The Dark

by Andrew Neiderman

  “It’s delicious, Grant. Thanks.”

  “Did you call your folks with the good news?”

  “Yes. Oh, but I didn’t call your mother yet.”

  “Oh, no. I’d better do that right away. You know how she gets if she hears news about us from someone else first,” he said, and hurried out to the kitchen.

  Her stomach was so tight, she didn’t think she could eat half the omelette, much less finish it. Every bite seemed bigger than the one before as Jack’s face and voice returned to memory. He was on her case. He was looking into Bois. Somehow it must have taken him to South-Central. Bois was responsible. He had to be. It’s my fault, she thought. I put him in harm’s way. What does this mean? Who is this patient?

  Grant came back, fixing his tie as he entered.

  “Be prepared for some sort of celebration you won’t be able to stand,” he said. “She’s beaming and planning.” He gazed at her plate. “I thought you said it was delicious.”

  “It is, I just . . .”

  “Feel bad about Landry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, they do take risks and they know the danger, not that that justifies it,” he said, and paused, scrutinizing her closer. “Was he on something for your firm?”

  “No,” she said, but dropped her gaze too quickly.

  “You saw him recently?”

  She took a deep breath. She had to tell him now. What if a police investigation somehow revealed her involvement with Jack and they came around to ask questions? Grant would be even more angry at her for keeping such a thing secret. Besides, what if Bois really was somehow responsible for Jack’s death? Would he now direct his attention to her? To Grant?

  “Grant,” she said after a deep breath, “I asked him to do something for me personally.”

  Grant’s hands froze at the tie knot and then he reached slowly for his jacket.

  “Oh? And what might that have been, Mag?”

  “You know how worried I’ve been about you, Grant,” she began. He stared. “You don’t realize how different you’ve been these past weeks, how you’ve changed.”

  “What did you do, Maggie?”

  “I was worried about this new patient and the effect he was having on you. I’m positive I saw someone looking in our window the other night. I mean . . .”

  “Maggie, what did you do?” His eyes were like marbles, his lips stretched thin, a whiteness in each corner of his mouth. She swallowed hard before responding.

  “I asked Jack to look into the things he was telling you, about Mosley and—”

  “You told Jack Landry what a patient of mine told me during a session?”

  “I had to see if there was any possibility of truth to it, Grant. You were too involved and you couldn’t do it for professional reasons.”

  “That’s right, and what I couldn’t do, you couldn’t do. I thought you would respect that confidence.”

  “But Jack came back with information that led me to believe there was a good chance of it being true, Grant. This patient wasn’t making things up, especially this new situation involving Mrs. Mosley.”

  “I think I would have discovered that myself, Maggie. I have some ability to discern illusion from reality. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

  “I know. I wasn’t worried about your ability; I was worried about you, what might happen next. So I. . .”

  “What? What else?”

  “Had Jack investigate Jules Bois,” she said quickly, and waited for the ceiling to fall.

  “You told him my patient’s name and all I told you?” His face reddened and his lips twisted into an even more grotesque grimace of disbelief and anger.

  “All in strict confidence, Grant. Jack was a professional. He understood. He might have been killed while on this case, Grant. Don’t you see? It’s even more serious now.”

  “You’re not kidding it’s even more serious. Never, never in a million years would I have believed that you would betray my trust, Maggie.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What do you call this investigation behind my back, and one involving a patient of mine? Huh? Do you know what would happen to my career if my patients found out my wife had them investigated? Are you mad? Where do you get the right? You think you’re a partner in my practice, too?”

  “Grant!”

  “You think you can bulldoze everyone, charge through every door, take control of my life, my professional career . . . a professional detective! Christ, was he following me, too?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t believe you did this, Maggie. I only hope my patient never knew. For your sake, more than my own,” he said, and turned.

  “Grant!”

  He didn’t stop. He walked out, slamming his fist against the wall in the kitchen before going into the garage. That door slammed so hard, the house shook.

  Maggie sat there, the little she had eaten now up in her throat. The day after the most exciting and significant moment in her professional career, she felt sick and depressed. This patient from hell, as Jack had suggested, somehow, insidiously, had worked his way into their lives and pried her and Grant apart. Now Grant was so angry at her, he wouldn’t listen to anything she had to say unless she could bring him something concrete, something so substantial his pride and his ego would take second place and enable him to see clearly. Was it too arrogant of her to take charge or was she just being a good wife, trying to protect the man she loved?

  And in a real sense, trying to protect herself.

  Grant was in a rage all the way to his office. He was so blinded by his anger, he nearly got into two accidents. Horns chastised him, fists waved, and drivers of other cars glared with murderous intent through windshields. Los Angeles was overcast with a thick marine layer and, to Grant, it added to the burden of fury that weighed heavily on his brow. The morning had started well. He had awoken filled with energy and eagerness to get at his work, meet his patients, and work miracles. In minutes, seconds, Maggie had turned it around. Her success had made her arrogant, he thought. Never before would she dare to do anything remotely like this without his knowledge and approval.

  As he drew closer to his office building, he tried to calm down. After all, it was important, essential, that he separate his personal life from his work. He couldn’t be distracted. He was like a fighter pilot once a patient entered that office. He had to do battle with the demons in their minds and he couldn’t afford to make a mistake or he would crash and burn. It was a big responsibility. People put their mental well-being in his hands, and therefore their lives, their happiness, and the happiness of those they loved and who loved them. I’m too important for this nonsense, he thought, and sucked in his breath as he pulled into the garage and became . . . Doctor Grant Blaine.

  When he reached his office door, he was surprised to find it still locked. Where was Fay? She was usually a good half hour at her desk by now and she hadn’t called to say she would be late. As soon as he entered, he checked the answering machine and saw there were no messages. He settled into his office and waited a good ten minutes before calling her and getting her answering machine. Perhaps something had delayed her, something with her daughter, he thought.

  But by the time his first patient had arrived, she still hadn’t come to work. The patient, Jerome Ormand, was a thirty-eight-year-old man who suffered agoraphobia. He had a marked fear of being alone or in places from which escape might be difficult or help not available in case he suddenly became incapacitated. Consequently, he would drive a hundred miles to avoid going through a tunnel or over a bridge. He would never get on a crowded train or bus and was even unable to go to a movie theater. He had never been in an elevator. His condition had become so serious, his sister, with whom he lived, was afraid he would soon not leave the house.

  The moment Jerome entered the office and noticed Fay was not there, he hesitated. He was a tall, thin man with bushy eyebrows and a head of curly, coarse light brown hair. His brown eyes shifted
nervously as he panned the room. He even gazed suspiciously at the ceiling, his nostrils moving in and out like a curious rabbit’s. As he stood there perusing, his Adam’s apple bobbed and he rubbed the palms of his hands over his thighs.

  This was only their second session, but during the first, Grant had analyzed one of Jerome Ormand’s habitual nightmares, a dream of being locked in a coffin alive, and discovered that during his youth, his mother often locked him in a closet as punishment, once forgetting he was in there for so many hours, he messed his pants.

  “What happened to your secretary?” he asked from the doorway, the door still open behind him.

  “She’s late. I don’t know why. It’s no problem, Jerome. Come on in. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Remaining where he was, Jerome looked at Fay’s empty chair and then at Grant.

  “It’s unusually hot in here,” he said.

  “No. I don’t think so, but if you like, we’ll open a window in my office. Come on in.”

  “You fire her?”

  “Oh, no. She’ll be here.” Grant stepped toward him. He saw Jerome was beginning to break out in a sweat. “We can leave the door open until she comes, if you like. Whatever you like, Jerome.”

  “You know this office is the farthest from the stairway? Did you know that?”

  “Yes. But we’re close enough to the emergency exit in case of fire, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Those sprinkler systems never work. How many fires started and later the firemen found they didn’t work, huh?”

  “You want to just sit out here until she comes?” Grant asked. He moved to the settee and sat, smiling to demonstrate how relaxed and confident he was. Jerome stared at him a moment and then nodded.

  “He said you fired her and I’d be alone with you today. He told me you were having your own problems and might not be able to help me. I would be . . . alone.”

  “What?”

  “He told me,” he said, nodding.

  “Who told you?”

  “He said these doors shut automatically in case of fire to keep it from spreading.”

  “Who said these things, Jerome?”

  Jerome Ormand rose to his feet.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “I’ll come back another time,” he said, and started to turn away.

  Grant reached out and seized his arm.

  “Wait, Jerome.”

  The man spun around, his eyes blazing. As he turned, he dipped into his jacket pocket and brought out a dinner fork, the ends of which had been sharpened. Without warning, he swung around and jabbed it into Grant’s neck. The force of the blow sent Grant back against the settee. Blood immediately gushed from the small holes when Grant pulled the fork from his neck. The sight of so much blood so quickly put him in a panic. He stumbled forward.

  Jerome Ormand stepped out quickly, closing the door behind him.

  “Jesus,” Grant said, gazing down at his blooded hand. He could feel the warm trickle building along his collarbone as the blood flowed.

  Has to be the carotid artery, he thought.

  He stepped back quickly and seized the phone, while he kept pressure on the artery with his hand and a handkerchief.

  Despite the slowing down of the flow of blood, he felt faint. He sat back hard on Fay’s desk chair and waited for the operator to pick up while he stared at the picture of the quiet country scene with a cool-looking brook snaking around a bend, over rocks, toward the line of trees. It started to go out of focus.

  “What the hell . . . happened?” he muttered, pressing as hard as he could to keep the blood flow diminished.

  “Got to stay conscious . . . got to,” he muttered, and resisted the urge to close his eyes, but the lids felt heavier and heavier with every jerk of the second hand on his office wall clock.

  “Nine-one-one,” the operator said.

  He tried to speak, but it was as if he had slipped and fallen head over heels down a dark well.

  14

  Work was nearly impossible for Maggie. Her mind drifted, her eyes left the pages, she half listened to phone conversations and the chatter of office employees before heading out to court for a preliminary hearing. There was still a festive air around her. The office staff had ordered flowers and a box of candy. Phil and the other associates bought some champagne for her to enjoy later. She tried hard to put on a happy face, but Grant’s raging exit from the house continually replayed in her memory.

  Almost as soon as she had arrived at her office, Grant’s mother called and rambled on and on about a party of celebration she was organizing, elaborating on the guest list, the menu, until Maggie as politely as possible got off the phone.

  “I’ve got to go to court, Mom,” she said.

  “I understand, dear,” Patricia said. “You must be twice as busy now that you are one of the bosses. I’ll call you later. My son must be a very proud man today,” she added.

  The sick feeling at the pit of Maggie’s stomach began a slow climb into her throat again. On the way out, she went to the bathroom, washed her face in cold water, took another two aspirins, then headed for the courthouse.

  She had just put her folder down on the table and turned to her client when the bailiff approached to tell her there was an emergency phone call for her from her office. She was to call her secretary immediately.

  “Immediately?” Her secretary would never interrupt her in court unless it was something terrible.

  It felt like a tiny Ping-Pong ball crusted with ice bounced in her stomach. She requested five minutes from the judge, who granted it, but with a look of annoyance, and then she hurried out to the telephone.

  “Marsha, it’s Maggie. What’s up?”

  Her secretary quickly told her the emergency room doctor at Cedars-Sinai was looking for her.

  “I had a hard time reaching you,” she said. “You were already out of the car and they kept connecting me to the wrong courtrooms, wrong people. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”

  “What did they say? Is it my mother-in-law?”

  “No, Mrs. Blaine. It’s your husband.”

  “Grant?”

  “Here’s the number and the doctor’s name,” her secretary said, and Maggie called. She was on hold for nearly five minutes. By now the judge must be fuming, she thought, but she held on.

  “Mrs. Blaine?”

  “Yes. What is it? What’s happened to my husband? A car accident?” she followed with shotgun speed.

  “Mrs. Blaine. I’m Doctor Saltzman,” he said calmly. “Your husband was brought into the emergency room with a neck wound,” the deep, formal voice said. It was almost as unemotional as a synthetic voice on a tape recording. No preparation, no niceties, just right to the point, which hit her in the pit of her stomach like something indigestible.

  “What? Neck wound? Grant? He’s a psychiatrist,” she said, as if that would protect him from any such madness. “He went to work this morning. You sure you’re talking about my husband?”

  He rattled off her home address.

  “And one of his patients brought him here,” Doctor Saltzman added. “He found him nearly unconscious in his office.”

  “What patient? What happened?”

  “Apparently another patient went berserk and was carrying a sharpened dinner fork in his pocket. He struck your husband in the neck. It happened in the office.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “How is he? How is my husband? Is he dead?”

  “As I was saying,” the doctor continued without cloaking his impatience, “this one patient of your husband’s apparently stabbed him with a dinner fork and unfortunately hit the carotid artery. However, your husband had the good sense to keep a pressure point at the wound and stem the flow of blood. Before he passed out, his next patient arrived. Nevertheless, he lost a lot of blood by the time he arrived here. He’s in a coma at present, but we have a transfusion under way and I believe it’s a good prognosis. He lucked out with the second
patient finding him so quickly.”

  “What? What’s the patient’s name?”

  “Bois, Jules Bois.”

  “I’ll be right there,” she gasped, and cradled the phone. She couldn’t help but release a small but sharp cry.

  The bailiff was at her side.

  “Mrs. Blaine?”

  “What? Oh. I have to speak to the judge. I have a family emergency,” she said, and followed the bailiff into court.

  Minutes later, she was pounding the tile in the lobby of the building and rushing to the garage. The attendant nodded and started to speak, but Maggie was already past him, her high heels clicking over the macadam to her automobile. She punched the alarm on her key chain and released the invisible magnetic field. Then she jabbed the key into the ignition and turned it with a vengeance. Her tires squealed as she spun the vehicle out of the garage and into the street.

  Traffic was already bottling up the city streets, but she was filled with a desperation born not only of what she had heard had happened to Grant, but of her uncertainty about what was happening. It couldn’t have just been a coincidence that Bois was there at the right moment. The bizarreness put another layer of terror over the one that the doctor had created with his information.

  As she drove, her throat tightened to the point where she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to breathe. Her chest ached.

  “Why didn’t I do something more as soon as I heard about Jack this morning? I should have called the police,” she muttered. “What has this man done to him now?”

  She pounded the inside of her palm against the steering wheel when she came to a halt at a red light. Pedestrians, many of them obviously tourists, casually strolled past. Their lives were uncomplicated, carefree at this moment, while she was sitting in the car and coming to the realization that her life, her marriage was crumbling like one of those buildings in the Northridge earthquake.

  It was nearly thirty-five minutes before she reached the hospital. The emergency rooms of all the hospitals in American urban areas looked like they were caught up in chaos; Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles was no different. Wounded, sick, and injured people overflowed the waiting rooms, kept employees filling out forms. All the gurneys looked like they were in use; nurses, technicians, interns were racing around, their eyes tiny mirrors reflecting the agony and confusion. To Maggie, it resembled a war zone. The nurse at the desk smiled at her, however.