Dream Walker (11 page)

The cop grunted again and changed the subject. “How’s Becky?”

As the suit began a conversation about whoever Becky was, Raze moved himself to the doorway and looked through the window. Just like Suit said, Blake was sitting on the linoleum next to the bed, hunched up in a little ball, cradling himself.

There you are, little whippersnapper. Just as I left you.

Raze waited for an opportune point in the conversation so he could push himself through the window. When the suit laughed at something the uniform said, he pushed himself through the window. It made a soft tapping sound and Raze looked back into the hallway. Too caught up in their idle chitchat, neither of the men had turned toward the sound. Blake didn’t respond to the shift in the room either.

Raze surveyed the room. Somewhere between the therapist visiting and Mom arriving, Blake needed to be handled—
permanently
. Raze needed to find the means with which Blake could take his own life.

There was a one-way mirror on the southern wall, behind which was an observation room. Broken it would make a good tool for slitting his wrists, but it appeared to be made of a nearly unbreakable material. There was a chair in the corner. Blake could use the chair to break the glass, but it would take a lot of rage to generate that kind of force. With Blake’s state, Raze would have to find something more passive.

The metal-framed bed was against the northern wall. A bare mattress lay on top. It was smooth-sewn; no buttons, ties or strings that could be used for gouging or strangling purposes. There were no sheets upon it that Blake could use to hang himself.

The corners of the bedframe were rounded instead of pointed, eliminating the possibility of Blake impaling himself upon it, but he
could
throw himself chest first against the footboard and trigger commotio cordis. Raze could influence the action, but the timing would have to be absolutely precise. A blow to the chest had to happen during the perfect cycle of the heartbeat to cause fatal ventricular fibrillation. Difficult, but not impossible. Raze left that option open.

The walls of the room were padded. Blake wouldn’t be able to bash his own head open against it.

Raze sat down on the bed and looked at Blake. He was naked except for a thin, light blue gown, made of
fabric
, not paper.

Ta da!
Raze felt a bit of relief as the modus operandi presented itself. Blake could remove his gown and strangle himself from the rails at the end of the bed.

He looked toward the window, thinking maybe he could get this done now, before the therapist had a chance to interrupt.

He projected an astral hand toward Blake’s head. “Hello, little buddy. Remember me?”

There was no response, no fluctuation in Blake’s breathing pattern, no involuntary muscle twitching. Raze switched into receiver mode and felt for the presence of an energy signature, much the same way a nurse would take a pulse. Still nothing—Blake’s body was moving and grooving, but his essence was not there.

Houston, we have a problem
, Raze thought. Without a channel to tune into, he wouldn’t be able to access Blake’s subconscious—he couldn’t be the voice inside his head impelling him to kill himself.

The restricted doors at the end of the hall buzzed open, and footsteps moved toward the room. Raze, like the two gumshoes standing outside the door, was going to have to see if the therapist could pull Blake back into his body. Highly unlikely, but if he did, Raze would be here, ready for the catch. And the kill.

CHAPTER 8

Aislen was mortified. How freakin’ embarrassing was it, to practically faint in the hallway and have to be propped up by Troy? What kind of nurse was she going to be, all weak-kneed and light-headed? And add to that—flippin’ crazy! That’s what she really was! With her crazy-ass dreams, weird voodoo vibes following her around all day, and a catatonic schizophrenic patient practically waking from the dead to tell her weird shit about her name.

She thought she hid her meltdown okay with the whole “oops I slipped” excuse. How she came up with such a logical response during a mental health crisis, while swooning in the arms of Prince Charming was amazing as hell. She didn’t realize she had such a knack for lying her ass off.

Rachel and Troy got her back to the nurse’s station in one
physical
piece and sat her in a chair. Rachel went to the kitchen to get her an orange juice, thinking her blood sugar might be low and Troy took her hand in his, pressing his fingertips on the crook of her wrist.

“Your pulse is a little fast,” he said.

No shit, Sherlock, you’re touching me,
she said to herself.

He looked up at her, frowning with concern.

“Oh, shit! Did I say that out loud?”

“Say what out loud?” Troy looked even more worried and confused.

“Oh. I guess not. Nevermind.” She was really losing it.

Troy squinted his eyes at her, looking over her face and back into her eyes. The intensity of his gaze made her heart hammer even harder. She yanked her wrist away so he wouldn’t notice.

“I came over here to pick you up for a field trip...but now I’m thinking maybe you should just go home sick for the rest of the day.”

“No!” she responded, a little too forcefully. “I’ve just been having a really, really wild and busy day...rush, rush, rush. And with finals...and work...and almost breaking my neck just now. But it’s really no big deal. I really only slipped.” Now she sounded desperate.
God, what is wrong with me!

She stopped and took a deep breath. “No, I really want to go,” she managed to say with a degree of control in her voice. “I have never been to that facility and am interested in seeing what it is like.”

“All right,” Troy said. “If you think you’re up for it.”

“I am. I’m sure.”

Rachel came back with a big glass of orange juice. Aislen took it from her and chugged the whole thing down in three gulps. Troy laughed.

“Okay then, we should get going. We wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”

Aislen handed the glass back to Rachel. “Thanks for covering for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“No worries...but try to stay on your feet. I know that may be difficult given the company.” Rachel raised her eyebrows up and down and gave her a knowing smile. Aislen shooed at her with her hand and followed Troy down the hall.

Stepping outside the walls of the hospital was new territory for them and Aislen immediately felt self-conscious. She always felt more comfortable and self-assured in the arid environs of school and work, hiding behind the masks of erudition and professionalism. In casual settings, such as restaurants, cars, parking lots,
life
, Aislen retreated into a shell. And in the presence of an especially cute guy? Forget about it.

They walked in silence through the lot to Troy’s car. Aislen expected to be led to a beige Honda Accord, Toyota Prius, or an older model Volvo, what all the shrink types seemed to be driving these days. Instead, Troy walked her to a vintage but mean-looking, moss green Mustang. He unlocked the passenger door first and opened it for her. No one had ever opened a car door for her. Any dates she had been on had been pretty much fend-for-yourself so far as opening doors and paying for dinners was concerned. She felt flattered by the gesture.

“I’m surprised by your choice of wheels,” she said as she slid into the seat.

Troy leaned over the window and smiled at her. “What? Were you expecting a Prius?”

“Yeah, actually I was,” she laughed.

“Not my style.” He reached up and pet the hood. “This beauty was my inheritance from my Grandpa Joe. It’s a 1967 Fastback that he hid in the garage under a quilt for 30 years. He must have thought cars were like wines...that they needed to be cellared forever before popping the cork and enjoying them.”

“He must have known you’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah...he knew I loved this car. When I’d stay over, I would sneak out to the garage, climb under the quilt and into the driver’s seat and pretend I was Tokyo drifting down the highway. Grandpa would come out, rip the quilt off, and yell, ‘This car is off-limits, young man!’ He’d be all red and puffy and belligerent, but then he would pop the hood and start telling me all about her. He knew this car would be the first place I’d go and I knew his anger was all a show.” Troy gave a wistful laugh. “Then he gave it to me when I graduated college, just before he passed away. Crazy.”

Aislen was touched not only by the story, but also by how sentimental Troy was about it. He was so comfortable in his own skin, just being himself. It was so easy to relax around him.

“We really need to get a move on now. We’re late. Good thing this car is fast.” He shut her door, rounded the car to his side and hopped into the driver’s seat. “Better fasten your seatbelt, hon.” He started the car, revved the engine, and gunned it out of the parking lot.

Aislen needn’t have worried about having to carry on a conversation. The deep rumble of the muscle car made small talk impossible. Aislen didn’t want to shout over the roar and she sure as hell wasn’t going to lean over and invade Troy’s personal space. They sped down the backcountry roads. At an intersection, a car misjudged their speed and pulled out in front of them. As Troy stepped on the brake, he reached his arm across her and held her in her seat. The feeling of his arm pressed up against her chest sent a flush of heat through her and started her heart ker-thumping.

They whipped into the parking lot of the A.R.C. It was the most exhilarating 5-minute experience of Aislen’s life. Before she could catch her breath, Troy was out of the car, opening her door again.

“M’lady,” he said, extending his hand to her to help lift her out of the seat.

She reached up and took a hold of it. A jolt of electricity coursed through her body and she thought her heart was going to finally give out on her. “Thanks,” she said, suddenly shy again.

“Let’s go check in, shall we?”

They walked through the front doors. A silver-haired woman looked up from the magazine she was reading and smiled warmly. “Good afternoon! May I help you?”

“Yes,” Troy said, pulling out his Chrysalis ID. “I am here to meet with a Detective Jackson, regarding the Parrish case, please. Nurse Walker is with me.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll buzz you in. Just follow the main corridor to the end. You’ll see the signs for the Acute Center on the wall.” She handed Aislen a visitor’s badge. Troy clipped his ID to his pocket.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He gave her one of his signature smiles and Aislen could have sworn she saw the old lady blush.

They went through the main double doors and started walking down the corridor. The wing they were walking though was similar to Aislen’s facility, only instead of geriatric patients wandering the hall, teenagers loitered there. They stopped talking to give Aislen the once over, and Troy the twice over as they passed.

“I really didn’t have time to go over this case with you,” Troy said as they walked. “But just a quick fill in should do.”

“Okay,” she replied, distracted by a couple of teenage girls nudging each other and giggling as Troy walked past.

“The client we are here to see used to attend a video game addiction group that I lead at the community health center. It was at the insistence of his parents; so needless to say, because he was forced to attend, he didn’t participate much. Apparently, there was an incident at his house early this morning and he has been displaying some crisis symptoms. I was asked to come over here to see if a familiar face can ease him out of his current state.”

“What happened this morning?” A bell started ringing in her head and a sense of foreboding clenched in her stomach. She knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“The police found him in his house, sitting next to his father...who had been shot in the head.”

Aislen stopped walking. “You’re kidding, right?” Her head was starting to swim a little more.

Troy stopped and looked at her with concern. “Is this going to be too much for you?”

Aislen shook her head, more as an attempt to shake the vertigo out of it than to answer his question, but he took it as a no.

“I know the situation is disturbing,” he continued, “but I have seen how professional you have been with various adult crisis situations and thought you’d like to tag along to observe a juvenile case. I should have explained the situation to you so you could have a choice as to whether or not you wanted to come. You know, it’s unclear as to whether or not Blake was the shooter. He could just be a witness.”

A shrill ringing pierced her ears painfully. “What did you say his name was?”

“Blake. Blake Parrish. Why? Does it sound familiar?”

Yes, it did. Like a really bad case of déjà vu, her dream was haunting her again. She could feel the fierce presence of the soldier and hear the echoes of his command, ‘Blake, carry on’ reverberating through the crevices of her brain. She shook her head again and managed to choke out a whisper. “No. It just sounds sad.”

“It is. Very sad. I wouldn’t have seen this coming at all. He seemed like a normal teenager to me. Maybe a little quiet and shy, but he wasn’t dark, hateful, or aloof...like most the other kids in the group. He seemed almost confused by the whole concept of why he was there. I’m thinking the shooting had to have been done by someone else, and when Blake found his dad—he went into total shock.”