Twisted (21 page)

66

On my way to work, I’m nervous and tense. No, I’m more than that—I’m rattled to my core. I know what I saw, but Jenna’s reaction tells me I didn’t.

She was lying.

“You shut up about my wife! She’d never do that!”

I don’t know what to think, can’t trust what I see anymore, but I trust Jenna, so she has to be right.

And speaking of trust, as Loveland draws closer, I find my thoughts returning to Adam—or rather, to my extreme anger toward him. No matter what’s happened, I’ve always been there for him. When he and his first wife were going through the divorce—even though I knew he’d created most of their problems—I stood by his side. I was there for him. When he told me in the strictest of confidence that he’d made a bad call with a patient that could have cost him his job, I kept that quiet, consoling him, saying it could have happened to any of us. Now I’ve uncovered a major conspiracy at Loveland, a plot that could ultimately put us and everyone else’s lives in jeopardy, and what does he do? He hesitates. He dismisses me. He doesn’t even listen.

That’s because he’s in on it.

And after I’ve worked so hard to uncover this clandestine, underground operation, instead of trusting me, instead of supporting and praising me for it, Adam further tries to discredit me by pulling out the crazy card.

I’m incensed with Adam. I’m insulted. I’m deeply injured.

Before I can let those feelings simmer, my worries abruptly shift when I again approach the most execrable entity I’ve ever laid eyes on.

The Evil Tree.

The Evil Tree that has turned my life upside down. Ever since I nearly hit the beast, it’s been trying to draw me back to finish the job. And in this moment, I decide that I’ll no longer give it the pleasure or benefit of my attention. I can’t avoid passing it on my drive to and from work, but I can attenuate its powerfully magnetic draw by depriving it of my energy.

At fifteen feet away, I accelerate, keeping my sight focused on a spot far ahead of me.

At ten feet, I’m tempted to take just a quick peek but tell myself that’s all part of its power, that giving in will only cause me more grief.

Five feet, and my forehead sweats. My hands are shaking.

Just as our planes intersect, as if through a volition all its own, my head turns toward the tree, and my eyes lock onto it.

And I know—without any doubt—that the thing owns me now. It has finally won this battle.

I shouldn’t have looked.

67

The parking lot at Loveland is half empty.

Things are moving quickly, my insanity racing up the backside. I have no idea what the disappearances mean yet, but I’m going to figure it out today.

When I get to my office, another surprise awaits me, no less disagreeable. Adam sits behind my desk wearing a mournful look that I can only interpret as a sign of approaching trouble.

“What are
you
doing here?” I ask, outrage and disgust tainting my words.

He rests his hands on my desk, leans slightly forward, and says, “You refused to hear me out yesterday. Now I’m going to
make
you listen.”

“It’s not like you’ve given me much of a choice.”

“Chris, knock it off. You’re the closest friend I’ve ever had. I care about you. I’m on your side. And I don’t like what happened between us.”

“I wasn’t exactly loving it myself.”

“It’s just . . . I’m worried about you, man.” He lingers on me for a moment. “Is there something happening I should know about?”

He already knows what’s happening. He’s part of it.

“You already know what’s
happening
.
You just chose not to support me.”

“That isn’t true. You completely misread what I—”

“Misread what?” I step toward him, feel my vocal cords flex with anger, my tenor pulling tighter. “Misread when you treated me like I was crazy?”

You
are
crazy.

“Or maybe it was the part where you disregarded that I was clearly upset. Or how about when, instead of listening and being a friend, you jumped to the conclusion that this knock to my head has jarred my common sense loose? Which
misread
are you referring to here, Adam? I’m confused. Help me out.”

Falling silent, holding his unreadable eyes on me, he reaches for the computer screen on my desk. Turns it toward me.

“We’re not doing this again, Adam. We are not. I know what the records say, and I’ve already explained why.”

“Just read it, okay?”

I look at the screen and see an e-mail from our personnel director. I read it.

Dr. Wiley,

Per your request for information re: Melinda Jeffries. Our records indicate nobody by that name has ever been employed by Loveland Hospital or any of its affiliates.

Regarding Nicholas Hartley, Stanley Winters, and Gerald Markman, none has, at any time, been registered as patients here.

My chest constricts. My stomach tugs into a knot. I look up from the screen and realize Adam’s been watching me the whole time. He reaches under his desk and pulls out the red folder I saw him slam shut several days ago.

I lurch back at the sight of it and feel my temples flare with heat.

He slaps the folder onto the desk and opens it. Inside is a series of photographs. Adam spreads them out on the desktop, then looks at me.

I study the photos of young girls I’ve never before seen. I look up at Adam and say, “Who are they?”

Very softly. “Chris, they’re the missing girls. The ones Donny Ray is suspected of killing.”

“That can’t be. You have the wrong pictures.”

Adam doesn’t respond. He just looks sadly troubled.

“But . . . but none of them look like Miranda Smith.”

“None of them ever did. And I checked the police reports. Not a single one wore a blue dress on the day she went missing.”

“NO!” I slowly back away from him, fists pulling tight, nails digging holes into my palms. “I saw those faces, Adam. They looked just like her.”

“Chris, something is happening to you. Maybe it’s because of the accident or . . . or maybe it’s worse than that. I don’t know, because you’ve stopped telling me things, but I’m really worried. You’re getting paranoid, and we’ve got to find you some help.”

Get away from him!

I bolt for the door.

“Chris, wait!”

“No! Someone, or
something
, is taking over this hospital. Everything I’ve told you is true.” I jab my finger sharply at him. “You’re trying to keep me from getting to the bottom of it! You’re trying to sabotage my efforts! But it won’t work, Adam. I won’t let you!”

“That’s not true. I’m not doing anything of the sort!”

“And
I’m
not paranoid!”

Before he can say another word, I’m gone.

68

SOMEONE IS OUT TO GET Me

Paranoia became a prominent feature of my father’s schizophrenia.

It began with fits of rage and persecutory declarations, which erupted into stomping, screaming tirades that put the fear of God in me. Things would break and shatter, Dad would wail louder, and I’d run to my room for cover. With the door locked, I’d bury my head beneath a pillow, tears sopping the sheet, panic and terror writhing through every part of me. I thought things couldn’t get any worse, but that was just another of my flawed survival tactics.

One day, as I watched TV in the family room, the screeching and wailing started, more ferocious than ever. While my father’s violent complaints were difficult to interpret, his sentiment was not. It was wrathful and convulsive, frenzied and maniacal.

Instinctual fear drove me upstairs for safety, and he was quickly on my trail. I lurched into the bedroom, but before I could slam the door, he crashed through with an expression that I could only interpret as crazy-eyed and murderous intent. I was trapped. My only way out of that room was the second-story window with a merciless drop onto our concrete driveway.

He let out a bloodcurdling scream and charged at me, shouting, “STAY AWAAAAY. STAY AWAAAAY!”

I dropped to the floor, curled into a ball, and prayed for salvation. I felt his body launch itself over mine. I heard the window shatter. I heard a sickening howl that barely sounded human.

When I lifted my head, he was covered in blood and rolling around in broken shards of glass, moaning like some tortured animal. Just moments before, I’d been terrified of the man. Now my heart ached for him in ways I never knew it could.

A neighbor called for an ambulance, and they rushed him to the hospital. He spent several days recovering from his injuries. After that, it was back to the psych ward, then he came home again, medicated, temporarily stabilized, and ready to bring more disorder and heartbreak into our world.

My mother wasn’t home during this latest fiasco, so in her mind it never happened. Not once during his hospital stays did she visit him or even pick up the phone to check on his status.

When he returned home, face and body covered in stitches, she refused to look at him.

69

Everyone is against you.

“Nothing works around here!” I shout, storming through the hallways. “This place is broken!”

Stanley was right.

I dash into the bathroom, lock myself in a stall. Face buried in my hands, I cry.

I don’t like being inside Loveland anymore. It keeps changing, keeps slipping away from me. I’m no longer safe here, and the more reality disappears, the fewer places I have left to hide from myself.

Do not trust anyone here.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” I yell and hear the echo of my voice bounce off walls, so loud that it surprises even me.

Ever since the accident, insanity has been haunting me. This voice has been haunting me. Donny Ray has been haunting me. But most of all, time has been haunting me.

“It’s ticking under my skin!”

More echoes. More anger. More utter helplessness.

“Pull it together, Chris!”

“But I don’t know how!”

Without thought, I push open the stall door, and, before I know it, I’m running back toward my office.

I dash inside, slam the door shut, then lean against it. I try to grab hold of myself and the starburst of thoughts firing through my fractured mind.

I stumble toward my desk, collapse into the chair. I get up, pace back and forth, and run a hand through my sweat-soaked hair.

I scream at nobody.

“I HAVE TO CALM DOWN! I HAVE TO CALM DOWN! BUT HOW?”

I go back to pacing and try to figure out how to figure this out. I have to figure this out. I have to hold on to my sanity.

I know my schizophrenia is inevitable, but I can’t let it drive me into complete madness, not until I make sure Donny Ray no longer poses a threat to my son.

I’ve got several things to do. I can’t change my diagnosis with the court, but I can make sure the psychopathic demon never sets foot in public. That means figuring out whether he’s actually responsible for the disappearances at Loveland and whether he can get out as well.

My options are limited to one. I need to confront Donny Ray, determine whether he’s walking the walk or just talking the talk.

I scramble toward the door, but a shifting beam of sunlight off to my side stops me. I look toward
the window, and the air catches in my throat. Outside, a tiny blue dress flitters in the wind.

Blue lace. Big white bow.

One word scrawled across the chest.

MUD.

Written in mud.

70

MUD.

The same word, written the same way I imagined I saw it on Devon’s covers that night.

How Donny Ray knows about that would be an easy guess. I probably told him during one of our sessions while he was taking over my mind. His message served two purposes. To mock my stupidity, rub it in my face, while at the same time, to accelerate my mental deterioration. By hanging that dress outside my window, Donny Ray raised the stakes on his threat against Devon. He wants me to know that nothing can keep him inside Loveland.

Not that his guerilla tactic is going to work. He could have accomplished this latest feat in any number of ways. The most obvious, bribing another patient with better roaming privileges into doing the dirty work while I stepped away from my office for a few minutes. Regardless of how he executed this latest ploy, Donny Ray has indeed raised the stakes. He’s thrown me his challenge, and I’m accepting it.

Game on, asshole.

But the stakes ratchet up another notch when I walk onto Alpha Twelve and see six open doors. More empty rooms, fewer patients. Loveland Hospital is quickly deconstructing, which tells me time is gaining on my heels. But not for long, not if I have anything to say about it. I’m going to put a stop to this chaos, right after I put a stop to Donny Ray.

“Keep your eyes on me the entire time I’m inside this room,” I tell Evan before entering. “Do not leave your post for a second. If you see anything that looks even a little off, get in here, immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” He checks his weapon, then reaches for the key to allow me access.

I enter, and the door closes behind me. I look back at Evan. He steps a few inches away from the window, gives me a solemn nod.

Donny Ray sits at his desk, but he’s not facing it. The chair is spun around and aimed out, so his body is situated the same way mine was the last time. This doesn’t look like a coincidence. This looks like he’s been waiting for me and is ready to play. I raise him one and take his prior spot on the bed.

I won’t mention the dress—there’s no point to it. Showing my annoyance would only strengthen his advantage. We both know the score, and Donny Ray has made it perfectly clear he’ll use anything—even my son—to make sure I keep my mouth shut about his sociopathic manipulation. Now this game of fox and goose has begun.

But it seems Donny Ray’s plan is much the same as mine. He’s looking into my eyes, and I’m looking into his, both of us watching, waiting each other out. That’s fine. He may have a sharp and cunning mind, but I’ve got the upper hand when it comes to knowing how those operate. All I can do now is observe his every action, every statement, and hope to get an inkling of what his next move will be.

Donny Ray eases his chair backward and forward so it emits a series of slow, high-pitched creaks. Then he abruptly stops.

“Is something the matter?” he asks, making the first move.

“Maybe I should ask you
that question.”

“Maybe I should ask you that question,” he repeats.

“You know damned well I didn’t come here to talk about me.”

Still holding those stony eyes on me, he goes through three additional rounds of chair squeaking, slower now, the sound appreciably louder and more drawn-out. I feel my lips twitch. It’s grating on my nerves.

Don’t mess with this guy.

Shut up. I know what I’m doing.

You’ve walked into dangerous territory. You still don’t know who he really is.

My calf muscles jerk and pull tight.

He resumes with his rocking for a few more seconds, then stops again. “You seem unsteady, Christopher.”

“Let’s keep this professional from now on, okay? It’s Dr. Kellan.”

He nods toward my feet.

I glance down and see my pen lying on the floor. I look up at Donny Ray.

With a playful grin, he raises his hands in surrender. “Wasn’t me this time.”

I reach for the pen, put it back in my pocket.

“Those things are trouble for you,” he says.

Watching me, Donny Ray calmly places a hand on each side of the chair and pulls his body upward, cut muscles flexing beneath a thin, black T-shirt. With a look that could pass as pure innocence, he pushes the bangs away from his face and tops the performance off with a schoolboyish grin. But I know these are the false flags of a psychopath, mirroring societal norms rather than actually having them.

A chameleon
.

A child killer, and, on some level, I can’t help but feel his actions are intended to flaunt that contradiction at me.

It’s making my blood boil.

He resumes the movements, still studying me, rocking faster now. Back and forth . . . back and forth. The chair is chirping at me, and the sound is getting deeper under my skin. I try to maintain my composure but he’s chipping away at it. I can’t take this any longer.

“Knock it off!” I shout.

He grins again, but this time there’s nothing innocent about it. The mask is off. I’m at last seeing the real Donny Ray Smith—the demon—but only because he’s chosen to let me, and only because he knows this is the exact moment it will levy the greatest damage. As I’ve learned, every word he speaks, every facial expression, is a carefully calculated move designed to control and deceive. To do harm.

Donny Ray walks to the door. Peering through the window at Evan, he says, “We have to get out of here.”

My pulse erratically changes because he’s just said the same thing Stanley did before his disappearance.

I labor to hold my voice steady. “Donny Ray, what are you talking about?”

“You know.” Keeping his back to me, he bobs his head up and down.

“I really don’t.”

“Nicholas and Stanley are already gone. Melinda and Gerald, also.”

“Yes, that’s more than obvious. And your point?”

“You let them go. We should go, too.”

“I didn’t let anyone go, and it was never my goal to get you out of here. I was here to help find the truth. Remember that? The truth? That thing you seemed so passionate about?”

“Yes, I know it well.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “But I don’t think the truth is what you want.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

He leans in closer toward the window then waves to Evan, and I let out a small laugh, marveling at the arrogance that allows him the luxury of taunting a uniformed police officer.

Donny Ray finally turns around and gives me his attention. “You know exactly what I mean.” He cocks a brow. “The
truth
has been right in front of you all this time. You’re avoiding it.”

“Stop talking nonsense and get to the point.”

“Stop talking nonsense and get to the point.”

All this time, he’s been carefully handpicking which of my statements to parrot back as a method to throw me further off-balance, but I’m not playing along anymore.

“And quit mimicking me,” I say, at last drawing the line. “It’s disruptive.”

“I’m just trying to help you.”

“Let’s make one thing perfectly clear, Donny Ray. I’m the doctor, and you’re the patient. The only help you can offer is to dispense with the mind games.”

“I’m the doctor and you’re the patient. The only help you can offer is to dispense with the mind games,” he answers back. “Speaking of the truth, have you figured out yet what’s happened to all the people around here?”

I supply no answer. He wouldn’t have asked if he really wanted to know. Direct isn’t exactly his style.

“Who do you think is making them all disappear?”

The look on his face and tone of voice are ambiguous enough to indicate he’s posing an innocent question, but I can read the subtext. Donny Ray wants me to think he’s making the people of Loveland vanish.

I can’t wait him out any longer. Things are moving too quickly all around me, the body count dropping, my mind crumbling. It’s time to force the issue.

“You can also dispense with all the mundane weaving and skirting,” I tell him. “I’m not at all impressed, and it only makes you appear more tragic and sad.”

“You’re looking into a mirror, Christopher,” he says and takes a firm step toward me, expression suddenly stern. Dangerous.

“You smack of impotence and desperation, Donny Ray—actually you stink of it. So here’s an idea. Instead of putting all your weaknesses on parade, how about if we just cut bait and get to the point. You can start by telling me why you came into my life.”

He moves closer toward me. His smile is tight and angry. “I came into your life to tear it down, and I’m not going to stop until I break it. That sweet,
beautiful
little boy of yours is the last thing holding it up. But not for long.”

I stand straight up, every part of my being wanting to reach for his neck and rip out his windpipe. Rancor like I’ve never before known collects in my throat, and from it comes a low gnarling sound I barely recognize as my own.

“I will take you out, first.”

“That’s just not going to happen,” he snarls back.

“You’re full of it, Donny Ray. You’ve got no power inside this institution.”

“I have all the power.”

“Yeah? Prove it.”

His biting expression melds into a knowing smirk. “Your proof is waiting just outside the door.”

The window is empty. I rush forward, then stare at the vacant spot where Evan once stood. I glance up and down the hallway, and it feels like a brick has just dropped into the pit of my stomach because there’s no sign of him anywhere.

Evan has become one of the missings.

“Christopher?”

I reel around.

“You never asked what I did with the bodies,” Donny Ray Smith tells me.

He’s not talking about the missing girls.