Tangled Intersections (2 page)

Frowning, he tossed it
aside.
What good is such a hat
here?

The next object was a
tan-colored shirt with a collar. Then a pair of black trousers in a
silky space-age material. Next were various pens and styluses and
four pairs of sunglasses. “Hmpf.” Those were flung aside, one after
another, with no concern for where they landed.
This stuff isn’t useful to me. I don’t need any of
this.

He tore through the rest of the bag
furiously, ending with shaking it upside down so that it spilled
its remaining contents at his feet. Thump, went a watch, calendar
and shaving kit. He glared at them angrily. “For hell’s sake! Isn’t
there anything worthwhile in here?”

But every item he’d
inspected either didn’t matter to him or hadn’t registered as
belonging to him. They should have
felt
like
his, but they didn’t. The imposter
bag was full of foreign objects that sat on the floor defying him,
taunting him with their uselessness. Beside himself, he punched the
button on the comm. panel and re-dialed C35374.

“
Where are my things?” he
screeched. “These aren’t my things!” Shaking, he sat on the couch
and put his head in his hands. More sweat poured off him, and he’d
just had a shower. His stomach churned with the sensation he was
small, like a speck in space. Alone. Adrift. Vulnerable. He hated
that feeling more than anything. Made him feel sick, like he hadn’t
eaten in days.

A soft ping sounded above him. The
intercom again.

“
Dr. Grison. Incoming
call. Source, Nidi Station Security, block 5.”

He lifted his head and
raised his eyebrows.
Here? For me?
They had Rister in custody, so they certainly had
no reason to contact him. What more could they possibly want? “Uh,
hello?” When there was no response and the unit pinged again, he
tersely barked, “Answer!”

The call came through.

“
Dr. Grison, this is first
medical psychiatric nurse Ballantine. Can you make time to stop by
security in about an hour Earth measurement? We’d like to get your
recommendation on Rister.”

“
Regarding
what?”

“
His treatment
plan.”

He sat up straight, back muscles tense
as stone. Treatment plan? Nobody had ever said anything about a
treatment plan. In the best case scenario, the on Grison had pinned
all his hopes on, Rister was to be executed. His lips fumbled over
words before he managed to spit out, “I-of course-I’ll…. Be
there.”

“
Perfect, doctor. See you
then. Ballantine out.”

One soft tone ended the
call. The line dead, the room was awash once more in silence.
Grison stood and stoically picked a few items off the floor. A tan
shirt two sizes too big. A pair of plain brown slacks that only
came to his ankles. Biting his lips, he headed into the small
bedroom and dressed. When he was done he looked at his reflection
in the mirror and frowned.
This won’t do.
This just won’t do.

Four floors and two hallways later, he
arrived at the security deck. The station, one of the originals
built during the enthusiastically and often fatally naive initial
we’ll-all-live-in-space-harmoniously phase of humanity, harbored,
by today’s standards, serious operational flaws. Environmentals
weren’t shielded, nor far enough away from the power core to
satisfy modern safety regulations. There was a total lack of system
redundancy as well. Back-up generators were tethered to the outer
ring as an afterthought, exposed and vulnerable to any kind of
attack. And, security was situated far too close to weapons storage
for most people’s tastes. An escaped prisoner could literally walk
across the hall, breach access to the storage locker, and go on a
shooting rampage within two point five Earth minute’s time.
Grison’s stomach was still queasy, and he steadfastly turned his
back on the weapons area as he waited for entry.

The door slid open and he sighed in
relief. Before him was a desk and, in a semi-circle, a series of
holding cells. All were empty, except for one. Rister, devoid of
his restraints, stood from the bed and walked casually to the
security screen. For a second, Grison thought he’d walk right
through it. Anxiety tightened his gut again, working its way up his
throat. By the time Ballantine turned around from her station, he’d
forgotten how to speak.

“
Hello,
doctor.”

He glanced nervously from Rister to
Ballantine, his throat still thick with shock. “I, uh…” He cleared
it and straightened his spine in an effort to appear at
ease.

Ballantine stood, stuck out her hand,
and he shook it. She then grabbed her data board and proceeded to
the cage. “He’s a lively one, Rister. Been up all night. Talkative,
too. He’s been chattering on like a Callus Six monkey.”

Grison’s nerves pitched. At that same
exact moment, Rister snagged his gaze, looking him right in the
eyes. His look was part defiance, part… He swallowed convulsively.
“Uh, miss…” he’d already forgotten her name and her back was to
him, so no chance of reading her name tag, but that wasn’t the
pertinent issue. “Why is … his mouth guard off?”

She tossed her head, smiling over her
right shoulder. “We don’t keep them gagged here, doctor. As you
know, that would be considered uncivilized treatment for all but
the most violent offenders.”

“
But he’s … he’s a killer.
A cold blooded killer.”

“
Well he’s no trouble to
us now, is he? Security has him well in hand. Not to worry. But if
you wish, there are panic suits available in the lockers over
there. If it would make you feel better, put one on. I’ll wait
until you’re ready to get started.”

From inside his cell, Rister shot
daggers from his beady eyes but he said nothing. He was studying
him, waiting for Grison to make a wrong move.

The look unsettled him further, made
him want to jump into the cage and rip his heart out with his
hands. But instead he had to stand there like an idiot, wearing the
wrong clothes, keeping the peace. The effort of being civil left
his palms sweaty and his mouth dry. “No. That’s fine. I… I’m
fine.”

“
Great. Then, let’s review
his file.” She swept a hand in front of her and a screen appeared,
listing out Rister’s most recent eval. “Your own diagnosis of the
patient is paranoid schizophrenic, with psychotic
episodes.”

He snorted, amused at the
dry clinical terminology that made Rister’s behavior sound
perfectly plausible or that he was just a little quirky.
Oh, it doesn’t even come close.
Rister wasn’t just another patient. He was
the
devil
himself.

Rister’s eyes shown darkly, full of
malice and Grison took a step back, retreating from the palpable
blows landing on his body.

“
Is that correct, doctor?”
Ballantine inquired.

Beads of sweat dampened Grison’s
forehead, but still he nodded in agreement. “Yes, that’s my
diagnosis.”

She studied the notes again, digging a
little deeper into the file. “He also suffers from dissociative
episodes, in which he assumes the identity of another, usually his
intended victim.”

Victim
. The word hung in the air around them and refused to leave.
How he hated the term’s simplicity. Again, such a cozy little
affectation of speech that revealed nothing of the extensive damage
Rister’s victims usually faced.

Ballantine frowned when she read the
next chapter. “It says here Mr. Rister prefers to use knives on his
victims. His murder rate exceeds ten for sure, but we know there
could be more.” She spun around abruptly, catching Grison by
surprise. “How many more do you think, doctor?”

“
Yes, how many do you
suppose?” At this, the first utterance from Rister since they’d
been in his presence, Grison nearly jumped out of his skin. The
sneering tone of the question didn’t seem to bother Ballantine, who
still stared at him expectantly, her face upturned. But Grison
heard and felt the challenge like a punch in the jaw.

“
Um, we, uh… twenty or so,
I think.”

Rister raised an eyebrow. Another
direct challenge. The danger he presented to them, even while
caged, grew second by second. Grison could sense it reaching out
from Rister’s gaze, seeping through the security wall and grabbing
for his neck. Ballantine, however, seemed wholly unaware of the
danger.

“
Twenty?” Her eyes widened
and she flashed a devilish grin. “Well, he’s been a busy boy then,
hasn’t he?” She turned around once more and studied Rister’s file.
“I suppose Fremerling Intergalactic is on it? Working the case, I
mean.”

“
Yes, but… don’t
assume…”

“
So while they confirm his
crimes, we need to decide on a course of action for his treatment.
What do you suggest, doctor?”

Kill him. Kill him!
The words screamed through his brain, driven down
a one-way road on a thick air current of fear. Blind, terrorizing
fear. And every second he fought the urge to say them, Rister
stared him down, watching his struggle with something bordering
more on obsession than interest.
The
bastard.
He needed to make a stand and
show him who was boss. “Lobotomy,” he blurted out.

Rister didn’t even flinch.

Ballantine swiveled her pretty little
head his way. “Doctor? Are you certain?” She checked her data pad.
“According to the Freeborn Interstellar diagnostic manual for the
human species, medication is usually the first resort. Then,
neurosurgery. Only if that doesn’t work is permanent brain
structural reorganization suggested. Except in rare
cases.”

Oh, he’s a rare case all
right.
“Miss Ballantine, I…” His voice
trailed off as he found himself ensnared by Rister’s studiously
mocking gaze.

“
Go ahead,” Rister
murmured. “Tell her. You know what the guidelines say.” He raised a
brow. “Don’t you, doctor?”

“
Of course I do! I helped
write them, after all.” He pried his focus away from the criminal
and back to the nurse. “It’s just that, in this case, I don’t see
where medication will be effective. I believe we’ve tried
several…”

“
Let me check the notes,
doctor.” Her fingers swept over the ghostly electronic images of
the file so fast he couldn’t follow. “Um, yes. Right here. A list
of the medications and the dates. Perfect.” She nodded and
scribbled something on her pad.

He narrowly avoided sending a
triumphant smirk to Rister. “I believe you’ll find they tried
neurosurgery, too.”

“
But it didn’t work, did
it?” Rister hissed his icy accusation through a menacing
frown.

Grison crossed his arms and tried to
warm his suddenly chilled frame with his hands. “No. It most
certainly did not.”

“
Then I’m afraid that only
death will do. Isn’t that right, doctor? Death is after all, the
best solution to every problem.”

He stumbled back a step, his heart
pounding wildly in his chest. No amount of warmth could belay the
sub-zero tremor running down him from head to toe.

“
Death always puts things
in the proper perspective, does it not?” Rister’s eyes shone
goadingly.

Ballantine, who up until now had been
studying her screen, snapped her head up. “What? Death? Nobody said
anything about termination.” She furiously stroked her pad,
whizzing through rules and regulations.

“
But it’s the final course
of treatment for your most stubborn patients, isn’t it?” Rister
goaded from behind the security force field.

Ballantine spun around to face him.
“Doctor, I don’t think the FIDM specifies… Doctor—Doctor, are you
all right?”

Head reeling, he backed out of the
room, slipped through the sliding doors and out into the hallway.
Still shaking, unable to talk, he lurched away with his feet
dragging under him. He had to get out of there. Get away from
Rister and his menacing glare. Every bone in his body told him
Rister wanted to kill him. That was so wrong. Wrong! He couldn’t do
that. He couldn’t be allowed to change the rules. Not this far into
the game. “I won’t stand for it,” Grison muttered. “I won’t let him
do it. He can’t get to me that way.”

He’d traveled the length of two
hallways before his breathing slowed. Wheezing, he leaned on the
wall for support and prayed the shivers would cease. He needed to
be able to think clearly, dispassionately about Rister’s demise. No
matter what the insane man threw at him. He’d let Rister get to him
today and he shouldn’t have. “Got to remain strong.”

Sucking in musty recycled air, he made
for the travelift. As he neared the intersection, the red lights in
the floor plating flashed. Loudspeakers blared an announcement in
three languages simultaneously.

“
Warning. Transport in
progress. Warning. Stay clear of marked path. Failure to do so can
result in injury or death.”

He stopped in time, gaze glued to the
transport lane. As he watched, the shields formed along the narrow
pathway. Then, seconds later, a whooshing sounded as a blur passed
by.