Smoke on the Water (4 page)

“Why don't you tell me what you and Dr. Eversleigh were discussing in your last session?”

“Same thing we always did.”

“Which was?”

“Why I tried to kill my son.”

Sebastian wished again that he'd had time to read her file. The tendency toward infanticide would have been good to know about beforehand.

“Did you come to any conclusions?”

“Not really,” Mary said.

Sebastian returned to his chair, which put the desk between himself and Mary. He wasn't concerned. Even if she'd somehow managed to find a weapon in a place where they spent a lot of time and money making sure there weren't any, he outweighed her by over a hundred pounds. He'd played football in high school, boxed in college at Mizzou. Since he'd become Dr. Frasier, he'd commenced judo lessons. He hoped he could continue them here.

He'd wanted to learn a less violent method of self-defense. In theory his size should discourage aggressive behavior in patients. In practice, crazy people didn't care how big he was. He preferred using a pressure point application over a right cross.

“I haven't seen my son in a long time.”

What was “long?” To some psychiatric patients, time was fluid, even imaginary.

“Or at least I don't think I have.” Mary rubbed her head. “Sometimes things get fuzzy.”

Case in point,
Sebastian thought.

“Were things fuzzy when you tried to hurt … what's your son's name?”

“Owen. And no, well, yes.” She smacked herself in the forehead with the palm of her hand.

“Mary,” Sebastian said sternly. “Stop.”

Instead, she did it again. Just once, then her hand fell to her lap and entwined with the other. “Things were staticky. I could see fine, so not fuzzy. But buzzy.” She wiggled her fingers by her ears. “Loud.”

“All right. I know it's hard to think when that happens.”

Her gaze flicked to his, and she snorted. Sebastian couldn't blame her. It had never happened to him.

“It can be difficult to deal with small children when your mind isn't exactly…” He paused, searching for a word.

“Your own.”

That might explain a few things.

“Whose mind—?” he began, and she continued right over him.

“Owen wasn't small. He was fifteen at the time.”

“Teenagers.” Those he had experience with.

After his parents had died in a boating accident—drinking and driving was equally dangerous on the water. Too bad no one had given the kid who had plowed into his dad's fishing boat that memo—Sebastian had taken care of his sister, Emma. He had been twenty; she had been fifteen. He hadn't done a good job. He'd failed her and she had died. He still wasn't over it. He wasn't sure he ever could be. Or should be.

“Teenagers can be very trying,” he continued. When they weren't heartbreaking.

“Can't blame him for acting up. I was no good. People painted him with the same brush. Small town.” She shrugged her bony shoulders. “Happens.”

“Do you remember the inciting incident?”

“The what?”

“What set you off? What made that day
the
day? What did your son do that was the final straw?”

Observers might say there'd been nothing, but there was always something—even if that “something” was only in the mind of the beholder.

“The voice told me to.”

There you go.
The inciting incident as well as the explanation for her mind not being her own. Sebastian was two for two without even reading her file.

“Shouldn't have listened,” Mary continued.

“Why not?”

She rolled her eyes. “It got me put here.”

No remorse about trying to kill her son, only concern that what she'd done had affected her in some way. Sebastian had no doubt that when he perused Mary's file he'd see the word
psychopath
stamped in big red ink. She wasn't his first.

“In here I can't help anyone,” she said.

“Help?” Psychopaths helped no one but themselves.

“They're out there.” Mary stood and smacked her palms on top of his desk, leaning closer. “They're killing people.”

“Who's they?”

“He whispers to them.”

“Same voice that whispered to you?”

Mary nodded as her gaze went to the window at his back, darted right then left. Sebastian wanted to glance that way, but he shouldn't take his eyes off Mary.

“The more they kill the closer he gets.”

“Who is he? Where is he?”

“Roland.” Her gaze met his. “He's in hell now, but he won't be for long. He's coming.”

Sebastian got a chill, and that was just foolish. Mary was talking nonsense. She needed her meds adjusted and fast.

Still her words, her fear, her utter conviction rattled him so much that when she sprinted for his window, he sat there almost too long, barely managing to catch her before she went headfirst into the bars that protected the glass.

 

Chapter 3

“That's a shame,” Peggy murmured as Mary was carted past the library kicking and screaming.

“She was fine when she left.”

I contemplated Sebastian Frasier, who stood outside his office looking as if he'd kicked a puppy, or maybe been kicked by one. He'd taken off his leather jacket to reveal jeans and a white button-down. But the shirt was untucked and streaked with what I really hoped was dirt but might very well be blood. From this distance, it was hard to tell.

“With Mary, fine doesn't last very long,” Peggy said.

“What do you think happened?”

“Hard to say. I'm going to have a word with Dr. Frasier. See if I can convince him not to medicate her into the stratosphere.”

I could hear Mary screaming that “he” was coming. That she had to stop him. Stop them. Had she done anything like this before? I didn't know. Screaming fits were so common, I didn't pay much attention to them.

“You think that's a good idea?”

“Meditation might help more than meds.”

Mary screamed gibberish then something metal crashed to the ground. A door slammed, and the volume of her shrieks became muted.

“Good luck with that,” I said.

Peggy sighed. “Maybe once she winds down, we can—”

“We?”

“She trusts you.”

“I just met her!”

“You seem to have a connection.”

I'd thought the same. I'd also thought how crazy that sounded, yet here was my caseworker saying just that. I wasn't sure what to make of it.

“She was more like herself with you than I've ever seen her,” Peggy continued.

“Did you know Mary before she came here?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know what herself is?”

“I don't. You're right.” Peggy bit her lip. “She's calmer today than ever before.” Her gaze shifted toward the continued thumps and screams. “Or at least she was.”

“Because you said you'd teach her about Wicca, and she thinks she's a witch. You were playing into her delusion.”

Why did I feel like the psychiatric professional here?

“What delusion is that?” Peggy asked.

“That witches exist.”

“I'm right here.” Peggy faced me. “Look, denying the existence of witches, of Wicca, is not only a lie, it isn't helping. You think she hasn't been told that before?” She threw up her hands. “That's working out really well for her.”

“You're a caseworker,” I said. “Not her doctor.”

“I'll talk to her doctor.”

“You think he'll give the okay?”

“If he doesn't,” Peggy said, starting in Sebastian Frasier's direction, “I'll turn him into a toad.”

I followed, hanging back enough that I could hear what was said, but not be considered part of the conversation.

Peggy marched right up to him, hand outstretched. “Dr. Frasier. Call me Peggy.”

His gaze went to Peggy's ID tag, which listed her full name and title. The guy hadn't been here long enough to have a staff meeting. Lucky him—his first duty as administrator had been to deal with Crazy Mary.

This close I could see that the stain on his shirt wasn't blood but dirt. I was more relieved about that than I had reason to be.

“I'm Sebastian.” He shook Peggy's hand, then glanced at me.

I'd paused a few feet away and pretended to read whatever had been posted on the corkboard nearby. I wasn't fooling him, but he didn't tell me to run along either, so I stayed.

“You don't want to be called doctor?” Peggy asked.

The corner of his mouth lifted in time with one shoulder. “Seems silly when my degree is younger than my shirt.”

Peggy nodded. “I wanted to talk to you about Mary.”

“We should probably step into my office.”

“I just wanted to get your permission to teach her the tenets of Wicca.”

“Pardon me?”

“Wicca,” Peggy repeated. “It's a peaceful religion—”

“I know what Wicca is. But—” He paused. “You?”

“Me,” she said, unperturbed.

“She hears voices.” He peered in the direction of the continued screaming about said voice, which was apparently named Roland. “Though how she hears anything above that racket, I'm not sure.”

“I don't see what hearing voices has to do with Wicca.”

He frowned. “You're kidding, right?”

“I don't hear voices,” Peggy said. “No one in my coven does. We aren't crazy. Not even a little bit.”

“I still don't—”

“Drugging her hasn't worked. Therapy hasn't worked. Telling her that she isn't a witch hasn't worked.”

“She isn't a witch. There's no such thing.”

“I'm a witch,” Peggy said quietly.

I waited for the doctor to argue that point. He didn't.

“I apologize if I insulted you. I meant the flying, magical, nose-twitching, pot-stirring,
Macbeth
-type witch.”

“I'll give you that,” she said. “I'm just thinking that if I teach her the Wicca way, it might override the witchy way. Meditation, herbs, chants, the study of our history—all peaceful. What could it hurt to try?”

“That seems like an awful lot of time and energy for one patient.”

“I'd like to try it for more than one.” Peggy gestured to me, and I approached. “Willow wants to learn too.”

“You do?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“I don't have any pressing commitments.”

He gazed down the hall toward Mary's room again. “Maybe you should keep your distance from Mary.”

He was probably right, except I didn't want to. We needed each other.

“She's better when she's with me,” I said.

Dr. Frasier frowned. “I don't think—”

He was going to say no, and suddenly I was desperate for him to say yes.

“I'll show you.” I headed for Mary's room.

“She's out of control.” Dr. Frasier hurried along at my side. “She tried to jump through my window.”

“A lot of us do.”

He cast me a quick glance. He wasn't sure if I was kidding. Neither was I.

Peggy caught up as we reached Mary's room. I opened the door and walked right in. Dr. Frasier began to protest, but it was too late. Mary, who'd been banging her head against the wall, saw me and sprinted in my direction.

The room was small. She reached me very fast. Her hands came up.

“Don't—” the doctor began.

Mary hugged me, and I hugged her back.

*   *   *

A short while later, Mary was asleep. Sebastian, Willow, and Peggy stepped into the hall.

“Well?” Peggy asked.

The change in Mary had been remarkable. The instant Willow appeared, she stopped shouting and banging her head. The minute they touched she calmed completely. When Peggy asked her the difference between Wicca and witchcraft she seemed to know. Or at least she talked a good game, and as she hadn't before now …

“I'll think about it,” he said.

Peggy wanted to argue, but she didn't. Instead she glanced at her watch. “I have to go.” With a wave at Willow she did.

Willow started to go too.

“Not so fast,” Sebastian said. “I wanna talk to you.”

“I should eat lunch.”

“I'll have something brought to my office.” He didn't know if he could but it sounded good.

He led Willow into the room. Someone had cleaned up the mess. He and Mary had knocked over a plant, hence the dirt on his shirt. He was just glad they hadn't broken his coffeepot. He was really glad she hadn't dived headfirst into the iron bars. His first day was shaping up real well.

Was he being sarcastic or not? He wasn't sure.

“Sit,” he said, then went to the door on the opposite side of his office.

Zoe looked up from her computer, her eyes appearing goggly through thick lenses. He wondered if she'd talked to anyone about Lasik. He didn't imagine it was easy to get dates with glasses like that. Being short and pudgy probably didn't help either.

“Could you bring Miss Black and me a sandwich or something?”

As Zoe nodded and got to her feet, rather than scowling and calling him names, Sebastian figured he hadn't requested anything he shouldn't have.

“How well do you know Mary?” He returned to his desk.

“I've seen her around. They call her Crazy Mary.”

“Pot, kettle,” Sebastian murmured, and Willow laughed.

The sound was so light, so young, so out of place here that he could do nothing but stare at her, entranced. Which made the beautiful laughter stop.

Zoe came in then with a tray of sandwiches, chips, apples, and milk. Sebastian felt like he was back in kindergarten. He kind of liked it.

“Thank you, Zoe.” He smiled at his assistant, and she stumbled, colored. She shoved the tray into his hands and fled, shutting the door firmly behind her.