Everywhere That Tommy Goes (35 page)

Freud left the room and met up with Detectives Stone and Watts, who were watching the session from another room.

“Is something wrong, Doctor?” Stone asked. “I’m confused. You told us that this wonder drug of yours would enable you to dig deep inside his mind and that he wouldn’t be able to lie to you.”

“Yes, Detective, that is what the drug is supposed to do. Quite honestly, I’m not really sure why Mr. Sullivan is reacting this way. Perhaps Troyer is so deep down inside of him he really doesn’t believe he is real. I need to go deeper to access him.”

“Well, then, why did you stop?” Watts asked.

“It’s his first session, and I didn’t give him a very strong dose of my serum. I could give him another dose by injection, but I think I’d rather end this session early as a precautionary measure. Next time, I’ll hook him up to an IV drip, where I can control the dosage during administration. That will help me to dig deeper inside his mind.”

“When do you think you can do that, Doctor?” Stone asked. “We’re still hoping that he has some information about the girl that may help us to locate her.”

“I understand, but I have to be careful. Too much of this drug all at once may be very harmful to Mr. Sullivan. Especially given his history with the experimental drug he’s been taking. I’m sure it is still in his system, and I don’t know what type of reaction to expect. We could be playing with fire here, and if we push too hard and he switches to Troyer, anything could happen, including the possibility that we could lose Tommy altogether.”

“So how long, then?” asked Stone.

“Give me a day or so to get back to you. Right now, I think it’s best to return him to his room and let him rest. He’ll come out of it in less than an hour. Later on, I’ll see how he’s feeling and let you know when I think it is safe to try again.”

CHAPTER 97

I wake up with a massive headache but not like my usual ones. This one is all the way behind my head, and it runs down my neck and into my back. I look over at the other bed, and Curtis isn’t there. The last thing I remember is being strapped to a chair, and some strange-looking doctor, in a wheelchair, is sticking me with a needle. I get up, walk over to the door, and try the knob. It’s open, so I push through and head down the hall to the lounge. I’m betting Curtis must still be in the lounge with all the other fruitcakes.

I walk into the lounge, and there they are: all the whackos just sitting around doing all their nut job shit. They couldn’t care less that I just came through the door . . . except for Curtis, who runs up to me and almost knocks me over.

“Where you been, Tommy?” he asks me, trying to hug me like we’ve been best friends since the war. “I was worried about you.”

“Hey, back off Curtis,” I say, pushing him off. “They had me in with some Loony Tunes doctor who looks like that dude from the Science Channel.”

“That would be Dr. Freud. Everyone says he looks like Stephen Hawking. He’s the head doctor and senior psychiatrist here. Did he inject you with anything?”

“Yeah—why?”

Curtis groaned. “Uh-oh. That can’t be good.”

CHAPTER 98

It’s been about four weeks now since I first checked into this shithole they call a hospital. I’ve gotten used to all the nut jobs, fruitcakes, and whackos and—if you want my opinion—I’d say the staff here is just as crazy as the patients. In fact, I think everyone here is off-the-wall loony.

I’ve had so many sessions with Doc Cyclops I’ve lost count. At least half the time he hooks me up to this IV drip he calls “Enlightenment” and I have no recollection of anything we talk about during those sessions. One thing I will say, though: I still can’t look the dude in the eye, and I do mean eye—as in one eye—because his other one won’t stop rolling around long enough for anyone to look at it. In fact, I don’t think that sucker even works. Anyway, even though I don’t remember what we talk about when they hook me up to the IV, during the regular sessions I remember everything. He’s been telling me that when I’m under the drip, he goes deep inside my mind trying to bring Troyer out, but so far it hasn’t worked. He thinks Troyer knows where the bartender is, and he wants me to help access Troyer from inside my head. From the way he talks, I’m actually starting to believe my migraine medicine messed up my brain and that Troyer is really just a figment of my imagination. Cyclops thinks that the reason he can’t bring Troyer out of me is because I stopped taking the pills.

Aurora’s come to visit a bunch of times, and I’ve talked to her about it, but she thinks it’s impossible and that they’re just trying to brainwash me. The fact is, I’m so twisted up right now I haven’t got a clue.

A couple days ago, I told Aurora to go back home to Cape May for the start of the summer season. Not that I really want her to leave me here alone, but I don’t think it’s fair. She’s got a life, too. For whatever its worth, she said she’d wait for me and check back from time to
time. I told her I wouldn’t forget about her, either, and that as soon as they let me out of this joint, I’d be on my way down to the Cape.

Wouldn’t you know it? Dear ole Dad never has come around to see me. I knew he was just blowing smoke at my lawyer. Speaking of Levy, he actually got the whole case dismissed down in Jersey, too. I’ve got to say, that guy is good. Although he did tell me to be careful, because they could always reopen the case with other evidence if something new turned up.

The detectives from Manhattan also stopped coming around after the first couple weeks, when they realized that Cyclops couldn’t get Troyer to come out of me. I guess they finally gave up hope of ever finding out where the bartender ended up. Too bad—I really wish I could have helped them with that shit, but I honestly haven’t got a clue what happened to her after I dumped her at Gilgo Beach.

Anyway, I’m sitting here in the lounge watching TV and just chilling. Some new guy they just brought in the other day is sitting a couple chairs over. He’s watching TV, but I don’t think he’s seeing it. He’s got that thousand-yard stare going on, and drool is dripping down his chin.

Some orderly walks in through the double doors, grooving to his iPod. He takes the plugs out of his ears and comes over to me. “Hey, Sullivan, you got a visitor. Follow me.” He turns around, sticks the plugs back in his ears, and swerves off.

I get up and chase after him. Halfway down the hall, I catch up and tap him on the shoulder. He turns around looking all annoyed, and takes the earplugs out again.

“What is it, Sullivan?”

“Uh, I just wanna know who’s here to visit. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and Aurora’s gone back to the Cape.”

“Hey, man, I don’t know who it is. The guy just said he’s family.”

My heart starts pounding because I figure it has to be my dad, and I’ve got no clue what to say to him. In fact, I’m not even sure I want to see the prick.

When we reach the door to the visitor’s room, I look through the small glass window. I can’t believe my eyes, so I rub them and look again, and get this: he’s still there. Fuckin’ Troyer.

EPILOGUE

Seven months, four days, and ten hours is a long time to be cooped up in a place like Haverstraw Psychiatric Hospital. It’s nothing short of amazing that I’m walking out of here a free man today. Aurora should be here to pick me up soon. I look out the window at a fresh blanket of snow on the ground, with still more coming down. The trees are covered, and so are the cars in the lot. I never really appreciated the calm and beauty of a winter snowstorm, but being here with nothing much to do all day has given me the time to think about that shit. Get this: I even took up reading books and writing in this journal Dr. Freud gave me. He said it would help me to keep track of stuff.

I have to say, he’s an okay dude, that Freud—even though it’s still tough to look him in the eye. Yeah, Cyclops never gave up on me. He still calls me his pet project and says that “Enlightenment” never worked better on any other patient. He said it was touch-and-go for the first month or so, but he was finally able to break through and get deep down inside my head.

I’m pretty much cured now; I just have to stay on this medicine he prescribed. And as long as I do, I’ll never hear from Troyer again. Yeah, that’s right. As it turns out, Troyer was just a figment of my imagination. He never existed at all. Doc says I made him up, partly because I wanted the twin brother my parents sold when I was born, and partly because of all the other bad shit that happened to me while I was growing up. The experimental drug just triggered something inside my head and brought Troyer out. Wacky shit, if you ask me.

I also found out that I never actually had sex with Ellen at the banana tree, and I didn’t strangle her, either. The Pillowcase Killer was real, and I actually witnessed him rape and murder Ellen. Believe it or not, he was some dirt-bag mountain man who lived in a shack in the woods about a mile from the camp. They caught him the year after I stopped going to Lakewood.

I recently learned that my father died of a massive heart attack a few days after they released him from the hospital. I suppose I can let myself believe that he really intended to come to see me, like Levy said, but knowing Dad, I could never imagine him showing up to visit me. Still, when I think about him, I get all teary and emotional. I just don’t understand why I even give a shit about him, but I do.

On another note, a few months ago, Jamie Houston turned up alive. Turns out her throat wasn’t cut nearly as deep as I thought, so she got up and walked to some house on the beach, where she recovered. Then she took off. Apparently she was very unhappy with her life and she decided to use the opportunity to disappear for a while. She finally came back and told everyone what had really happened.

Even better, they still haven’t found any real evidence connecting me to the other shit that happened at Gilgo Beach either.

Anyway, I feel great. My headaches are gone, and I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but I’m thinking that maybe I’ll become a writer and tell my story.

*   *   *

Days before Sullivan was to be released, Jamie Houston tracked down Detective Stone. She came with only one thought in mind—revenge. Houston had been plotting for months. Time and again, she rehearsed the scene in her head, and now she was ready.

She explained to Stone that she needed closure, and she wanted an opportunity to confront Sullivan before he was set free.

Stone arranged the trip to coincide with Sullivan’s release, and they drove to Haverstraw in the midst of a winter snowstorm.

Exiting the car, Houston checked her pocket one last time to confirm that the switchblade was still there. She gripped the handle, and it felt good. It was at the ready, and when Sullivan appeared in front of her, she intended to slice his pretty face to ribbons.

Her mind was clear. She wasn’t crazy. She knew exactly what needed to be done. From her perspective, it was a rational thought, and she felt completely justified.

Dr. Freud met them at reception and escorted them to the visitor’s lounge.

“Ms. Houston,” Freud began, “I’ve made wonderful progress with Thomas, and while I think this is a good test for him before he is released, I am asking you to please refrain from provoking him. Can you do that for me?”

“Absolutely, Doctor. I simply want to look him in the eyes. I need closure. My psychiatrist said that the best way to overcome my fear is to confront it. I am through feeling like a victim.”

“Wise advice, Ms. Houston. Just try to understand that the man you will see today has changed. Mentally, he is not the same person who attacked you. Also, keep in mind that I haven’t told him you are here, so this will come as a big shock. He won’t be ready.”

“He may not be, but I am.”

Within minutes, the door to the visitor’s lounge opened, and an orderly ushered Sullivan in. He immediately recognized both Stone and Houston. Surprised and confused, he locked eyes with the young bartender. Her gaze was cold steel.

Houston slowly pulled the blade from her pocket while searching deep into his eyes. She stepped forward, still glaring. Seconds passed like minutes before she turned to Stone and asked, “Who the hell is that?”