"I don't have any Necco Wafers."
"Understood."
"Or much cash."
"I have no use for money."
"So what do you want?"
A pause. Dindren's smile became brittle. His eyes widened, became bright with emotion. Leaning towards Matt, he peeled back his chapped, bee-stung lips and silently mouthed GET… ME… OUT… OF… HERE.
Matt looked at him, feeling bad, genuinely bad for the mess in front of him. But what could he do? He tried to picture himself on the run through the woods with this guy in tow-this guy, who wasn't even a real guy anymore, and who was in no shape to travel, and probably had more mental problems than he could count.
"Sorry," Matt said. "But I can promise you this: that when I get to Olympia, I'll report this place for what it is and get you the help you need."
The vulnerable light in Dindren's eyes extinguished. Its place was taken immediately by a leer of dissipated raunch.
"'The help I need?' I'll tell you what I need, and you won't find it in Olympia."
"And that would be…"
Dindren batted his crusty lashes at him. "Like all girls, I just wanna have fun."
"Right… And I just wanna get information."
"You don't know what you want. But I do. After years of studying Jesse and similar cases in medical records, in folklore, in primitive mythologies? I do. I filled his case file to bursting with theories, facts, and information. And I'll share it with you, too. But first…" And here Dindren scootched closer, batting his bedroom eyes, and bit his lower lip. "You're going to have to put your fist… in my mouth."
Matt stared at him. "My…?"
"Fist. In. My. Mouth." Giving Matt a nice gray grin.
Matt was at a loss. Then he wasn't. "Hell no. Hell no." He stood up. "Why would you even ask for that?"
"Why?" Dindren frowned a little, as if it hadn't occurred to him that it needed explaining. "Well, ah-it's Matt, isn't it? Well, Matt… do you know what the biggest thrill is, for a doctor? The biggest kick, the biggest payoff? It's not the money or prestige. It's the moment that the patient makes the decision to hand himself over, bodily, to your care. That's the moment that he proves that he trusts you. It's positively sacramental, that moment. I miss it. I want to feel it again: that trust." His eyes narrowed sleepily. "Also, I like the taste."
Matt backed away. I don't trust you for shit, he thought. But what he said was, "I think I should go."
"I know." Sadly, drowsily. "But you'll be back… If you want to know whether it would work."
"'Work'?"
As if to a small child: "Yes. What you're considering doing: I can tell you whether it would actually get rid of Mr. Dark."
Matt took another step back. "And what do you think I'm considering doing?"
"Why, killing yourself, of course."
CHAPTER FOUR
Matt shoved out the door, banging loudly into the chair that Maloria had been dozing in.
"I'm awake," she said automatically, jerking upright, disoriented.
"Sorry that took so long. C'mon, let's get out of here."
"Arright, hold up." Getting stiffly out of the chair. "You find out what you was looking for?"
"No. But at least now I know where it is. Let's go back to the Control Room."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"
He turned. Maloria had one eyebrow arched, and her fat hands on her fatter hips. Not a good sign. "What's up?"
"What's up?" Her head started a dangerously cobra-like side-to-side sway. "What's up is that I ain't yo' full-time Sherpa. I said I'd take you to Dindren, and I did. So now we square. 'Cause I got responsibilities, you know? I gotta get back to Module One, make sure them no-count ma'fuckah's ain't doggin' that white chick's shit."
Matt paused. She had a point.
He had an idea. "You've got a master key, right-one that opens the Admin and Control Room doors?"
"Uh-huh. Which I need, and you ain't gonna get."
"I'll give you one hundred bucks for it."
"Lucky for you, I got a spare." She held it up. "An' I'm always misplacin' this one, on account of my thyroid actin' up."
Matt reached for it, and she pulled it away.
"Only my thyroid don't kick in for less than two hundred, if you know what I mean."
Matt gave her a low-lidded look. "One fifty."
"I feel an attack comin' on right now." She pried it free of the ring, dropped in his hand. But not before pausing to say, "And BTW? My thyroid don't take checks."
# # # # # #
Maloria escorted him out of Module Two, and they parted company at the quad. Using her key, he let himself back into Admin via the kitchen (six roaches, a lot fewer knives, and the weird wood-and-leather cuffs still hung inexplicably from the rack).
Back in the Control Room, there was good news and bad news. The good news was that, as Matt had suspected, the file cabinet marked "Treatment Plans / Overflow" was not-as it should have been-locked. In fact, it had no lock.
Nice, Matt thought, pulling out a metal drawer and scanning ahead for the Ws.
The bad news was that not only were the treatment plans in an unlocked file cabinet, but someone had long ago stopped bothering to file them alphabetically. Even worse, not only were there Joneses filed under S and Millers under Q, but pieces of Jones' file were in Miller's folder, and pieces of Miller's were in Jones'.
It was a mess.
It was such a mess that three hours passed before Matt felt like he had found most of Jesse Weston's file. Even then, just when he had decided to quit looking, he would find a psych profile or incident report or med plan with Weston's name on it, and he'd decide to search a little further.
There was only one interruption. About two hours into his search, right after he had found a big chunk of Weston's drug records, the door had creaked open behind him and he'd turned to behold a member of the Wu-Tang Clan.
Or so it seemed. Matt supposed that the guy was probably an aide, just one whose official uniform consisted of a black hoodie with a red Chinese-dragon print, and a do-rag covered in dollar signs. He had a yin-yang symbol tattooed to his neck, a Black Belt magazine in one hand, and a bag of Famous Amos cookies in the other. Clearly looking for a place to kill a few hours.
"'Sup," the aide said.
"Hi. I'm Matt." Matt held out his hand. The aide stared at it blankly, like he had no idea what Matt wanted him to do with it. Matt cleared his throat. "I'm the swing. And you're, uh…?"
The aide glowered at him. "Darak."
"Right. Maloria asked me to organize these files."
Darak quirked one corner of his lips and gave a bored shrug. "Fine with me," he said, and made as if to come in and kick back.
"Actually, Maloria mentioned that you might show up. She said that if you did, I was supposed to tell you to go clean the men's washroom in Module One."
Darak stared at him with eyes as dull and hard as ball bearings. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and just for a second, Matt thought there'd be trouble.
But Darak just slapped the Black Belt magazine against his thigh, gave a tight smile, and said, "Well, ain't that a bitch." And left.
Matt let out a relieved breath and dumped the file into his rucksack.
He hadn't read most of the files he found-there would be time for that later. For now, he skimmed them to see if Weston's name was on them, and if it was, it went in his bag. There wasn't time for anything else.
He made an exception, however, for a partial case file with "Dindren" typed at the top. Instead of being in the Ds, he'd found it in the Xs. Flipping through it, he found multiple references to persecution complex, paranoia, "gender disorder," and pica. He riffled the pages, looking for a definition of pica. Towards the middle he found it described as a pathological desire to put nonfood items in one's mouth. Towards the end he found out which "nonfood items" Dindren had gobbled.