CHAPTER TWELVE

The Patterson Institute rose like a precarious castle near the mountaintop across a deep valley. Although it was Gina Larsen’s eleventh visit here—posing as Bryson Witner’s cousin, the only family who ever visited—to communicate with Witner for Potemkin, this view never failed to make her palms go moist on the steering wheel. Perched on a cliff edge, the structure looked as if it might come loose in a storm and crumble into the abyss.

Many minutes of winding roads later, she pulled into the parking lot and stepped out of the car. Adjusting the hidden shoulder straps that helped support the fat suit she was wearing, she trudged up the steps to the entrance doors and pushed inside. They showed her to a waiting area where a guard brought in Witner, hands cuffed behind his back as usual, then led them into an open inner courtyard. During her initial visits she’d been surprised that they’d permitted her to walk with Witner alone in the exercise area. But there were multiple layers of security. His hands were cuffed, his medication regimen was powerful, several armed guards kept them in view from cubicles on the roof, and the guard who’d led them there kept vigil by the door, constantly in sight. No other patients were allowed out at the same time. It turned out to be ideal for sharing information privately.

Her last visit had been on a warm summer day. Now the outdoor exercise equipment had been cleared for the coming winter. The Astroturf was clear of everything except dead leaves that rustled underfoot as they strolled. A few snowflakes filtered down, vanishing on contact with the ground.

“Bryson, you seem happy today,” she said.

Witner, wearing an unzipped green parka, gave her a crooked smile as a gust ruffled his graying hair. “Well, it can’t be my physical liveliness,” he said. “The medications have seen to that. Look, see how I shake—” He lifted his hands behind his back.

His long bony fingers had a coarse, involuntary, clenching sort of tremor that made his hands resemble spiders trying to crawl away from his wrists. Potemkin once told her that when he first befriended Witner at the coin club in Boston, back when Witner worked at Harvard, Witner kept venomous spiders in a terrarium in his flat. He had a black widow and a banana spider, one of the deadliest in the world. Potemkin, who was a fan of the BBC show Doctor Who, had given him the nickname “Doctor Witch,” a wordplay on “Doctor Which.” Who, which, where, why. Stupid, but that was the way Potemkin’s mind worked.

She shivered. “Looks uncomfortable, Bryson.”

“Oh it is. If I seem lively today it’s because my soul is entertaining the idea that my body may soon be free of this place, meaning I won’t have to wander around here talking to myself. Do you know that I spend most of my days conversing with various parts of my mind?”

“You’ve told me.”

“Fortunately, I find myself good company. So, any news from Mikhail about him springing me?”

She’d been waiting for this. She must avoid him sniffing the slightest whiff of betrayal. “Things are moving along well. Dr. Haines will soon own the hospital and then Mikhail will arrange your escape.”

“I’m curious as to how soon, my dear.”

“Certainly it will be soon. Unfortunately, there’s been a little complication with the takeover.”

His expression faltered. “Of what sort?”

“Apparently Dr. Forester is trying to undercut the deal. The hospital has given him two weeks.”

Witner broke into laughter, his breath vapor curling up. “Forester! In the way again. Amazing. Always tilting at windmills. What’s his plan?”

“We don’t know. I’m going there tomorrow to find out. I’ll be interviewing him as a Ukrainian journalist.”

“Why a Ukrainian journalist?”

She explained the scenario.

He nodded approvingly. “Good plan. I wish you luck. There was a time when I might have asked you to hurt Forester for me. Lord knows I tried myself. But I’ve scratched that itch. Speaking of vengeance, I suppose you’ve heard that our director here recently died in an accident.”

She looked away, her mouth feeling dry. “Dr. Teitelbaum. Yes, I did.”

“Mikhail’s work, I assume?” Witner asked. “After you told him of my suspicions?”

She nodded grimly.

“What if I told you, my friend, that perhaps I was wrong about Teitelbaum being onto something about this arrangement?”

She stopped. The vacant look in his eyes made her shiver. Doctor Witch. Not for the first time, she wondered what would happen if he turned violent with her. She knew that the numerous people he had murdered included one of his patients, his protégé at the hospital, and his own lover. “Wait,” she said. “ What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I may have dreamed it.” He glanced away and shrugged. “Or maybe some part of me just wanted to see what Potemkin would do. Strangely enough, Teitelbaum’s replacement may be one of my old colleagues from New Canterbury. Hal Dugan, a hopeless moron.” He barked a laugh that echoed across the courtyard. Then he slowly turned and fixed her with his eyes again. “I sense a conflict inside you today, my dear. Are you hiding something?”

She met his gaze. “Of course not. This fat suit’s killing me.”