I, Robot: To Protect

Chapter 18

The surgical waiting room had brilliant aqua walls, a multicolored rug, comfortable chairs, and surrealistic paintings teeming with colored swirls and odd-ball shapes. The Ansons were alone, the mother sobbing in her seat and the father pacing wildly, his left hand and right wrist covered in fresh bandages.

The father stopped moving the instant he spotted Susan. “Dr. Calvin.” His voice emerged in a neutral tone. It was less a greeting than an acknowledgment.

Lucianne Anson’s head jerked up. She stood and faced Susan.

Susan did not wait for her to speak or make her feelings or intentions clear. Tossing her palm-pross gently on a chair, she caught Sharicka’s mother into an embrace. The woman stiffened, then collapsed against her. Warm tears dribbled across Susan’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Susan whispered. “I’m so very sorry.” She could think of nothing else to say.

Elliot appeared beside them. “Do you know anything about Rylan’s condition?”

Susan could only shake her head. “Not yet.” She did not say anything about Sharicka. She did not know if telling them the child was safe would soothe or infuriate them.

Before she could say anything more, the father spoke in anguished tones. “It’s all my fault. She behaved so well all evening, I guess I let my guard down. After she fell asleep, I figured we were good till early morning.”

The mother pulled away from Susan long enough to say, “It’s not your fault, Elliot.” She added forcefully, at least partially for Susan’s benefit, “It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s . . . her brain. It’s just not right.” She dissolved into tears again.

Elliot Anson eased his wife off Susan. “I just thought . . . I guess I figured . . .” He did not need to finish the sentence.

Susan shook her head. “Stop blaming yourself, Dr. Anson.” She wished she could take her own advice. Despite the mother’s effort to absolve her, Susan only felt guiltier. She had suggested the visit. She had encouraged them, even when Lucianne Anson had voiced serious doubts. She was the one with the medical knowledge, the one who should have known better.

Susan forced herself to continue. “No one could believe a child Sharicka’s age was capable of doing so much harm so quickly. I have to believe people like Sharicka inspired the stories of demonic possession, that they explain the occasional infanticide in ancient cultures. Medical confidentiality is strict, especially when it comes to both mental illnesses and children. Juvenile conduct disorder is rare, and the extreme nature of Sharicka’s case is exceptionally so. I believe other patients this young, this severe, exist; but there is little to no available information about them.” Susan hoped she had made both of her cases: that the cause of Sharicka’s problem was a brain abnormality no one could have seen or prevented and that the degree of her violence went beyond what anyone could have predicted.

Lucianne Anson pulled free from her husband. “Would you think less of us if we . . . never took her home again?”

Susan could barely believe any other option existed, even in the minds of loving parents. “Of course not. Are you wanting to terminate your parental rights?”

The parents exchanged glances. They had clearly discussed this topic thoroughly as they waited for news of Rylan’s condition. Elliot detailed their conclusions. “Sharicka belongs in permanent residential care, where trained professionals can watch her twenty-four/seven; but you’ve told us that can’t happen because of her age. We’re worried if we terminate our rights, she’ll wind up in someone else’s home.”

Lucianne blurted out, “And kill someone else’s children, too.”

Susan wanted to tell them such a thing would not happen, could not happen; but she had a grim and terrible feeling they were right. Kendall’s words came back to haunt her: “In every state in the union, probably in every country in the world, kids under the age of seven are automatically presumed not responsible for their criminal acts, including murder. We just throw a few meds at them, send them home, and wait until they kill someone else, when they’re old enough to prosecute.”

Elliot cringed. “Believe it or not, we will always love Sharicka. She’s our daughter. But, if Rylan . . . if Rylan . . .” Now, tears dripped down his face. He could scarcely squeeze out the words.

Susan wished she could help him, but she did not know what he intended to say.

“If Rylan survives, it would be torture for him to have her in our home. We love our son as well, and he is innocent.”

Susan could see their point. If the Ansons terminated their parental rights, Sharicka would become a ward of the state. She would spend a significant amount of time in the PIPU. All too soon, however, the horror of the moment would fade and people would start to rationalize the murder. They would say the Ansons orchestrated it or abused Sharicka so badly she had to lash out. Someone else would suggest that Misty and Rylan had ganged up to mercilessly torment their little sister until she could stand it no longer. Others would sincerely believe that a preschooler had no capacity for evil, that a girl so young simply had no ability to understand the consequences of her actions. Eventually, Sharicka would learn to manipulate the system, to “remember” nonexistent abuses, to say whatever gained her the compassion she had no capacity to experience herself.

Well-intentioned social workers would foist Sharicka into multiple foster placements, where she would leave havoc and a wake of bodies behind her. The Ansons had an impossible decision. Regardless of their innocence, a cloud of suspicion would always follow them, regardless of whether they chose to terminate their parental rights. Protecting their only remaining son might mean damning so many other children and destroying other families.

Susan reached for her palm-pross. “I have one new option to offer you, still in the research stage.”

The Doctors Anson fixed their gazes on her, clearly interested.

Susan explained the nanorobot study, first superficially, then in more depth. Whether they chose to try it or not, at least the conversation allowed them to take a break from worrying about Rylan. When Susan finished her explanation, the parents did not even bother to discuss it.

“We’ll do it,” the mother said.

The father nodded.

The absolute desperation of both of their replies did not escape Susan. They would have agreed to almost anything. They had nothing to lose, and neither did Sharicka.

Susan gave Elliot Anson the palm-pross to sign, and he did so awkwardly because of the bandages but without any hesitation. Lucianne affixed her name below his. As the mother wrote, Susan noticed movement from the corner of her eye. When she turned to face the entrance, she found Remington Hawthorn coming toward them.

Leaving the palm-pross with the Ansons, Susan darted over to meet him, took his arm firmly, and escorted him away from the waiting room.

Remington looked at her dazedly as he found himself walking opposite the direction he had intended. “Susan. What are you doing here?”

“Talking to a patient’s family. I presume you’re doing the same.”

Remington caught on immediately. “The alleged four-year-old murderer is a patient of yours.”

Susan nodded forcefully. “And there’s no ‘alleged’ to it. She’s fascinated by what she did, and it’s not her first attempt.”

Remington’s brows shot up. “A four-year-old serial killer?”

The thought chilled Susan to her marrow. “Attempted serial killer. So far, she’s only completed one murder, though it’s not for lack of trying.” Susan realized the imaginative array of Sharicka’s attempts did not bode well for the future: drowning, stabbing, strangulation, and the choking hazard added to a child’s drink. When Sharicka discovered guns, there would be no telling what might happen.

“I’m glad you told me,” Remington said, sounding more perplexed than pleased. “It changes my feelings about the family, which will probably affect my approach when I tell them Rylan will likely make a full recovery.”

“Oh, thank God.” Susan spoke before she had a chance to consider her words. “I don’t think they could handle any more bad news.”

Remington studied Susan as if seeing her for the first time. “You’re positive the four-year-old really did this . . . and of her own volition. That she’s not under the influence of . . .”

Susan understood his hesitation and doubt. It had become predictable. “Her father is not manipulating her into taking the blame, nor into taking these actions. She’s a very sick little girl.”

Remington sighed. “I have to admit I would have expected deeper cuts had an adult inflicted them, even with something as blunt as a butter knife.” He glanced past Susan, and she appreciated that he accepted her authority without further questioning. If she said a four-year-old caused the trauma, he would no longer cast suspicion on the father. “I’d love to give you a full report, but why repeat myself? Let’s let the worried parents off the hook.”

Susan nodded, then gestured to indicate Remington should go first. He did so, and she followed him back into the waiting room.

Dr. Elliot Anson had returned to his pacing; but, the instant Remington entered the doorway, he grabbed a seat beside his wife. “How’s Rylan?” Both parents turned agonized gazes onto the neurosurgery resident. Seeing their raw and honest expressions, Susan wondered how anyone could suspect them of harming any of their children.

Remington crouched in front of the parents. “Most of his wounds were superficial, but one managed to penetrate the spine. It tore a hole in the dura, the membrane covering the spinal cord, and caused what we call a traumatic herniation.”

Susan held her breath. She did not know enough about neurosurgery to guess the long-term effects. Herniations of the brain nearly always proved fatal. She did not know if there was any connection between spinal cord and brain herniation. Then she remembered Remington had told her Rylan would probably make a full recovery, and her concern slowly dissipated. Do neurosurgeons mean “full recovery” the same way nonsurgeons do?

Gently, Remington extracted Susan’s palm-pross from the mother’s hand and tapped in a connection to a diagram of the spinal cord. “Right here.” He pointed to the thoracic area of the back. “The dura got torn, which allowed the spinal cord to slip out of its canal. That caused him to have what we call a Brown-Sequard phenomenon, usually caused by damage to one side of the spinal cord. Rylan had weakness on the right side of his body and lost pain and temperature sensation on the left.”

The parents only stared, listening intently. They had become accustomed to bad news when it involved their children.

Remington continued to explain. “In the OR, we were able to restore the herniated spinal cord to its correct position, and we patched the dural defect. He’s in Recovery now, and neurological tests are essentially normal. He still has slight weakness of the muscles on the right, but he did just get out of surgery.” Remington rose, smiling. “We expect a full recovery.”

The parents seemed stunned. “Full?” Lucianne Anson rose, clutching her hands together at the level of her chin. “As in . . . normal?”

Remington’s grin broadened. He looked tired, yet his face still managed to light up in a way that made his features seem perfect to Susan. “As in normal. Exactly how he was before the incident, aside from some scars.” He glanced over at Susan. “At least physically. I think counseling, though, is probably in order.”

The Doctors Anson caught each other and practically danced around the room with glee. “Counseling, yes,” the father boomed. “We’ll all need it.” He hugged Lucianne tighter. “Our son is going to be all right.”

Susan breathed a sigh of relief. The situation was so ugly, it seemed weird to find joy in it. Yet things could have turned out even worse.

The Ansons disengaged. Lucianne lurched over to catch Remington into an embrace. For an instant, he stiffened in surprise, then caught her in his arms.

“Thank you,” she sobbed. “Thank you so much, Doctor.”

Remington glanced at Susan, clearly uncertain how to handle his sudden predicament. “Don’t thank me, ma’am. I only made the diagnosis and assisted the surgery. My attending, Dr. Arlington, is the one who saved your son’s neurological system.”

Elliot Anson gave Remington a careful pat on the back, while his wife still clung. “We’ll thank him, too, when we can. We appreciate what all of you have done for Rylan . . . and for us.”

Remington waited until the mother had released him before speaking again. “The Recovery Room is through the door, to the right, and down the hallway. Do you have any questions about the surgery?”

“Can we see him now?” the father asked.

Remington pointed. “When you get to Recovery, the nurses will take you to him. They should be able to answer all your basic questions, and they can call Dr. Arlington.” He added firmly, “I’m finished for the day.”

“Thank you.” The father walked past them and out the door.

The mother grasped and squeezed Remington’s hand one more time as she passed. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job,” Remington said to her retreating back.

The instant they disappeared, he caught Susan into an embrace. “So, about that day on the town? You get any sleep?”

“Quite a bit, actually,” Susan said, still eager to spend the rest of the day with Remington. She would understand if he canceled their date again, but she hoped he would not.

“Great!” he said with clear enthusiasm. “I caught a shower in the on-call quarters, but if I smell too much like the OR, I can take another one.”

Susan had her nose pressed against his scrubs. While he did carry the chemical odor of anesthesia and cleansers, they did not bother her. “You smell fine. Just get some street clothes on, and we’re gone. Every extra moment we stay is just one more chance for someone to ask us a question or get us caught up with another patient.”

Remington gave her a look that said everything. “I don’t care if my own grandmother needs a subarachnoid evacuation. Once I’m past those doors, I’m not coming back till tomorrow.”

Susan laughed. “I’m not waiting until we’re outside.” Using one finger, she made a show of muting her Vox. “See you at the main exit in ten minutes.”

“Or less,” Remington promised, dashing off into surgeons’ territory.

Susan went in the opposite direction, determined to let nothing stop her from reaching the front exit unmolested.

Remington took Susan’s hand as they stepped out into sunshine and damp late-morning air. Birds whistled at one another from the branches of trees planted in clumps at regular intervals along the sidewalk. She could still remember when the decision was made to add regular greenery to the city blocks in the hope of straining carbon dioxide, heat, and pollutants from the air. Many of the trees had died; but the city had diligently replanted until the living trees finally outnumbered the lampposts along the streets. Insightful city planners had chosen small, hardy varieties, planted them in groups to shade one another and capture rainfall, and placed them in elevated beds to form a barrier to runoff salts. Porous paving materials helped guide the roots but still supplied them with water, and cracked sidewalks had become a rarity.

Songbirds flitted through these poor excuses for makeshift forest, their nests perched high in the branches and protected from would-be meddlers by wrought-iron fences surrounding the trunks. Gaily painted bat houses hung from the limbs to help keep the insect population in check by night and day; the creatures’ “protected” status made it a crime to harm them or disturb their boxes.

People whisked along the sidewalks, while glide-buses, trams, and occasional cars whooshed past them on the city streets. Whenever she walked in the city, Susan believed she could sense the slight vibrations of the subground u-ways and elevated e-rails, although her father and others insisted these things were undetectable and only someone with an overactive imagination could feel them.

Remington released Susan’s hand and consulted his Vox. He punched a few keys. “If you’re still keen on skating, we can take the fifteen bus, the eight tram, or . . .”

In no hurry, and enjoying the feel of sun and wind, Susan interrupted. “Let’s walk.”

“Walk?” Remington’s brows inched upward. It would take them most of the morning. He shrugged. “Walk, it is. But after a day and night on call, I might not have the energy left to skate once we get there.”

Skating had seemed like a good idea at the time, but a new idea had crept insidiously into Susan’s mind, planted by several conversations and the research project. “That’s all right. I’d kind of like to sightsee, do some window-shopping, and there’s a building not too far from the mall I want to discover.”

“Oh?” Remington took her arm. “Any particular building? Or just your generic hunk of concrete with windows?”

Susan smiled. “I’d like to check out USR, U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men. My dad’s worked there since as long as I can remember. Now I’m researching a product for them, and I realized I’ve never seen it. Not ever.”

Remington accepted that explanation with barely a nod as they continued their walk.

Susan looked at him. “Can you say the same? I mean, have you ever been to the place your dad works?”

“Well, my dad co-owned the supermarket down the block from our house, so I’ve been there a couple” — he paused dramatically — “hundred thousand times. But I’ll bet a lot of people whose parents work in factories and labs have no idea what those places look like.” He added quickly, as if concerned he might have offended her, “Not that I’d mind seeing the USR building. I’ll bet it’s amazing. It ought to have flashing neon signs and animatronic entryways.”

Susan laughed. “More likely it’s a drab, half-hidden, gray nothing of a building. You know what Nate said; they don’t want to draw attention to themselves in any way that anyone could construe as negative.” As that did not exactly make it a fabulous destination, she also felt the need to tack on something. “Though I’d still like to see it.”

“Then it’s settled. A walking tour through the city, followed by a glimpse into the world of USR and your father.” Remington spoke with genuine enthusiasm, for which Susan gave him credit. “Sounds like the perfect day.”

Susan squeezed his hand, wondering if he had any idea how much she appreciated his openness to unusual ideas and trying to find the words to tell him without sounding syrupy. A glide-bus pulled up to a nearby stop with a faint hiss of electric brakes. From the corner of her eye, she saw a man racing awkwardly to catch it as the waiting passengers funneled inside.

As the man flashed past, Susan took a closer look. In his midthirties, he had wildly unkempt blond hair that trailed him in tangles and several days’ growth of beard. Oddly familiar, he wore dirty blue jeans with multiple patches and a long trench coat that seemed inappropriate for the summer weather. Perhaps he had started out early, with the morning chill still in the air. Then, as he brushed past her and onto the bus, Susan felt herself repulsed, wanting to move as far away from him as possible. That clinched his identity in her mind: Payton Flowers, the schizophrenic she had injected with nanorobots, the man for whom Goldman and Peters had practically put out a bounty when he had not shown up for his last appointment.

Without time for explanation, Susan grabbed Remington’s arm and half dragged him toward the bus door. Payton was disappearing inside; and, as there was no one behind him, Susan worried the doors would close before she could catch him. “Come on!”

Though surely surprised, Remington ran with Susan. They reached the door in two bounding steps, and Susan managed to stomp a foot onto the platform, activating the mechanical sensor, just as the doors started closing. The doors froze in place, then eased fully open. Susan staggered in, pulling Remington behind her. He waved raggedly at the driver. Someday, Susan supposed, the glide-buses would become fully automated, obviating the need for direct human guidance. In that moment, she understood why people might feel threatened by positronic robots like Nate.

Payton Flowers took a seat near the front. The one opposite him was already occupied, so Susan kept walking down the aisle until she finally found a fully open seat, three rows farther on. She deliberately avoided the back of the bus. Since all public transport had become essentially free, covered by taxes, certain types of people had a habit of climbing aboard and spending the day staring out the windows. So long as they remained relatively quiet, and self-confined to the back of the bus, most of the drivers tolerated them and left them to their own devices. Susan wondered if Payton might have spent the last few days or weeks among them, which could explain why he had disappeared so completely.

Susan gestured for Remington to take the window seat. She wanted to keep herself free to slip up to Payton Flowers and try to talk to him en route. If impossible, at least she would be able to keep her eye on him so they could debark at the same stop.

Remington swung into the seat, and Susan sat down beside him. The bus glided smoothly back into traffic. The moment it moved, their seat belts clicked into place around them, automatically adjusting to fit snugly over their waists and chests. “You women really are fickle, aren’t you? What happened to our leisurely, sightseeing stroll in the fresh air?”

Susan took her eyes from her patient to fix them on Remington. She could not help grinning at the comment. “I’m so sorry. I’m not usually . . . insane.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Remington said with not-wholly-mock seriousness. “What happened?”

“One of our study patients went AWOL. Goldman and Peters have been going mad trying to find him. I saw him getting on the bus, and I didn’t want to lose him.” Susan tapped the laboratory number into her Vox and sent off a quick text: “Found P.F. 15 bus. Advise.”

Remington stretched to peek around Susan. “Is it the shabby one in the coat?”

Susan nodded. “His name’s Payton.” For discretionary reasons, she did not divulge his last name.

Remington continued to peer past her. “How crazy is he?”

Susan winced. Psychiatrists were generally not enamored of the “c” word. “You know I can’t say. Confidentiality.”

“Yeah.” Remington surely understood, but he did not seem happy with the reply. “But I like to know a little bit about a guy when I’m stuck on a bus with him and he’s wearing a trench coat in July.”

Susan dismissed Remington’s concerns. “Just because he’s a psych patient doesn’t make him dangerous.”

Remington sat back, though clearly still uneasy. “Susan, one of your patients, age four, tried to murder one of my patients. She did murder his sister. You want to come up with something more comforting than ‘just because he’s a psych patient doesn’t make him dangerous’?”

Susan had little to offer. While not the most dangerous of psychiatric diagnoses — antisocial personalities such as Sharicka had that sewn up — schizophrenia did make its victims unpredictable and, sometimes, dangerous. She could not forget Payton’s answers to her questions about how and why he had come to the procedure room: “I walked. Ninety-three billion miles. From da sun.” Susan shrugged. “As long as we’re just following him and don’t confront him, we shouldn’t incite any problems.”

Remington grunted. “No way a paranoid schizophrenic would lash out at people following him, right?”

Susan tried not to reveal that Remington had inadvertently discovered the correct diagnosis. “Well . . .”

“And you wouldn’t actually try to talk to him, that is, confront him, would you?”

As that had been Susan’s plan, she could hardly deny it. A buzz from her Vox rescued her from a reply. It was the lab: “StA wth. Wll gt prmssn frm fmly fr cops.” “Doesn’t look like I’ll have to. Goldman and Peters are contacting the family. They should be able to get permission for intervention by law enforcement.”

Remington glanced around Susan again. “Good.” He craned farther. “Where’s he going?”

Susan turned her attention to Payton Flowers. The man had risen from his seat, heading toward the front of the bus.

The resident physicians watched him approach the bus driver, talk for a moment, then flip the edge of his coat. Even from a dozen seats back, Susan could see the driver of the bus grow visibly pale. He punched the intercom button. “Passengers, please remain calm.”

No words in the English language could have had a more opposite effect. Though no one left his seat, all of the passengers visibly stiffened, including a woman who had appeared so deeply asleep she sprawled partway into the aisle, held in place by her seat belt.

“If we all stay in our seats and don’t panic, we’ll be fine.”

Susan’s heart rate tripled. She found herself leaning on Remington, who put a steadying arm around her.

The driver continued, his voice tremulous and edged with fear. Clearly, he was trying to control it, but it would not wholly obey him. “This man has a bomb and has threatened to set it off if anyone leaves their seat.”

A bomb? Susan’s first thought was to deny it. Things like that did not happen on glide-buses in downtown Manhattan. Then, her thoughts scattered in several directions. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. Why would Payton Flowers want to blow us up? Why would anyone hijack a glide-bus; it wouldn’t have the power to make it out of the state, let alone the country. Then, one thought shattered all the others. We’re going to die!

All around her, Susan could hear the faint click of Vox messages being sent. Likely, some of them had locked into Emergency mode. Others were probably sending love notes to friends, children, parents, and spouses. Surely, the police would pinpoint them before Payton could do anything stupid.

Pinpoint us and what? Make sure we explode somewhere less populated? Susan looked at Remington. His Vox glowed red. He, at least, had put his Vox into Emergency mode. The police computers could lock onto it and, probably, several others on the crowded bus. I know this guy. I should be able to do something no one else can.

Yet, Susan realized, she barely knew him. She had done little more than punch a needle into his back, hardly the starting point for a friendship. She considered texting her father but discarded it. He already knew how much she loved him. She would do better focusing on how to fix this situation, dredging her brain for some way to handle a raging, unmedicated schizophrenic that only a psychiatrist would know.

A psychiatrist, Susan realized, would inject him with an emergency dose of antipsychotics. That information did little to help. She did not carry around spare doses of hospital medications, let alone a needle. If I did, she decided, it would contain a potent and fast-acting anesthesia. She punched another message to Goldman and Peters: “E! P.F. w/bomb. Hijack! Advise.” She had no idea what they could tell her that would make any difference, but it seemed worth trying. They might know how to contact Payton’s regular psychiatrist.

Remington whispered, “If you distract him, I’ll grab him.”

“No!” Susan returned in a forceful whisper. “It’s not like he has a gun or something you could take from him. He’d just detonate the bomb and kill us all.”

Remington’s jaw set. “We have to do something.”

Susan could hardly argue. The only other option was to sit back and leave their fate to a psychotic, assuming no one else tried anything stupid and got them all killed first. “Patients with hallucinations and delusions may not see things as they are.”

Remington’s gaze seemed to bore through her, as if trying to read the point behind her words. “Are you saying he might not act or react in a rational fashion? Because that seems rather obvious under the circumstances.”

Susan could see how he might interpret her words that way. “I mean he may believe he has a bomb, but it might be something . . . harmless.”

“In which case, I can jump him.”

“In which case,” Susan corrected, “you don’t need to jump him.”

The buzz of the lab’s reply joined a cacophony of Vox noises: “StA clm, quiet. Sndng hlp.”

Remington peered over the heads of the people in front of him. “That’s real fear in the driver’s voice and face. If it’s not a bomb, it’s a good facsimile.”

“Yeah.” Before Susan could say anything further, the driver came on again.

“Everyone, I must remind you to remain in your seats for the safety of us all.”

Susan had not seen anyone attempt to stand, but it did not hurt to remind people.

“Also, the gentleman has asked that you shut down all electronics, remain silent, and . . .”

Payton said something Susan could not make out.

“And stop talking about him.” The driver fairly screeched the words, as if realizing how ludicrous they sounded but certain choosing others might get him killed. Remington had an excellent point. The person sitting closest to Payton Flowers, the one who should know, was clearly convinced the device beneath his trench coat was actively explosive. He added pleadingly, “Please do as he says.”

Susan pursed her lips. To most of the other passengers, his plea probably sounded bizarre. Anyone who knew schizophrenics, however, could understand the concern. In a situation such as this one, it only made sense people would talk about the person holding them hostage, but Payton’s concern more likely stemmed from the intense and overpowering delusion that people always talked about him, perhaps even that computers and television broadcasted his thoughts and actions to the world. Dutifully, she silenced her Vox. Others must have done the same, because the buzzing and clicking disappeared into an eerie, fear-filled hush.

The bus sped along its usual route, different only in that it made no stops. Susan watched out the window as the people at the proper bus stops pressed forward. When the vehicle showed no signs of slowing, most leapt backward for fear of getting hit. Some shouted, waved fists or middle fingers, or stared bewilderedly after the speeding bus.

Reality squeezed in on Susan in the moment “bomb” moved from a word to a concept. Her heart pounded in her chest. A lump formed in her throat, and all oxygen seemed to have left the air. Remington caught her hand and squeezed it. Susan clamped her fingers around his palm as if her life depended on it. Now she wished they had sat farther back in the bus. Maybe they could duck behind the seat back in front of them and it would shield them from some of the blast.

Remington whispered so softly even Susan could barely hear him, “Talk to him.”

It was the first suggestion that made sense to Susan. She was a psychiatrist. In theory, she should know how to speak to irrational people, to calm their hysteria. Her own education undid her, however. If Payton suffered from almost any neurosis, she might have found the right words, the right phrases. She could reason with a histrionic, with a narcissist, even with an antisocial. Though the latter might play manipulative games, he would not detonate the bomb, at least not until he had induced the optimal amount of panic, terror, and uncertainty to feed his thrill. With a schizophrenic, however, no rational approach existed. One had to feed into the correct hallucination, the right delusion; and she had no way to know which one, if any, might delay and which might send him over the edge.

In other circumstances, Susan might have shouted out his name. Her knowledge would surprise a man without psychosis, might inflame enough curiosity to make him pause and listen. But a man like Payton, suffering from a thought-broadcasting, persecutory delusion, would simply see Susan as a mind-reading threat. Just discovering someone on the bus had knowledge about him might drive him to destroy her and everyone around her. Susan had never felt so helpless in her life.

I have to try something, don’t I? The answer seemed obvious; and, yet, so far, simple obedience had served its purpose. So long as no one did anything threatening, Payton seemed content to leave things as they were. It felt foolish to rock the boat until something changed, until the danger intensified and it no longer mattered whether her actions might actually enrage rather than soothe him. “Logic won’t work,” Susan hissed back directly into Remington’s ear. Even the obvious realization that Payton Flowers would die along with his hostages would not help in this situation. He might not care. He could have already decided to kill himself and just wanted to do it in a grand fashion. Or, perhaps, he believed himself invincible.

Forcing herself to try to think like a wholly irrational human being made Susan’s head ache. She rubbed her temples and tried not to focus on how it all came down to Payton Flowers and whatever hallucinations and delusions assailed him at the moment. To him, the passengers might all be demons on their way to hell, aliens plotting to devour humanity, a clicking lot of locusts hell-bent on destroying the world’s food supply. Dislodging schizophrenic delusions never happened with words or rational proof. One could remove a schizophrenic’s normal kidney, put it in his hand, and still not convince him it was not infested by rats. A thousand mirrors could not disabuse him of the notion that he had green hair or purple eyes.

But the idea of sitting back and passively dying did not work for Susan any more than for Remington. Once she discarded the possibility of overwhelming or bargaining with a florid psychotic, her mind turned to escape. The driver controlled the windows and doors, and Susan had already seen several people attempting to loosen or break windows without success.

The bus lurched to a stop. Through the window beyond Remington, Susan could see the familiar, broad outline of the Turtle Bay Mall, their original destination. They had pulled into a bus stop, so no one outside of the vehicle seemed perturbed. From the corner of her eye, she thought she could see the red, white, and blue strobing lights of at least one police car. She was glad they had had the good sense not to alarm the bomber with sirens.

Everyone had fallen utterly silent, so the driver’s voice over the speaker sounded particularly loud. Several people stiffened, including Susan, who felt a wash of cold fear slide down her spine. “The gentleman has asked that I open all the doors. If you debark in an orderly fashion, and no one tries anything foolish, he has promised not to detonate the bomb until we’re all safely off the bus.” As if to prove his words, the seat belt buckles clicked off and the belts glided away.

Seized by a sudden urge to be the first one out, Susan forced herself to stand slowly and remain in place. She could imagine the passengers trampling one another in a sudden panicked rush. For the first time since Payton Flowers had taken control, she dared to hope they might actually survive.

The doors eased open. Passengers flowed into the aisle so quickly Susan barely had time to blink. She tried to muscle her way into the crowd heading toward the front, but Remington held her back. “This way.” He ducked beneath their seat.

Though confused by his action, Susan followed. They squirmed back two rows, then practically fell into the empty stairwell of the middle set of doors and out into the street. The street, the blessed street. Susan wanted to kiss it, but Remington grabbed her arm and hauled her toward the curb, onto the sidewalk, then made a mad dash toward the looming skyscrapers.

Susan could not help going with him. He pulled her along at a sprinter’s pace, dodging the dazed people waiting at the bus stop, hurling her around trees and nearly sending her careening into a bench. She wanted to tell him to slow down, but she couldn’t catch her breath. Then, suddenly, she was tossed to the sidewalk and he flung himself on top of her.

Noise thundered through Susan’s ears, so loud it caused physical pain and fully deafened her. The ground seemed to buck and shake, as if the entire world had come apart. Heat washed over her, and her lungs refused to function. She struggled for breath, found it, and sucked in several acrid lungfuls. Her hearing returned abruptly in the form of strangers screaming. Remington rolled off her. “Are you all right?”

Susan wiped liquid from her cheek and discovered blood on her hand. She probed her face, without finding a source, while she took in the scene around her. Everything had changed. People ran, shrieking, in all directions. Only hunks of twisted metal remained from the shelter that had once housed the bus station. Where the glide-bus had parked, she saw only a scorched outline. Two police cars were clearly visible behind it, their windshields shattered and their front ends bashed in. People staggered up from the sidewalk, some moaning, others tottering, a few walking in crazed circles.

“Payton,” Susan said, the single name carrying all the necessary information.

Remington helped her stand. His jeans showed myriad holes with burnt edges, and a shard of thin metal jutted from his profusely bleeding shoulder. “I think,” he said carefully, “we can conclude the bomb” — he looked Susan over — “was real.”

Susan stood there a moment contemplating the scene. Then, through no intention of her own, she started laughing. It seemed strange and out of place, yet the perfect reaction to Remington’s understatement. It was an expression of joy amid depthless sorrow and fear. We’re alive! She took Remington’s injured arm. “You’re bleeding.”

“You, too.” Remington dabbed at her face.

Susan brushed away his ministrations. “I think it’s your blood on me, too.” She reached for his arm. “Let me take care of that.”

“There are people hurt a lot worse than I am.” Remington started to turn away, but Susan grabbed him.

“You’re worthless to anyone if you bleed to death.” She indicated he should sit, which he did on the sidewalk. “If you severed your brachial artery, and I won’t know till I remove this thing, you’re first on the triage list.”

Susan went to work, trying to imagine herself on call in the ER rather than on a city street, seeking normalcy in a situation that contained none. Soon enough, she could start assessing the injured and possibly the dying around her, but not until she assured herself she would not have to do so alone.