Mack (King #4) (2 page)

Watch out, Spock. Here comes Teddi.

“See you later, Bentley.” I turned and patted my dog’s head—a Jack Russell with a serious staring problem—and then grabbed my keys to my new black BMW (a little congrats gift to myself) before heading out the front door of my two-bedroom beach house.

This is it, Ted. Don’t fucking blow it.

~~~

My new administrative assistant, Shannon—a middle-aged blonde with a passive-aggressive smile—greeted me at the center’s reception. The one-story glass building, with excessively vibrant landscaped grounds, was a mere ten minutes from downtown Santa Barbara and contained two hundred beds, fifty of which were reserved for long-term care. The rest were for the weekend benders, meltdown moms, and variety of people simply going through an anxiety rough patch. Substance abusers and alcoholics went to the rehab center across town.

“And here is our resident patient ward,” Shannon said, gesturing toward the set of beige double doors with small windows to prevent the staff from slamming into one another. “Fifty patients who receive around-the-clock care, including one-on-one and daily group therapy.”

Shannon pushed through the doors, and I followed along, feeling a bit like I was being led on a tour of a people zoo.

“These first ten rooms are for our suicide watches. The others are a variety of conditions—PTSD, chronic postpartum, eating disorders. The usual.” Shannon strolled along the hallway, waving her hands toward the different doors as she spoke.

There was nothing here I hadn’t seen during my last four years working at County, which meant most of these patients were textbook. Roughly seventy percent would respond to standard psychotherapy treatments. The other thirty percent were statistically likely to require life-long care, show little to no improvement, or require a treatment we weren’t able to provide.

My job was to ensure the center ran efficiently and benefited as many patients as possible.

“And that’s the tour!” Shannon said cheerfully, her brown eyes reflecting a different emotion altogether, while we stood at the end of the hallway.

Suddenly, my gaze was pulled down the immaculately polished, beige tile floor, gravitating toward the last room on the right. The small frosted-glass window was completely dark.

“Who’s in that room?” Room twenty-five.

“Which room, Dr. Valentine?”

A hard shiver sprinted through my body, and I rubbed my goose-bump-covered arms. “It’s a little cold in here, isn’t it?” Yes, we wanted to watch our expenses, but this was a little much.

Shannon shrugged. “I feel okay.”

Hmm.
“I’ll look into the thermostat later.” I then pointed at room twenty-five. “And that? The room with no light inside despite it being ten in the morning and our facility having a strict rule about keeping to a schedule.” Routines were important for everyone—sane or not. So was sunlight. And no, the room couldn’t be empty. Not possible given we were full and turning people away from our lovely sanctuary of mental healing.

“Oh. That room…” Her eyes shifted a bit. “That’s Dr. Wilson’s patient.”

“Does the patient have an aversion to light?” Because obviously the curtains were drawn inside and the lights were off.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“So then?” I asked.

“Well, that patient is a little…” She leaned in to whisper, “He’s difficult.”

“I’m not following.” After all, that was our purpose: dealing with difficult people or people with difficulties.

She drew a breath so deep that her sagging posture almost looked correct for a moment. Almost. “He won’t speak to anyone, so Dr. Wilson gave us instructions to leave him alone until he’s ready.”

I lifted my chin and pushed my glasses back up my nose. “If the patient isn’t willing to engage in his own healing process, then we can’t help. Send him home or transfer him to County.” This facility was private, but operated mainly on grants from the state or donations, so we had a mandate in our charter to process a certain number of patients each year.

Shannon blinked at me.

“Are you confused?” I wasn’t sure what her blinking meant—not so obvious to someone like me.

“Dr. Wilson was very clear; the patient is not to be disturbed.”

Ah!
Meaning, Shannon didn’t want to upset Dr. Wilson. “I see, Shannon. My apologies. It wasn’t my intention to put you in the middle.” This was a classic example of how my brain worked. The human-feelings element was generally an afterthought. I did try my best, however, to be aware of such things. I truly did. It was why I’d adopted a dog to help cultivate my ability to pick up on subtle emotional cues. So far, Bentley only stared a lot, as if waiting for me to do something.

I continued, “I’ll ask Dr. Wilson myself about Mr. Room Twenty-Five later. No action required on your part.” I offered Shannon a smile, hoping she’d know I meant no harm.
I’m just a robot soul in a people suit. Don’t be frightened, human
.

As we concluded the tour and walked away, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder at that little dark window. Why was it so fascinating to me?

I shook it off, and Shannon then showed me back to my office—a bland-looking rectangle with a wall of windows facing the parking lot. Suited me fine. I wasn’t into fancy feng shui. Or mood lighting. Or anything that wasn’t functional. Desk, two chairs, computer, bookcase, done.

We discussed the schedule for the week, including staff meetings and patient progress reports. For someone like me, it was all very logical and simple. I still was unsure, however, how the staff and doctors twice my age would respond to my…well, youthful appearance.

After Shannon took her leave, I sat at my desk, staring at a pile of paperwork, wishing I could feel more excited. This was a big accomplishment, something to be proud of—my parents certainly were. And my best friends, Melody and Sue, were certainly impressed. But like every milestone in my life, I felt little more than like I was checking off boxes while waiting for my real life to commence.

This is your life, Ted. Stop wishing it to be something else.

I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and started making my action plan for the week. I found lists to be soothing. But only just a little.

#1. Review doctor/patient load

#2. Have Shannon set up one-on-one meetings with staff

#3. Review cash flow with accountant

And…oh!

#4. Talk to Dr. Wilson about Mr. Room Twenty-Five…

CHAPTER TWO

I spent the rest of my first week checking off my list: reviewing the books with Martha, the head accountant; planning my first staff meeting; and scheduling those one-on-ones with the other doctors—schedules were extremely tight, so Shannon was doing her best to clear space. I noted immediately how understaffed we were, and that meant doctors had too many patients. I’d have to cut costs—bye-bye resort-style meditation gardens—and hire additional doctors. Turning away more patients was not an option.

So in the meantime, I would take on a few patients of my own. It was very unorthodox, but it would show the troops I was willing to roll up my sleeves.

Interestingly enough, Dr. Wilson had twice as many patients as anyone else, which was why I had Shannon put me on his calendar late Friday afternoon.

“Dr. Valentine! Come in. Come in!”

I entered Dr. Wilson’s untidy office and introduced myself, thinking how he reminded me of my father. He had thinning gray hair, a round belly underneath his white coat, and large brown eyes. I liked him immediately.

“So,” I said, taking a seat in the black pleather chair facing his desk, “I’ve spent the week evaluating workloads and noticed you have more than your fair share of patients.”

He sat back down behind his desk—a cluttered mess of files and sports knickknacks. “Yes, well, I tend to get many of the patients the other doctors don’t want.”

“That is not acceptable. We don’t get to pick and choose who we help.”

“Not all of the doctors feel they’re equipped to handle every case,” he replied.

They all had general degrees in psychology—same as me. Okay, not the same as me. I had three specialties: neuropsychology, cognitive and neurolinguistics psychology, and psychometric and quantitative psychology. Basically, I was a thoroughbred psycho. (That would be me using my humor there. You see…psycho is short for psychologist, which insinuates that—oh, neverthehellmind.)

“I will correct this immediately,” I said. “In the meantime, I plan to handle a few of your cases. Simply let me know which ones you recommend I take.” I wouldn’t want to undermine any current treatments.

Dr. Wilson puckered his wrinkly lips in contemplation. Behind him sat a wall of medical books that hadn’t been touched in years—probably since the day he started working here. The inch of dust had to be a health code violation, but I would let it slide. Because I was a wild woman. (See. There’s my humor again. I wasn’t wild at all and—oh, forget it.)

“That’s very kind of you, Dr. Valentine. I’ll think it over and give you a list on Monday or Tuesday.”

“Great. Oh, and before I forget, I wanted to ask about the patient in room twenty-five.”

Dr. Wilson sipped from his chipped “#1 Dad” mug on his desk. It was probably filled with vodka. The man had to be under a considerable amount of pressure and seemed suspiciously happy. (That wasn’t a joke, in case you were wondering.)

“Ah, you mean our infamous Mr. John Doe,” he said, setting down his mug.

“But we’re a voluntary treatment facility. John Does—” i.e., people who suffered from amnesia or refused to give an identity “—go to County.”

Dr. Wilson smiled. “Yes, he checked himself in a week ago. Paid for three months of treatments and then asked to be put in a room and left alone until he was ready to talk.”

“That’s insane,” I said flatly.

Dr. Wilson laughed with a husky voice that reminded me of a rent-a-Santa. Ho, ho, ho… “Why, yes. I suppose it is. And what better place for him than here.”

“So the man doesn’t want to be treated, and we have no idea why he’s here?”

“Not a clue. But isn’t it interesting?” Dr. Wilson seemed genuinely excited by this very inefficient use of our facility’s space. I couldn’t understand why.

“He can’t stay. There are people who require our assistance and are being turned away.”

“He did pay for the space,” Dr. Wilson pointed out.

“It’s not a matter of money; it’s our obligation to help the community. But there’s a nice five-star hotel down the street that will gladly accept his money and offer him solitude.”

Dr. Wilson nodded. “Yes, well, I do see your point.”

I stood, extending my hand. “Good, then. It’s been very pleasurable speaking with you, Dr. Wilson.”

He rose from his seat, reaching out to shake my hand. “I look forward to working with you, Dr. Valentine.”

I thought that the interaction had gone extremely well; however, when I got to the door, Dr. Wilson threw at me, “I hope you don’t mind addressing the matter directly with our John Doe? The rest of my day is very full.”

I offered a cordial nod. “Of course, I’ll see to it immediately.” Not as though I cared about hurting John Doe’s feelings. We had a job to do here.

And, to be quite honest, I was now curious to meet this Mr. Room Twenty-Five.

~~~

Darkness was the one thing in this world I didn’t care for—probably because I felt most comfortable with facts. Seeing objects equated seeing facts.
There is the floor. There is the couch.
Facts.

Guessing where things were—
I think the leg of this table is around here somewhere—ouch!
—was inefficient, useless. It was why night-lights were invented.

So when I entered John Doe’s dark room, the first thing I wanted was to bring in some light.

“Mr. Doe?” I said to the dark figure seated in the corner of the small room, staring at me like an eerie scarecrow waiting to frighten the shit out of anything that crossed its path. “My name is Dr. Valentine. I’m the new director. May I turn on the lights so we can discuss the reason you are here?”

“I asked not to be disturbed.” The man’s deep, masculine voice felt like a cold, chilling slap. Yet strangely, it was also…Well, I didn’t know, really. Hypnotic, perhaps.

I squinted, my eyes straining to see his face but only able to make out his silhouette—broad shoulders, short hair, and fit-looking arms from the shadows of biceps I was able to spot. I could also see he wore dark pants—likely jeans—and a white tee shirt.

“That’s exactly why we need to talk,” I said. “It’s come to my attention that you are not here to seek therapy—”

“Leave.”

My mouth flapped for a moment. “I’m sorry, but you—”

“I said
leave
,” he growled.

Sadly for him, intimidation didn’t work on me. Not that I was stupid and wouldn’t get out of harm’s way. The question was, did he intend to harm me?

“And if I don’t?” I asked, testing the waters. His response would tell me everything I needed to know.

I waited for a reply.

And then I waited some more.

He’s not going to answer me. Fine.
This was silly and a completely unproductive use of my time. I would just have to see him with my own two eyes. My gift would do the rest.

“Okay. These lights are going—” I flipped the switch, and the moment my eyes met his, I was hit by a hard wave of…

“Holy fuck,” I gasped.

I flipped off the lights, turned, and left the room.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What was that?

CHAPTER THREE

That was not real, Ted. That was not real
, I repeated to myself, fleeing back to my office through the brightly lit corridors, panting the entire way. I rushed past Shannon, who was trying to get my attention about some meeting, before I slammed my door shut.

Holy shit
. I held my hand over my heart. The muscle pumped at a vigorous pace, a direct result of my body’s fight-or-flight response.