Esperanza (23 page)

The pretty redhead tempted Dominica. She liked the woman’s irreverence, her intelligence. But Casey O’Toole loved Ian, which discounted any possibility that Dominica might be able to force her to kill him.

So the last choice was the ex-wife. Dominica moved in closer to Louise
as she hurried along behind the gurney, high heels clicking against the tile floor, her pretty little purse tight against her side, her dark hair so sprayed into place that it wasn’t ruffled by tiny bursts of heat from the vents. Such a petite body. Wasp waist, a pleasing flare to her hips, a sassy sway to her walk.
Will I be able to seize you?

Dominica moved up behind her and slipped into her as unobtrusively as a splinter sliding beneath skin. She rapidly dispersed her essence throughout Louise’s body and wasn’t hurled out. Louise didn’t flinch or recoil, didn’t even know she had been compromised. Perhaps that was the secret to finding a host body in this era.
Do it gently and lie hidden, like a cancer cell, awaiting the opportune moment.

She took swift inventory of Louise’s physical and psychological state. She was so attractive on the outside, but such a total mess inside. Her bitterness over her divorce from Ian already had created intestinal problems and stiffness in her knees and shoulder joints. She flourished on a diet of constant high drama that slowly ate away at her adrenal glands. Louise had been the unfaithful spouse when she and Ian were married, but saw herself as a victim because Ian had filed for divorce first, humiliating her deeply. Her foremost desire was revenge. She resented that her son was closer to his father, that Luke apparently regarded her as a kind of money-grubbing bitch who didn’t have a clue about anything.

Aside from an occasional joint, she didn’t do drugs, didn’t smoke, drank only moderately. In other words, Dominica thought, Louise Ritter Bell would provide a fine, healthy body for the moment.

As the orderlies approached the double doors at the end of the hall, Dominica began to feel uneasy. Beyond those doors lay the psych ward. She could feel the collective malaise of the people inside, a tsunami of despair, depression, tragedy. Fortunately, Louise’s body provided some protection, but it was painfully clear to Dominica that she couldn’t seize anyone inside there to kill Ian unless her game plan changed.

The orderlies stopped outside the double doors. “No visitors are permitted inside,” the taller, muscular man said.

“What ward is this?” asked Casey.

“The psychiatric unit, ma’am.”

“He doesn’t need to be in any psych unit,” Casey snapped.

“Excuse me,” Louise said, an arctic chill in her voice. Dominica felt the tension in Louise’s body, the barely subdued rage, but didn’t dare interfere. “This is a family matter, Ms. O’Toole.”

Casey burst out laughing. “You haven’t been a part of his family since he divorced you two years ago.” She spoke forcefully to the orderly. “Mr. Ritter’s son has legal authority.”

Dominica felt embarrassed for Louise’s mental confusion, the way she flipped through the files in her own head, seeking the legal document that had made Luke his father’s legal guardian. When Louise concluded that Casey was bluffing, she told the orderly that she had power of attorney, but Casey butted in.

“You need to call Luke Ritter,” Casey said.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the orderly said. “Hospital policy dictates that any unruly patient goes to the psych unit for evaluation. We don’t need anyone’s permission to do that.”

“Who’s your supervisor?” Casey demanded.

“That would be Dr. Danforth, ma’am, the hospital administrator.”

“Fine, I’ll speak to him. And then
I’ll
call Mr. Ritter’s son.”

Casey marched away, and Louise stared after her, fuming. Then her rage spilled over and she rushed after Casey, grabbed her arm, spun her around. “Let’s get something straight.” The words hissed through her teeth and she leaned in so close to Casey that Dominica could see the flecks of amber in her beautiful green eyes. “I don’t want you anywhere near Ian, you understand me?”

“Get out of my face, lady.” Casey shoved her away.

Louise staggered back in her high heels, one ankle twisted, she lost a shoe and her balance and fell to the floor on her pretty little ass. “That’s assault. You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

“Right.” With a toss of her lustrous red hair, Casey turned, wiggling her fingers. “Ta-ta, Louise. I’m off to call Luke.”

Louise had trouble getting up. Her skirt was too tight, the floor was slippery, and a clasp on her garter belt had popped so that one of her stockings sagged. She felt humiliated that the exchange had been witnessed by the orderlies and other personnel. But her wrath interested Dominica most, an emotion she could stoke and manipulate.

Once Louise was on her feet again, she picked up her spike heel, slipped it on, twisted around and looked at the run in her other stocking. “Goddamn bitch,” she murmured, and moved up the hall in search of a pay phone.

She composed herself rapidly, Dominica noticed, rehearsing what she would say to her attorney, what he should say to the hospital administrator. But as soon as she began to travel along this line of thought, other options
occurred to her that she explored in a depth that surprised Dominica. The woman was brighter than she appeared to be, able to extend a single thought outward in time, examining the possible ramifications, the various probabilities, weighing one against the other.

Dominica followed the twisted, devious path in Louise’s mind: if the hospital shrink who evaluated Ian believed he’d suffered brain damage due to his deprivation of oxygen when he had died, then perhaps he could be persuaded to commit him for a period of time. For observation. Commitment, Louise knew, practically ensured that Ian’s tenure at the university would be rescinded and he probably would lose his newspaper column as well. Unemployment would be the ultimate humiliation. He finally would suffer the depth of humiliation that
she
had when he had divorced her. Payback.

Despite Dominica’s admiration for the way this woman thought, a loony bin would prove unspeakable for Dominica. Even though she usually couldn’t feel the emotions of the people she possessed, a mental ward was different. The emotions inside of it were generally so extreme, so aberrant, that they penetrated whatever protection the host body offered. She wouldn’t be able to endure more than fifteen or twenty minutes in such a place. However, if Louise was properly armed—like with a knife—Dominica probably wouldn’t need much time to force Louise to stab Ian. But that might involve days or weeks and Dominica didn’t want to spend that much time here.

A far simpler—and quicker—option would be to slip into a hospital employee, if she could, and force the employee to enter the psych unit and finish Ian off. An overdose of a drug would be best. Painless, quick.

While Louise was on the pay phone in the lobby with her attorney, Dominica slipped out of her and thought herself toward a plump young female nurse. She followed her into the elevator and, as soon as the doors whispered shut, melted into her. No reaction. It seemed that as long as she took bodies in this way—quietly, dispersing her essence throughout the host body—she wouldn’t be thwarted. Perhaps that was the restriction—no violent seizures, no using up bodies for physical pleasures and discarding them. Fine. She could live with that.

The nurse—Edna—punched the button for the second floor, but the psych unit was on the third, the same floor as cardiology, so Dominica gently urged her to press three. She did. So far, so good. No resistance. But when the doors opened at cardiology, Edna hesitated, frowning, looking around
with confusion, wondering what had happened. She started to punch the button that would close the door, forcing Dominica to exert more control.
Move. One foot in front of the other.

Now that her essence was no longer so widely dispersed through Edna’s body, Dominica needed to breathe, to feel the beat of the woman’s heart, to use all of her senses fully. She was forced to seize the nurse’s brain, lungs, heart, organs, to possess her completely. That first shuddering breath, that heart that now beat for Dominica, the beautiful and rhythmic flow of physical life: she nearly wept with joy.

But Edna spoiled it by screaming,
Who the fuck are you?

Dominica scrambled to find the answer that would fit Edna’s belief system. Not God, not traditional religious garbage, but an amalgam of paganism and New Age aphorisms.
Your higher self. You have a mission.

I do?

A man in the psych ward is suffering.
Dominica urged her through the double doors, bracing herself for the assault of emotions from the crazies. That first contact nearly crippled her, all those inner voices screaming for release, redemption, understanding, freedom. She imagined herself as water, a rapidly flowing river that carried that shrieking tsunami of despair beyond her. Then there was silence. Blissful. Healing.

Deeper into the ward they traveled, through a strange twilight, into the pharmaceutical area.
We want Ian Ritter to sleep,
Dominica whispered.
Phenobarbital would be best.

Edna turned into a supply room, opened the fridge, withdrew a tiny bottle. She filled a syringe.
Slip it in your pocket.

Out in the hallway again, Edna hesitated, Dominica nudged her forward, and she made a beeline toward the nursing station. No one questioned her presence. She picked up one of the clipboards, found Ian’s name and a note:
Cardiac patient, violent episode, awaiting psych evaluation, straitjacket required. Room 13.

That number captivated her. It seemed to recur consistently in Ian’s life and she wondered if she should look for a deeper meaning. But what would that deeper meaning be? Bad luck? She nearly laughed. He was about to experience the ultimate in bad luck. Death.

Edna moved quickly through the twilight and slipped into room 13.
Oh, just look at him, that beautiful face.
Even in repose, trapped within a straitjacket, his physical appearance struck her as extraordinary. Ian Ritter, one of the first transitionals in five hundred years. Dominica had heard that a
family had arrived in Esperanza shortly afterward, but they were dead, not in the between. That made Ian and Tess unique. Why had the chasers let
them
through? What was so special about them? About him?

Edna woke up enough to ask a question.
A transitional? What’s that mean?

One who walks among the dead.

But he’s not dead. He’s a sedated psycho.

Stop talking.

But—

Go away.
Dominica shoved Edna’s essence down into the metal room constructed weeks ago, when she had taken that tourist in Esperanza. She forced Edna to approach the bed, to bring out the syringe, to flick off the plastic tip that covered the end of the needle.
Stick it in his neck.

Edna’s hand started to shake.
That’s wrong.

He’s suffering. You’re an angel of mercy.

I’m no fucking angel,
Edna screamed, and jammed the needle into her own neck, into the carotid, and pressed down on the plunger.

Dominica leaped out of her and watched as Edna crumpled to the floor, twitching, her bladder and bowels letting loose. Then Dominica shot through the roof, into the dusk of Minneapolis, circa March 1968, and screamed until self-disgust overwhelmed her. Then she went in search of Louise Ritter Bell, her best hope.

One moment it was light, the next moment it was dark. In between Ian ate and slept and shuffled through a large room with a TV, Ping-Pong tables, board games. Dozens of men and women in pajamas and robes wandered freely, drooling and talking to themselves. People came and went. Light gave way to darkness and then to light once again. Several times a day, a nurse handed him a little white cup with pills in it and another white cup that held water and told him to take his medicine like a good little boy.

He resented being called a good little boy, as if he were four years old. He wanted to rebel, to refuse to take the meds. But a glacier had claimed his head and it just kept growing until it split open his skull and began to encase his entire body. When he put food in his mouth, he couldn’t taste it.
When people spoke to him, their voices sounded disembodied. When fresh flowers appeared in the large room, he couldn’t smell them. So the next time the nurse handed him the two white cups and told him to take his pills like a good little boy, he slipped them under his tongue, pretended to swallow them. As she turned away, he brought his hand to his mouth and spat the pills into his palm. He buried them in a potted plant near the window.

He did the same thing for the next several pill cycles and the glacier that held him developed fissures, then cracks, then great chunks of it fell away. It became easier to taste his food, smell flowers, hear people when they spoke. In the next pill cycle, when the nurse addressed him as “professor,” he didn’t raise his eyes, couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He was terrified she might see the truth, that he was no longer drugged.

“Here you go. Take your meds like a good boy.”

She held out the first white cup and he emptied the contents into his mouth. Six pills. Next came the white cup with the water in it. He drank it down, she took the empty cups and patted his head as though he were an obedient dog. The name Ratched popped into his head, from Ken Kesey’s novel,
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
He was in a loony bin.