I spent some time with John Palmetto—aka Lore—a patient here since the 1980s. Palmetto had drawn inspiration from local urban legends, using those stories like cookbook directions to kill eleven teenage girls.
I painted for—not with, but for—Diana Ellis, a woman so obsessed with the mutilation of human flesh that she’d spent two summer days in her Erie County farmhouse kitchen performing home-brewed autopsies on her family… and had then amputated her own arms. Brink-folk called her June Cleaver.
I worked with a half-dozen Golgotha patients, and even through these sessions—positively harrowing by yesterday’s standards—I tuned out the crumbling surroundings and found solace in Malcolm’s advice. I found my footing. I improvised. It helped.
I took The Brink’s elevator back to Level 3 to grab my lunch.
Dr. Nathan Xavier was waiting by my office door.
“Taylor, you look like shit.”
It was clear Xavier took perverse glee in saying this. He grinned his plastic Ken grin, then primly straightened his spotless doctor’s coat. I brushed past him, unlocked the door and hurried inside. The room still reeked from this morning’s coffee spill. He followed me.
“You’re killing my buzz,” I said. “What do you want?”
“Oh, just stopped by to drop off some paperwork. I don’t agree with many of your conclusions about Nam Ngo, your ‘Clocktalker.’ I slid my comments under your door.” He pointed at my feet. “You’re standing on them.”
I stared down at the crumpled papers under my Vans. I picked them up. These were carbon copies; the originals had been sent to The Brink’s chief administrator, Dr. Peterson. It is clear that Brinkvale’s art therapist underestimates the psychoses of the patient, it began. I slapped the document on my desk.
“What’s your problem, Xavier?”
“Doctor Xavier,” he said. He glanced around my office, wrinkling his nose. “This place is a sty, Taylor. It stinks.” He nodded at the brown pile of soggy paper towels, still on the floor. “You’re a slob.”
I snatched up the dripping wad and tossed it into my wastebasket. I sighed. My left palm was now soaked with cold coffee. I considered wiping it on my jeans just to appall the guy, but instead I gritted my teeth and took the high road. Again.
“Xavier, what’s this about? Is Brinkvale life so dull that you have to gun after me again? Didn’t we just do this? Peterson’s on my side. His email said so.”
I might not have seen much of Peterson since I was hired here, but two months ago he’d served Xavier a polite smack-down after the young doctor criticized me during a staff meeting. Since then, Xavier’s tormenting was less frequent, but more irritating. Until today, that is.
“It’s about you being a failure,” he replied. “Word around here is that you’re fucking up the Drake case. You’re losing it, cracking up.”
“That’s… that’s not true.”
“You sure? I watched the security footage from yesterday’s session with Grace. You let your guard down, lost control of the situation, and called the patient a son of a bitch. He might be crazy, but Grace was right about one thing: you are an amateur.”
Xavier was spying on me? I clenched my fists.
“You had no goddamned right—”
“And you have no business treating him,” he snapped. “Or anyone else, for that matter. Look, it’s nothing personal, Taylor. It’s merely survival of the fittest… and you’re making yourself an easy target.”
He extended his hand now. His face was wicked and cheerful.
“But hey, congratulations on getting your name in the paper last week. You’re out of your mind, playing the ‘no comment’ card with these reporters. And still, a star is born. Daddy D.A. must be so proud.”
To hell with the damned high road. I shook his hand, gripping it hard. I clapped him on the shoulder with my other hand. I squeezed harder. He squeezed back, growling.
“You’re an asshole,” I said.
“And you won’t be here much longer to say so,” he replied.
I released him, fuming. Xavier grinned again, took a tiny bow, and stepped out of my office.
I slid into my desk chair, wondering how long it would take Xavier to notice the palm-sized coffee stain on his lab coat.
I was opening my desk drawer to grab my lunch when someone else knocked at the door. I looked up. The stranger wore a business suit and a brown raincoat. I immediately thought of Karl Malden in those old American Express ads: Don’t leave home without it.
“Are you Zach Taylor?” he asked.
I nodded. I was tempted to point at the plastic plaque bolted to the door. Xavier had pissed me off. I was sleep-deprived and famished. I just wanted some time to myself, and to prep for my session with Grace.
The man passed me his business card.
“Roland Smith, from Lifeplan Medical Alliance,” he said. “I’ll take just a minute of your time. I’m here about Martin Grace.”
I stole a quick glance at the card. An insurance rep. I’d dealt with a few of these company men before. They’re nice enough, but in the end, they’re here on behalf of my patients’ insurance companies—which means they want to ask questions about liability and payouts, things better suited for the Dr. Petersons of the world.
“I’ve got a lot of people asking me about Mr. Grace these days,” I said. “If I gave every one of them a minute of my time—and honestly, people just say that, they want a lot more than a minute, don’t they?—I’d be here until next leap year.”
“Hey, 02-29,” he said, smiling. “That’s my son’s birthday. Cool, huh?”
“Yeah,” I replied, and it was. But I wasn’t the guy Roland Smith needed to talk to. And I was hungry, for Pete’s sake.
“Look, I know you want to know about Mr. Grace’s condition, but—”
“How’s he doing?” Smith asked. His voice sounded concerned, but his brown eyes were inquisitive.
“I can’t tell you that,” I said. “It’s a patient confidentiality issue.”
Smith nodded. “Lifeplan Medical Alliance just wants to know his status, considering next week’s trial. You understand.”
“I do, but we both know I’m in the clear here. You want to talk to an administrator about this.”
“Yes, of course, but perhaps—”
I tossed his business card on my desk, scooped up my Brinkvale-issued walkie-talkie and stood up. Smith stopped talking.
“See this?” I said, raising the radio. “On the other end of this is a 260-pound security guard who used to be a pro wrestler. He loves his boys more than the world, but I bet he still gets a kick out of cracking skulls. You want me to call him?”
Smith’s face had gone pale. He shook his head.
“You’ll direct all formal inquiries to Brinkvale admin, then.”
He nodded.
“I’m glad we settled this,” I said. “Have a great day.”
The insurance man left. I checked my watch.
“Damn it all,” I muttered. Too late to head topside.
I plopped into my chair, unwrapped my sandwich, and ate in silence.
That afternoon, I was greeted by another B-movie discotheque light show on Level 5. The hallway’s incandescent bulbs still sputtered and stuttered like yesterday, still victims of ancient wiring and INSUFFICIENT FUNDS reports. My stomach churned at the darkness.
I saw Emilio Wallace’s tall form directly ahead, about a hundred feet away, still standing watch by Room 507’s door. He waved at me. The flickering lights transformed the fluidity of his arm into choppy stop-motion footage. He walked quickly toward me, meeting me halfway.