaxon's role in Ellis's capture and demise, as well as the suspected existence of the Sons of Man, had been kept quiet. Still, he was in a dangerous position. Ellis had the resources of his agency, as well as the people he really worked for. It could be assumed that whoever replaced him would also have access to these resources. Meanwhile, Jaxon was operating "unofficially," and if he ran into trouble, he and his team were on their own; he was persona non grata with the other agencies, including his own—a sellout who couldn't be trusted.
Karp was okay with the Mission: Impossible stuff as far as his friend was concerned. Jaxon was a big boy and knew what he was doing. What Karp didn't like was that Espey had recruited his own daughter, Lucy, onto his team. A savant with languages, having mastered more than sixty-plus, she was more Madam Librarian than Mata Hari. But following the murder of a friend who'd helped her and Espey uncover the existence, if not the identities, of the Sons of Man, she'd signed on full time. She seemed to have her mother's DNA for wanting vengeance.
When Karp appealed to his friend, as a father might, to dissuade Lucy, Jaxon explained that he needed people he could trust who were "off the grid"—that is, who had no prior history with federal and local law-enforcement agencies. For the same reason, he'd also recruited Lucy's boyfriend, Ned Blanchet, a ranch hand she'd met in New Mexico, as well as John Jojola, the police chief of the Taos Indian Pueblo, which was indepe
ndent of other agencies, and one of Marlene's longtime associates, a Vietnamese teacher-turned-Viet-Cong-guerrilla-turned-gangster named Tran Vinh Do. Along with a few handpicked FBI agents, these four made up the team Jaxon created to "try to save the world."
Karp tried to reason with his daughter to convince her that she wasn't cut out for espionage. But he'd had no luck there, either; in response, she'd started spouting French philosophers at him.
'"Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do,'" she'd answered when he asked why she felt that this was her responsibility.
"I appreciate the Voltaire," he said, "but there's plenty of good you can do without putting your life on the line."
"Sorry, Dad, but I think we can't afford to sit on the sidelines in this one. This is one of those times in history—like stopping the Nazis—when good people need to stand up against evil or it will be too late when the bad guys come for the rest of us. And in some way, these Islamic extremists are maybe more dangerous than the Nazis; they actually believe that God wants them to commit mass murder. And the Sons of Man are worse still because I think they're using these terrorists to put themselves in power. "
"Or as Voltaire also wrote, 'Anyone who has the power to make you believe absurdities has the power to make you commit injustices. As long as people believe in absurdities they will continue to commit atrocities.' Yes, I know the drill," Karp said. "And I know they have to be stopped, or we're all in trouble. But that doesn't mean I have to like my daughter being on the front lines, especially as you've already experienced more than your fair share of danger."
Escape Page 10