The Madman - Страница 69

He glanced down at the file and nodded. "I know this man. Short-fused son of a bitch," he said. Then he stammered in embarrassment. "Pardon my language, Miss Jones. It's just I had a run-in or two with this guy. He's one of the bad-news types around here."

"All the better," she said. "Considering what I have in mind."

Little Black looked quizzically at her, and Peter slumped into his seat, smiling. "Miss Jones seems to have an idea," he said.

Lucy picked up a pencil and rolled it around her fingers while she examined the patient's file. The man in question was an institutional fixture, having spent much of his life either in prison for a garden-variety of assaults, robberies, and burglaries, or in various mental health facilities, complaining of auditory hallucinations and suffering from manic rages. Some of each, she guessed, were invented. Some were real. What was perhaps most real, of course, was that he had psychopathic, manipulative qualities, which were more or less ideal for what she had in mind. And an explosive anger.

"How has this guy been a problem?" she asked Little Black.

"He's just one of those men, always wants to push the limits, you know what I'm saying? Ask him to move one way, he goes the other. Tell him to be here, he shows up over there. You try to push him a bit, he cries that you're beating him and files a formal complaint with the big doc. Likes to get into the face of other patients, too. Always hassling one or the other. I think he steals stuff from folks behind their backs. Just a sorry excuse for a human all around, if you ask me."

Lucy said, "Well, let's bring him in, and see if we can't get him to do what I want."

Beyond that, however, she wasn't willing to explain, although she noted that Peter seemed to concentrate carefully on what she was saying, and then relax in his chair, as if he perceived something behind what she designed, like a delay switch on a mechanical device. Lucy guessed that this was true, and thought it was a quality that she would probably come to admire. Then, when she considered it a bit further, realized that she had seen several qualities in Peter that she was beginning to admire, which only made her even more curious as to why he was where he was and had done what he had done.

Miss Luscious took charge of Francis as soon as Big Black ushered him into the medical director's office. As always, the secretary wore an unfriendly scowl, as if to say that any disruption in the carefully plotted daily routine that she had established with iron-fisted organization was something she personally resented. She handed Big Black a message to meet his brother at the Williams Building, and then she quickly half pushed Francis through the office door, saying, "You're late. You need to hurry."

Gulp-a-pill was standing by his window, staring out across one of the quadrangles. He seemed to linger for a moment, keeping watch on whatever he could see. Francis moved into a chair across from the doctor's desk, and stared out the same window, to try to see what the physician found so intriguing. He realized that the only times he'd looked out a window that wasn't barred or grated was in the medical director's office. It made the world look far more benign than it really was.

The doctor turned abruptly. "A fine day, Francis, don't you think? Spring seems to have taken hold quite firmly."

"Sometimes, inside where we are, it's hard to get a sense of the season changing," Francis said. "There's a lot of grime and dirt on the windows. If we had the windows washed, I bet it would help people's moods."

Gulptilil nodded. "This is an excellent suggestion, Francis, and one that displays some insight. I will mention it to the building and grounds workers, see if they can't add some window scrubbing to their duties, although, I suspect, they are overburdened already."

He sat down behind his desk, gathered himself, and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the surface, lifting his arms to form an inverted V and placing his chin at the juncture of his hands. "So, Francis, do you know what day it is?" he asked.

Francis answered rapidly. "Friday."

"And how is it that you are so sure?"

"Tuna fish and macaroni on the luncheon menu. Standard Friday fare."

"Yes, and why would that be?"

"In deference to the Catholic patients, I would suspect," Francis answered.

"Some still feel it necessary to eat fish on Fridays. My own family does. Mass on Sundays. Fish on Fridays. It's the natural order of things."

"And you?"

"I don't think I'm as religious," Francis said.

Gulptilil thought this was interesting, but did not follow up on it. "Do you know the date?" he asked.

Francis shook his head. "I believe it is either the fifth or sixth of May," he said. "I'm sorry. The days seem to blend together in the hospital. And usually I count on Newsman to fill me in on current events, but I haven't seen him today."

"It is the fifth. Can you remember that for me, please."

"Yes."

"And do you recall who is the president of the United States?"

"Carter."

Gulptilil smiled, but barely moved his chin from its perch on his fingertips. "And so," the medical director continued, as if what he were about to say was a logical extension of the prior conversation, "I have met with Mister Evans, who reports to me that although you have made some progress in socialization and in understanding your illness, and the impact that it has upon yourself and those close to you, that he believes despite your current course of medication that you continue to hear voices belonging to people who are not present, voices that urge you to act in specific fashions, and that you still have fixed and settled delusions about events."

Francis did not reply, because he did not hear a question. Within him, whispers ricocheted about, but they remained quiet, hard to hear, almost as if they were all afraid that the medical director would be able to hear them as well, if they raised their tones.

"Tell me, Francis," Gulptilil continued, "do you think that Mister Evans's assessment is accurate?"

"It's hard to respond," Francis said. He shifted about a little uncomfortably in his seat, aware, in that second, that any action he made, every word he spoke, every inflection, every mannerism, might be fodder for the doctor's opinion. "I think Mister Evans automatically considers something that one of us patients says that he disagrees with to be a delusion, and so it is hard to know what to say in answer."

The medical director smiled, and finally leaned back. "That is a cogent and organized statement, Francis. Very good."

For an instant, Francis started to relax, but then, as quickly, he remembered to not trust the doctor, and especially not to trust a compliment tossed his direction. There was a murmuring of assent deep within him. Whenever his voices agreed with him, it gave Francis confidence.

"But Mister Evans is also a professional, Francis, so we should not discount what he says too rapidly. Tell me, how is life in Amherst for you? Do you get along with the other patients? The remainder of the staff? Do you look forward to Mister Evans's therapy sessions? And, tell me, Francis, do you think you are closer to being able to go home? Has your time here so far been, shall we say, profitable?"

The doctor moved forward, a slightly predatory motion that Francis recognized. The questions hovering in the air were a minefield, and he needed to be cautious in his replies. "The dormitory is fine, Doctor, although overcrowded, and I believe I am able to get along with everyone, more or less. It is sometimes difficult to see the value in Mister Evans's therapy sessions, although it is always helpful when the discussion turns to current events, because I sometimes fear that we are too isolated here in the hospital, and that the world's business continues without our engagement in it. And I'd very much like to go home, Doctor, but I'm unsure what it is that I have to prove to you and to my family that will allow me to."

"None of them," the doctor said stiffly, "has deemed it necessary or worthwhile to come visit you, I believe?"

Francis looped some coils of control over emotions that threatened to erupt. "Not yet, doctor."

"A phone call, perhaps? A letter or two?"

"No."

"That must cause you some distress, does it not, Francis?"

He took a deep breath. "Yes," he said.