A Cure for Madness (6 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

I was the first to arrive. A harried nurse ushered me into the conference room and told me to have a seat at the oval table. I pulled a pen and a small notebook from my purse and poured myself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table.

I had no idea what to expect. My parents had attended many of these meetings over the years, but I’d never gone with them. I hadn’t even asked what it was like. I tried to anticipate the questions—or directives—I was about to receive.

“We think it would be best if your brother moved in with you.”

“You are now responsible for hundreds of thousands of dollars in hospital bills. How would you like to pay?”

“You and your brother should live in your late parents’ house, as a familiar environment will be best for him.”

“If your brother commits another crime, we will hold you legally responsible.”

I stood and paced the room. What would they say when I told them I wasn’t staying around? It wasn’t like Wes was incapacitated or needed help with basic things like feeding himself or bathing. He was perfectly capable of looking after himself. Mom and Dad had probably even set aside money in their will for him. He could have
all
the money in the will, as far as I was concerned.

My frantic thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. The same nurse who had directed me to the room came in holding a clipboard and a stack of papers. She sank into a chair and exhaled loudly, as though she was glad for the rest. Then she pushed the clipboard toward me.

“You need to sign these papers.”

I stared at her. “But what about the meeting? What about the social worker and the psychiatrist?”

“They’ve been called away. Normally, we would reschedule, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she said irritably, “but we’re a little understaffed right now. Your parents met with the team last week, correct?”

“Yes, but they’re—”

“Then all you need to do is sign these papers and your brother is free to go in the morning, after his test results come in.”

I picked up the clipboard and leafed through the papers. Seemed like regular bureaucratic verbiage. Nothing in there about selling my soul to the devil or moving back to Clarkeston.

“Do you know what kind of medication he needs?” I asked.

The nurse consulted a file on the table in front of her. She said a name I didn’t recognize.

“Sorry, can you spell that?” I asked, getting my pen out.

An alarm went off in the hallway, a shrill double beep that made both of us jerk around. The nurse scrambled to her feet.

“What is that?” I asked.

“A patient has escaped.” She scooped her papers back into her arms and headed for the door.

“But—”

“Just check down at the pharmacy,” she said, one hand already on the doorknob. “They’ll have his medication history for you. Once this is over, we can reschedule the meeting if you still want it.”

“Once what is over?”

She closed the door behind her, and I was left in the empty conference room. I picked up the clipboard again. One scribble of ink, and Wes would be my responsibility. But I had to do it. I couldn’t leave him here indefinitely. The least I could do was set him free.

I signed the papers and crept out of the room. The alarm stopped suddenly, only to be replaced with a constant stream of announcements over the intercom, only half of which I could make out. The nurses’ station was completely empty—they were probably all out looking for the rogue patient—so I laid the clipboard on a keyboard where they would be sure to see it.

I should go back to Wes
. But I couldn’t bring myself to go back up there. Not yet. I headed toward the pharmacy, then changed my mind. That, too, could wait.

Rob’s car was a welcome refuge. I sat in the parking lot for a long minute before starting the engine. I’d missed several calls from Rob, but I didn’t return them. I’d see him soon enough. I drove slowly, lost in a sudden heaviness that had wrapped itself around me like a wet blanket.

I spurned Rob’s advice and took the elevator instead of the stairs when I reached his apartment building.

He took one look at me and frowned. “You look beat.”

“Funny, that’s exactly how I feel.”

“I’m afraid rest will have to wait for a few more minutes. Officer Danley is here to ask you a few questions to help with the investigation of your parents’ murder.”

“Oh . . . okay.”

A uniformed officer stood in the hallway, arms crossed. He held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Thanks.” I wasn’t a big fan of the Clarkeston police, but I did want to help figure out what had happened to my parents—or, more to the point,
why
.

We sat in the living room and he began by asking me where I lived, what I did, how often I spoke with my parents. I answered in short, clipped sentences, too tired to go into much detail.

“Did you parents have any enemies? Any old rivalries? Business troubles?”

I shook my head. “No, none that I know of. Most of their friends were from church.”

“Did you know they were in debt?”

I looked up at this. “No,” I said, surprised. “I mean . . . I’ve never really thought about it. But I’m guessing Wes’s care isn’t cheap.”
There goes any inheritance for Wes.

“This might be a difficult question, but do you think your brother had any reasons for wanting your parents dead?”

My hackles rose. “Are you insinuating Wes was behind this?”

“I’m just examining all possible motives,” Officer Danley said in what he probably thought was a mollifying tone.

“Well, you can stop examining that one. Wes had nothing to do with this. He loved my parents. He would never hurt them.”

The officer looked down at his notes. “I have a note here that says Wes once put your mother in the hospital with a broken jaw.”

I must have looked like a fish gasping for water. “That’s not . . . they never told . . .
when?
”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “About four years ago. They never told you?”

“We’re not . . . we weren’t super close,” I mumbled. Had Wes really attacked our mother so savagely he’d broken her jaw? Where was I four years ago? China, maybe. Or Thailand. “Listen, Wes has his violent outbursts, but he would never, ever do something like this. You know he was in the hospital when they were killed. I talked to him on the phone that night! And you know who did it: Terry Foster. Why are you even looking for someone else?”

The officer just looked down at his notes.

“Have you spoken with this Terry’s family? What do they have to say?” I pressed. I wanted to ask if they knew what was happening up at the hospital, if they thought there was a connection, but I didn’t want to get Kenneth in trouble.

“We have,” he admitted. “But I can’t discuss that part of the investigation.”

“Of course you can’t.”

“Miss Campbell, I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m just doing my job. We need to find out exactly what happened that night. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

I glowered at him but didn’t retort. “Is there anything else?”

“I think that will do for now. Can we contact you if we have any more questions?”

I nodded and stood up.

The officer handed me his card. On his way out, he paused to speak quietly with Rob in the hall.

Once he was gone, I asked, “How did it go with the lawyer and all that?”

“Fine,” Rob said. “Everything’s being taken care of. Except for you, apparently. You need some sleep.”

I didn’t even try to argue with him. “Don’t let me sleep for too long . . .” I muttered as I made a beeline for the futon in the spare room.

“You sleep as long as you need to.”

It was almost six o’clock when I woke up, groggy but famished. There was a note from Rob on the table.

Went to help my friend Diana put together some furniture. Call me if you need anything. The car is still here if you need it.

I checked the fridge, but it was empty save for a bottle of ketchup, a jar of mayo, and three cans of cheap beer.

I stumbled into the bathroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I winced. A shower was definitely in order.

Once dry, I pulled on my jeans and an old The Clash T-shirt, then drove downtown. I needed street tacos. I hoped Rosa’s was still open. How many times had Latasha, Kenneth, and I gone on a late-night taco run to fuel our study sessions?

The ache in my chest grew as I drove under the canopy of leaves that arched over the road. I passed the brick-faced building where my dad had once worked. The farmers’ market we’d gone to almost every Saturday to buy fresh-pressed apple cider and warm Belgian waffles. The 200-year-old cathedral Wes had broken into once, convinced that a dear friend of his was being sacrificed in a satanic ritual. That had been arrest number two.

The tiny hole-in-the-wall shop was still there. Two green plastic chairs and a stained wooden table stood on the sidewalk—the extent of the patio. A well of nostalgia rose up in my throat as I parked and stepped out into the muggy heat.

The door opened, and I automatically moved to the side. Then I saw who it was.

“Kenneth.”

He looked nonplussed for a few seconds; then a wry smile cracked his face. “Looks like we both needed some comfort food.”

“I guess.” Why did I feel so self-conscious? It wasn’t like I’d followed him there. “I thought you’d still be at the hospital.”

“I’m done for the day. Thought I’d get something here before picking up Maisie at my mom’s.”

“Oh. Well, I should let you go, then.”

“Sure.”

“Unless . . . you have time to stay? For a few minutes?” Was I pushing him too far? Maybe he’d just been acting polite at the hospital. Maybe he was annoyed I was back in town. But I couldn’t help it. I needed a friend.

He hesitated, then sat down in one of the plastic chairs. “I’ll wait while you order. Try the shrimp tacos. They’re new.”

I ducked inside and returned a few minutes later with a Styrofoam container filled with shrimp tacos.

“How are the arrangements going?” he asked once I sat down.

“Fine, I think. Actually, I don’t really know. My Uncle Rob is taking care of most of it, which is amazing.” I told him about the visit from Officer Danley.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he said. “I’m sure they’re just trying to be thorough.”

“I know. But it bugs me when people jump to conclusions about Wes. I mean, I can see how it looks, and I know he has a history of violence. He doesn’t think like you and me. But hell, they
know
who did it. Do they really think Wes convinced Terry to shoot our parents? That’s insane. Wes is a gentle soul on the inside. He really is.”

“He’s lucky to have you,” Kenneth said. “And how was the family meeting?”

“Nonexistent, actually.” I told him what had happened.

“I’m sorry; that’s quite unprofessional. You deserve to have a full picture of your brother’s condition before he’s released to you. But I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Why not?”

“The doctors you were supposed to meet with were at the same meeting I was attending. All senior personnel were there.”

“With the CDC? What’d you find out?”

He looked down at his hands. “I’m not supposed to say anything . . .”

I leaned in closer. “Come on, who am I going to tell? I don’t even live here anymore. You said it might have something to do with my parents’ death. And if it could affect Wes, I should know.”

“It won’t affect Wes. At least, no more than anyone else. But I’m really not supposed to say. They don’t want to start a panic.”

“Have you ever known me to panic? C’mon, you can trust me.” The reproach in his eyes made my cheeks burn.
Of course
he didn’t trust me. He had every reason not to. “Never mind,” I muttered.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m over it, remember? And I do trust you not to call up half a dozen reporters. Nothing is conclusive. But they did give us some surprising numbers. Intake at the psych ward is up fifty-seven percent this week alone, and they think the number of unreported cases could be much higher.”

“That’s a pretty huge jump, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Then they gave us their theories. It could be an environmental issue, like tainted meat or something in the water supply. They’re testing that out now. They’ve already ruled out rabies. But what worries me most is the third possibility.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“Well, it seems unlikely, but it’s possible that a virus or bacteria is causing these symptoms.”

I gaped at him. “What?”

He held up his hand. “I know; it sounds crazy. And it’s just a theory.”

“Who knows about this?”

“Right now just the CDC and the senior medical officials at the hospital. And you.” He raised his eyebrows significantly.

“I’ll keep it quiet, I promise. But aren’t you freaking out?”

“No, because the likelihood of it being contagious is extremely low.” He paused and wiped his hands with a brown paper napkin. “I shouldn’t have told you; I really don’t want you to worry.”