A Perfect Life (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

Scott Thomas hated hospitals.

He hated the long tubes of fluorescent light that made sick people look even sicker; he hated the depressing art—the waiting-room pastels and the picture-book landscapes that lined the hallways. He hated every cough, every gasp and wheeze that emanated from the patients' rooms, not because he lacked sympathy but because he seemed to feel every guttural response and plea in his own gut. Most of all, he hated the medicinal smells of disinfectant and managed death—smells whose stain had first seeped into his mind in a Birmingham waiting room when he was ten years old.

He pushed his glasses up to massage his eyes, then reached across the counter to pull a patient's chart from a stainless steel rack. Scanning the chart, he pulled a Palm Pilot out of a hip pocket and flipped open the metal case.

Behind him a child's voice said, “You're not supposed to do that.”

He turned to see a little girl, seven or eight years old, standing outside the room of a newly admitted paranoid schizophrenic. Scott said, “I'm a doctor,” which wasn't exactly true.

“You don't look like a doctor.” She took a tentative step forward and self-consciously tugged at the hem of a green sweatshirt that had
Limited Too
written in glitter across the chest. “Doctors wear white coats.”

Earlier that afternoon, the girl's mother had been delivered to the psych floor in full-body restraints after a neighbor had discovered her cooking the family cat for lunch. Scott hadn't clocked in until four. He knew nothing of the girl or her mother. He smiled. “What do I look like?”

The girl didn't answer right away. She was studying his clothes. “I don't know what you look like. You dress like the boys in my class.”

He smiled again because she was right. “What's your name?”

She crossed her arms. “Not supposed to tell.”

Scott's eyes moved to the nurses' station and the corridors beyond. “Probably a good idea.”

The little girl said, “I won't tell on you.”

He said, “Thanks,” but his eyes were scanning the hallways. He caught the eye of a plump, redheaded nurse leaving a patient's room. She paused, and Scott motioned for her to come.

He turned back to the little girl. “Are you here visiting?”

“My mommy's sick.” The child's lip quivered slightly, but her guarded eyes never changed. It was the reaction of someone who is hurting but who is used to the sensation. This child was well versed in keeping the family secret. Scott had seen too many children of disturbed patients who wore that wounded expression. The truth was, he had seen it in the mirror.

He walked forward and squatted down to be level with her bright blue eyes. He pointed at the door behind her. “Is your daddy in there?”

She nodded, and her eyes left Scott to take in the nurse who was now standing beside him.

Scott looked up. The redhead looked irritated at having been beckoned by a student shrink. Scott stood. “This beautiful little girl is visiting her mommy. She won't tell me her name, but she says I dress like I'm her age.”

Understanding replaced irritation in the nurse's eyes. She knew as well as Scott that the psych floor was no place for a child. The only thing worse than seeing a parent in emotional trouble is seeing one strapped screaming to a hospital bed.

The nurse smiled. “Why, this is Mrs. Winton's little girl. How are you, honey?”

“My daddy told me to wait here.”

The kid was no dummy. She sensed that the grown-ups were going to move her to a more convenient location, like a piece of awkward or misplaced furniture. Scott spoke to the nurse. “Why don't you step in and have a word with Mr. Winton while I stay here with Miss No-name?”

The nurse nodded, then she gently pushed by the child and into the room. Seconds later, a young father with old eyes and pale skin stepped into the hallway. He looked down at his daughter. “Time to go home.”

“What about Mommy?”

The father's words caught in his throat.

Scott put his hand on the man's shoulder but spoke to the child. “We're going to take good care of her. Right now, your mother needs to rest. And you need to take your father home where he can get some rest, too.” He turned to the nurse. “Why don't you take No-name—”

“My name's Savannah.”

“Savannah, can you go with the nurse for just a minute? I'm sure she can find you a Coke or a Sprite. I need to speak with your father.”

Winton told his daughter it was okay to go, and the plump nurse led her away.

When the child was out of earshot, Scott spoke quietly to the man whose wife had been losing her mind since the day they married. “I know this is hard.”

Winton glared now. “You do? You know what this feels like?”

“Yes.” Scott nodded, “I do. But, as tough as it is for you, it's a thousand times tougher for a child.” The man started to interrupt, and Scott held up his hands. “I know you're doing the best you can. Just, please, find somewhere for your daughter besides these halls. It's a tough place for adults. For her . . .” His voice trailed off as he paused to examine the man's defeated face. “Look. My name's Scott Thomas. I'm here every weekday afternoon.” He pulled a generic hospital card from his pocket and jotted his number on the back. “Call any time. Leave a message if I'm not here. I can find out more than you can. And”—he paused again—”see if you can get Savannah to talk to you about her mother. She's keeping too much inside, Mr. Winton. I know the look. She needs to know it's okay to talk with you about this.”

The man nodded—the movement seemed to take all his strength—and left to collect his daughter.

Scott was standing at the nurses' station when father and child got on the elevator. The little girl held a soft drink in one hand. She caught Scott's eye, then she held up her free hand and made a squeezing, bye-bye motion. The wave was universal—something almost all little kids do—but it pulled hard at Scott's memory. The child's gesture echoing that of his own little brother years ago.

He mirrored her wave and smiled. But as he turned and navigated the spider web of hallways leading to room 1236, his smile faded.

Scott Thomas hated hospitals.

In the too-bright corridor, Scott paused to draw a deep breath before knocking on the door of his least favorite patient. A voice, muffled by the closed door, said, “Not now.”

“Mrs. Hunter? It's Scott Thomas. I need to speak with you.”

“I'm not dressed. Please come back later.” It was something new each day. The first couple of times, Scott had fallen for it; then he had realized that Patricia Hunter would never have time for his questions.

“Cover up if you need to. I'm coming in.” He pressed the lever on the door handle, but then hesitated a few seconds on the off chance she was telling the truth. When he stepped into the room, he found Mrs. Hunter lounging on her bed. She was dressed in cotton pajamas and a blue silk robe, and she leaned against half a dozen pillows. She was a beautiful woman—hospital pale and without a hint of makeup, but quite beautiful in that dark-haired, blue-eyed way that cameras love. Across her lap lay an open copy of
The Shining
.

He nodded at the book. “Are you a Stephen King fan?”

She smiled the way certain well-bred women do when they're irritated. “Is that psychologically significant?”

“Probably.”

He glanced down at her chart. Patricia Hunter had checked herself in to Boston General two weeks earlier, complaining of depression and suicidal thoughts following the death of her stepson. After reviewing the notes from her counseling sessions and conducting nearly a dozen of these interviews, Scott had concluded that Mrs. Hunter suffered from nothing more serious than extraordinary and perverse self-involvement. It seemed that this woman had found in her stepson's death nothing so much as a bright lens to focus society's attention onto herself.

It was a harsh assessment, but this was a harsh woman. Truth be known, she was simply spoiled the way beautiful people often are throughout their lives—first by doting parents and teachers and then by the opposite sex. And Scott was still idealistic enough to resent the time and attention that Mrs. Hunter took away from the care of his other patients who wanted, and desperately needed, to get over real emotional harm. The psych ward nurses, who'd had the pleasure of her company twenty-four hours a day, had dubbed Mrs. Hunter a “carrier,” meaning she didn't suffer from emotional harm so much as she inflicted it on others.

He looked up from her chart. “How are you feeling?”

“Peachy.” She turned and gazed out the window. “Scotty?” Her boredom sounded forced. “You seem like a nice boy, but I do not want to be a part of your educational experience.”

“Dr. Reynolds asked me to monitor the progress of—”

She transferred her gaze to the ceiling. “Where's the remote control?”

“On the bedside table. But, if you could wait a few minutes, we really need—” As Scott spoke, Patricia Hunter picked up the remote and clicked on the television. He raised his voice over the din. “We really need to talk about your progress.” He glanced down at a list of questions on his clipboard. “Now, Dr. Reynolds isn't seeing your participation grow in your group sessions. We'd like to know if there's anything we can do to make you more comfortable.”

“Go . . . away.” She spaced out the words, pausing between them for emphasis.

“If you could just—”

She clicked off the television, settled into the pillows, then closed her beautiful blue eyes. “Turn off the light on your way out, Scotty.”

Scott Thomas dropped the clipboard to his side and turned to leave. As he pulled open the door and reached to kill the lights, he said, “See you tomorrow, Mrs. Hunter.”

Just before the door closed, he heard his patient say, “Fuck you, Scotty.”

In the hallway he paused to jot a few notes on Mrs. Hunter's chart.

Patient P. Hunter remains hostile and uncooperative. Concur with Dr. Reynolds's assessment this
A.M.
Patient distrusts authority, suffers moderate paranoia and social disconnect. She is not, however, clinically depressed.

As he clipped the pen into his shirt pocket, Scott glanced at the closed door and spoke quietly to himself. “And fuck you, too, lady.”

A voice sounded behind him. “That's not very professional.”

Scott turned to see the smiling face of an attractive nurse only a couple of years older than he. “Oh. Hi, Kate.” His face colored. “You surprised me.”

Kate Billings wore a black trench coat over pure white scrubs. In one hand she held leather gloves that had puffs of rabbit fur lining the bottom edges. “Trouble with Mrs. Hunter?”

“Yeah.” He motioned for Kate to follow him a few steps away from the door. “The woman's miserable. She's not clinically depressed, but she
is
miserable and wants everyone else to feel the same way. I'm afraid I just got enough of her. I think Dr. Reynolds has me come over here after classes just so he won't have to deal with her outside the group.” He watched the nurse button her coat. “I hear you're stuck with her full time.”

“She likes me. I bring her Xanax.” Kate smiled. “Dr. Reynolds wanted you and me to get together this afternoon and kind of coordinate. I guess I need some guidance on what a full-time nurse is supposed to do. I keep picturing a lot of wasted time, sitting around waiting for her to ring a little bell or something.”

Scott smiled back. Smiling at Kate Billings was easy. “Unfortunately, I think you may have a pretty good handle on it. Basically, she's rich, she's spoiled, and she wants her backside kissed full time.”

“Dr. Reynolds told me that one of the reasons he asked for me was because I wouldn't be intimidated.”

“Patricia Hunter wanting her ass kissed isn't the same as us wanting you to kiss it.”

“That's good.” Kate held her purse under one arm while she pulled on gloves. “Is it true that her teenage stepson killed himself after she seduced him?”

“News to me, but I'm just her analyst.” He added, “I know that sounds bad. But she's utilizing a bed here that could be occupied by someone who really needs it.” He paused. “Seduced her own stepson, huh?”

“Probably gossip.” She glanced in her purse to make sure her keys were there. “I hear you had your Jeep stolen.”

“It's an old Land Cruiser. Looks a little like a Jeep Wrangler on steroids. I got it back.”

“How'd that happen?”

“No one knows. Made me look like an idiot for reporting it. Pretty spooky, too. These two kids carjacked me at knifepoint out in the middle of nowhere, south of here, then just brought it to my apartment last night and left it.”

“Probably got scared, found your address in the car somewhere, and brought it back.”

“I guess.”

“Anyway.” Kate smiled that great smile again. “Gotta go. Hot date to get ready for.”

“Good luck.” It was something to say.

Kate glanced back over her shoulder as she headed for the elevators. “All I hope for now is a decent dinner and a movie without having to hear about his job or his ex. And, believe me, that takes some luck these days.” She paused and turned back. “Dr. Thomas?”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking. Why don't you take me out some night and see what kind of luck you have?”

Scott was still trying to think of a response when the elevator doors opened and Kate Billings disappeared inside.

CHAPTER 5

Scott's rhythmic breathing sent puffs of fog into the morning air. His apartment lay three hundred yards behind him now. His muscles were warm, his breathing deep and easy. Concrete—cracked and chipped by New England winters—spun beneath his feet. Frigid air burned his lungs, and his mind cleared. Other stocking-capped joggers moved stiffly in the morning air, and, as always, the movement and rhythm of running helped Scott to order his thoughts, to separate childhood demons from the pleasures of his work. After all, he was in the doctoral program in psychology at Harvard. He smiled and felt the hard, metallic taste of cold against his teeth.

Unbelievable.

Cutting through campus, he made his way to the Starbucks on Harvard Square, where he stood in line with the full weirdness of Harvard University, ordered a blueberry muffin top and a large cappuccino, and picked up a Saturday
New York Times
at the register. He ate standing until a stool opened up in front of the plate glass facing Church Street.

As Scott placed his purchases on the counter, a young man with a pierced eyebrow reached over and shoved at Scott's folded newspaper. “She's coming back.”

Scott looked at the guy, then turned to see the teenage girl who'd just vacated the stool push through the crowd and leave by the street door. “I don't think so.” He sat on the stool.

“I said she's coming back.”

Scott took a sip of his coffee. “Doesn't look like it.”

The guy pushed to his feet. “Listen, asshole—”

Scott swiveled on the stool to meet the guy's eyes. “If your friend comes back, I'll be happy to give her my seat. Until she does, you really need to sit down and shut up.”

The guy trembled. All he could get out was “Asshole.”

Scott turned back to his newspaper. “Yeah, you said that.”

A few seconds passed before the young man spun away from Scott and ran after his girl. When he'd gone, a woman in running shoes smiled at Scott from two seats away. She nodded at the departed irritant. “Nice guy.”

Scott shrugged. “He had an argument with his girlfriend. Just needed to blow off some steam.”

The woman's eyes narrowed. “How'd you know that? I listened to them bitch at each other for ten minutes before you came in.”

“Lucky guess.” He smiled. “Pretty obvious, if you think about it.”

She gathered up her breakfast trash. “You should do this for a living.”

“I do.”

“Okay.” She pointed out the window. “What do you make of
him
?”

Scott leaned forward to look down the sidewalk where a young man leaned against a lightpole. “What do you mean?”

“Sit back. Wait until I tell you to look.”

The student shrink smiled, settled back onto his stool, and opened the newspaper.

“Okay, now.”

Scott glanced up from the sports section and sighed. But something in the woman's expression made him look again. When he leaned forward, his vision locked into a pair of extraordinarily dark and disturbing eyes, and something—something with the horrible familiarity of a half-forgotten nightmare—seized deep in his gut.

Scott fought the temptation to look away. The young man held his gaze for just a few seconds, then turned and trotted effortlessly across heavy midday traffic.

The woman leaned over to nudge Scott. “Well?”

“I don't know.”

“What was wrong with his face? All shiny like that?”

“Scar tissue.”

“Poor thing.” She grimaced. “But what'd he have against you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well,
Mr.
I-do-this-for-a-living, that guy had been out there staring a hole in you since you walked in the front door.”

“Maybe he thought he knew me from somewhere.” Scott's thoughts stumbled for an explanation that would salve his own nerves. “I work at a hospital.”

“Oh.” The woman seemed satisfied. “That's probably it.”

Fifteen minutes later, Scott was back on the sidewalk. Starbucks had been on the return side of his three-mile run. Now, a half mile from home, he walked and sipped coffee and scanned newspaper headlines. Israelis and Palestinians were killing each other; LAX had been evacuated again after a baggage checker fell asleep; identity theft was the fastest-growing crime in America. The end of history was turning out to be a real bear.

He jogged up open steps to the small porch outside the door to his apartment over the Ashtons' garage. He pulled a key from inside his shirt where it hung on a string around his neck. The metal was warm against his fingertips. He leaned down to fit it into the dead bolt. Static electricity popped him hard on the ends of his fingers, and he let out a little yelp.

Smiling at the delicacy of his vocalization, he leaned back down and slid his key into the lock.

And a sound—a scraping noise—came from inside.

He tried the door. It wasn't locked. He pushed the door open and called out. “Hello?”

No one answered.

“Listen. There's a cheap stereo in the living room, and I keep my money in the bedside table. Already gave away a car this week.”

He backed carefully down the steps and jogged out onto Welder Avenue. A block down, Scott ducked into a rose arbor that arched over a neighbor's front walk. He thought of finding a phone to call the cops. Instead he waited, realizing he was more curious than angry.

It's a fact of life. People break into apartments. It was almost sad that someone had chosen his. Scott only hoped they didn't want a three-year-old computer. He needed the computer.

Six minutes passed before the intruders walked casually out of the Ashtons' driveway and turned up Welder. One, a black teenage boy, wore an oversized denim jacket with matching jeans. A black stocking cap was pulled down below his eyebrows so that he couldn't blink without brushing wool with his eyelashes. His friend was white and dressed the same, and Scott noticed, not for the first time, that what looks streetwise on black kids just makes white kids look like they've been watching too much MTV.

Scott stepped out from the arch of dormant thorns to follow. There was, he thought, something extraordinarily satisfying about spying on people who had tried to do him wrong.

And it was amazingly easy. TV cop shows had led him to believe that criminals have some sixth sense about being followed. Not these. They were as stupid as most people who commit crimes for a living.

Only four blocks away, the pair in rapper duds climbed into a blue Lexus with tiny tires, chromed wheels, and a tag that Scott was able to memorize at a glance.

He watched them drive away. Back at his apartment, Scott checked every corner, closet, and drawer. His computer and stereo were just as he'd left them.

Nothing seemed to be missing.

He quickly jogged back outside, down the wooden steps, and across the yard to the main house. The Ashtons were on vacation, and he felt some sense of responsibility for the place. But every window and door was locked, and he could find no evidence of tampering.

Scott walked back out to the road and looked both ways. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he returned to his apartment and his newspaper.

Just after noon, Scott was finishing both the last of the Saturday newspaper and a pepperoni and banana-pepper pizza when his phone rang. A familiar voice said, “Scott?”

“Dr. Reynolds. How are you?”

“Fine. Fine. Enjoying your weekend, I hope.”

Scott glanced at his Palm Pilot on the coffee table. He had jotted down the description and tag number of the blue Lexus on the touch screen when he returned home from his run. “It's one of the strangest weekends I've had in a while. You know I had my car stolen and returned within a few hours Thursday night?”

“I heard. I know it was distressing.”

“Yeah. Well, this morning a couple of guys broke into my apartment.”

“Are you all right?” Alarm colored the older man's voice.

“Oh, sure. I came back from running and found my door unlocked. So I backed off and waited out of sight. A few minutes later, two guys came walking out of the driveway.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No. They didn't take anything. At least, as far as I can tell, they didn't. I already reported a stolen car that the cops found in my driveway. If I report this, too, they're going to think I'm some kind of nut.”

“But—”

“I'll change out the lock before I go to bed tonight and keep an closer eye on the Ashtons' place for a while. They've got an alarm. I can't see where there's much else I can do.”

“Right.” Silence settled into the phone line. Reynolds was ready to move on, and he was struggling to transition from concern to disappointment. “I called to ask you to stop by the hospital this afternoon, Scott.”

Saturday was supposed to be left free for keeping up with course work. That had been the deal. Scott asked, “Is something wrong?”

The old man hesitated again. “I've been looking over your patient notes this morning. And, uh, frankly, I think you're being a bit dismissive of Patricia Hunter's condition. I know she's difficult, Scott. But she lost a stepson. His name was Trey. He was a real person, Scott. Not just a name in a patient's history.”

Scott felt his face flush. “Very few people can lecture me on loss, Dr. Reynolds.” It was more than he should have said.

The older man sighed. “Be that as it may, you need to remember that lovable, well-adjusted people seldom need our kind of help.”

Something deep in Scott's gut squirmed. This was the first time Reynolds had reprimanded him, and the younger man felt a surprisingly vivid clawing at his ego. Scott said, “Your patient notes aren't much different from mine, Doctor.”

“We'll discuss this further at two o'clock. Please come by my office then.”

Scott repeated, “Two o'clock,” said good-bye, and hung up.

“A no-smoking blues club.” Cannonball Walker shook his head. “What the hell they gonna do to us next?” The old bluesman had joined Scott between sets. The two men sat drinking bourbon. They were surrounded by a Pima-cotton sea of martini sippers. Recorded music floated through a dozen speakers.

Scott asked, “What's that they're playing now?”

The old musician sipped his bourbon, balancing the edge of the glass against a creased lower lip and tipping the whisky onto his tongue. “Clapton.” His sharp features remained impassive. “Trying to sound black.”

“Yeah, well, ‘trying to sound black' is a pretty good description of most music these days, isn't it?”

“Lotsa good blues players, jazz, too, lots of 'em white. Most of 'em from the South, though. At least Chicago.” Walker shook his head. “Guess I oughta be happy all these lawyers and stock brokers wanna . . . do whatever it is they're doin' here.”

Scott sipped his bourbon. Fire rolled down his throat. The scent of woodsmoke saturated his sinuses.
Fire and smoke
. He'd only ordered the stuff because Walker had, but, sip by sip, it was definitely growing on him. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you again for picking me up the other night.”

Walker kept his eyes on the tabletop as he nodded his head.

Scott decided to dive in. “Why'd you tell me not to go up that dirt road where you found me? Have you been up there before?”

“I didn't tell you what to do. Just said I wouldn't go up in there if I was you. And, no, I ain't never been up that road.” The old man paused to take a long pull at his drink. “Been up plenty of roads like it. Just not that one.”

Walker's glass was empty. Scott pointed at it, and the old man nodded. The waitress was already there when he turned. She said, “Two more?”

Scott said, “At least,” and she flashed the bright smile of one who works for tips. Scott turned back to Walker. “What do you mean, you've been up roads like it?”

Walker shook his head. All he said was “Plain old evil.”

“What was evil?”

“You was standing in a
cloud
of evil. Why I stopped.” Cannonball Walker moved his eyes over the younger man's face. “You think I'm full of shit, don't you?”

Scott shook his head and shifted in his chair. This was not a man he wanted to insult. “No, I don't. That's your belief system. I respect that. It's just . . .”

“A superstitious old man from down South don't understand that evil is some kinda boogeyman made up by people to explain the bad stuff life dumps on us?”

“Well . . .” Scott took a deep breath. “Yeah. I don't think evil exists. People are bundles of genetic and environmental influences. Every few months, some researcher ties one more form of aberrant behavior to a chemical or biological trigger.” The waitress sat two thick glasses of Black Jack Daniel's on the table and took away Walker's empty. Scott looked from the waitress to Walker, whose young eyes seemed to have grown older, before going on. “All that stuff—hormones, brain chemicals, bad experiences—can, when they get messed up, work together to produce some bizarre behavior. People can do horrible things to each other. But, no, I don't believe in the concept of actual evil as a force or entity. And, no disrespect intended, I don't see how anybody can feel the presence of—”

“Why didn't you walk up that road? Tell me that, Doc. I could hear voices and some kinda music when I rolled down my window.” He paused to drink some bourbon. “You was out there all alone. Had your car stolen. 'Bout to freeze your nuts off. Tell me, what kept you from walkin' up that little road and joinin' the party?”

Scott rolled amber whisky around in his glass. A flickering flame, from the candle in the center of the table, played across the swirling surface. A chill ran along his spine. “I don't know.”

“Uh-huh.” The old man threw back his drink, and a wet cough pushed water into his eyes. “I don't know you, but . . . You're a shrink, right? Studyin' to be one?”

“Right.”

“Well, how you gonna help people who are hurtin' if all you see is brain chemicals when you look at 'em? You're a good boy, but you're standin' back too far. Sometimes you gotta get up close and smell the hurt, breathe in the evil on a body before you can help 'em.” He paused to scratch at salt-and-pepper hair with those long fingernails. “Too much talkin'.”

“It might interest you to know that one of the most famous shrinks in the country, a man named Phil Reynolds, told me pretty much the same thing this afternoon while he was reaming me out about a pain-in-the-ass patient I've got.”