Evil at Heart (9 page)

           
She opened her mouth to say something and then Archie saw her eyes dart behind him. He turned his head and saw one of the ward orderlies moving cautiously in from the door. He was a young guy, all ninety-degree angles, strong and stocky, with hair buzzed short and a square face. Archie had seen him in the halls, pushing a mop or wheeling a meal cart.

           
“Put it down,” the orderly said.

           
Courtenay looked right at the orderly and pushed the piece of Formica into her neck.

           
One of the women huddled near the wall gasped.

           
“Get out,” Courtenay screamed at the orderly, her pretty face twisting, sending forth a spray of saliva and snot.

           
“It’s okay,” the orderly said. “My name’s George. What’s yours?”

           
Archie cringed. Don’t admit you don’t know her name. The orderly’s expression was earnest, palms held out and up, posture neutral. He had probably taken a seminar on hostage situations. Introduce yourself. Establish a rapport. Stall.

           
“Courtenay,” Archie said, trying to distract her from the orderly. “What can I do for you?”

           
She nodded toward the orderly. “I don’t want him here,” she said. A bead of blood ran down her neck.

           
“Go,” Archie told the orderly, mustering all his authority. Archie looked around the room. “Everyone go,” he said. The woman who’d gasped started crying, and hugged the woman with her. The counselor crouched frozen on the floor. Frank sat in his chair, smiling.

           
Archie needed to clear the room. There were too many people. He needed Courtenay calm. Angry, excited people made bad decisions. There were already too many unpredictable elements. Hostages were bad enough to manage. Mentally unstable hostages made things very dangerous.

           
Archie turned to the orderly. “Trust me,” he said, lowering his voice. “I know how to do this. Get out.” The orderly glanced over at Courtenay. Then he turned back to Archie, nodded, and backed away. As he did, it was like a seal had been broken. The counselor ran for the door, gripping his bleeding arm, and the two women went out behind him. Frank didn’t move.

           
The telephone started to ring.

           
“Security will be here in a few minutes,” a nurse called to Archie from the door.

           
It was the three of them then: Archie, Courtenay, and Frank.

           
Courtenay’s nostrils flared with each breath and her knuckles were white around the shard of Formica.

           
“Everything’s going to be fine,” Archie said softly. He slowly extended his hand. “Please give that to me.”

           
Courtenay looked him in the eye and pushed the Formica deeper into her neck, and blood trickled down her chest.

           
“You don’t have to do that,” Archie said.

           
She let up on the Formica, the color returning to her hand. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m fat,” she said.

           
She wasn’t fat. She wasn’t even generously proportioned. Her pajamas hung a size too big over her body. This was what had driven her to attack a counselor and jam a countertop into her neck?

           
“It’s the lithium,” said Frank from his chair.

           
“You’re not fat,” Archie said. “So if that’s why you’re cutting yourself with a countertop, it’s massively moronic.”

           
The phone was still ringing.

           
Behind him, Archie could hear chaos in the hall. People shouting.Someone crying. Psych wards were like preschools—tantrums were contagious.

           
Courtenay cocked her head at Archie. “How did you do it?” she asked.

           
Archie wondered if she could somehow see it on him, like he could see her bandages. “Pills,” he said.

           
“Do you have kids?” she asked.

           
“Two,” Archie said. “Six and eight.”

           
The phone continued, insistent. It was all Archie could do not to rip it out of the wall.

           
Frank started to stand up and move for it.

           
“Frank, sit down,” Archie said.

           
Frank looked up, startled by Archie’s tone, and then lifted a finger at the phone. “It’s for me,” he said. “It’s my sister.”

           
“It’s not important,” Archie said through clenched teeth.

           
Courtenay wiped some snot off her lip with her forearm. “I cut my wrists,” she said. “But I did it wrong. I went horizontally. You’re supposed to go vertically. Did you know that?”

           
“Yeah,” Archie said.

           
Frank grinned. “Remember, kids,” he said in a singsong voice, “it’s down the road, not across the street.”

           
“Frank,” Archie warned.

           
Courtenay shook her head sadly. “I didn’t know.”

           
Her knuckles whitened again and her elbow lifted, and Archie knew he only had a second to stop her from hurting herself again.

           
“You can’t get to the carotid artery with that,” he said quickly. “It’s not sharp enough.”

           
He stepped forward and pulled back his collar, exposing the scar on his neck. “Look,” he told her, and he lifted his chin and took another step to her, so she could see the ugly rope of scar tissue that Gretchen had left on him. Courtenay wanted to be beautiful.

           
“You’ll just end up mutilating yourself,” Archie said.

           
Courtenay’s mouth opened as her eyes dropped to his neck. She blinked rapidly, then let the Formica fall to the floor and dabbed at her self-inflicted wound with her fingers. “Am I going to have a scar?” she asked, forehead creasing with dismay.

           
Archie moved to her and took her tenderly by the shoulders. It was both a gesture of comfort and to ensure that she wouldn’t dive for the Formica. “I don’t think you’ll even need stitches,” he said.

           
Three uniformed hospital security guards hurried into the room, with the orderly and Rosenberg tagging behind them. The guards took Courtenay by each arm and led her mutely away.

           
Archie walked over to where the phone sat, still ringing, on an end table by the couch, and picked it up.

           
“Hello?” he said.

           
But on the other end there was only silence.

           
Archie hung up.

           
“I’m going to my room,” Archie told Rosenberg. “I need a sweater.” It was true. He was suddenly very cold. It was probably the adrenaline drop. Hospitals were kept ten degrees colder than what anyone would find comfortable. Archie didn’t know why. Maybe it was to keep patients like him from overstaying their welcome.

           
He had two sweaters: a green cardigan and a blue crewneck. They were in the bottom drawer of his dresser against the wall facing the foot of his bed. He was opening the drawer when he felt the vibration. He thought it was the medication at first. They were adjusting his Prozac dosage and he felt that sort of thing sometimes, electrical sensations that traveled down his arms, or lit up his brain at night. Brain zaps, the nurses called them, as if they were a perfectly normal side effect, like bloating.

           
But the vibration wasn’t the medication.

           
It was a phone.

           
Archie froze. It had been two months since he had heard a vibrating cell phone, that odd low-frequency buzz, both a sound and a feeling. Fifteen years he’d carried a phone in his pocket. And in two months, he’d already forgotten it.