This time, Striker did not look away. Instead, he smiled at the man, winked, and whispered, ‘Look at what I got.’ Then he brushed the tail of his jacket to the side, revealing the pistol holstered beneath. ‘I snuck it in here.’
Henry let out a loud gasp. ‘You can’t have that in here!’
Striker thumbed the release button and slid out the magazine. He popped out a bullet, reloaded it, then slid the magazine back into the gun. He looked back at Henry.
‘Got three full mags.’
‘You can’t have those – they’re dangerous!’
‘Real dangerous.’
‘It’s against the rules!’
‘I don’t follow the rules.’
Henry’s face darkened and he started to tremble all over. ‘YOU CAN’T HAVE THAT IN HERE – IT’S DANGEROUS!’ he bellowed. He stepped forward and kicked one of the chairs, just as the receptionist returned. She let out a gasp and dropped her coffee cup as the chair went sliding across the floor and slammed into the door, rattling the safety glass.
‘Henry, calm down!’ she ordered. ‘Calm down!’
‘HE CAN’T HAVE THAT IN HERE! CAN’T HAVE IT! IT’S FUCKING DANGEROUS!’
The guards came rushing over, took custody of Henry, and quickly escorted him back to his room in an effort to maintain calmness in the area.
But the damage was done. The other patients were already leaving their card games and backgammon tournament, and the TV had lost its appeal. Striker turned to face the receptionist.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I stood up to stretch and I guess he saw the gun. He just freaked.’ He glanced around the area. ‘Jesus, they all look angry now.’
The receptionist looked at the spilled coffee on the floor, then at the mass of patients mustering near the doorway. ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps it would be best if you did wait inside the office, after all.’
Striker smiled at the woman and held up his hands.
‘Whatever you think is best,’ he said.
Thirty-Eight
The moment the receptionist allowed them inside Dr Ostermann’s office and shut the door behind them, Felicia looked over at him and a grin spread her lips.
‘That was terrible,’ she said.
Striker just shrugged. ‘I know, and believe me I’m not proud of it, but we had no choice. We needed to get in here before Ostermann got back. We need to know who this Billy guy is. It’s as simple as that.’ He looked at his watch and saw that it was ten-fifty now. ‘What time she say his session ended?’
‘Eleven – and that’s if he doesn’t finish early.’
Striker frowned at that. Ten minutes wasn’t a lot of time. He looked around the room. To his surprise, the office was fairly barren. He’d expected to see medical diplomas hung on every wall. Plaques and certificates and awards. Maybe some pamphlets for the EvenHealth programme. A row of books, at the very least.
But there was none of that.
All that occupied the office was a large oak cabinet in the far corner, a big sturdy wooden desk, and a pair of comfortablelooking leather chairs sitting opposite the desk.
On the walls hung nothing but standard pictures. A sailor looking out over the sea; a little boy at the doctor’s office; and a Native Indian-style wolf head. Aside from this and a few plants decorating the room, there was nothing of interest. No shelves, no books at all.
Striker moved over to the desk. He tried to open the drawers but they were all locked. On it was nothing but an ink blotter, a computer and a keyboard with mouse. The computer screen was blank, and when Striker moved the mouse, the logon screen appeared.
‘Needs a password,’ Felicia said.
‘EvenHealth?’ he asked.
‘Lots of luck,’ she said.
He knew she was right, and didn’t even venture to guess. Instead, he moved over to the cabinet on the far side of the room and opened the doors. Inside was a small TV set with built-in DVD player. A Samsung. On the shelf below was a row of DVDs, each one with a name on the side. Striker searched for any with the names Larisa Logan or Mandy Gill, but found none. Instead, he found one labelled Billy Stephen Mercury. And in brackets were the words: Kuwait. Afghanistan. PTSD.
PTSD – Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.
He turned and looked at Felicia. ‘Our Billy?’
‘Write down the details. Hurry. Before Ostermann gets back.’
‘I’ll do more than that,’ he said. He flicked on the TV and grabbed the DVD case. He opened it, slid out the disc, and slipped it into the tray.
Felicia gave him a nervous look. ‘Jacob, what are you doing?’
‘Just watch the door.’
‘Watch the door? It’s five feet away from you.’
‘Then just stand by it and listen. Let me know if you hear him coming.’
‘Ostermann’s due back any minute. And what if I don’t hear him? What then?’
Striker smiled. ‘Then sit back and pull up a chair because there’s gonna be some fireworks.’ He leaned forward and pressed Play, and the disc loaded.
Seconds later, the screen came to life.
The video quality was surprisingly good, damn near high def, though the sound was slightly muffled. The camera was angled from the left side, with Dr Erich Ostermann sitting opposite a young man. Between them was an ordinary wood desk with nothing on it.
A different room.
Striker took note of the walls – there was absolutely nothing on them – and then of the male being interviewed. He was Caucasian, and terribly thin, emaciated, yet he looked wiry, strong. He could have been in his late twenties or early thirties – it was hard to tell. His hair was dark brown, but greying, and the stubble on his face was almost entirely white.
‘He looks young, but old,’ Felicia noted.
Striker made no reply. He just studied the patient on the feed.
The skin of Billy Mercury’s face had few wrinkles, except around his eyes, where there were many. The man looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept well in years, and the paleness of his skin amplified this look. Perspiration dampened his skin, and when he breathed, his chest rose and fell heavily, unevenly, as if he were hyperventilating.
Dr Ostermann sat in his chair, then turned it slightly to the left to allow the camera a better angle for recording. He stated the date and time of the interview – it was just two weeks ago – and then briefly introduced himself, humbly giving the most basic of his credentials.
Last of all, he introduced his patient.
‘And this person opposite me is Billy Stephen Mercury,’ Dr Ostermann said to the camera. ‘Billy is a soldier who spent time in Afghanistan. First Class with the 7th Regiment. Coming back from the war, Billy suffered from extreme depression and night terrors, making it difficult to sleep and cope with the normal activities of daily life. He was subsequently diagnosed with Posttraumatic Stress Disorder and has been doing sessions with me here and at EvenHealth for the last seven months. Billy is making significant progress, and if all goes well, will be returning to his life outside the facility very soon. His independence is our first and foremost priority.’
Striker studied everything on the screen. During the entire introduction, Billy Mercury had said nothing. He just sat there and barely moved, staring at nothing in the room. His body trembled. His skin sweated. His breath came in fast and uneven gulps of air.
‘So Billy,’ Dr Ostermann continued. ‘Last session, we ended with you speaking of your time in Afghanistan. More specifically, the enemy engagements. You were talking specifically about Kandahar. This was a very bad time for you, as I understand.’
Dr Ostermann paused to give Billy Mercury a chance to speak; when the patient didn’t, Dr Ostermann continued.