Quiver (18 page)

“You’re not coming?”

“Sadly, I’m not. Car’s on loan and they’ve set up other duties for me today.” She looked in the rear-view mirror and checked her lipstick. She turned back to him. “You can text me later about the painting, if you like,” she said as she petted his leather-clad shoulder again.

He got out, then reached in the back seat for the large cream boutique bag. The handles were tied with dark brown, curlicued ribbon. The bag sagged from the weight of the box inside.

“This is for you,” he said and placed it on the passenger seat.

“What is it?”

“Sadly,” he smiled at her, “I can’t say.” He shut the passenger door, took his suitcase from the trunk and walked into the building.

I’m ten minutes early, but the phone is ringing as I open the door to my office. I let it go to voicemail; technically, I’m not obligated to answer my phone before nine. As soon as the ringing stops, it starts again. I shut my door, hang up my coat, let this call go too. The phone is silent for thirty seconds and then rings again. I give in and pick up.

“Dr. Winston, Dr. Danica Winston?” asks an unfamiliar man’s voice.

“Yes?”

“This is Tim Porter, from the
Sun.
I was wondering—”

“I’m not interested in a subscription, thanks.”

“No, no, Dr. Winston, I was wondering if you’d care to comment further on the Foster case?”

Comment further? “I don’t comment on any of Stowmoor’s patients to the media.”

As soon as I hang up, another ring. “This is Fiona Russell, from Sky Radio One,” a smooth, broadcast-ready voice booms into my ear. “Can you share your thoughts on the type of people Martin Foster is thought to be associated with in regard to his criminal activities?”

The next call is from Kelly. “Danica, you’re wanted in Abbas’s office.”

“Okay,” I say quietly. This can’t be good.

I knock on Dr. Abbas’s door. It swings open immediately. Both Abbas and Sloane stand inside the office. They look extremely angry.

“Sit down, Danica,” says Abbas. I sit in the uncomfortable wooden chair in front of his desk.

“This is unacceptable.” Sloane throws a copy of the
Daily Press
in front of me. I read the huge headline:
FOSTER’S ACCOMPLICES?
Underneath in smaller font:
Ritual Killer Potentially Influenced by Murderous Cabal.
I scan the article. It’s completely speculative and sensational. It’s bad tabloid writing that presents Foster as a “possible” plaything, a victim of a larger criminal organization that “could potentially” exist. It says “sources claim” that Foster’s new solicitor, Bryan Lewison, has evidence to prove that Foster was not solely responsible; the paper quotes him referring to his client’s “misunderstood state of mind.” Besides that, the article seems like just another rehashed version of all the half-fictionalized articles that were published when he was first arrested.

“Yes, very poor journalism,” I say, unsure why she’s showing this to me or how this relates to this morning’s calls. “A ‘cabal,’ really? This is like all the other stories that have come out about him. All conjecture, meant to sell papers. Right?”

“But did those other articles have a quote from a Stowmoor psychologist who works with Foster?” Sloane hisses in my ear and stabs the article with her long, French-manicured fingernail.

I look again. Oh no. Please, no.

Foster’s mental health team suggests that such an organization could not only contribute to Foster’s desire to kill again but also may be dangerous to the general public. “If such people did exist, they would probably be very dangerous,” said Dr. Danica Winston, one of Foster’s psychologists at Stowmoor Hospital.

“I didn’t, this isn’t anything I said to them. I’d never talk to the papers about any patient, about anything here.” When did I say that? This is very, very bad. “I take my responsibilities seriously,” I say. That quote...it sounds like what I said to Edward this weekend. But would he really sell me out to a trashy paper like the
Daily Press?
Is that even legal?

“Do you know what this looks like? Do you know how unprofessional this makes us look?” Sloane is almost yelling.

“It’s, it’s not accurate, I didn’t say...” How can I possibly explain this? I was speaking tangentially, speculatively, about Foster’s case. Nothing that anyone who’d read any of the recent coverage mightn’t say in passing. Did Maria know about this?

“Well,” says Abbas, “if they’ve completely made it up, we can ask for a retraction, take legal action against them. But do you know how they might have focused on your name and that you work with Foster?”

“It’s not...the words aren’t exactly what I said, and it’s...it’s completely taken out of context.”

“So you did say this?” Sloane rips the paper out of my hand and waves it around.

“Not exactly! And I didn’t say it to that paper! This weekend, a friend, I was talking to a friend, he’s a journalist, he was asking me what I thought about all the new stories and rumours about Foster. He said there was a rumour that Foster was part of a Báthory-obsessed organization. We were just talking. I had no idea.”

“You were ‘just talking
^’
to a journalist about a Stowmoor patient? And you didn’t think that was a bad idea?” says Sloane.

“I wasn’t thinking of him as a journalist. He’s a friend, and—”

“You weren’t thinking at all. How did he know you were assessing Foster? Is patient confidentiality a joke to you, something you might consider if it doesn’t interfere too much with social conversations with your friends? What, is it your party trick, talking about our patients here?”

“I take Stowmoor seriously.” As soon as I say it, I second-guess myself, wonder if I do take it seriously enough. I should never have said anything to Edward. I should have been more careful. I don’t want to think about what all the seemingly minor admissions I’ve made to Maria could become in tabloid form.

“Danica, this situation seems to have resulted from a series of unfortunate circumstances,” says Abbas. “It sounds like your comment was taken very much out of context, with much added conjecture, and I understand that you in no way intended for the
Press
to quote you on this matter. However,” Abbas gently takes the crumpled paper out of Sloane’s fist and smooths it out on his desk, “you must develop an understanding of the level of public interest, and media distortion, surrounding this case. You must also develop a greater respect for the rules regarding confidentiality at Stowmoor.” He holds the headline in front of me again. “This reflects very, very poorly on us, regardless of your intent.” He tilts his head down, scratches his scalp.

“I didn’t mean to...I’m sorry.” I’m trying to think of something helpful, something appropriate to say, while keeping my embarrassment and my anger under control. I’m mad at Edward for tattling on me to a tabloid, and I’m mad at myself for not considering that he would.

“You have made us look ridiculous,” says Sloane, still yelling. “It’s a disaster.”

“Danica,” says Abbas, “our public relations and legal teams are working on this. Dr. Sloane and I will see how things progress in the coming days and go from there. But as long as you’re still working here, you must follow the confidentiality rules to the letter. Absolutely no contact with any sort of journalist.”

“Of course, yes.” I stand up. My legs feel weak and I hold on to the back of the chair as I turn towards the door.

I shut the door to my fishbowl office and close the blinds. The voicemail light on my phone blinks furiously. I ignore it and log into my email. There’s a flood from reporters. One from Kelly saying they’ve changed my extension number and are no longer listing it in the staff directory.

I grab my mobile and text Maria:
I need to speak to you re today’s Foster article.
Was the invitation to the Tate designed to get this quote from me? I thought Edward was just an art critic—why would he give any information about me to a tabloid?

Abbas and Sloane can’t technically fire me; I’m here on an externally funded fellowship. But they could petition to have my fellowship revoked because I violated their confidentiality agreements. Or if they didn’t go to that extreme, they could easily file a poor progress report on me, pull me off DSPD cases, increase my paperwork, make sure I spend the rest of my fellowship with the least possible contact with patients. End all contact with Foster.

A tinkle alerts me to a new email. I expect to find it’s from another reporter, but it’s from B. Lewison, Esq.:
Dr. Winston, I read the article today. Are you available to meet with me sometime this week?
I stare at the email. Then I delete it. Lewison wanting to meet with me can’t be good news.

I look down at my Stowmoor ID. Right now, I have high security access. I can come and go in all the buildings, including the Paddock. But I’m in danger of losing this privilege if Sloane and Abbas decide the
Daily Press
debacle warrants punitive action.

This might be one of the few days I have left with access to Foster’s schedule. I check and see that he’s in the library. He’s taking a correspondence class and receives one hour of monitored computer access per week.

He’s at the far end of the table, nested in a flurry of notes and highlighted pages, a clean, blank notepad in front of him. The library is a cramped, low-ceilinged room. Unlike the bare concrete hallways, the floor is covered with ratty amber carpet. Rows of shelves jammed with paperbacks line the walls. An orderly leans against the blue metal door frame, thumbing a copy of
Grazia.
I wave at him and at the librarian seated behind the laminate-covered checkout desk. A pile of fresh newspapers sits on the counter; the librarian clicks away on his computer and barely glances at my ID as I walk past.

The fluorescent tubes flicker overhead. Dust coats an ancient magazine stand. Copies of
National Geographic
are clamped behind black wire, covers of pink sand beaches, peacocks, the Great Pyramid caught in the Venus flytrap doors of the rack. I walk quickly to the back of the room and sit across from Foster.

He looks up from his textbook. “Dr. Winston.” He pushes his shaggy ginger fringe to the side. “Such a surprise.”

“Mr. Foster.” I look towards the door, anxious that Sloane might walk by. There’s just the guard flipping through the glossy and the librarian fixated on the computer screen. “I have a few questions. Off the record,” I say, quietly.

“Oh, yes? Happy to oblige. But first, I should thank you, Dr. Winston. You’ve made me even more famous!” He pulls a copy of today’s
Daily Press
from under his notebook. “My new solicitor, he sent me a message about it this morning. It’s handy that the library has subscriptions to all the
quality
papers.”

“Mr. Foster, that quote was taken out of context. I know your lawyer is concerned about your confidentiality rights, but—”

“Concerned? No, no, Dr. Winston. I adore this sort of press. Not as weighty as an academic article, but it has its perks.” He clasps his hands together gleefully. “Do you know I get fan mail? Well, my correspondence is of course strictly vetted in here, but some arrives care of my lawyer. I have the most interesting fans, truly.”

“I see. And this pleases you?”

His smile is wide, almost manic. I feel a tug of panic and involuntarily lean back in my chair to put as much distance between us as I can. He pulls his chair closer to the table, to me. “Oh, it’s wonderful. Now, you had a question, off the record? This sounds much more interesting than your regular interview questions.”

There’s a scraping sound from the front of the room. I jump before I realize it’s just the librarian adjusting his chair. I clutch the ID strung around my neck. This might be my last chance ever to speak with him. He puts his elbows on the desk and cups his chin in his palms and keeps grinning.

“Is it true?” I ask. “Are you involved with a larger group?”

“Isn’t it an exciting story? What did the paper call it today—a cabal? Ooh.” He mimes a shiver. “That’s absolutely brilliant. I wonder if they’ll keep calling it that, or maybe they’ll go back to
organization,
which I think is a little dull. I’d suggest
cult
as an alternative.” He stretches his hand in front of him as if to frame a banner headline. His fingers are inches from my face. “How’s this:
Foster Involved in Báthory-Obsessed Cult.
Intriguing, yes?”

I will myself not to flinch. “I didn’t ask if it was a good story. Why are these theories coming out now? Is it true?”

“It’s difficult to know why certain stories become popular in the media. There are many factors that contribute to something emerging from the Zeitgeist.” He holds up his textbook. It’s titled
Cultural Studies: A Reader.
“I just read a chapter on Zeitgeist for my cultural studies course. Fascinating, really.”

What can I do to make him answer the question? The only possible leverage I have, the only thing he might trade on is if I tell him about Báthory’s diaries.

“Maybe it’s not about you,” I say. “Maybe it’s Báthory the public is interested in. I hear her diaries have been discovered. Might be published soon.”

He drops the book on the table. It thuds against his notebook. “It
is
about me. It’s about continuing the work of Báthory. That’s what we do. That’s what my fans are interested in.”

“We. More than just you?”

He sits up straight and takes a deep breath. “Dr. Winston, I fear if I comment further I will jeopardize the mystique surrounding my story. Now, I have to get back to work. This assignment is due today, and it won’t write itself.” He flips open his textbook and begins to read.

“Mr. Foster?”

He underlines something, keeps reading as if I’m not in the room.

Later that afternoon, still no reply from Maria. I text her again:
Call me.
I go over everything in my head, the afternoon at the Tate, the pleasure Foster’s deriving from his “fame,” his vague comments today, the possible influence of his new lawyer. His self-centered response and seeming disinterest in the diaries. Still, I chastise myself for bringing them up; I should never have even considered encouraging a patient’s obsessive traits. Part of me thinks I should be taken off the case, out of Stowmoor completely. I check my empty inbox and my texts repeatedly. I’m desperate for any news, from Abbas, from Maria.