One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (10 page)

I took a bite of donut, chewed and swallowed. It dawned on me that I'd missed our donuts and coffee together. “So, she treats lots of teenagers. That doesn't sound like fraud to me.”

“No, it doesn't. But when you look at the numbers and the fact that everyone who comes to see her gets prescribed medication, put on her billing system, and is seen for an abnormally long time, it needs to be looked into. Plus the increase of teen patients has been recent.”

“That's easy for you to say. How the hell can we prove these kids aren't depressed? I mean, nowadays, almost all teenagers have something to be depressed about. Have you ever seen one who wasn't?”

Jagger merely looked at me. Of course he probably didn't know any teenagers. It was dumb to even ask him. He took a long, slow sip of his coffee. That wasn't unusual, since he drank it black and often had to wait for it to cool. But this time, I could tell he was thinking. Thinking of my case and how, more than likely,
he
could get something out of helping me.

Jagger firmly believed in that old adage of one hand washes the other. Hand washing I could take, but if he got into the old maxim of you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours, I'd be more confused than ever—and in Nirvana.

“I'm working on it. We'll get you in to read the files soon.” With that, he set his coffee into the console holder, started up the car and drove off.

I grabbed my coffee so I wouldn't be wearing it and kept trying to take sips as he slowed or stopped at a light. Soon, we had turned into the parking lot of Miles's condo.

I got a bit teary-eyed at the sight of my home and how I wouldn't be staying.

I sniffled it back before Jagger caught on and got annoyed with me. When he stopped, I grabbed my stuff, opened the door and got out. “Thanks.”

Before I knew it, he was leaning over and the power window was gliding down. I tried to get to the sidewalk before he could say anything, but I dropped the rest of my cruller, which I'd saved for Spanky. When I bent down to get it, I heard, “Be ready Sunday at one.”

I swung around so fast, I lost my footing and landed on my back like some kind of bug who'd been sprayed with Raid. Thank goodness the grass cushioned my fall.

From a distance I heard, “You all right, Sherlock?”

Shit. I lifted my head just enough to say, “Yes, I am, and I am
not
going back. Ever.”

“Margaret's life is in danger. And Mary Louise is missing.”

For a fleeting second, I was ready to say,
Then call the
police
, but I knew, just knew, that we had uncovered something at the Cortona Institute of Life, and until our work was done, others could be in danger too.

Damn my Catholic-school-induced conscience.

I held Spanky close to my chest and ignored the doorbell. When the brass clock Miles had bought in Switzerland chimed only once, the term “death knell” came to mind. Again the doorbell rang.

I shut my eyes and thought of the nice day I'd had yesterday. Nick had taken me out for lunch. We'd agreed that we really weren't dating any longer, but would remain friends. We both needed some space and time. I actually needed to get this case finished to be able to live like a normal person.

Usually “needing more space and time” would be a lame excuse a guy would use to break up, but I used it anyway. I figured Nick would be one less person worrying about where I was or one less person I'd have to lie to about where I was going. At least I had about twelve hours of worry-free time. My folks bought my lie about going to spend time in Vermont with my friend Jeannine. I'd never shared with them how I'd cosigned her loan, and how she'd taken off in her new Lexus, sticking me with the payments. Miles and Goldie knew all about where I'd be and I knew, true to their promises, they'd stop by and visit my parents—like two busybody old-maid aunties. How I loved those two. All my bases were covered.

The bell rang again.

“Come on Pauline, or you'll be late getting back.”

“Go away, Jagger. And don't even think about reminding me about Margaret and Mary Louise.” I looked at the little overnight bag that I'd packed and remembered how I tried to think of any excuse not to go back.

But I couldn't.

Still, I'd give Jagger a hard time so he wouldn't take me for granted. I kissed Spanky on the head. “I'll be right back, sweetie.” I always told him this, thinking dogs had no concept of time. Even when I went away for a week or more I'd told him I'd be right back. I only wished it was true this time.

I stood, set him down on the couch and lifted up my little bag. I knew one of the nuns would search it, so I only brought a few magazines and tapes to listen to. Anything to take my mind off of where I'd be. I also brought a small notebook and several pencils to write notes about my case.

I'd never admit this to anyone, especially Jagger, but I was a bit excited about this case. Even though it wasn't mine (Jagger always did pay me something though), I felt an overwhelming desire to stop whoever was committing the fraud.

All I had to do was picture Margaret mouthing to me that she didn't belong in the Institute.

I opened the door. My heart momentarily stopped, and this time it wasn't because I was looking at Jagger.

Facing incarceration again had caused the anomaly.

Jagger pulled into one of the reserved spaces marked for physicians.

I shook my head, grabbed my bag and got out.

“You can't just go walking in alone. Wait up,” he said from behind.

Goldie's yellow Camaro sat in a restricted parking space for visitors and I noticed Jagger nod to him. Obviously my family had to bring me back, since they took me out. Goldie stepped out and walked as if in slow motion. Guess he really didn't want me going back in either.

Not that I was in a hurry to get inside, but I was still pissed at Jagger, mostly on principle, that I was the one being readmitted. I stopped for a second and looked up.

It was quiet except for a distant foghorn from a boat that chugged up the Connecticut River. The windows to the main building were empty, but on the western side, I could see someone pressed up against the glass, mouth wide open, hands flailing and eyes glaring in horror.

Yet I couldn't hear a sound.

The place was obviously designed so that passersby couldn't hear the ranting of the mentally ill. The thought gave me no comfort at all. Winter ivy climbed the walls of the giant redbrick buildings. A steeple of white stood on the end building as if it had been a chapel at one time—or maybe it still was. I could use one. My first thought had been that the Institute looked like a typical New England college.

I stopped and turned toward Jagger.

“I'll be one step behind you,” he said.

I knew that was his way of trying to calm my fears. My feet felt like lead weights as I nodded and moved up the stairs clutching Goldie's arm between mine.

“All right, Mary Louise, you can keep your notepad, but not that pencil. It's too sharp. I can get you a crayon though,” said Sister Liz in the readmitting room.

Bummer. Good thing I'd thought to hide a tiny pencil in my sock. It was only a few inches in length and no wider than a coffee stirrer. I'd gotten it out of Uncle Walt's old golf bag. He used it to write on his scorecard, but it had been a few years since he'd played.

Goldie sniffled and moaned a few times about his “daughter.” Then, I kissed him and whispered that I'd be fine and to keep an eye on my family. Having come from
a broken home, I could see the pride in his eyes at being given this chore. He kissed me and nodded to Sister Liz as she unlocked the door to let him out.

Glad they didn't do a strip search, I smiled and said, “That's fine, Sister Liz. A crayon would be fine. Could you please go back to calling me Pauline? So I'll remember to answer you. I don't want to seem rude.”

She hesitated, then probably remembered my “doctor” had said to humor me. “Of course, Pauline. I'll get you something to draw with. Any particular color?”

“Black.” Oops. That choice had to be telling in some psychotic way, but truthfully I'd said it since it resembled a pencil.

“Black. Okay. Black it is.” She turned toward the door when it opened with a swoosh.

In waltzed Sister Barbie, carrying a tray of colorful pills. “Everything all right here, Sister? If so, you are needed out on the unit.”

Great. If they started to medicate me, I could lose all logic and not be able to do my job. I always wondered how anyone could function day to day, especially at a job, when they did illegal drugs. Give me a clear head any time.

Sister Liz gave me a sympathetic look and walked out.

Damn. Did she know something? I tried to look calm, even pathetic, so Barbie wouldn't force drugs on me. She held the tray and said, “So, how was your visit?”

As if I'd tell her that Jagger and I investigated Dr. De Jong. Instead I practiced my lying and said, “Fine. It was fine.”

She gave me a “yeah, right” kind of look. Amazed me how modern nuns were nowadays. Well, excluding Sister Liz. She was adorable and very much like the “old” nuns although she really wasn't that old.

When I went to Saint Stanislaus Grammar School, nonun
ever gave me a “yeah, right” look or was as pretty as Barbie. Nope. They all looked like, well, proper nuns. Once they gave up having to wear habits in public, the nunnery went downhill. It was like letting kids wear jeans to school. In my opinion, that was the beginning of the many behavioral problems in schools.

I had problems of my own, I noted, when Barbie took out a little white cup with a green pill in it. “Your doctor prescribed this for you, Mary Louise.” She held it out toward me.

It was then that I not only decided I would kill Jagger, but also
how.

“I . . . Can't you please call me Pauline?”

She rolled her eyes. Damn! These nuns were way too modern for me.

“Fine. Pauline, take your medication.”

“My doctor said I didn't need any.”

“Doctor Plummer may have said that, but Doctor Brandon Pinkerton, the head of the Institute, my dear, has a standing order that new patients be medicated. It is for your own good, child.” She wiggled the cup toward me. “I will inform Doctor Plummer of the policy we have here.”

Instead of trying to argue, and I do mean trying, since I had very little faith I could win against Barbie, I took the cup, opened my mouth and stuck the pill under my tongue. While she watched me like the proverbial hawk, I took a cup of water from my bedside table and drank.

The pill floated from beneath my tongue!

“Swallow, Pauline, before you choke yourself.” She remained glued to the spot. “Don't make me have to get my flashlight to check your mouth. This has been a long day. Just swallow, dear. Please.”

My tongue fished around my mouth, but to try and get the damn pill back into its hiding place proved useless. Then Sister Barbie patted me on the back! I swallowed and felt the damn pill sliding down my throat. Shit. I consoled myself with the thought that the pill might be Prozac, which wouldn't take effect too quickly or knock me out. The drug peaked at six to eight hours.

No problem.

In my foggy haze, the furniture in my room started to wiggle. I sat bolt upright in my bed to see it clearly move across the room. When I flopped back down, I decided the pill wasn't Prozac at all.

I called it the Green Demon, and didn't even remember getting into bed.

My eyes fought to shut, but I tried to force myself awake to think. It was no use. The lids closed like a curtain on the final act of a play. Deciding to give in to the feeling, I lay still. Then my door opened.

A shadow of a figure stood by the doorway. At first I thought it might be Jagger, but it wasn't his size. My mouth went dry and my heart started to pound so loudly in my drug-induced state that I worried that whoever it was would hear it. Like some paranormal evil spirit, it moved across—no, glided across—the room. Couldn't be Sister Liz either. Way too tall for her.

As a matter of fact, from this angle, it almost touched the ceiling light above my bed. Of course, I couldn't be too accurate with drugs in my system and lying down.

Not certain if what I saw was fact or drug fiction, I remained still—and the evil spirit rummaged through my drawers!

Paralyzed with fear, I now couldn't move if I had wanted to.

Why would someone sneak into my room? Why wouldn't they think I'd wake up? And why me?

Someone here must suspect me. But of what? I'd been so careful.

I thought of missing Mary Louise, dead Vito Doran, and poor Margaret. Great. Just the kinds of thoughts I needed right about then.

The figure dug into my bag and even looked inside each of my shoes. Damn, that would have been a good place to hide something. But then again, I hadn't thought of it and this spirit person had.

A tickle started in the back of my throat. Had to be from fear, or the dry air of this place, but I tried not to give in to a cough. I certainly didn't want to startle him, her or it. What I wanted was to open my eyes a bit more than a slit to see if I could tell better who it was. But other than the fact that it wore black—and this place was crummy with black-clad nuns—I had no clue.

Suddenly, it turned and came closer.

Gulp.

The figure remained hovering near for what seemed like hours. I tried to identify a scent, but nothing. The tickle became worse. I swallowed as nonchalantly as I could.

The figure remained, its face a blur, and then it just turned and walked out.

I coughed my brains out when the door shut, and then tried to get up. My body remained stuck to the bed as if it were ten times my actual weight. I hoped I hadn't been given some paralyzing drug. The room remained a foggy blur . . . until tiny butterflies flew toward the window. Green ones with yellow wings followed by toads hopped across my bed. Then a large cockatoo flew in from the window. I tried to reach out, to shoo them all away, but nothing.