Silent Screams (27 page)

He awoke to the sound of muffled, far-off voices. The air smelled of rubbing alcohol and lemon-scented disinfectant. He could hear the low whirr of machinery, and footsteps sounded in the hall outside—the faint sucking sound of rubber soles on polished floors, the sharper click of leather heels, mingling with the rattle of carts being rolled along, and the occasional burst of laughter. Further down the hall, a phone rang insistently.

Even with his eyes closed, Lee knew that he was in a hospital. He postponed the moment of returning fully to consciousness, knowing that when he did, he would have to interact with the people attached to the voices all around him.

Meanwhile, footsteps came and went. The jumble of voices and machinery hovered in the halls. Lying in a state of semi-consciousness, eyes closed, he could distinguish between the steps of the visitors—clipped, quick leather shoes—and the soft, rubber-soled sound of the nurses as they moved from room to room, checking charts, dispensing drugs, taking temperatures.

He had the odd sensation that something was sitting on his chest. A large animal—a bear, perhaps. Yes, that was it—a bear was sitting on his chest. He wanted to ask the bear to move, and moved his lips to form the words, but he couldn’t make any sound come out.

Bits of conversation drifted down the hall: “…excellent dental plan…she’s a nice girl…you want something from the cafeteria?”

Some pieces of conversation didn’t make much sense. “…number of Jews in Madison, Wisconsin.” He tried to figure out why someone would be talking about the number of Jews in Wisconsin.

He focused on the bear again. It was just sitting there, draped over him, its paws on his shoulders. He didn’t mind it being there, except that it was so heavy. He wanted to say something to the bear, but he couldn’t move his mouth or even open his eyes. He could smell its fur—a damp, musty aroma like rotting logs and summer mushrooms—and he could feel its warm breath on his cheek. He felt the bear wished him well, that it was there to protect him in some way.

His own experience with bears was minimal. He had seen them in the wild only twice, once through a canopy of leaves too thick to make out anything other than a bulky, dark brown shape. The other time, the bear stared at him across a stream with eyes so wary and watchful that it was hard to resist anthropomorphizing the animal. He remembered feeling as though the creature was studying him with an almost human intelligence—that it was seeing
into
him—but he dismissed the thought as fanciful.

He tried to raise his arms to push the bear away, but he wasn’t able to move them. He fought to open his eyes, but the effort was enormous—something kept pulling him back down into unconsciousness. He finally managed to open his eyes a little bit, but all he could see was a large white blur. The blur moved, and he realized it was the bear. He was surprised that the bear was white…a polar bear, maybe? But what would one be doing so far south? He was puzzling over the question when the bear spoke.

“How are you feeling?”

The voice was deep and resonant, just what you might expect from a bear. It sounded British. Were there bears in England? He tried to concentrate, to focus his thoughts. He tried to answer, but all that came out was a hoarse croaking sound, like the scraping of metal over concrete.

He tried again. This time his voice responded: “I’m okay…thanks.” He wrenched himself away from the pull of sleep and opened his eyes. The bear came into focus, and to his surprise, it was wearing a white lab coat. A crooked blue and white plastic label on the lapel of the coat read: DR. PATEL.

“I’m glad you’re back with us,” said Dr. Patel.

Still confused, Lee looked around the room for the bear. Where had it gone?

Dr. Patel spoke again. “Mr. Campbell?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know where you are?”

Lee didn’t answer at first. He was busy sorting out this new information. So Dr. Patel was the bear after all. Or, rather, there
was
no bear; he had just thought there was—but why? The effect of drugs, maybe?

“What did you give me?” he asked, his voice groggy.

“I’ll be glad to review your chart with you later,” Dr. Patel replied. “Do you know where you are?”

Lee looked around the room, and was struck by its familiarity. The pasty yellow walls had ancient stains showing through successive coats of paint like old scuffs on hastily polished shoes, and the crookedly hung landscape prints were bland reproductions of obscure paintings.

He realized he was back in St. Vincent’s. What he didn’t know was whether it was the psych ward or not.

He squinted up at the doctor’s face. “St. Vincent’s.”

Dr. Patel’s face brightened.

“Good,” he said, like a teacher bestowing praise upon a promising student. “Very good.”

Lee felt pleased with himself, and sank back into oblivion.

When he awoke again the light outside his window had faded into a twilight gray, and the blinds had been partially drawn. A suspended plastic bag dripped clear fluid into an IV line in his left arm. To his great relief, his right arm was unencumbered. He cleared his throat, startling the young nurse who was studying his chart at the foot of his bed. She let go of the chart and looked down at him. Her eyes were honey colored, just a shade lighter than her hair, which was the color of winter wheat, and very straight. It was pulled into an untidy ponytail fastened at the nape of her neck. She was very young, with a pointed chin and a sweet, heart-shaped face. The sound of his voice had startled her, but she tried to cover her surprise with a professional manner.

“Mr. Campbell, you’re awake.” She looked at him as if that were impossible. “How do you feel?”

“Well, let’s see. Sort of like I’ve been run over by a large vehicle, then thrown down several flights of stairs, and finally, been used as a punching bag.” His neck was so stiff he couldn’t move his head, and his whole body felt heavy and exhausted. “Is this the psych ward?”

She looked puzzled. “No, of course not.”

Relief flooded over him like rainwater. “Good. That’s good. So what’s wrong with me?”

The young nurse lowered her eyes. “I’d better let the doctor explain that to you.”

“Okay, can I see him—or her?”

The whole conversation seemed to take place underwater—dreamlike, through a dim haze. The nurse looked at him wistfully and walked out into the hall. Her expression puzzled Lee—was he really that sick, or was he misreading something else for pity? He sank back into sheets smelling faintly of bleach and closed his eyes. He dreamed of swimming in the indoor pool at his high school, where the aroma of Clorox pervaded the air.

When he opened his eyes again, Dr. Patel was standing beside his bed. He wore the same crooked name tag, and he looked tired. He had a dolorous, basset hound face with sad dark eyes and a sagging jaw line. His skin was very dark, and his heavy lips had a bluish tinge.

“Do you know why you are here, Mr. Campbell?” he asked. His voice was very British, very correct, with only a graceful twist of his
r
’s and slight roundness of vowels to suggest his Indian origins.

“I’m sick?”

“What can you remember?”

Lee tried to think, but all he could recall was being at home. There was some bad news, very bad news. He remembered hearing Butts’s voice outside his door, then falling—sinking?—to his knees on the living room rug.

“Eddie,” he said.

Dr. Patel looked puzzled. “Eddie? Who’s that?”

“I think I can help you, Doctor,” said a familiar voice behind Patel.

Nelson stepped forward into view. He didn’t look good. His blue eyes were rimmed with deep purple circles underneath them, and his skin was mottled and dull looking. He looked exhausted.

“You gave us bit of a scare, lad,” he said, leaning over the bed. The smell of alcohol oozed from his pores.

“So who is Eddie?” Dr. Patel demanded, his voice petulant.

“He was a good friend who died,” Nelson answered.

Dr. Patel reached for Lee’s wrist to take his pulse. He looked overworked and impatient, but held his personal feelings in check behind a firm professional façade.

“Are you my doctor?” Lee asked.

“I’m Dr. Patel, your neurologist.”

“Neurologist?”

“You have an infection of the brain,” Dr. Patel continued. “For a while it was touch and go, but we believe we now have it under control.”

The first thing Lee felt was relief.
It wasn’t depression
—an infection he could handle. He looked up at Nelson, and he wanted to tell him not to worry, that this was far better than mental illness, but he couldn’t think of how to communicate that.

He caught the nurse looking at him again as she fiddled with an IV line. Was that longing in her eyes, or just compassion?

“We’re treating you with a series of wide-spectrum antibiotics,” the doctor continued, “and so far you’ve been responding well. How do you feel?”

Like my head has been used as a paperweight
, Lee wanted to say, but he just shrugged.

“Fine.”

Nelson snorted. “Okay, how do you really feel?”

“Not bad,” Lee lied. The truth was that no matter how much his head throbbed, no matter how weak and confused he felt, it was better than those endless, mind-numbing days of depression, when his soul felt as if it were on fire, and consciousness itself was an unbearable burden.

“How’s the investigation going? What have I missed?”

“Very well, that’s enough for now,” Dr. Patel intervened. “You mustn’t wear yourself out.”

“How long have I been here?” said Lee.

Nelson and Patel exchanged a glance.

“How long?” Lee demanded.

Finally Nelson spoke.

“Three days.”

“
Three days?
What the hell was going on for three days?”

“You collapsed in your apartment three days ago with a cero-spinal meningitis,” Patel said, his voice very clipped and brisk.

“Cero—what?”

“It is a brain fever, usually bacterial. You remained in a coma for three days, from which you have now awakened.”

Lee looked at Nelson.

“It’s true, lad,” Nelson said softly.

Lee shifted his gaze to Patel. “Bacterial…so it’s not contagious?”

“No.”

“When can I get out of here?”

“Let us not be in too much of a hurry, now,” Patel cautioned. “You have been very ill, you know. You are responding well to the antibiotics, but—”

“But I’m working on an important case—”

“Lee,” Nelson interrupted, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Chuck is concerned about you. We all are.”

That sounded like a prelude to bad news.

“What? What is it?” Lee demanded, feeling panic rising in his throat. “What’s happened? Was there another victim?”

“No, no, nothing’s happened,” Nelson reassured him. “It’s just that—” He paused and looked away.

“He’s not taking me off the case?” Lee could hear his voice tightening, becoming shrill.

“Please,” said Dr. Patel. “Please do not become agitated—”

Nelson rubbed his left eyebrow and looked away from Lee. “Chuck thought you could use some rest.”

“I just
had
three days of rest, for Christ’s sake!”

“I know, I know,” Nelson replied.

Dr. Patel attempted once again to intervene. “Now, I really
must
insist—”

“But Lee, you almost died! Did you know that?”

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Gentlemen, please!” Dr. Patel’s voice now held an edge of panic.

“Let me talk to Chuck,” Lee pleaded.

“You can try,” Nelson said, “but I don’t know—”

“Now you really must be leaving!” Dr. Patel practically shouted, taking Nelson by the shoulders. “If you are not leaving I will be calling security to have you removed!”

“All right, I’m going,” Nelson growled. “Chuck will be by when his shift is over. You can talk to him then,” he called over his shoulder as the doctor pushed him out of the room.

Patel returned to Lee’s bedside after Nelson was in the hall. “You must not be getting so upset,” he said, checking Lee’s pulse. “It really is not advisable.”

“Sorry.” Lee’s temples were pulsing with pain, and his body ached with exhaustion.

Dr. Patel frowned. “I am going to be blunt with you, Mr. Campbell. If you do not allow your body time to heal, you cannot hope to recover. If you attempt to hurry the process, you could very well end up in hospital again—or worse. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

Lee looked away. “Yes,” he said, trying to stifle a yawn. “I understand.” But what he was thinking was how quickly he could talk them into letting him out of this place.

By that evening Lee’s head had stopped pounding. He awoke as the sun was setting, feeling ravenous. He turned his head to see Chuck sitting next to his bed, flipping through a magazine. Dr. Patel stood at the foot of the bed, studying his chart.

“I’m starving,” Lee said.

“Okay.” Chuck replied. “What do you want?”

“A cheeseburger.”

Morton smiled. “That’s got to be a good sign.”

“You’re not out of the woods yet,” Dr. Patel said glumly. He seemed to think that throwing cold water on their hopeful mood was his unpleasant but necessary duty.

“Is he allowed to eat?” Chuck asked.

“If he feels hungry,” the doctor replied gloomily, as if Lee’s appetite were a dismal sign.

“Okay,” Chuck said, rising and tossing the magazine on the chair. “I’ll be right back.”

“Hey, has anyone called my mother to say I’m okay?” Lee asked.

“She was here earlier, while you were asleep. She’ll be back tomorrow. Oh, and Dr. Azarian stopped by too,” he added. “She said she’d come by later.”

He darted out the door, followed by a gloomy-faced Dr. Patel.

Lee’s stomach took a little hop of anticipation at the mention of Kathy’s name. He longed to talk to Chuck about her, but the subject of women was a strained one between them, since things turned out the way they had with Susan. On the rebound from Lee after college, Susan Beaumont had gravitated to Chuck for many reasons, both good and bad. Lee knew this because she had told him as much after a few too many glasses of eggnog at a Christmas party a few years ago. Marrying Chuck was another way to stay close to Lee, she had said. Instead of feeling flattered, as she had perhaps expected, he reacted with guilt and dismay. He begged her never to repeat this to anyone—least of all Chuck—but he had no idea what went on between them in private. He prayed she had taken his advice. She wasn’t an unkind woman, just a chronically immature one.

Susan Beaumont was exactly the kind of woman Chuck Morton was drawn to: one who seemed to need protecting. Lee thought she was an emotional vampire, but Chuck needed to be needed, and like every man who saw Susan, he was floored by her beauty—the kind of effortless, shimmering beauty that struck other women as unfair, and left men helpless and weak-kneed before her. Susan Beaumont Morton was the kind of woman who wore her good looks so casually and yet so consciously that it was hard for anyone—man or woman—to think of anything else when talking to her. But Lee sensed Circe’s touch in Susan from the beginning, and just hoped she had been kind to Chuck, who still adored her after all these years of marriage, with an eager devotion Lee found touching. Chuck had always been in love with her, and Lee hoped that she had come to care for Chuck the way he deserved.

She needed things Lee couldn’t give her—things he suspected no one could give another person, but Chuck Morton’s mission in life regarding women was unchanging ever since Lee had known him: rescue, protect, and serve. Lee knew Chuck’s protectiveness extended to him as well, and he was touched by it. He could tease Chuck about that, but he would never tease his friend about his relationship to women. Chuck believed to this day that Susan had left Lee for him. Lee allowed him to believe this fiction because it was easier on everyone—or so he hoped.

But Kathy Azarian was different. He had dated more beautiful women, others besides Susan, but no one who touched him quite the way Kathy did. Was it the way she wrinkled her forehead when she was thinking hard, or the way she pursed her lips to one side, the single lock of curly hair that fell over her eyes? It was that and more—the sound of her low, throaty voice, the slight lisp in her speech, the way she wrapped her fingers around his arm as they walked, a hundred little things and yet no one thing in particular.

As if in answer to his thoughts, there was a soft knock on the door, and Kathy’s face appeared between the parted curtains in the hall outside.

“Come in!” Lee called, and struggled to sit up in bed. The effort caused a wave of dizziness.

Kathy entered the room and sat on the chair Chuck had vacated. She put a hand on Lee’s arm. Her fingers were cool and soft.

“How are you feeling?”

“Not bad. Hungry.”

“That’s a good sign.” He could tell she was trying to camouflage any concern she felt, so as not to frighten him.

“I’m going to be fine,” he said.

“I never doubted it for a minute,” she replied too quickly. “Oh, I brought you a proper suitcase,” she said, holding up a leather satchel. “For when you come home. It’s a girl thing,” she added with a laugh. “We love shoes and suitcases—very Freudian, right?”

“Right,” he agreed. Just having her in the room cheered him up.

“Oh, and I also brought you something even more useless,” she added, digging through a tan rattan shoulder bag on her lap.

He watched her, noting the familiar renegade curl of dark hair falling over her eyes. The mystery of desire was part of the greater mystery that Lee had come very close to during his descent into depression. In the midst of damnation, he had sensed the possibility of salvation. And maybe this was why he felt he could relate to the tortured soul of this young killer, caught as he was in the cycle of damnation. There were no maps showing the way through the dark thicket Lee had found himself in. But he had learned that salvation and damnation were very close, the line separating them thin as the band of winter twilight separating earth and sky.

“Here it is,” Kathy cried triumphantly, pulling a dog-eared piece of newspaper from her bag. “This week’s Tuesday crossword puzzle in the
Times
is all about forensic science. I thought maybe we could do it together.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m not that good at crossword puzzles. I don’t do them often enough. My mother’s a real whiz. Does double crostics.”

“Well, this is only Tuesday’s puzzle, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Good.”

She handed it to him, and he studied it. The title was “Criminology.” He looked at the first clue: “FBI Profiling guru.” There were seven spaces. “Ressler,” he said. “Robert Ressler. Or it could be Douglas—John Douglas.”

“You bite your left lower lip when you’re concentrating,” she said. “Did you know that?”

He looked up. “I never thought much about it. Here,” he said, handing the newspaper back to her. She took it, but let it fall in her lap.

“Oh, hell,” she said. “Damn.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“
Damn
.”

“
What?
What is it?”

She tossed the newspaper on the bed in a gesture of surrender. “I’m in love with you.”

A laugh burst from his throat, taking him by surprise. She cocked her head to one side and raised her right eyebrow.

“That’s funny?”

“Well, it was the way you said it.”

She smiled only on one side—it was her rueful look, the nearest expression she had to looking apologetic.

“Maybe you just feel sorry for me,” he suggested.

“I didn’t
mean
anything by it, really. It’s just that—well, I wasn’t planning on it right now.” She looked irritated, but her voice was soft.

He laughed again. It felt good, like something inside him was unfreezing. “Sorry to upset your plans.”

“You don’t laugh very often, you know.”

“I know. I used to—before.”

“Oh. Right.” Her face went slack, then assumed a holding pattern, as if she wasn’t sure what the proper expression was.

“I guess it means I’m feeling better,” he said, then winced at how much the tone of forced cheer reminded him of his mother.
God, get a grip, Campbell.

“Are you?” she asked. “Feeling better, I mean?”

“Yes, much.” He looked around the room. “It’s weird to be back here again. I haven’t been here since—”

“Right. Is that—uh, is that better?”

“That? Yes. I mean, it comes and goes at times, but mostly I’m better.”

She smiled. “Oh, good. I’ve never had…that”—(funny how both of them were reluctant to say the word “depression”)—“but I’ve had friends who did. I didn’t realize how bad it was until one of them committed suicide.”

Lee swallowed once, hard. “How did she—” he began, then realized he didn’t want to hear the answer.

“He, actually. Carbon monoxide. Sat in his car in the garage with the engine on. His mother found him.”

“How old were you?”

“It was a few years after college.”

“Close friend?”

“Close enough that I asked myself for years afterward what I could have done or said to change things. I didn’t even know he was depressed—we’d sort of lost touch, I guess. I found out from mutual friends.”

“I’m sorry.”

She looked out the window and put her right forefinger to her forehead. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m sorry—after what you’ve been through.”

“Well, I
am
a trained psychologist,” he said. “If people can’t talk to me, who can they talk to?”

She smiled at his attempt to lighten the conversation.

“What I learned from that was how…irreplaceable everyone is. Once you lose someone, that’s it. There’s really no replacing them.”

“That’s true. I just never thought of it exactly that way.”

Chuck returned with hamburgers from the coffee shop next door. Lee thought he saw a flicker of irritation on his friend’s face when he saw Kathy.

“Hi,” Chuck said, “nice to see you again.”

“Yes,” Kathy replied. “Good to see you too.”

Fortunately, Chuck had bought three hamburgers, so they each had one. Lee liked the way Kathy ate, with a hearty, unself-conscious appetite. But as soon as they had finished, Dr. Patel appeared, wagging his stethoscope at them.

“Time to rest,” he said sternly, herding Chuck and Kathy out of the room.

“Does he ever sleep?” Kathy whispered to Lee as she kissed him good-bye.

“He’s a resident,” he whispered back. “They never sleep.”

Dr. Patel did one more quick check of Lee’s blood pressure and pulse, nodded grimly, muttered something to himself, made a notation on the chart at the foot of the bed, and left the room. Lee lay back on the pillow, feeling an odd sense of contentment. Sleep dragged at his eyelids, and he sank into its dark and welcoming arms.