“Maybe we ought to charge admission,” Andre groused. “I’m starting to feel like an animal in a zoo.”
“As opposed to the lab rats we usually resemble?” Amy asked.
“Rats in a maze or animals on display.” Andre shrugged. “Does it really matter? Either way, we’re a side show.”
Amy didn’t respond, merely getting up from where she had been pretending to watch the game to wander closer to the window. Presumably to watch the orientation groups pass. But Claire knew she was only pretending.
Whatever Amy did, Amy pretended. Andre was full of anger, and Amy certainly tried to be. But Claire knew better. Her constant state of distraction, the oft-lost look in her eyes - there was no rage. Amy only felt two things: despair and longing. Despair, Claire could understand. She felt it creeping up from time-to-time, and more often the longer she was here. But the longing…well, Claire wasn’t a mother. She was married, but she suspected it wasn’t the same. Amy’s longing for her child was a physical ache in Claire’s chest. Andre’s rage was a deep, burning well of fear and anxiety, but Amy’s pain was infinitely more difficult for Claire to digest.
So she did what she always did. Claire made her next move to keep Andre occupied for awhile and rose to follow Amy to the window. She joined her in peering through the glass, seeing only sterile, empty hallways for the moment.
“The least they could do is paint the place,” Amy muttered distractedly. “Give us something decent to look at.”
Claire wrapped her hands around Amy’s shoulders and steered her back towards the game in the middle of the room.
“Come away now,” Claire said gently. “There’s no sense in trying to see him before he sees us.”
Amy gave a half-hearted shrug, as though trying to persuade them both that she’d fought to stay, but then turned into Claire’s embrace and allowed herself to be steered back to the ratted armchair that was her usual place of residence.
From the corner of her eye, Claire noticed a slight movement and realized Miguel was still here. Not that he could be anywhere else. The prisoners were required to remain in the common area between breakfast and lunch and again before the afternoon group session, unless they had a test or a private session scheduled. It seemed as though they would barely adjust to a routine before one of the care team washed out and new measures were implemented. It appeared Miguel, haunting the second set of windows near the cafeteria, was as eager to lay eyes, such as it were, on their new doctor as Amy pretended to be.
Their captors were finding it hard to keep a head psychologist on staff. Claire could only assume the prisoners’ complete refusal to cooperate had something to do with that. But every time they lost the head of the care team, they had to face a new regime, a new mandate. Claire herself had been through two cycles of doctors and she now understood that sometimes, there was safety in routine.
The others were young. They kept hoping their situation would improve. They were under the impression that this was a momentary crisis, and the right doctor would help it pass. Then Amy could go back to her son and Andre could go back to his swinging bachelor lifestyle. And Claire, well, Claire was much older. And much more aware of the dynamics in play. She might not understand them, and she might not believe the explanation for their incarceration, but she had seen enough to know that no one intended them to leave this place.
Miguel shifted again, as though trying to catch Claire’s attention, and she turned back to Andre. She could deal with Andre’s explosive rage and Amy’s aching despair, but Miguel’s needy justification clung to her like smoke, and she couldn’t have that. He was eager for the new doctor, because he was glad to be here.
Not glad, Claire amended. Glad wasn’t the right word. But hopeful, perhaps. He was eager to cooperate. And that, Claire and the others could not tolerate. She had tried to tune out his defense. It was too much to believe, much like their warden’s explanation for snatching them from their families and lives. Miguel was dangerous and she couldn’t, no, wouldn’t let him infect her or her charges. So she turned her back and moved away, making sure Amy was settled back into her usual place, which is how she missed the door to the common room opening silently behind her.
Amy froze, her eyes darting to the door behind Claire, and she slowly sank back into her chair, angled just enough so she could see what was coming. Striding towards them from across the long room was a woman who could have stepped straight out of one of the Italian operas Claire was partial to. With her long, dark hair, bordering on black, and her extensive, flawlessly applied makeup, the woman could have passed for a young Licia Albanese, despite the four-inch heels and barely-there skirt. She also had the carriage of a diva. Those towering heels snapped smartly against the linoleum tile with every step, and she held her head high and purposeful against the glares of the people she was advancing on. Claire felt an uncomfortable, sinking feeling.
“You must be the new doctor,” she said, before the woman could make her own introductions.
If Claire had thought she could take some of the wind out of this woman’s sails, she had been mistaken. Instead, the woman smiled brilliantly, the warmth never quite reaching her dark eyes.
“Dr. Allison Cans,” she said, holding out her hand to Claire.
Instead of taking it, Claire settled herself more firmly back into her seat in front of the chess board.
“Since you’re all here, I thought I would introduce myself,” the doctor continued, unphased. “I’d rather meet now instead of waiting for our first group session tomorrow.”
Claire watched as Dr. Cans took in the room and the people around her. Her dark eyes cut like glass as they took measure of the four of them, their arrangement around the room, and the relationships between them.
Claire did her own measuring. The new doctor wasn’t tall, but those ridiculous heels made her look it. Probably the point. And she was clearly in excellent shape, as demonstrated by the legs gliding out from under a skirt that was dancing the line between professional and not. And she was young. Exactly how young was hard to determine through the elaborate makeup but still, she could barely be thirty. Much younger than either of their last two doctors. And female. Definitely a break from the old regime.
“This is our time,” Claire said mildly once she finished with her assessment. “When we don’t have any appointments or tests scheduled, we aren’t required to interact with medical staff.”
Andre stood and rose to his full height, towering over the diminutive doctor, even in her sky-high heels. “That’s right. We don’t have to talk to you until tomorrow morning’s group session.”
“So you might as well sashay yourself right back to where you came from,” Amy chimed in, arms crossed smugly.
Dr. Cans cocked an eyebrow and Claire braced for the worst. Just because they had been allowed off-time in the past didn’t mean they’d get it now. In the past, rudeness had proven to be the best method for getting a reaction, which would tell them what they were now dealing with. Claire preferred to know sooner rather than later.
“Is that so?” Dr. Cans said after a moment, tipping her head back and forth as though she were actually considering what they’d said. “Then I do apologize. I’m new here and was just hoping to introduce myself informally.”
The three of them and Miguel stared. Had the doctor just…agreed with them?
Claire narrowed her eyes. This sounded like a game, but it felt real.
“That’s your cue to leave,” Amy finally said, and this Dr. Cans shifted her gaze down to focus on her. Claire was wary for a moment. She didn’t want the new doctor focusing on any one of them right away.
“You’re exactly right,” she finally said, surprising them all. “You do deserve to spend your free time in peace. I apologize again for the intrusion,” she continued. “I look forward to seeing you all soon.”
Claire watched as Dr. Cans turned and walked assuredly back towards the door, all eyes following as the guard opened it and wished her a good
day.
“Claire?” Amy asked. “That was weird, right?”
“It was,” Claire agreed.
“It can’t be good, though. Can it?”
Claire didn’t answer.
“Of course it can’t be good,” Andre said, making an ill-advised move on the board that ensured Claire took the game. “When has anything ever been good here? It’s just another head game,” Andre advised. “Don’t fall for it.”
Andre was right, it was a head game. Different from the games their captors had played with them before, but a game, all the same.
Claire couldn’t shake that sense of realness she’d felt from Dr. Cans. She might be playing a game, but she was committed to the role. The question was, how deadly would it turn out to be?
Chapter 6
Quincy
Not for nothing, but she had too much education to be a glorified door greeter.
That was the thought on Quincy’s mind as she smiled and checked in the next patient. Granted, she didn’t exactly have a college transcript to prove it, but still. Quincy let a small smile play across her face as she thought fleetingly of Professor Michaels and his ardent desire to see her seriously pursue higher education. Maybe she could get a reference.
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Neil,” Quincy said, taking the clipboard back from the patient. “We’re on time today and Dr. Thomas will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Mrs. O’Neil said, giving Quincy’s hand a grandmotherly pat. “We’re always on time since you came along. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“Doctors can’t be good at everything, right?” Quincy said conspiratorially. “Time management just happens to be one of their nots.”
“And thank you for getting me a different doctor,” the woman went on. She was a tiny thing, compared to Quincy’s healthy frame, five foot nothing if Quincy were guessing. With her silver hair and oversized glasses held against her chest with a gold chain, she was the epitome of a grandmother.
“That Dr. Ford gives me the shivers,” she said, shuddering for good measure.
“Did I get you a new doctor?” Quincy asked good-naturedly. She just so happened to agree with Mrs. O’Neil. “I must have slipped when I made your appointment.” Quincy gave her a smile. “But you’ll be glad to know that Dr. Thomas is a very nice female doctor that will take good care of you.”
Mrs. O’Neil, bless her old lady heart, gave Quincy a wink and another pat on the hand before wandering off to the seat in the far corner of the waiting room. The seat Quincy always remembered to stack old copies of gossip magazines by. As Mrs. O’Neil liked to say, they were a guilty pleasure.
So maybe being the receptionist in a small clinic wasn’t so bad. She got to make chit chat with sweet old ladies, smile tightly at the not-so-sweet ones, and make coffee. And more coffee. Most of the patients at Dr. Garrison’s clinic were low-income and elderly. Quincy thought she drank a lot of coffee, but the older generation knew how to put it away. In fact, now that she looked that direction, she could see the pot was empty again. Or would be, as soon as the gentleman in the top hat and trench coat finished pouring his cup.
“Now Lionel,” Quincy chided. “You know you’re not supposed to drink anything until after you’ve seen Dr. Williams.” Dr. Williams was the alias Dr. Garrison was using. Dr. Talmond Williams. Sounded made up to her but she hadn’t been around to share her opinion when he’d set it up.
“Dr. Williams will be with you in just a few minutes, I’m sure,” Quincy added. “Why don’t you leave that with me and I’ll keep it warm for you?” she offered.
Lionel smiled beatifically. “Merci beaucoup,” he said warmly, handing her the cup and settling back onto the floor beside the door to the exam rooms. Lionel had been one of the patients that Dave had warned her about. He was…eccentric. Quincy didn’t mind. She had her own little quirks. And while she was pretty sure he wasn’t actually French, it did go with his top hat.
“Sweet talker,” she shot at him, earning a debonair bow from the man.
Quincy settled Lionel’s cup on the desk beside an open notebook. At first glance, it looked like she might be writing a story. And maybe she was. But it sure wasn’t a very good one. At the top of the first page, she had written “Chapter One: Backstory” and underlined it for good measure. Under the words, she had four points:
Victim of a hit-and-run driver
Jogging, Sacramento
No identification
No visitors
That was it. The sum total of her life, written out like a grocery list. Not even four sentences. Just four fragments of a life she didn’t remember. That was all. There was no “Chapter Two,” no discovery or plot thickening. Just a wall of nothing.
Quincy had been using her time here at the clinic to look into her past but she was beginning to think there was nothing to find.
No visitors, the voice piped in.
As though she could forget. That was the one that bothered her the most, in fact. She had lain in that hospital for almost two months, unconscious and alone, and no one had come. People disappeared every day and no one noticed. She was just one more in a sea of faces.
Quincy sighed and scrubbed her hands over her face. She didn’t want to think about it any more today. She glanced at the small clock that hung above the waiting room door and realized it was almost lunch time. She pushed out of her chair and wandered over to the door to flip the sign.
Dave was finishing up with a patient and Dr. Thomas, one of the two medical students on rotation today, would handle Mrs. O’Neil while the other, the uncomfortable Dr. Ford, would observe Dave with Lionel. It wasn’t the first time she’d pulled a female patient from Brett Ford’s schedule and she doubted it would be the last. She knew Dr. Thomas - Ann, as she insisted Quincy call her - wouldn’t mind. Dr. Ford was just…unsettling. There was a sleaze ball quality about him that rankled, made worse by the fact that he couldn’t take no for an answer. Quincy had played around with the idea of telling Logan of his persistent innuendos and invitations and letting nature take its course. But the thought of needing Logan to step some jerk back tugged at her pride. She could handle the guy. She’d done it before.
“There now, Mrs. Roberts,” Dave said, holding the waiting room door open to allow the elderly Mrs. Roberts to pass. “A clean bill of health and out in time for lunch. That’s what I call a good day.”
Mrs. Roberts gave him a wobbly smile and squeezed the hand Dave had offered. Mrs. Roberts came in once a week without fail. She was as healthy as a horse, as far as Quincy could see, unless you count loneliness as a medical condition.
“Thank you, Dr. Tally,” Mrs. Roberts said tremulously. She always called him that. Short for Talmond, Quincy assumed.
“You are quite welcome,” Dave assured her. “Now, you just go let Quincy know when you’d like to come back next week and she’ll set you up.”
Quincy smiled as Mrs. Roberts tottered her way. She had asked Dave once, back when she’d first started working the desk for him, why he let the old woman keep coming. She wasn’t sick and he was seeing her for free. Dave had explained that Mrs. Roberts’s husband had passed several months ago, as though that were enough of an explanation.
When Quincy had questioned him, he’d just smiled. “Quincy, when half of you dies after 60 years together, sometimes you just need a reason to get up in the morning. I’m more than happy to be that reason.”
Quincy thought that summed Dave up pretty well. He didn’t care how he was useful, he just wanted to fill a need wherever he could. That’s why a world-renowned neurosurgeon was operating a low-income medical clinic in Nowheresville, Colorado. It’s why he worked with medical students who could barely tie their shoes. And why he took in wayward girls with amnesia and a hardheaded disposition. He was a helper. A doer. A true servant.
Quincy realized Mrs. Roberts was talking to her. Dave had helped Lionel to his feet and escorted him back to an exam room and it was just Quincy and the little ol
d ladies.
“…and that’s when I told him, ‘Mr. Pickles, that’s no way for a gentleman to behave!’” Mrs. Roberts shook her finger emphatically in Quincy’s face.
“Oh, that Mr. Pickles,” Quincy agreed, sympathizing as best she could. She had never owned a cat. Or at least, not that she remembered. She couldn’t quite bring herself to believe all of the exploits of the pernicious Mr. Pickles, but hey, who was she to judge?
Tuning back in to the conversation, it didn’t really matter that she hadn’t heard exactly what Mr. Pickles had done this time. Mrs. Roberts’ cat was a frequent topic of conversation and was, Quincy was quite sure, the most harried cat she’d ever seen. Speaking of, Mrs. Roberts pulled an envelope shakily from her purse.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” she said, handing the envelope to Quincy. “I remembered to bring in those pictures of Mr. Pickles you asked for.”
Quincy hadn’t asked so much as nodded her head when Mrs. Roberts had mentioned them. “I know how much you look forward to seeing them every week.”
Quincy sliced the top off the envelope with the letter opener Mrs. Roberts had brought her a few weeks ago for just such a purpose and slid the handful of pictures onto the desk. There was poor Mr. Pickles, clutched in Mrs. Roberts’ lap, dressed in a sailor suit. Complete with little hat.
Quincy tipped her head to the side. “How do you keep his hat on?” she asked curiously.
“See there?” Mrs. Roberts pointed. “There are little holes that his ears slide through. That way he doesn’t lose it by mistake.”
Quincy vaguely wondered where one might buy a sailor suit for a cat but she didn’t ask. It was probably better not to know.
“Well,” she said, flipping through the pictures, taking her time, finding no words to express the debacle in front of her. Mr. Pickles in a sweater vest. Mr. Pickles in a chef’s hat. Mr. Pickles sitting in a miniature gondola, bottle of wine propped beside him. She leaned in a little closer and squinted. “Is that non-alcoholic wine?”
Burning Bridges (Shattered Highways Book 2) Page 4