The Colour of Death (6 page)

“No, no,” Vega cried.  “You’ve made a big mistake.  You’ve got the wrong guy, I tell you.”

“I’m going to cut your throat and throw you down the stairs.  Does that help remind you?”  Suddenly, despite his terror and panic, Vega realized what the guy must be talking about.  But how did he know?  How the hell
could
he know?  Vega had told no one.  The cloying smell intensified, became overpowering, as the stranger’s massive frame bent over him.  “Who are you?” Vega screamed.  “
What
are you?”

The stranger’s pale unblinking eyes stared into his.  “A demon,” the man replied in his low growl.  “A fallen angel freed to walk among the children of men and spread my dark wings.”  The man moved behind him and Vega’s last scream was cut short as the cold steel of his tormentor’s blade sliced through his throat.  The final image Vega registered before he died was the face of Jane Doe in the newspaper.

Chapter 7

As the nurses bundled Jane Doe into the ambulance she felt for the locket round her neck, opened it and studied the picture inside of a smiling baby.  Holding this one link to her past comforted her, although she had no idea who the baby in the photograph was.

Jane Doe had once been somebody but now felt as if she had been dropped into hell, a lost soul bereft of any bearings.  The nurses reassured her how lucky she was to be heading to a special private clinic, but it was hard to feel lucky about anything when you couldn’t even remember your own name.  They told her that the vast asylum she was escaping being transferred to was the actual place where they’d shot the Jack Nicholson film
One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest
, which might have meant something if she could remember the movie or who Jack Nicholson was — or anything before the night of the fire, ten days ago.

As she sat alone in the ambulance and watched the state hospital recede into the distance it didn’t seem like she was escaping anywhere.  How could you escape from your own mind?  Physically she was much improved; her burns and the bullet wound to her head had been superficial.  Mentally, however, it was a different matter.  She caught her reflection in the window.  Looking at the eyes of the stranger staring back at her made her feel as if she was peering into the windows of a forgotten home, for which she had lost the keys.  The amnesia had left her adrift in the world, untethered from all things familiar, a stranger to everyone including herself.  Her hallucinations frightened her more, though.  And sleep brought little respite.  The nightmares that visited her sleeping hours were as disturbing as any waking visions.  The doctors clearly didn’t know what to do with her, apart from trying to fill her with pills, most of which she had refused.  How could she hope to find herself again if she was drugged up to the eyeballs?

After some time she felt the ambulance slow.  Out of the window a freshly painted sign revealed that she had arrived at the Tranquil Waters Clinic and Residential Retreat.  The ambulance drove down a long gravel drive, through magnificent grounds, past a peaceful lake sparkling in the sun, and stopped outside a Victorian building, connected by a glass walkway to a new modern wing.  “You’re lucky to be out of the state hospital,” said the ambulance driver.  “This place is the best in the area.”

She said nothing.  The doctors, visibly relieved she was now someone else’s problem, had already briefed her on Tranquil Waters.  The original Victorian building had apparently housed the infamous Pine Hills Psychiatric Hospital, which once treated hardcore psychotic cases and the full-blown criminally insane.  Since its closure, however, Oregon University Research Hospital had bought the site, totally renovated the old building, added the new wing and renamed it Tranquil Waters.  The private facility now had an enviable reputation for research, treatment and the long-term care of patients with dementia, memory loss, and a range of neuroses and anxiety disorders.

As the driver helped her off the ambulance and led her toward the forbidding Gothic façade of the original Victorian block, she didn’t expect this place to be any better than the last, however fresh the paint and beautiful the grounds.  Her problem, after all, lay in the shadows of her mind, not out her in the sunlit world.  Her worst fears were confirmed when she saw the two white-suited orderlies and the smiling doctor waiting to greet her.  They looked no different to all the others she had seen.  How could they hope to understand her when not one of them was even the right color?

A few yards away, in one of the main offices near the Tranquil Waters reception, Nathan Fox sat in a handover meeting with Dr. Tozer, Jane Doe’s doctor from Oregon State.  The other three people in the room were Tranquil Waters’ two other senior psychiatrists, Frank Miller and Walter Kolb, both considerably older than Fox, and their boss, the redoubtable Professor Elizabeth Fullelove (which she insisted was pronounced
fully love
).

The head of Tranquil Waters was in her late fifties, hair more gray than black, but her bright eyes and unlined black skin made her look younger.  She was a formidable presence; Fox had known her for some years but still called her Professor.  As did all the other staff.  He didn’t know anyone who called her Elizabeth, let alone Liz.  He suspected that even her husband addressed her formally.

Tozer passed Fullelove a thin manila folder labeled ‘Jane Doe’, the name the authorities gave to all female patients — and corpses — whose identity was unknown.  Fullelove flicked through it and then passed it to Miller, who passed it to Kolb who handed it to Fox.  Fox knew that both Miller and Kolb had already read the contents and wanted to treat the patient.  Jane Doe was high profile and her unusual circumstances added up to a potentially reputation-making case study.  “Is this all you’ve got on her, Dr. Tozer?” said Fullelove.

“That’s all we’ve discovered so far, Professor.  Not just medically, everything.  Remember, she had no records of any kind before last week.”  Tozer looked tired and harried.

Fox scanned the meager notes.  There were no entries prior to the date Jane Doe was admitted to Oregon State.  “She was wearing a locket?”

“Yes, a heart-shaped silver locket.  Not particularly valuable or distinctive, I’m afraid.  It contains a faded picture of a baby.”

“Does Jane Doe have any idea who the baby is?”

“No.  All I can tell you is she’s never taken the locket off — not even to let me study it.”

Fox nodded.  “I don’t blame her.  Its’ all she’s got from her past life.”  He recalled Jordache telling him about the night the police had found her, and how she had been unable to remember even her own name.  “She’s really got full-blown retrograde amnesia?”

“Total,” said Tozer.  “It’s unclear if it’s retrograde amnesia caused by the physiological head trauma or her bullet wound or a psychological fugue state caused by what she experienced in the basement, but the result’s the same:  she’s lost her memories, identity, everything.  She can remember
how
to do certain things but nothing else from before the night she saved those girls.  And there are other symptoms we kept out of the press.”  Fox flicked through the tightly typed assessment.  When he came to the third page his expression must have changed because Tozer smiled.  “You found them, I see.”

“Hallucinations?”

“Not just any old hallucinations.  Hers are high-definition visions in glorious Technicolor, with Dolby Surround sound.  We moved her five times before we found a room in which she didn’t hallucinate.  Strangely enough it was in the new palliative ward — where terminally ill patients are sent to die.”

“Any brain damage?” asked Miller.

“Her head injuries were minor.  MRI scans have shown nothing abnormal.”

Fox read the sketchy descriptions of her hallucinations.  There was a recurrent theme.  “I suppose they could be repressed memories.”

“Pretty horrific repressed memories,” said Tozer.

Fox thought of his own inability to recall the murder of his family.  “Do you know of a patient who’s repressed good ones?”

“
Touché
,” said Tozer.

“Drugs?” asked Kolb, adjusting his thick glasses.

“All the tox screens were negative,” said Tozer.  “No traces of drugs or alcohol.  And she isn’t taking any hallucinogenic medication.”

Fox studied the file.  “What medication is she taking?”

“None, apart from sedatives and analgesics in the first few days.  She’s clearly psychotic but when I prescribed risperidone she refused.  She refuses to take any anti-psychotics.  She won’t even take diazepam for her panic attacks.”

“What about talk therapies?” asked Miller.  “Have your people tried cognitive behavior therapy or acceptance and commitment therapy?”

Tozer laughed humorlessly.  “My people?  You mean me.”  He crossed his arms defensively.  “We haven’t enough staff to give her CBT, ACT, DBT or any talk therapy.  I’ve recommended it but the earliest she’d get any with us would be three months.”

Fox nodded sympathetically.  He worked long hours but they were varied and as a staff member of a well-endowed research hospital, he had access to first-class resources.

“Any parting advice for us, Dr. Tozer?” said Fullelove.  “Anything you want to tell us off the record?”

Tozer gathered his papers together, keen to leave.  “Honestly?”

“Of course.”

“I’m glad the wealthy father of one of the American girls she rescued put up the money for Jane Doe to come here.  She deserves the best care.  But I’m also relieved to hand her over.  Even here I think you’ll have your hands full trying to treat her.  It’s not just the media spotlight, which adds obvious pressures.  It’s the patient herself.  Aside from her psychiatric problems, Jane Doe is difficult, impatient, aggressive and uncooperative.  She has zero respect for our profession.  So far she’s claimed that every doctor who’s treated her, medical and psychiatric, has been the wrong color.”

Professor Fullelove raised an eyebrow and her black skin creased into a frown.  “The wrong
color?
”  Before Tozer could elaborate, Fox heard a distant, terrified scream.

“Calm down,” soothed a far-off voice.  “There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

“Let me out,” the first voice cried.  “I won’t stay here.  Why don’t you understand?  I
can’t
stay in this room.”

Tozer smiled wryly.  “That’s her, the famous avenging angel.  I’d recognize those dulcet tones anywhere.”  He stood up, fastened his briefcase and hurried to the door.  “She’s
your
avenging angel now.  Good luck.”

The commotion was coming from a room in the original Victorian building, at the end of the corridor leading to the new wing.  The door was ajar and as they approached Fox glanced inside.  A doctor and two orderlies in white coats were trying to reason with a tall, agitated young woman who was shaking her head from side to side and holding her locket like an infant clutching a security blanket.  “I keep telling you,” she shouted.  “I
can’t
stay in here.”

Fullelove went into the room, flanked by Kolb and Miller, while Fox waited behind in the corridor.  “What’s the problem, Dr. Feinberg?”

“Jane Doe doesn’t like her room, Professor Fullelove,” said the junior doctor.  The room was typical of all the rooms at Tranquil Waters:  freshly painted walls; comfortable bed; large window overlooking the beautiful grounds; TV; chair and desk; private bathroom.

“What’s wrong with it, Jane?  It’s a nice room,” Fullelove reasoned gently.  The terrified young woman kept blinking as if trying to see something more clearly — or trying
not
to see it.  Fox couldn’t take his eyes off her.  He had thought her striking on the television news but her sculptured features and haunted eyes were beautiful in the flesh.  “What’s wrong with the room, Jane?” Fullelove asked again.

“You won’t understand.”  Jane Doe slammed her right hand hard against the door and Fox felt his left smart with the pain.  “You’re the wrong color.”

Fox could see Professor Fullelove stiffen.  “What color’s that, Jane?”

‘Red.”

“
Red?
”

“You’re
all
the wrong color,” she shouted.  “Just leave me alone and let me out of here.  I can’t stay in this room.”  She shoved one of the orderlies against the wall with surprising force, pushed her way past Fullelove, Kolb and Miller, and ran into the corridor.

Straight into Fox’s arms.

For a moment she stared at him, transfixed, then her face relaxed.  The orderlies ran to her but Fox signaled them to stay back.  “Are you a doctor?” she asked.

“A psychiatrist, yes.”  He held out his hand.  “My name’s Nathan Fox.”

She gripped it tightly in hers, as if frightened he might escape.  “I don’t know
my
name, Dr. Fox, but perhaps you can help me remember it.”  She turned to Fullelove, eyes shining with relief.  “
He
can help me find myself again.”

“Why him?” Fullelove said.  “Is Dr. Fox the right color?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What color’s that?” said Fox, intrigued.

“The faint glow around you is a deep purple-blue — indigo.  The others have all been shades or red, yellow, green and orange.”

“Why’s
my
particular color so important?”

“I can’t remember.”  She shook her head in frustration.  “I just know it means you’ll be able to understand me better than the others.”  Jane Doe looked imploringly at Fox, her haunted eyes so filled with naked need that every defense instinct he had nurtured over the years screamed at him to keep his distance, remain detached and not get involved.  The reticence must have shown in his face because she released his hand, slumped her shoulders and stared down at the dark carpet.  She looked exhausted, hopeless, helpless and totally alone, a stranger to everyone, including herself.

Against his instincts, he took her hand again.  “Tell me about what scared you in that room,” he asked.  She stiffened, alert like a hunted deer. He smiled.  “Hallucinations can be as vivid and terrifying as dreams and nightmares, but they’re also just as harmless.  Unlike dreams, they occur in a conscious, awake state.  Clinically, hallucinations are perceptions of things in the absence of external stimuli.  Things that
seem
to be there but
aren’t.
”