Daniel Hecht_Cree Black 02 (31 page)

She leaned back and watched their faces with satisfaction, knowing full well what she'd just delivered into their hands. Donny's
mind was spinning with the implications. Julieta had to know that what she was doing would kill her five ways come Sunday.
If word got out into the Navajo community about a chindi possessing the boy, haunting the school, her staff would evacuate
the place like there was a bomb threat. Two days later, the last of the kids would be yanked by their parents. And bringing
in a ghost buster? Doing an exorcism? The education people would crucify her! And the rumors, let alone an article or two
in the papers, would kill Julieta's fund-raising dead; she'd lose too much credibility ever to recover financially.

It would be so easy. With several hundred Navajos working for McCarty Energy at different sites, it would be a cinch to get
word moving in the general population.

Donny almost laughed out loud: For all his toughness, even big Nick had been sitting openmouthed, and all he could manage
when he finally found his voice was, "No shit!"

A half hour later, as they caravanned west to the Hunters Point mine, Donny dialed Nick's cell phone number. In his rearview
mirror, he watched Nick's broad silhouette put its hand to its ear.

They had milked the nurse for a while more, and she had milked them in return. At last, with Nick flirting and Donny assuring
her that she always had a job at McCarty Energy if she needed it, they'd left the restaurant. Donny's mind was in overdrive.

"We have to do lunch more often, huh, Nicko?"

"Oh fuck, Donny. Oh man. I was going to wring her neck if she did any more dancing around, so help me. This close, man. This
close." Nick's voice had a broad smile in it. Donny could visualize him holding his thick thumb and forefinger a millimeter
apart. "Seriously, I was thinking, too bad her account wasn't closed when good old Vern's was."

"So what are we up against here?"

"Seems like a good-news-bad-news situation," Nick's voice said. Nick would know to keep it reasonably circumspect, given that
cell phones were not the most private form of communication.

"Julieta, she's really planning something major. Gotta be, with the engineer, the bogus thing with the mutilations. And the
mesa! Jesus Christ!"

"But we've got her by the balls! The ghost buster, the sick kid. If we can keep the nurse's cooperation. We need her to keep
us informed. And she'd need to back us up, maybe testify, if it comes out in the open."

"You'll see to that? Keeping her sweet on us?"

Nick groaned at the thought of more sessions with Lynn Pierce. "Yeah. Provided I get a bonus here, Sahib. Call it hazard pay."

They both chuckled and then were silent as they navigated past a slow-moving pickup truck with a goat tethered in the back
and about six Navajos crammed into the single-seat cab. Donny frowned, nagged by the sense that something didn't quite compute
with this whole thing. If Julieta had brought in the parapsychologist to deal with the kid's problem, why were they talking
about the mutes or the mesa? On the other hand, if she'd brought her and her team in to throw a monkey wrench at McCarty Energy,
what was the whole business with the kid? But whatever it was, the only workable hypothesis was that it was aimed at his head
in some way, and he'd better think about preemption.

When they were past the truck, Nick's voice crackled over the phone again: "So. With the ghost business. We want to start
the word circulating among the men right away?"

Donny had made a strategic decision. He hoped it wasn't overly biased by what he had to admit was some trepidation at the
thought of an outright war with Julieta. "Nick!" he scolded. "I'm surprised at you!"

"Why not?"

"Think about it. Julieta's planning something—that's the only explanation. It's got to be a major offensive. She's found
out something. I don't know what she knows or how she knows it, but there's no other conclusion. If we shoot our ammo now,
she'll be even more pissed off and she'll have no reason left not to shoot us down in return. So we hold our fire. We do our
homework, we poke around a little more, get our ducks in order. When we know more about what she's trying to do, we go to
her and gently suggest she cease and desist because with what we know we can take her down. We preserve what we know as a
disincentive for her to give us grief, not use it prematurely to stir up a hornets' nest."

"Right." Nick was silent for a moment, thinking that through, and then chuckled. "You're good with the big picture. I guess
that's why you're the boss, huh?"

"It's all just psychology," Donny told him. "Human psychology."

34

BY THE TIME Cree got to Ketteridge Hospital, she was almost in a state of panic. She'd been running on an adrenaline overdose
for over an hour as she drove a borrowed Oak Springs School car to Gallup.

Inside, the front desk receptionist rang Dr. Corcoran's office, told her he'd be down shortly, and invited her to have a seat
in the lobby. After ten minutes of pacing and fretting, she wanted to scream. Or to run through the halls to find Tommy.

After she and Ed had gotten back from her early-morning hike, she had showered and dressed and found she still had an hour
to kill before she had to leave for her appointments. She'd used the time to read through the last of the materials Mason
had given her.

And had gotten badly shocked.

It was one of Mason's own papers that made her break into a sick sweat of anxiety. In arguing that some apparent cases of
seizure disorders, schizophrenia, or DID were in fact examples of possession, he had cited six cases in which conventional
pharmaceutical treatment had not only failed to help the victim but had been directly counterproductive. The medications had
made the sufferer
worse.
The reason was simple: Most antipsychotic medications had a sedative or suppressive effect, which Mason believed weakened
the host personality's resistance to the invader. All victims of possession fought the parasitic beings attempting to move
in on them, he said; treatments that made the patient lethargic or passive, or otherwise suspended his volition, gave the
invading entity free rein. In each of the cases he cited, the damage had proved irreversible. Of the six victims, two had
committed suicide and four had gone on to lifetime institutionalization. Of those, one had later been lobotomized and had
never come out of a postoperative catatonia.

Cree had dropped the papers as if they'd burned her hands. She'd left a quick message on Dr. Corcoran's voice mail, hurried
out to the car, and driven to Gallup like a madwoman, trying to figure out how to forestall any drastic treatment without
telling Corcoran the reason why.

When at last Dr. Corcoran arrived, he was accompanied by a short, officious-looking man wearing a three-piece suit and a trim
goatee. Dr. Corcoran wasn't wearing his usual benevolent grin, and the other man looked positively dour.

"I've invited Dr. Schaeffer to join us," Dr. Corcoran said curtly. "He's our head of neuropsychiatry, and he's very . . .
interested in Tommy's condition. We've been consulting on pharmacological aspects of Tommy's treatment."

Without waiting for a word from her, the two men turned back into the corridor.

She caught up to them at the elevator bank. "Dr. Corcoran," she panted, "I have a rather urgent recommendation for Tommy that
we need to—"

"If it's not too much to ask," Dr. Schaeffer chided, glaring at her, "can we at least wait until we have some privacy? We'll
discuss this in my office, like professionals." He gestured at a trio of nurses who also waited for the elevator.

They rode up to the third floor in silence. The two men led Cree down a stretch of corridor to an office on the left, where
they stopped and gestured her inside. Dr. Schaeffer came in last, shutting the door behind himself.

It was a small room, with one window overlooking the flat roof of a lower wing of the building and the surrounding parking
lots. Dr. Schaeffer's desk was piled with folders, and shelves on one wall were stuffed with hundreds more, but otherwise
it was a stark room, without the personalizing effect of family photos, art, curios. Cree automatically moved toward a chair
to the right of the desk and then stopped as she realized that neither man had sat. Nor invited her to. Schaeffer positioned
himself behind his desk, leaning forward and resting his weight on his knuckles; Corcoran stood at the other side of the room
in his vulture's hunch, arms folded disapprovingly.

"You were saying? You were going to recommend—?" Dr. Corcoran prompted icily.

"Yes, do proceed," Dr. Schaeffer said. "We're very curious as to why you're here today."

Cree tried to quash her urgency, to sound professional and objective: "I wanted to speak to you about some literature I've encountered that may bear upon Tommy's treatment. In particular, the application of antipsychotic medications."

The two men exchanged glances. This would be Dr. Schaeffer's turf, but he didn't move except to raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"It appears that in certain cases the standard treatments can be counterproductive. That they can exacerbate symptoms."

"Cases of
what,
precisely?" Dr. Corcoran asked.

"If you have reasons to believe Tommy Keeday might have such a reaction, I'd like to hear them," Schaeffer said. "Of course,
paradoxical responses are not unheard of. But I'd like very much to hear which specific cases you're referring to." He came
around his desk, past Cree, and went to the file cabinet next to the door to fuss with some papers on its top. After a moment
he spun back to observe her response.

It put Cree in the awkward position of having to turn her head back and forth to try to address both men. "I just wanted to
urge you to allow me to conduct less drastic therapies first. Give talk therapy more time."

Dr. Corcoran cleared his throat. "We are very interested in just that, actually. As to just what direction your therapy is
taking. As to just what you and the patient discussed yesterday."

"And I am still waiting to hear about those particular case studies," Dr. Schaeffer put in. "Chapter and verse, Dr. Black.
That's how we do things here."

Cree started to reply, then stopped. She'd been in too much of a hurry to pay close attention, but now it hit her in the face:
This was a hostile inquisition. Something had changed since yesterday.

A siren broke the silence. Outside, an ambulance sped up to the building and disappeared from view beneath the lower wing.
Dr. Schaeffer took the moment to move so that he now stood in front of the closed door, leaning against it with his arms crossed.

"What's going on here?" Cree asked indignantly.

"That's precisely what we expect you to tell us," Dr. Schaeffer snapped. "As you explain why you're here today."

"I need to spend time with Tommy. I'm sure you'll both agree his condition is urgent. I was—"

"His condition is indeed urgent," Schaeffer agreed. "As you no doubt know, he had another crisis yesterday, after your session
with him."

"No, I didn't know! What—"

"We were able to observe his symptoms quite closely. Clearly, we're witnessing a very unusual and extreme syndrome. Dr. Corcoran
and I agreed that drastic pharmacological intervention was required immediately."

Cree caught her breath. Behind Schaeffer's accusing glare, she recognized the excited gleam of the clinician sensing a rare
malady to study and experiment upon. The same hankering for the exotic case had fueled the epidemic of multiple personality
disorder diagnoses during the 1980s. An opportunist would see Tommy as material for sensational monographs, book deals, TV
talk shows. Instant celebrity in the psych world.

"What, exactly, did you two talk about yesterday?" Dr. Corcoran asked. "What did you tell him about our treatment plans?"

"What?"

"What did you tell his relatives?" Schaeffer asked. He seemed to huff himself up, making himself bigger, and Cree realized
that he was blocking the door. A gesture of control and coercion.

"I didn't meet his relatives. I left before they got here. And I certainly didn't speak to Tommy about—"

"You have very interesting hobbies, Dr. Black. You see, we took the liberty of looking you up. We were most impressed with
your credentials. But we were unpleasantly surprised to learn about your—what's the terminology?—'interest' in the paranormal."

"I am involved with Tommy at the request of the patient and his primary physician, and I solicited as a courtesy this institution's
permission to help with his treatment. I have in no way prejudiced the patient against your treatment of him, if that's what
you're implying."

"We need to know—"

"I need to talk to Tommy. Now. You have my recommendation about antipsychotics." She hesitated as a terrible thought occurred
to her. "Or, what, you've already treated him? Is that what this is about? You've already seen some reaction that—"

"Not just yet. We're—"

"Good! Now, unless you've got something else you want to tell me, I'm going to see him. Immediately." She tossed her head
imperiously, vaguely recognizing Julieta in the gesture.

"You settle down, Dr. Black," Dr. Corcoran ordered. "I'll call security if I have to."

Cree glared at him and crossed the room toward the door.

Dr. Schaeffer only braced his legs and made it clear he wasn't going to budge. "What's your prescription, Dr. Black?" he growled.
"Take him to a Navajo witch doctor? Is that what you're trying to do here? Or is it just that you want this one all to yourself?"

Cree drew up in front of him, outraged. In her peripheral vision, she saw Dr. Corcoran coming toward her from behind. "What
I'm trying to do, Dr. Schaeffer," she hissed, "is leave this room. And if you don't get out of my way, I'm gonna kick your
balls right up into your friggin'
lung!
"

His eyes flared in alarm, and as she made a quick move toward him he scuttled aside. Cree yanked open the door and stepped
past him into the hallway. She looked left and right and only then realized she didn't know where she was in the labyrinth
of the hospital, how to find her way to Tommy's ward. But she strode off toward the elevator bank, wondering how far Schaeffer
and Corcoran would go to stop her from seeing him. The need to be with him, to do something to arrest the terrible thing happening
to him, was overpowering.

She stopped at the elevators and slapped the down button.

"You won't see him, Dr. Black."

She whirled to see that Dr. Corcoran had followed her. He stopped in the hallway about fifteen feet away, as if afraid to
get any closer.

"Yeah? Well, you scurry off and call security, and we'll see how it goes down. And when his condition deteriorates because
of your treatments—after you've been warned by a consulting psychologist?—see what kind of malpractice suit comes down on
you."

"No. You won't see him because he isn't there. Tommy Keeday is no longer a patient at Ketteridge. For now."

"What! What have you done with him?"

He took a step back and put up his hands, warding her away. "We did nothing with him. His relatives came and took him away.
Late last night. Functionally, they abducted him."

Cree gaped as it suddenly came clear to her. They thought she'd colluded with the family to remove Tommy from the hospital.
No wonder they'd seemed confused about why she was here today. In fact, his vanishing was the last thing she wanted. How would
she find him again? How would she persuade his relatives to let her treat him? Any delay at all could be catastrophic.

"We've informed New Mexico Child Protective Services. They've got an investigator looking for him. They're considering bringing
charges. I'm sure they'll want to talk to you, also."

"Charges?"

"This isn't the first time such a thing has happened, Dr. Black. But fortunately the law sides with science, not superstition.
In a case as urgent as Tommy's, the law clearly gives presumptive power of attorney to us, not the family. This institution
will assert its legal responsibility to care for a dangerously ill child."

The elevator dinged and the doors shushed open, but Cree couldn't move. "What . . . what will happen if they find him?"

" 'If? Oh, they'll find him," Dr. Corcoran snapped. "He'll be with one or another of his sheepherding relatives. The state
will know where they are because all they have to do is go where the welfare checks are delivered. And they'll bring him back.
But you'll never see him again, you can trust me on that."