Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Psychiatrist

As I lay in bed, the light from the hospital window fell yellow and pale into the sterile room. The pain was sharp and throbbing, compounded by an immediate realization that the Binder had taken something from me. The corrupt grip of that vile creature lingered in my blood. I felt dizzy and weak, confused. A victim.

I had been given a powerful sedative and slept away most of the day. The doctors transfused me with several units of packed red cells, but the effects of the sedation left me feeling opaque. A woman in blue scrubs walked toward her patient: me. She looked frightened. Her blond hair had escaped the confines of its binding and fell loosely over her pale face. As she stood in the natural light I could make out the shallow lines starting to burrow along the corners of her eyes. She was pretty, but a little anorexic-looking for my taste. I supposed I was a little disfigured for hers.

“Doctor Prophet,” she lied, “everything is going to be all right.”

I absentmindedly ran my hand along the gauze dressing over the eye socket.

“What happened to you?” The tension in her voice was only thinly veiled.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I informed her.

“Try me,” she said.

I put my hands over my face in a futile effort to dull the unquenchable knife that continued to burrow into my skull. Her eyes bored through the inadequate shield. I wondered how to confess to her my involvement in a myth. Instead I told her I had been attacked. I claimed I didn’t know the identity of my assailant.

“You’ve been reported as a missing person. The police think your injury was self-inflicted.” She watched my face carefully for a reaction.

“You’re kidding me!” Are all cops corrupted by Umbra’s dark magic? “What makes them think I did this to myself?”

“The police want you to talk to a psychiatrist,” she told me gently. “You need to be honest with him.” When she looked away, I knew trouble lay ahead.

“Send him in,” I commanded.

* * * *

Doctor Williams was a feminine-looking man who appeared to be in his mid-forties. His cream-colored suit draped his one hundred and thirty pound frame. He had thick blond hair, parted on the right side. He spoke using a soft voice that made me want to kick his effete ass.

“Doctor Prophet,” he addressed me apologetically, “the police have asked me to talk with you. Is this a good time?” He stood with patience, awaiting an answer before seating himself.

The truth was this was a decidedly bad time. I needed to figure out what I had done wrong on the beach. Just when I thought I had an effective weapon against the Miskenupik I discovered I was pretty bad at this game. It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye. That sentiment did make me laugh a little.

“Is there something funny, Doctor Prophet?”

I had not realized I laughed out loud. Fuck! I didn’t need to give this asshole more ammo against me. I needed to figure out how to “walk the razor’s edge.” October’s new moon would rise in two nights. Lots of work to do with the Kesemanetow. Isaac was making his way alone. More than just my vision would be lost.

The former physician decided to lie to the uncertain little psychiatrist. I would be asked pointed questions in a seemingly random and friendly way as if the psychiatrist were simply concerned with my well-being. In point of fact the little prick would organize my answers into a pattern to ascertain whether they matched known psychiatric disorders. No doubt the police had shared with him their brilliant observations and theories.

“Please have a seat, Doctor Williams,” I said, “my hospital room is your hospital room.”

He took a seat next to his patient and offered an amused smile. He looked over at my nurse, sending her a subconscious signal. She took the cue and excused herself.

“How do you feel?” Doctor Williams began innocuously enough.

“I feel like I’ve had my eye cut out.”

The psychiatrist clearly wasn’t expecting distrust. He wondered if my nurse had shared the findings of the police report. I could tell from the stupid expression on his stupid face. He cleared his throat and began again.

“Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?” he prodded.

“Sure,” I said, eager to answer all the questions in such a way as to prove my sanity and free myself in the shortest possible time. The clock was ticking for Isaac.

Very few surprises lay in Doctor Williams’ repertoire of questions. He stuck with a textbook recipe for diagnosing depression, psychosis, anxiety disorder, etc. Fortunately, we had read the same textbooks.

“How have you been sleeping lately?”

“I’ve been sleeping like a baby,” I lied.

Doctor Williams smiled and jotted down a few sentences. “I understand you recently lost a patient with whom you had grown close.” He said this with forced sympathy.

The little fucker must have been talking with my colleagues from the ICU. I nodded, visibly nonplussed by the psychiatrist’s change of venue.

When the good doctor ascertained my nod was the full extent of an answer, he pressed further. “Can you tell me about her?” he asked.

I mentioned she had died from respiratory complications of Maroteaux-Lamy Syndrome and that I was relieved she had not suffered any pain in the end. I made sure to mention my belief she was in a better place. I deleted the part about seeing her many times since her death. Psychiatrists rarely overlook things like that.

The game continued. I lost track of the time. How was I getting along after the loss of my wife and son? It was difficult at first, I recounted, but time heals all wounds and all that. I wondered how these fuckers made any money spending all this time talking with one patient. They didn’t perform any billable procedures either, other than electric shock therapy. Not that I thought money was the principal concern of compassionate physicians. It was just that I didn’t like this little prick and was looking for more ways to dislike him.

After an interminable and pointless interview, Doctor Williams finally appeared to be running out of steam. “Tell me about last night,” he commanded wearily.

I had already conjured up a believable story and recited it to him. I happened upon an intruder making his way from the shoreline into the backyard, no doubt intending to rob the waterfront neighborhood by boat. I confronted him, and we struggled. He had a knife. I ducked away from the first slice but wasn’t so lucky the second time. The trauma caused me to pass out. I awoke when my neighbor found me on the beach that morning.

Doctor Williams sat quietly until I finished. He was no doubt reflecting on the stability of his patient’s mental health. I reasoned I had met the weak-minded, herbal tea-sipping little fool head on and kicked his silk-boxer-garmented wimpy ass.

“Doctor Prophet,” Williams said, “it is clear to me you’ve been lying to me through this entire interview.”

Uh-oh. This was most unexpected.

“You’ve been missing for several months, and a lot of people are worried. The police would like to interview you, but they are awaiting my report. I’m a little worn out right now,” he continued, “but I’d like to pick this up again tomorrow. I’ve got some other patients at Bellin. I’m going to have you moved there when you’re medically stable. The police will want you after that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bellin! Fucking Bellin! Bellin Hospital was the institution that housed psychiatric patients. Involuntarily. That estrogenized little fuck is not going to put me in a nuthouse. I sure as hell was not going to let Umbra’s thugs arrest me.

I needed to break out of the hospital before they medically cleared me. Since I’d already received a dose of antibiotics and a tetanus booster, there was little left for the current medical team to do for me, I reasoned. My eye was already lost. I knew that. They’d wait several weeks or even months for the eye socket to heal before fitting me for prosthesis. In all reality, they’d get me over to Bellin in the next two days.

“The new moon will soon rise,” I said aloud. The room was empty, and no one answered.