Jagger had put on his glasses.
Jagger didn’t wear glasses.
I finally realized that they were the ones he’d used on a case before. There was a tiny camera in the frame. He had gone out of the room, knowing full well there was no receptionist, planning to “investigate” the files of one Dr. Pia De Jong with the fabulous legs.
I hoped he wasn’t thinking of her legs.
Then I hoped he got the goods on her, so my case could end soon and I’d get paid. Money issues had been pushed into the back of my mind since being incarcerated. But then again, there was my share of the rent to pay, food to buy, and a car payment due soon—for a Lexus I didn’t even own but had cosigned the loan on, for a “good” friend.
“Alice? Alice, I am speaking to you.”
I looked up to see an annoyed look on the doc’s face. Yet she still looked damn fetching.
“Sorry. My mind wanders. I . . . I don’t know where to start. Maybe if you tell me what my brother said before bringing me here, I can start from there.” Yes! That was a great idea. I was getting better and better at these investigation/undercover/fake patient things.
Then I thought of Vito Doran’s dead body.
I shivered.
“Are you okay?” She leaned back in her chair, not really looking as if she cared if I was all right or not. I actually think she looked at the clock.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah.” I’m fine except for worrying that Margaret or I might be killed soon. And it never left my thoughts that the real Mary Louise was missing too.
“Colin said you were not sleeping well . . . ”
I know she was talking, but suddenly I had a vision of Jagger standing next to my bed, me with Spanky curled up under my arm, and me wearing my slinkiest, thinnest nightie and his scent overpowering the room.
How the hell could anyone sleep with him there?
“Alice, have you ever been diagnosed with ADD?”
I looked at her. ADD? What the hell? “No. Why?”
“You seem very preoccupied, even distracted, or is it a reluctance to talk about your depression?”
Depression? I was one of the most carefree, happy people I knew other than Miles and Goldie who had it over everyone where happy was concerned. Depressed indeed. “I don’t have ADD, and I am not depressed.” I put her straight.
Her look said she didn’t buy it.
What the hell had Jagger told her?
“Are you going to tell me what my brother said or not?” It came out much angrier than it needed to, but seemed to get the point out.
“He said you’ve suffered a loss of appetite lately—”
You’ve never eaten the food at the Cortona Institute, lady.
“—Have difficulty with relationships—”
Okay, so one of my boyfriends tried to kill me, and my infatuation with Jagger borders on psychotic sometimes, but who wouldn’t have difficulty with that?
“And,” she continued as she used one of her lovely fingers to push aside a strand of hair that had fallen on her forehead, “you have threatened to run away.”
From a mental institution that I don’t belong in!
Jagger was a pip. At least he related true life to his lies. Guess that made them seem more real. I could easily explain all of this to her if I leaked my cover. It was tempting, because I knew a psychiatrist had to keep info confidential, but then again, this broad seemed as if she wouldn’t believe a word I’d say. She believed Jagger though.
And my being here, telling her lie after lie, would give him time to get some pictures of her files.
So, I began my elaborate story. I told her that my brother was the cause of it all. Ha. Ha. She never once looked as if she bought it. Before I knew it, she was shoving three boxes of pills at me.
“One in the morning, and one at night.”
Knock. Knock.
Jagger stuck his head in the door as I took the medication samples from her.
“Colin, I don’t want any medication,” I said.
He looked at the doctor and then at me. “You need to do what Dr. De Jong says, Alice.” He turned away from me. “Shall we make another appointment?”
“Most definitely,” she said and gave him a sexy smile.
“Most definitely,” I mumbled, cursed under my breath, and stuffed the pills she’d given me into the couch below the cushions.
I looked up to see both of them staring at me and realized my cursing was getting way too ripe and grabbed the damn pills from under the cushions.
Once outside, I turned to Jagger. Not only turned to him, but slammed my fist into his arm. “What the hell were you thinking? First you lock me up in a hospital, and now I’m also going for outpatient treatment. If I’m not crazy for working with you, I will be soon.”
“Pipe down until we get into the car.”
That was it. Ever the consummate investigator. Damn, but he was right. Since we couldn’t see the waiting room on our way out, we didn’t know if there were other patients there. The doctor could be coming out behind us any minute. Jagger would have seen if there were more patients when he’d left her office. I remained silent until we got into his SUV.
Then I punched him again.
This time he grabbed my arm. “Stop it, Sherlock. You know of a better way to get into her office to investigate?”
“I . . . well . . . I could have gotten a job as a nurse—”
“You see any nurses, receptionists or other staff around?”
“Damn it. You didn’t have to say I was depressed. Why couldn’t you have been the patient?”
He looked at me, stuck his key in the ignition and turned it. When he looked back, he started to drive out of the parking lot.
“Okay. Okay. Big deal. You have more experience in this field than I do.” I folded my arms across my chest before I clocked him again, causing us to drive off the road. “So, what did you find?”
“Every teen she sees is treated for depression. Not an easy diagnosis to prove or disprove.”
“Obviously.”
“But if I could get a look at the files, I may be able to determine more with my background,” I said.
He nodded.
Before I could ask any more questions, he’d pulled into our Dunkin Donuts. I liked to call it “ours” even though it really wasn’t, and I’m quite positive Jagger wouldn’t look at it as ours. At the drive-thru window, he ordered our usual. When he handed me my extra light, extra sweet hazelnut decaf and French cruller, I said, “I have no appetite.”
He curled his lip. “I had to come up with something.”
I took the coffee and donut and only wished I didn’t have an appetite. The truth was, after the days in the mental hospital, I felt as if I could eat nonstop. If I kept that up though, I’d really be depressed.
I took a bite of donut, chewed and swallowed. It dawned on me that I’d missed our donuts and coffee together. “So, she treats lots of teenagers. That doesn’t sound like fraud to me.”
“No, it doesn’t. But when you look at the numbers and the fact that everyone who comes to see her gets prescribed medication, put on her billing system, and is seen for an abnormally long time, it needs to be looked into. Plus the increase of teen patients has been recent.”
“That’s easy for you to say. How the hell can we prove these kids aren’t depressed? I mean, nowadays, almost all teenagers have something to be depressed about. Have you ever seen one who wasn’t?”
Jagger merely looked at me. Of course he probably didn’t know any teenagers. It was dumb to even ask him. He took a long, slow sip of his coffee. That wasn’t unusual, since he drank it black and often had to wait for it to cool. But this time, I could tell he was thinking. Thinking of my case and how, more than likely, he could get something out of helping me.
Jagger firmly believed in that old adage of one hand washes the other. Hand washing I could take, but if he got into the old maxim of you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, I’d be more confused than ever—and in Nirvana.
“I’m working on it. We’ll get you in to read the files soon.” With that, he set his coffee into the console holder, started up the car and drove off.
I grabbed my coffee so I wouldn’t be wearing it and kept trying to take sips as he slowed or stopped at a light. Soon, we had turned into the parking lot of Miles’s condo.
I got a bit teary-eyed at the sight of my home and how I wouldn’t be staying.
I sniffled it back before Jagger caught on and got annoyed with me. When he stopped, I grabbed my stuff, opened the door and got out. “Thanks.”
Before I knew it, he was leaning over and the power window was gliding down. I tried to get to the sidewalk before he could say anything, but I dropped the rest of my cruller, which I’d saved for Spanky. When I bent down to get it, I heard, “Be ready Sunday at one.”
I swung around so fast, I lost my footing and landed on my back like some kind of bug who’d been sprayed with Raid. Thank goodness the grass cushioned my fall.
From a distance I heard, “You all right, Sherlock?”
Shit. I lifted my head just enough to say, “Yes, I am, and I am not going back. Ever.”
“Margaret’s life is in danger. And Mary Louise is missing.”
For a fleeting second, I was ready to say, Then call the police, but I knew, just knew, that we had uncovered something at the Cortona Institute of Life, and until our work was done, others could be in danger too.
Damn my Catholic-school-induced conscience.
I held Spanky close to my chest and ignored the doorbell. When the brass clock Miles had bought in Switzerland chimed only once, the term “death knell” came to mind. Again the doorbell rang.
I shut my eyes and thought of the nice day I’d had yesterday. Nick had taken me out for lunch. We’d agreed that we really weren’t dating any longer, but would remain friends. We both needed some space and time. I actually needed to get this case finished to be able to live like a normal person.
Usually “needing more space and time” would be a lame excuse a guy would use to break up, but I used it anyway. I figured Nick would be one less person worrying about where I was or one less person I’d have to lie to about where I was going. At least I had about twelve hours of worry-free time. My folks bought my lie about going to spend time in Vermont with my friend Jeannine. I’d never shared with them how I’d cosigned her loan, and how she’d taken off in her new Lexus, sticking me with the payments. Miles and Goldie knew all about where I’d be and I knew, true to their promises, they’d stop by and visit my parents—like two busybody old-maid aunties. How I loved those two. All my bases were covered.
The bell rang again.
“Come on Pauline, or you’ll be late getting back.”
“Go away, Jagger. And don’t even think about reminding me about Margaret and Mary Louise.” I looked at the little overnight bag that I’d packed and remembered how I tried to think of any excuse not to go back.
Still, I’d give Jagger a hard time so he wouldn’t take me for granted. I kissed Spanky on the head. “I’ll be right back, sweetie.” I always told him this, thinking dogs had no concept of time. Even when I went away for a week or more I’d told him I’d be right back. I only wished it was true this time.
I stood, set him down on the couch and lifted up my little bag. I knew one of the nuns would search it, so I only brought a few magazines and tapes to listen to. Anything to take my mind off of where I’d be. I also brought a small notebook and several pencils to write notes about my case.
I’d never admit this to anyone, especially Jagger, but I was a bit excited about this case. Even though it wasn’t mine (Jagger always did pay me something though), I felt an overwhelming desire to stop whoever was committing the fraud.
All I had to do was picture Margaret mouthing to me that she didn’t belong in the Institute.
I opened the door. My heart momentarily stopped, and this time it wasn’t because I was looking at Jagger.
Facing incarceration again had caused the anomaly.
Jagger pulled into one of the reserved spaces marked for physicians.
I shook my head, grabbed my bag and got out.
“You can’t just go walking in alone. Wait up,” he said from behind.
Goldie’s yellow Camaro sat in a restricted parking space for visitors and I noticed Jagger nod to him. Obviously my family had to bring me back, since they took me out. Goldie stepped out and walked as if in slow motion. Guess he really didn’t want me going back in either.
Not that I was in a hurry to get inside, but I was still pissed at Jagger, mostly on principle, that I was the one being readmitted. I stopped for a second and looked up.
It was quiet except for a distant foghorn from a boat that chugged up the Connecticut River. The windows to the main building were empty, but on the western side, I could see someone pressed up against the glass, mouth wide open, hands flailing and eyes glaring in horror.
Yet I couldn’t hear a sound.
The place was obviously designed so that passersby couldn’t hear the ranting of the mentally ill. The thought gave me no comfort at all. Winter ivy climbed the walls of the giant redbrick buildings. A steeple of white stood on the end building as if it had been a chapel at one time—or maybe it still was. I could use one. My first thought had been that the Institute looked like a typical New England college.
I stopped and turned toward Jagger.
“I’ll be one step behind you,” he said.
I knew that was his way of trying to calm my fears. My feet felt like lead weights as I nodded and moved up the stairs clutching Goldie’s arm between mine.
“All right, Mary Louise, you can keep your notepad, but not that pencil. It’s too sharp. I can get you a crayon though,” said Sister Liz in the readmitting room.
Bummer. Good thing I’d thought to hide a tiny pencil in my sock. It was only a few inches in length and no wider than a coffee stirrer. I’d gotten it out of Uncle Walt’s old golf bag. He used it to write on his scorecard, but it had been a few years since he’d played.
Goldie sniffled and moaned a few times about his “daughter.” Then, I kissed him and whispered that I’d be fine and to keep an eye on my family. Having come from a broken home, I could see the pride in his eyes at being given this chore. He kissed me and nodded to Sister Liz as she unlocked the door to let him out.
Glad they didn’t do a strip search, I smiled and said, “That’s fine, Sister Liz. A crayon would be fine. Could you please go back to calling me Pauline? So I’ll remember to answer you. I don’t want to seem rude.”
She hesitated, then probably remembered my “doctor” had said to humor me. “Of course, Pauline. I’ll get you something to draw with. Any particular color?”
“Black.” Oops. That choice had to be telling in some psychotic way, but truthfully I’d said it since it resembled a pencil.
“Black. Okay. Black it is.” She turned toward the door when it opened with a swoosh.
In waltzed Sister Barbie, carrying a tray of colorful pills. “Everything all right here, Sister? If so, you are needed out on the unit.”
Great. If they started to medicate me, I could lose all logic and not be able to do my job. I always wondered how anyone could function day to day, especially at a job, when they did illegal drugs. Give me a clear head any time.
Sister Liz gave me a sympathetic look and walked out.
Damn. Did she know something? I tried to look calm, even pathetic, so Barbie wouldn’t force drugs on me. She held the tray and said, “So, how was your visit?”
As if I’d tell her that Jagger and I investigated Dr. De Jong. Instead I practiced my lying and said, “Fine. It was fine.”
She gave me a “yeah, right” kind of look. Amazed me how modern nuns were nowadays. Well, excluding Sister Liz. She was adorable and very much like the “old” nuns although she really wasn’t that old.
When I went to Saint Stanislaus Grammar School, nonun ever gave me a “yeah, right” look or was as pretty as Barbie. Nope. They all looked like, well, proper nuns. Once they gave up having to wear habits in public, the nunnery went downhill. It was like letting kids wear jeans to school. In my opinion, that was the beginning of the many behavioral problems in schools.
I had problems of my own, I noted, when Barbie took out a little white cup with a green pill in it. “Your doctor prescribed this for you, Mary Louise.” She held it out toward me.
It was then that I not only decided I would kill Jagger, but also how.
“I . . . Can’t you please call me Pauline?”
She rolled her eyes. Damn! These nuns were way too modern for me.
“Fine. Pauline, take your medication.”
“My doctor said I didn’t need any.”
“Doctor Plummer may have said that, but Doctor Brandon Pinkerton, the head of the Institute, my dear, has a standing order that new patients be medicated. It is for your own good, child.” She wiggled the cup toward me. “I will inform Doctor Plummer of the policy we have here.”
Instead of trying to argue, and I do mean trying, since I had very little faith I could win against Barbie, I took the cup, opened my mouth and stuck the pill under my tongue. While she watched me like the proverbial hawk, I took a cup of water from my bedside table and drank.
The pill floated from beneath my tongue!
“Swallow, Pauline, before you choke yourself.” She remained glued to the spot. “Don’t make me have to get my flashlight to check your mouth. This has been a long day. Just swallow, dear. Please.”
My tongue fished around my mouth, but to try and get the damn pill back into its hiding place proved useless. Then Sister Barbie patted me on the back! I swallowed and felt the damn pill sliding down my throat. Shit. I consoled myself with the thought that the pill might be Prozac, which wouldn’t take effect too quickly or knock me out. The drug peaked at six to eight hours.
No problem.
In my foggy haze, the furniture in my room started to wiggle. I sat bolt upright in my bed to see it clearly move across the room. When I flopped back down, I decided the pill wasn’t Prozac at all.
I called it the Green Demon, and didn’t even remember getting into bed.
My eyes fought to shut, but I tried to force myself awake to think. It was no use. The lids closed like a curtain on the final act of a play. Deciding to give in to the feeling, I lay still. Then my door opened.
A shadow of a figure stood by the doorway. At first I thought it might be Jagger, but it wasn’t his size. My mouth went dry and my heart started to pound so loudly in my drug-induced state that I worried that whoever it was would hear it. Like some paranormal evil spirit, it moved across—no, glided across—the room. Couldn’t be Sister Liz either. Way too tall for her.
As a matter of fact, from this angle, it almost touched the ceiling light above my bed. Of course, I couldn’t be too accurate with drugs in my system and lying down.
Not certain if what I saw was fact or drug fiction, I remained still—and the evil spirit rummaged through my drawers!
Paralyzed with fear, I now couldn’t move if I had wanted to.
Why would someone sneak into my room? Why wouldn’t they think I’d wake up? And why me?
Someone here must suspect me. But of what? I’d been so careful.
I thought of missing Mary Louise, dead Vito Doran, and poor Margaret. Great. Just the kinds of thoughts I needed right about then.
The figure dug into my bag and even looked inside each of my shoes. Damn, that would have been a good place to hide something. But then again, I hadn’t thought of it and this spirit person had.
A tickle started in the back of my throat. Had to be from fear, or the dry air of this place, but I tried not to give in to a cough. I certainly didn’t want to startle him, her or it. What I wanted was to open my eyes a bit more than a slit to see if I could tell better who it was. But other than the fact that it wore black—and this place was crummy with black-clad nuns—I had no clue.
Suddenly, it turned and came closer.
Gulp.
The figure remained hovering near for what seemed like hours. I tried to identify a scent, but nothing. The tickle became worse. I swallowed as nonchalantly as I could.
The figure remained, its face a blur, and then it just turned and walked out.
I coughed my brains out when the door shut, and then tried to get up. My body remained stuck to the bed as if it were ten times my actual weight. I hoped I hadn’t been given some paralyzing drug. The room remained a foggy blur . . . until tiny butterflies flew toward the window. Green ones with yellow wings followed by toads hopped across my bed. Then a large cockatoo flew in from the window. I tried to reach out, to shoo them all away, but nothing.
Instead I shut my eyes and let them make a racket. Someone would hear and come get them out of here.
“Pauline, Pauline, wake up, my dear. I need to check your vital signs, child.”
My eyes fluttered. Sister Liz, a hazy Sister Liz, stood in front of me. I opened my eyes wider to see the room. My hands shook but not as much as my voice. “Are . . . they . . . gone?” I grabbed the covers tighter even though my hands still trembled.
“They?”
“The . . . birds . . . the butterflies,” I mumbled. “That damn toad kept me awake.”
I felt a hand on my arm and turned toward her. “Sometimes it takes a while to get used to the medication.”
Get used to! Some psychedelic pill had me hallucinating the rain forest in my tiny, stark room, and I had no damn intention of getting used to it or taking a pill again.
I inhaled and wanted to ask her what the hell I had been forced to swallow, but it probably was some usual “cocktail” they gave all the newly admitted patients. Maybe Jagger had prevented them from giving me one the other day, but he might have a harder time going up against the head of this place.
I shut my eyes a second to think and ask myself what the hell I was going to do next.
The only question that came to mind was, Had someone really come into my room or not?