The Absence of Mercy (13 page)

She might have made it if she hadn't looked back—if she'd concentrated only on what was ahead of her. But she simply couldn't help it. Not knowing whether he was gaining on her or whether she had lost him already was more than her panicked mind could cope with. And so she turned her head quickly to look, saw that he was still behind her—
much closer than she'd hoped!
—and the vision of him barreling through the woods after her sent a jolt of extra adrenaline into her bloodstream like a white-hot bullet. She spun her head around and shot forward, propelling herself over a fallen log, her sneakered feet barely touching the ground. But the act of glancing behind her had momentarily taken her eyes off what was in front of her, and as her left foot touched the earth, she ran directly into a stiff, leafless branch that jutted out at her at neck level.

She took the limb in the throat—its broken, slightly blunted end catching her directly in the windpipe. She heard the sound of her own teeth clicking neatly shut, as if she'd just chomped into a crisp stick of celery, and for a full second the world became completely hushed around her. The muffled slug of her heart beat twice in her ears, and she had time to wonder—
even then
—whether he was still there, tearing through the brush directly behind her. Then the pain in her throat rose up to meet her like magma erupting from the earth. She tried to draw in a breath but found that she was incapable even of that, and she fell gracelessly to her knees as if her lower legs had disintegrated in mid-stride. Her outstretched hands met the soft earth as she pitched forward, and a moment later she was crawling along a floor of muck and leaves and thorny brush that clawed at her face, arms, and legs. All at once, her breath returned. She greedily sucked in air through her bruised windpipe, emitting a high-pitched whooping noise that sounded to her like a scream in reverse. She drew in another breath and another, each accompanied by that same eerie shriek. She was no longer able to control the ragged, terrified sobs that poured forth from her body like heavily bleeding wounds. She refused to look back this time, and when the pressure of his foot pressed down on her left ankle, she kicked out blindly with her right leg, striking him high in the thigh—but not quite high enough. She tried to scream, but the sound that escaped her was small and without hope.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “It'll be over soon.”

And then he was upon her.

Sam Garston was polishing off a second helping of Carla's blueberry pancakes when the phone rang, disturbing them from their usual Sunday breakfast. He looked up at the clock, which read 8:14
A.M.
His wife, who was seated closer to the phone, rose from her chair to answer it.

“Hello?” she said. Sam watched her closely from where he sat. Sunday morning phone calls were typically either one of Carla's friends or the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department dispatcher contacting him regarding some matter that required his immediate attention. He always hoped for the former, but frequently ended up with the latter.

“Oh. Hi, Carl,” she greeted the caller. “How are you? . . . Yes, we're just finishing up breakfast. You're welcome to stop over if you'd like . . . Oh, I see . . . No, that's quite all right. He's right here. Hold on just a moment.” She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to him. “It's Carl Schroeder.”

Sam had already gotten up from his chair and was making his way across the kitchen. He planted a kiss on Carla's cheek, took the receiver, and walked around the corner into the living room. He drew back the curtain to improve the light in the room, but the day outside was overcast and rainy, and the change was modest at best. “Yeah, Carl. What's up?”

“There's been another attack, Sam,” Schroeder's voice advised him over the slight static of a cell phone. “Sixteen-year-old female this time.”

Sam's body stiffened and he placed his large left hand on the window ledge. “
Damn it,
” he said. “Where?”

“North of town, along Ross Ridge Road.”

“You have the area cordoned off?”

“Of course.”

“Fine. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Go ahead and contact the medical examiner.”

“Well, that's the thing,” Carl replied. “We may not need him just yet.”

Sam had already moved to the bedroom, and was pulling his uniform shirt off a hanger. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“The victim,” Carl said, and this time there was no static over the line to garble the connection. “Sam, she's alive.”

Martin Vance shifted in his chair, turning his head briefly to eye some of the other patients in Trinity Medical Center's psychiatric unit. He glanced again at the metal sprinkler head projecting from a small hole in the ceiling directly above him. He didn't like the looks of it. No, sir, Scooby-Doo-in-a-half-shoe—he didn't like the looks of it at all. This was a real amateur job, of course. He could tell
that
right from the start. Could see the actual flip-floppin' microphone up there—see it plain as day. He knew what they were doing, too. He'd been through it all before. When you knew the sort of things that he knew, when you had connections right out of Liberia and the Far East on a mainline receiver into your geranium cranium at 538 bits per second—well then, everyone had their ear to the grand ol' wall, Paul. Not that it mattered. Not in the least. If they thought he was just gonna spill his guts for a little Geodon, a little Haldol truth serum in the form of one big hummer of a syringe . . . well, they had no idea who they were actually dealing with, did they? He'd seen this type of action before—in a thousand other disease-infested rat pits far worse than this mojo dime-bag. And he hadn't talked then. Hadn't told them a
damn thing.

“Mr. Vance?”

Tight as a clam, he was—
never
get the pearl!

“Martin?”

He glanced over at the woman sitting across from him. Ms. Queen Mojo Dime-Bag, herself. Little Miss Harley-Davidson on the Seroquel Express.

“Martin, I see that you've been looking at the overhead sprinkler quite a bit during our session today. Does it bother you?”

He said nothing. It was best to just keep your mouth shut during the interrogations. He'd learned that much. Learned it the hard way. Let 'em play out their own string until they hung themselves with it, for all he cared.

He checked the corners of the room for traps, but didn't see any. That was the worst kind, anyway—the ones you couldn't see until it was too late. You step into one of those zombies and you'll be cleanin' up your own body shrapnel till next Easter.

“Would you prefer to sit somewhere else, Martin?”

Stupid sling-blade witch doctor talkin' at him again. Which doctor? Witch doctor.
Ha!
That was a good one. Funny but it ain't, as people like to say. Chief Interrogator Numero Uno. She'd been on his case since they'd dragged him in here yesterday afternoon. Black as night in the heart of darkness, that one. She'd cut him down to pieces in a second if she had any idea the sort of technical intel he was carryin' around in his long-term memory. Enough to topple the balance of power, that was for sure.

“Yeah, any electric chair will do, right, doc?” he said. Let her chew that over for a while.

“I assure you that you're in a safe place,” she replied. “Nothing in this room is designed to hurt you.”

He scoffed at the remark. Check the traps, baby. Check the traps.

“You don't believe me?”

“It's not what it's
designed
to do—it's what it
can
do. Isn't that what they teach you in that military boot camp of yours? What if Mother Goose never came home? That's the thick of it. Funny but it ain't.” He glanced up at the microphone above him. It was capturin' every flip-floppin' word.
Man,
he had to be more careful with what he said. He couldn't chance a slip-up. They'd be all over him. “You get those sektars off my back and maybe we can talk.”

“You've used that word before:
sektars
. I'm not familiar with that term.”

“Well, you should
get
familiar with it, tipsy-top. You and the goon squad, both.”

“Can you explain what it means?”

“Not if I wanna stay alive in this rat pit. Place is crawlin' with 'em. Flip-floppin' sektar parade last night. Couldn't sleep a wink if I wanted to.”

“We can talk about strategies to improve your sleep, or I can ask the nurse to give you something in the evening to help you rest at night.”

“I'll bet you could. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“I'd like for you to feel better, yes. I think that the medications will help. Maybe we could start with just one.”

“And I'll be up to eight H-bombs by the end of the week, with my brains oozin' outta my ears. No thanks, Dr. Frankenstein.” He checked the corners again—thought he saw one. Just a glint of metal razor that was gone by the time the eyes focused completely.

“I respect your concerns, Martin. But I really am here to help you. Many of the thoughts you're having are symptoms of a disease called bipolar disorder with psychotic features. The medications I'm recommending are designed to help improve those symptoms. That's the goal.”

“Yeah? Well, you can kiss the bird with those word turds, you psychological nerd.
This meeting's over!
” Martin Vance leapt up from his chair, which toppled backward, striking the floor with a reverberating bang. Dr. Subina Edusei was on her feet almost as quickly, positioning her own chair between herself and the patient. Two of the psychiatric unit's techs exited the nurses' station in a hurry and were three-quarters of the way across the room before Subina held up her hand for them to stand by a moment.

“Settle down, Martin. This is a safe place for you.”

Martin frowned. “No-no-no-no-no-no-no.”

“I'd like you to walk over to the other side of the room now. We can talk more later if you want.”

“I don't
want
none of your magic beans,” he advised her, shoving his fallen chair with his foot and storming off toward the far wall. The few patients who'd briefly turned their heads to watch the standoff quickly lost interest as Subina left the common area through the locked doors leading to the nurses' station.

“You okay?” Tania Renkin—one of her favorite nurses—asked, meeting her at the door.

“I'm fine,” Subina said. She sat down at the desk and began entering a note in the chart. “Martin's a little riled up this morning.”

“You want him to receive anything else?” Tania asked. “He got ten milligrams of Zyprexa IM early this morning. I don't think it's touched him.”

“See if you can get him to take a Zydis ODT.”

“If he refuses?”

Subina shrugged. “Show him the needle, and tell him that's his next option. See if that changes his mind about taking the oral medication.”

“It often does,” Tania agreed. She looked out through the thick glass partition into the common area. Martin was pacing at the far end of the room, muttering to himself. “Martin doesn't scare me. I've taken care of him before.”

“So have I,” Subina replied. “About four months ago, in fact.”

“When he's taking his medication, he's actually quite pleasant.”

“Yeah. He'd definitely pass the bus stop test.”

Tania smiled. “The bus stop test: If you encounter a person at a bus stop and don't think to yourself,
Hey, this guy's crazy
. . .”

“. . . then they pass,” Subina finished.

“It's amazing how many mentally ill people can pass the bus stop test. I wonder,” she mused, “out of all the people we come in contact with in our daily lives, what percentage do you think are psychologically unstable?”

“If you knew the answer to that question,” Subina said, returning the patient's file to the rack, “you'd probably never leave your house.”

“Right.” The two of them watched Martin as he continued to pace the room. “By the way”—Tania pointed a thumb toward the security monitor behind them—“have you had a chance to see the guy in Seclusion Room Two yet?”

“I looked in on him this morning when I got here. What's his story?”

“Don't know.” Tania shook her head. “He presented to the ER last night, ranting and raving, covered in scratches, obviously psychotic, unable to provide any useful information. The ER doc gave him five of Haldol and two of Ativan, and he got medicated with Geodon and Vistaril before we brought him over.”

“How did he respond?”

“Not well. It still took four security guards to get him into that room. He almost bit one of them.”

Subina studied the monitor. The man inside the seclusion room looked like a human wrecking ball: probably six foot four and pushing 250 pounds, most of it muscle. He'd removed his hospital clothing, revealing a crisscross of superficial scratches that covered the dark black skin of much of his torso and extremities. As she watched, he walked to the padded door and punched it hard. The muffled sound of the impact reached their ears a moment later.

“Do we have a name?”

“Not yet. He's not someone we've seen here before.”

“Well, he's going to need more medication—but right now I think the safest course of action is to just let him be.” Subina opened the door to the hallway leading back to her office. “I need to make a phone call before rounds. I'll see you in the conference room in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” Tania replied as she entered her ID number into the automated medication delivery unit in the corner. “Let's see if Martin will take his Zydis. We've got to get him looking good. In a couple of days, he might have a bus to catch.”

The usually vacant stretch of asphalt along Ross Ridge Road just north of Route 22 was presently flanked with vehicles positioned closely together along both shoulders of the roadway. Police cruisers composed the majority of parked cars, but an Action 7 News truck was also already on-site and two men were unloading camera equipment from the rear of the vehicle.
Perfect,
Sam thought, pulling over onto the soft shoulder. He killed the ignition, popped the trunk, and stepped out of the car. Down the street near the parked news van, he could see Diane Sellars making her way quickly toward him, camera crew in tow. Sam whistled to Tony Linwood, who stood nearby directing the occasional passing vehicle. “Tony,” he called over, “I do not wish to be interviewed by Ms. Sellars right now.”