Everywhere That Tommy Goes (34 page)

“Please . . .”

“I’m prepared to offer a plea . . . with certain conditions and exceptions.”

“Go on.”

“If we allow your client to plead out due to a mental defect or disorder, he must agree to be remanded to a psychiatric hospital for a minimum period of one year where he will be treated
and evaluated. After that time, it will be entirely up to the hospital board to determine if, or when, he is fit to be released. Further, while under their care and treatment, he must cooperate, he must agree to be hypnotized, and he must agree to be medicated if it is determined medically necessary. Additionally, he must do everything in his power to assist in locating the whereabouts of Jamie Houston. He must also agree to never take another one of those experimental pills again. As to the exceptions, we are not in a position to include a disposition of any potential charges in connection with the other bodies found at Gilgo Beach. Investigation of those charges by the local police will continue.”

“You’ve put quite a few conditions on a plea that ordinarily would simply require an evaluation of his present mental state. You know that if a current evaluation of my client determines that he is sane, he could walk out of the courthouse a free man tomorrow.”

“Perhaps, Counselor,” Galub said, summoning all her remaining bravado, “but those are my terms. My expert is more than ready to testify that we cannot be sure of Mr. Sullivan’s present mental state. It is entirely possible that he could lapse into Troyer Savage at any time and go on a killing spree. So it’s either mandatory admission to a psychiatric hospital or no deal.”

“Okay, if you bring it down to a six-month minimum, rather than one year, I will sell it to my client.”

“Fair enough, Mr. Levy—provided all my other terms are agreeable.”

CHAPTER 95

The court thing goes by real quick, and before I know it, I’m in some van being carted away to the loony bin. My lawyer says I’m going to be stuck there for at least six months while I prove that I’m not crazy. He also says I’ve got to cooperate and help find out what happened to the bartender. The fact is, I have no clue.

Anyway, I’ve got these handcuffs on, and I’m strapped into the seat in back, but I can still see out the window. Looks like they’re taking me upstate somewhere because I’m crossing the Hudson River and going over the Tappan Zee Bridge. At least I’m out of the city.

About a half hour later, we pull in some place, and they back the van into a garage. These two muscle-bound goons unload me, each one takes an arm, and they lead me down a hall.

“I guess they’ve got a gym here—huh, boys?” I say, because neither of them says a word, and I can’t stand the silence.

“Close your mouth, wise-ass,” the dude on my left says as he vise-grips my bicep.

“Hey, man, that hurts. Go easy on me. I’m just trying to be friendly.”

They bring me to a door, where some guard is watching from a booth. He pushes a button, and the door swings open.

“Sophisticated security you got going on here,” I shouldn’t have said, because now the goon on my right punches me in the gut, and I lose my wind. They drag me, wheezing and choking, finally take off my cuffs, and toss me into a room. The door slams, and I hear a bolt click. I guess I’m locked in.

Welcome to my nightmare.

After I catch my breath, I look around. Good—no toilet. Better, I’ve got a window. So what if it’s got bars on it?

There’s another bed in here, which means I’ve probably got me a roomie. I hope he’s not too crazy. I mean, if the dude is balls-off-the-wall whacked-out, I may not make it the full six months.

I lie down on the bed and try to relax. I feel a headache coming on. I hope getting meds around here won’t be as hard as it was back in that jail cell.

Anyway, I must have dozed off because the next thing I know, some sloppy-ass punk with a beard is pulling at my arm.

“That’s my bed, cocksucker,” he says, trying to sound tough. “If you don’t move, I
may
have to snap your neck.”

I look at the dude. He can’t be serious. I mean, the guy’s trying to hide his bald head with a comb over. He’s about five-feet-two and all roly-poly. I could totally stomp him.

“You kidding me, psycho?” I say, like I’m Rambo or somebody. “If you don’t back off, I’ll snap
your
neck. You’re fuckin’ with the wrong guy.” I stand up and eyeball the shrimp, but before I can move, he unloads and pops me right in the gut. Surprise—I lose my wind again. Twice in one day just isn’t good. I drop to my knees coughing, and the munchkin breaks out in this high-pitched laugh. Then he starts dancing around the room with his hands in the air like he’s Floyd Mayweather and just scored a knockout. It takes me a few seconds before I can breathe again, but as soon as I do, I get up, fly right over to Junior, and clock him on the side of the head. He goes down like a sack of potatoes. For a second, I think he’s actually dead. Then he slowly starts rolling around and tries to get up, but he wobbles and falls down again. Man, that’s some funny shit. I’ve seen that happen to boxers before, after they been knocked out and they try to stand up, but they can’t. Totally embarrassing. I actually feel bad for the squirt, but you know
what? He hit me first. Anyway, after a minute or so, I help him onto the bed. He sits down, stroking his jaw.

“You okay, man?” I ask him. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard. It’s just you hit me first, and that pissed me off. I don’t take that shit from no one.”

“I’ll be okay. It was probably my fault, anyway. That’s one of my problems. I’m a hothead, and I don’t think before I do things. Let’s call it even and start over.”

“Fine by me, dude. And you can have your bed. I couldn’t care less where I sleep.”

Tiny looks at me sideways, still rubbing his jaw. “So what are you in for?”

“Long story—not really something I’m in the mood to talk about.”

“Okay, maybe some other time. For now, though, you’re going to need to learn a few things if you want to survive around here.”

CHAPTER 96

It’s only been two days since my lawyer got me out of this mess . . . sort of. I mean, being locked in a nuthouse with a bunch of psychos and lunatics is no picnic. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, they say. Not only that, but they still suspect I had something to do with all the shit that went down at Gilgo Beach—which is ridiculous. And the charges are still pending against me in New Jersey. Supposedly, Levy’s going to file some legal shit that should get the case down there
dismissed, though. Apparently, the cops in Jersey fucked up and violated my rights, so whatever evidence they found can’t be used against me. Isn’t it great how the law doesn’t give a crap whether someone did or didn’t do something? They’re more concerned about how you found out about it.

Anyway, it’s been kind of interesting here. Aside from my roomie, Curtis, who’s as wormy as they come, they’ve got this one real skinny dude with long, greasy hair. He walks around talking to himself and swatting imaginary flies that seem to be hovering around him all the time. He keeps saying that God is angry because we’ve forsaken him and that we should be prepared for Armageddon—whatever the hell that is. The dude thinks that any day now a giant asteroid is going to crash down and destroy the world. He’s trying to get all the whackos here to pray, but no one pays attention.

Then there’s this spaced-out girl who doesn’t talk at all. She can’t be more than twentyone. She probably could be hot if she just took a shower, washed her hair, and maybe put on a tight pair of jeans. She just sits by the window and draws pictures of scenery—but not scenery like you would think. I mean, yesterday, she drew this tree with a trunk that looked like bones and branches that looked like fingers. Not only that, but the leaves looked like eyeballs, ears, and noses. She drew a pair of lips in the sky, which I figure was the sun. Weird shit, man. And when I went over to look at what she was doing, she got up and ran away. The chick just left me there staring at the picture. I will say this, though, as fucked-up as it was, I couldn’t stop looking at it. Everything in the picture looked real. The details were dead-on. The noses looked perfect, and the ears did, too. This chick sure can draw. Problem is, she draws some psycho shit. I guess that’s why she’s here.

I’m minding my own business when two orderlies come over to me.

“Time for you to meet Dr. Freud. Please follow us,” the taller one says.

Freud
? They’ve got to be kidding me.

They bring me into this room, put me in a chair, and wrap leather straps around my wrists. I can’t move, so I sit there waiting for a few minutes. Then some freaky-looking old guy in a wheelchair rolls in. This dude has to be at least a hundred years old. What’s left of his hair is sticking out so far sideways, I’ll bet he hasn’t brushed it in a month. He looks at me with one eyeball while the other eyeball is staring at the wall to my left.

“Mr. Sullivan, I presume,” croaks outta this guy like a fart from a frog.

This dude is so scary-looking I’m afraid to answer, so I just look away.

“Something wrong, Mr. Sullivan?” he croaks again.

“Uh . . . I’m just not feeling too good right now.”

“That will change shortly,” he says, as he rolls up next to me and pulls a needle from a pouch in his lap. Then he grabs my forearm, wipes it with an alcohol pad, and sticks me.

“A little stab will do ya,” I say, channeling Nicholson’s Randall Patrick McMurphy.

“Truth serum” is the last words he says.

*   *   *

“How are you feeling now, Tommy?” Dr. Freud asked, the frog in his voice now a soft whisper.

“Never better, man,” Tommy answered as if in a dream.

“Then it’s time to begin. And I promise if you help me understand a few things, you’ll feel even better.”

Tommy smiled. “Whatever you say.”

“I want you to go back to when you were a little boy and tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”

Tommy took a deep breath. “The beach—we always go to the beach.”

“Are you at the beach now, Tommy?” asked Freud.

“Yeah, I’m walking in the sand with Mom and Dad. We’re at the Cape for the very first time.”

“Wonderful, Tommy. How old are you?”

“I’m gonna be five years old this week,” Tommy answered, with the energy of a young boy. “And this trip is my birthday present.”

“What a nice gift. Please take me to your favorite part of the trip.”

Tommy began to giggle. “Throw me as high as you can, Daddy.”

“You’re doing great, Tommy. Tell me more.”

“We’re in the ocean, and Dad’s tossing me up over the waves as they come in. Mom is standing just outta the water hollering—‘Be careful, Joe! He’s too young for that.’ Dad yells back, ‘Relax, honey. He can handle it. My son ain’t no wimp.’ I’m bouncing with the waves, and Dad grabs me with one hand and rolls me onto his shoulders. I climb up with one foot on each side of his head while he holds my hands. Then I stand straight up and dive into the water again. I’m having a super time.”

“I’m happy to hear that, Tommy. Is anyone else with you?”

“No, just Mom and Dad.”

“You don’t have any brothers or sisters?”

Tommy frowned. “No, just me. I wish I did, though. I mean, I always wanted a brother, but Mom and Dad did a bad thing.”

“What do you mean, Tommy?”

“They shouldn’ta done it. It was a mistake.”

“What was a mistake, Tommy?”

“I hear them talking downstairs. I’m at the top of the steps, I can’t sleep. Mom’s crying and saying to Dad that it was wrong and she wants him back.”

“Wants who back, Tommy?”

“I don’t know his name. Mom says she wants Dad to talk to the doctor who arranged it and to get him back. Dad says it’s impossible; five years is too much time. She says she doesn’t care. She wants him back.”

“Wants who back, Tommy?” Freud insisted. “Please tell me.”

“My twin brother. They gave him away when we were born. I heard them talking about it the night we got back from my birthday at the Cape.”

“Did you tell them you overheard their conversation?”

“No, not ever—even after Dad lied to me when I got older and told me that my brother died when I was born.”

“Why didn’t you tell him, then?”

“I don’t know. I think maybe I didn’t remember it or something, but now I do.”

“Yes. You do, Tommy, and together we’re going to try and remember a lot of things from your past.”

“Like what?” Tommy asked, his eyes still closed.

“Like your friend Troyer, for instance. I know you don’t like to talk about him, but I’m very curious. Do you think I could meet him?”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“Why is that, Tommy? It should be very easy for you to introduce us.”

“I would if I could, but I don’t know where he is. He took off when we were back at Camp Lakewood, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Really, Tommy? I thought he was always with you.”

“No, I don’t think so, and I would know.”

“You know you can’t lie to me, Tommy,” Freud says, in a soft yet stern voice. “It’s not possible.”

Tommy shook his head. “I’m not lying. I really don’t know where he is. I’d tell you if I did.”

“Come now, Tommy. We both know he’s right there inside of you. Just call to him and he’ll come out.”

“That’s craaazy, man,” Tommy slurred. “He can’t hear me. I’m sure he’s long-gone and probably out of the country by now.”

“Very well, Tommy. We’ll come back to Troyer a bit later. Perhaps while we wait for him, you can tell me what happened to the bartender, Jamie Houston.”

Tommy’s face turned red, and he began to cry. “I wish I knew, really.” He began to quiver. “I left her in the tall weed grass by Gilgo Beach.”

“Well, maybe Troyer knows. Perhaps you could ask him for me.”

“Like I said before, I don’t know where he is, so how can I ask him?” Tommy was inconsolable and whimpering like a baby.

“Now, now, Tommy—crying isn’t going to help. You need to relax and calm down.” Freud paused and looked up at the camera lens that was filming them. “In fact, maybe we’ll take a short break.” He spun around in his wheelchair. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, and when I return, I expect you to be dry-eyed and ready to talk with me again.”