The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone

3

The Rockland Psychiatric Center complex covered hundreds of acres, and was virtually a city unto itself, with its own locksmith shop, fire and police departments; there was a summer camp in the woods beside a large reservoir, cornfields-now leased to local farmers-where patients had once been encouraged to tend crops, an outdoor swimming pool, small parks nestled among a myriad of tall, ivy-covered stone buildings which were, for the most part, designated by numbers. In many ways, RPC reminded me of an Ivy League college campus.

Many of the buildings were now unused; years before, with the best of intentions, the state had decided that many of its mentally ill but otherwise harmless patients would be better served by so-called community support services, and these patients had been released by the thousands from state hospitals. The problem was that there had been no adequate community support services, and the results of this decision could be seen in the surge of numbers of homeless, helpless men and women living on the streets of New York, and many other cities. In addition, many of the criminally insane at RPC had been transferred to various other institutions throughout the state. Consequently, a number of the buildings with bars on the windows were empty, although a few had been converted to staff residences and recreational facilities.

The Defense Intelligence Agency clinic was housed on the upper floors of Building 26, and that was where I headed at seven o'clock the next morning, walking the short distance from Building 18, where I had been assigned an apartment. An armed guard who had not been on duty the previous afternoon sat in a kiosk discreetly set back behind a row of trees, near the entrance to Building 26. The guard, who had a harelip only partially hidden beneath a bushy handlebar mustache, frowned when I handed him the plastic-shrouded, beige-colored identity card with my picture on it. He turned it over a few times in his fingers, as though he could not believe it wasn't counterfeit, then telephoned somebody. He recited my badge number, said something behind his hand which I couldn't hear, then listened for a few moments. Finally he hung up, handed me back the pass, and waved me on. I used the same pass card to open the magnetic lock on the entrance door, then clipped the card to my shirt pocket and took the key-operated elevator to the fourteenth floor. Two orderlies pushing a racked cart loaded with insulated food trays gave me a strange look as I stepped out of the elevator into a corridor, but they passed by and I was not challenged.

Garth's room was the fourth on the left in the corridor to the right of the elevator, and I went directly there. My brother was lying in the same position as when I had left him, on his back, with a pale blue sheet pulled up under his chin; his eyes were open, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

"Garth?" I said quietly as I stared down into his eyes and rubbed the back of my hand against his stubbled cheek. There was no response, and his flesh felt cold.

I started slightly at the sound of a cart rolling into the room, behind me. I turned to find myself looking at a tall, solidly built man dressed in a starched white hospital coat, pushing a cart on which were arrayed a variety of toilet articles-a stainless steel bowl filled with steaming soapy water, a second bowl of clear water, rubbing lotion, washcloths and towels, a cup with toothbrush and toothpaste, shaving equipment. The man had large, bright hazel eyes and long brown hair, which he wore in a ponytail secured by a tooled leather band. In his left earlobe he wore a tiny gold earring. Despite the fact that it was early spring, the man was deeply tanned-which probably meant he was an avid skier. He looked very fit.

"Dr. Frederickson," the man said easily, coming around from behind his cart and extending a large, heavily muscled hand. His voice was high-pitched and carried just the trace of a lisp. His grip was firm. "It's a real pleasure to make your acquaintance; I've heard a lot about you. I'm Tommy Carling-one of Garth's nurses."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Carling."

"Please; call me Tommy."

"My friends, and people who take care of my brother, call me Mongo."

Carling smiled, revealing even, white teeth that looked as if they might have been capped, then pushed the cart next to Garth's bed. "Then I'd better start taking care of your brother, hadn't I, Mongo?"

I watched as Carling checked Garth's pulse, then examined the levels of the fluids in the bottles attached to the tube city that had grown up around Garth's bed. Next, he carefully removed the tubes from Garth's nose and the needles from the implants in his veins. This done, he pulled the sheet down to Garth's waist. He lathered my brother's face with shaving cream, then proceeded to shave him expertly with an old-fashioned bone-handled straight razor, occasionally rinsing the blade in the bowl of soapy water, drying it on a towel he wore draped over his shoulder. Tommy Carling, I thought, had a light, gentle touch, and he seemed fastidious and sincerely caring as he went about the business of tending to Garth. Garth, of course, wasn't about to lodge any complaints, and it was possible that the male nurse was putting on a good show for a relative and visitor-but I didn't think so.

I asked, "Are you permanently assigned to Garth?"

"When I'm on duty," Carling replied, carefully lifting

Garth's nose with his left thumb and forefinger in order to shave his upper lip.

"Good. I like your style."

Carling laughed easily. "My style? I haven't even finished shaving him."

"Still, I like what I see."

"Thank you."

"I hope I'm not in your way."

"Certainly not."

"I wanted to be here early, just in case Garth was. . awake. I guess I was being silly and overoptimistic. I guess you could say Garth is always awake-or always asleep, depending on how you look at it."

"A little optimism never hurt anybody, patient or relative," Carling said as he finished shaving Garth, wiped his face clean with a towel, then splashed on some English Leather cologne. Next, he proceeded to brush Garth's teeth, carefully massaging the gums with the rubber tip of the toothbrush. As he did so, he nodded toward the pass I had clipped to my shirt pocket. "Incidentally," he continued matter-of-factly, "with that ID, it's irrelevant whether or not you get in anybody's way. That particular piece of plastic entitles you to go anywhere you like, any time you like, and do whatever you want, just as long as it doesn't interfere with any patient's treatment. It's heavy."

"This badge is different from the usual visitor's badge?"

Carling laughed as he finished brushing Garth's teeth, then rubbed some astringent on the gums with the tip of his finger. "A regular visitor's pass is green, with a broad yellow stripe across it. It will get you as far as the Day Room downstairs-or into a patient's room only if the patient is absolutely immobile. You'd have an escort from the time you entered the building until you left. That badge you're wearing is a Z-13; God knows why it's designated that, but it is. We call it a brown bomber. It gives you unlimited access to this facility, and also gives you the authority to ask questions of anyone, and get answers. Except for clinical matters, that badge gives you equal authority with the doctors here. That badge makes me, and the other nurses and attendants, your subordinates."

"I didn't know."

"I've only seen a brown bomber three other times in the five years I've been here, and those were worn by an official from D.I.A. headquarters in Washington and two congressmen from a select oversight committee. As far as I know, you're the first relative of a patient ever to be issued one of those. It means you have either a very high security clearance or very powerful friends in very high places. Don't be surprised if it raises a few eyebrows."

So Mr. Lippitt had really taken care of me; perhaps too much so, unwittingly creating enmity and suspicion toward me among the clinic's staff. It could explain Dr. Slycke's attitude.

Tommy Carling was obviously curious as to how I'd secured my brown bomber-but I didn't feel any great urge to tell him, and he didn't press. Quickly and efficiently, Carling stripped off the top sheet and then removed Garth's pajamas, leaving my brother lying naked on another sheet stretched over a rubber mat. He detached Garth's colostomy bag, dumped it into the toilet, and attached a fresh one to the rubber tube extending out from the gash in Garth's side. He did the same with the urine bag, then proceeded to wash Garth. I smoothed down Garth's thinning, wheat-colored hair, then joined in with the washup, using a second washcloth from the cart, and starting with Garth's feet. There was one striking change in my brother's condition: he had been absolutely rigid when he had collapsed in the Washington hearing room, but his muscles were now completely slack, and his limbs flopped wherever they were placed. Now that the sheet was off, I could see that his head was propped in a face-forward position by two foam rubber supports which had been placed on either side of his jaw. I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of sadness, futility, and loss; I blinked back tears.

"I don't want any authority over anybody," I said quietly as I worked my way with the soapy washcloth up Garth's legs. "I'd appreciate being kept informed of my brother's treatment and progress, but most of all I just want to be able to be with him."

"You've got it. But, as I said, don't be surprised if you get some strange reactions. It's not only your brown bomber, but the fact that your brother is here in the first place; neither of you works for the D.I.A.-unless we've been lied to, which is what some people around here whose names I won't mention may think."

"Wasn't Dr. Slycke briefed?"

"Of course; all of us were briefed. The fact that Garth was poisoned with NPPD makes him a very special case. Remember, I said some people may be suspicious, but there are always people whose noses get out of joint over changes in routine. Let me tell you, just about everyone is watching Garth with a hell of a lot of curiosity about what happens when-" Carling abruptly stopped speaking and glanced down at me with genuine alarm in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Mongo. I didn't mean to sound insensitive."

"It's all right. I know all about the curiosity, and it's why Garth is here-obviously. Why should anyone think differently?"

"What I'm saying is that not even psychiatrists-maybe especially not psychiatrists-are immune to a touch of paranoia from time to time, so don't be too surprised if you run into it around here."

"I still don't understand. If everyone's been briefed, why should anyone be paranoid about Garth and me?"

"Not so much Garth as you and your brown bomber. The question is how and why you rate such a high security clearance in order to be with him."

For the first time it occurred to me that Mr. Lippitt not only might be open to charges of nepotism, but might actually get into serious difficulties because of his understanding and kindness toward me. I decided it was time to change the subject. "Exactly what are they doing with Garth now, Tommy?"

Carling cleared his throat. "Officially, you're supposed to direct all of your medical questions to Dr. Slycke," he said in a low voice. "Unofficially, I'll tell you that Slycke hasn't designed a therapy program yet."

"Garth isn't getting any medication?"

"Not yet. For now, all they're doing is conducting blood and chemical tests, and observing."

"I understand that I signed a blanket consent form for any and all treatment, including experimental drugs, but I'd like to be kept informed of what's happening; and I'd like to know what they're going to do before they do it."

"You'll have to take that up with Dr. Slycke."

"What about the other psychiatrists on the staff?"

"Slycke has taken personal charge of Garth, so the other doctors will refer you to him."

"Fair enough. Thanks for the information." I strongly suspected that if Tommy Carling hadn't told me about the privileges I enjoyed with my brown bomber, nobody else would have.

We finished washing Garth, and toweled him off. I combed his hair, then stepped back while the male nurse applied rubbing lotion to my brother's body and massaged him, kneading the muscles and flexing the joints. He dressed him in clean pajamas, made the bed around and under him, then rolled him over on his right side and pulled the clean sheet up to his chin. The whole operation had taken less than a half hour.

"We'll leave him with a little music," Carling said, turning on a small table radio and tuning it to a classical station.

"Why? He can't hear it."

"Why not? Who knows what he can or can't hear?"

"You're right," I replied, and touched the bandage on my forehead. My wound had begun to throb. "Tommy, you wouldn't have a couple of aspirin around this place, would you?"

"Of course," Carling said, and frowned sympathetically. "Obviously, you've been hurt. You're in pain?"

"I've got a headache."

"May I ask what happened?"

"It was just a stupid accident; I bumped into something sharp."

"I'll be right back," Carling said, and walked quickly from the room.

He was back in less than a minute, carrying a bottle of aspirin, a glass of water, and a small medical kit.

"Tommy," I said, "I don't want a fuss; just a couple of aspirin."

"You look a little pale. When did you hurt yourself?"

"Yesterday."

"Did you get a tetanus shot?"

"Yes," I lied.

"Well, it won't hurt to have a look at it to make sure it isn't oozing, and put on a fresh bandage. Just sit down in the chair there."

Tommy Carling was a persistent healer who obviously didn't like to take no for an answer. I sighed, sat down in the chair next to Garth's bed. Carling loosened the strips of adhesive tape over the thick gauze Veil had applied, then carefully peeled back the bandage.

"Man," Carling said, and grimaced. "That is a nasty cut. You did that by bumping your head?"

"Yeah."

"It looks like someone slashed you with a razor."

"I bumped it hard."

Carling shrugged. "It looks clean," he said, and opened the medical kit. He took out a bottle of peroxide and a gauze pad. "I'll just touch it up a little and put on a fresh bandage."

Carling handed me the bottle of aspirin. I shook out three tablets into my palm, washed them down with the water he had brought. Then I sat still while Carling expertly and gently daubed the wound with peroxide.

"That's an interesting stitching job."

"Mmm."

"Whoever did it did a good job. I don't think you'll have much of a scar. It's an unusual style."

"The scar?" I asked, and allowed myself a small smile.

"The stitches."

"I didn't know there was such a thing as a 'style' in stitching up wounds."

"Oh, yes. Doctors are taught to tie off sutures in a particular way. These sutures are perfectly adequate, but I've never seen knots like these."

"My doctor must fancy himself an individualist."

Carling grunted as he finished washing the wound. Then he quickly applied a fresh, much smaller, bandage.

"Nice job," I said when I examined Carling's handiwork in a small mirror in the bathroom. "Now I don't look like a mummy. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Carling said, closing up the medical kit and putting it on the cart. "I've got to do a meds round now. Want to tag along and see the rest of the clinic?"

"I don't want to raise the paranoia index around here."

"With that Z-13 clipped to your shirt, you can raise anything you like. I thought you might be interested."

"I am."

"Then let's go."

I kissed Garth on the cheek and told him I'd be back in a few minutes, then followed after Tommy Carling. We went to a large, glass-enclosed office near what I assumed was the center of the clinic, where Carling traded in his personal hygiene cart for another, larger cart on which was arrayed a host of tiny paper cups that contained pills of various sizes, shapes, and colors, as well as slightly larger cups with liquid medicine. Each cup was stapled to a file card listing the name of the patient and the medication, along with spaces for the signature of the staff member administering the medication, and the time. There was also a large, frosted pitcher of orange juice.

"As I'm sure you know," Carling said as he rolled the cart out of the office, "this is both a research and care facility. However, for all intents and purposes, we're much more oriented toward care than research-with the notable exception, of course, of your brother. You understand; we know what happened to him, but the fact that he was poisoned with NPPD is descriptive information, not prescriptive. The doctors have to make a determination as to exactly what's wrong with him before they can embark on a treatment program. With most of the other patients, the treatment is rather standard and straightforward-conservative and a bit too Freud-oriented, in my unqualified opinion, but that's the way it is around here. Freudians tend to flock together." He paused, shrugged. "But then, so do psychiatrists of various other persuasions. Don't mind my gossip."

"If the treatment of most of the other patients is so straightforward, why couldn't they be put into any good mental hospital, anywhere in the country? Why here, and why all the secrecy?"

"Secrecy about what we do isn't the point so much as the security of the men we're doing it to. All of the patients here were either field operatives or occupied equally sensitive positions. Their mental illness may or may not-usually not-have any connection with the work they did, but they simply carry too many secrets around in their heads to allow them to enter just any hospital and talk to therapists or other staff who don't have the required security clearance."

"Got it."

"Which is not to say that the care here isn't the best; it is. Dr. Slycke and the other psychiatrists are topflight. All of the attendants are R.N.s, well paid, and we like to think we're pretty good. Everyone, psychiatrists and nurses, has been specially trained to deal with the special psychological problems you might expect D.I.A. field operatives to suffer from."

"Garth doesn't fit into that category."

"Your brother doesn't fit into any category; he's a unique case. Here, at last, the doctors don't have to worry about gaining classified information about NPPD."

"Do you have any. . permanent patients? People who never recover?"

"A few," Carling replied quietly. "It's much too early to worry about Garth becoming one of them, Mongo."

We went from room to room, with Carling dispensing the appropriate pills or potions to the various patients. I saw no women, either among the patient population or on the staff. Most of the men were up and about, eating the breakfasts that had been brought to them by the two attendants I had passed on the way in. Some were in bed, others dressed and sitting. Most seemed interested in my presence. Carling always introduced me, and we usually stayed a few minutes in each room to chat.

The tour continued, by way of the elevator, to the floor below us, where there was a fully equipped gym, mini-theater, and a huge game room with everything from chess sets to video arcade games. We went back up, down a corridor which was painted orange and blocked a quarter of the way down by a locked door of thick, wire-reinforced glass. Carling took a set of keys out of his pocket, but made no move to open the door.

"The secure unit," Carling said, turning to me. "We have five men in there now, two of them long-termers. All these men are considered potentially extremely violent, and unpredictable. The unit is completely self-contained; they have their own cafeteria, gym, and game room. The most interesting-and probably most dangerous-man in here is a patient by the name of Marl Braxton. He'll probably want to talk to you."

"Why is he so interesting, and why should he want to talk to me?"

"He's particularly interesting to me because he's the only patient in here whose file is classified above my level; I have no idea what his background is. Around here, you usually pick up all sorts of personal shit, whether you want to or not, from the patients themselves-but never from Braxton. I suspect even Slycke doesn't know the background information on Braxton, because Braxton's therapist-a Chinese by the name of Dr. Wong-comes in from the outside, three times a week, and he's the only therapist who's not part of the regular staff. All we get is specific treatment information. I know Braxton's a loony because he's here, but you'd never know it to talk to him; Wong's got him stabilized pretty well on a chemotherapy program."

"If he's stabilized on medication, why keep him in the secure unit?"

Carling raised his eyebrows slightly. "Because he kills people."

"Oh."

"By which I mean he's killed a few people in the past. That much I know, because it's essential clinical information. Wherever he was and whatever he was doing, he began suffering severe psychotic breakdowns-and you didn't want to be around when that happened. There was never any warning, which is why I suppose they don't want to take any chances with him. Braxton's a pretty spooky guy."

"How long has he been here?"

Carling shrugged. "I don't know, and I don't have any way of finding out unless Braxton or somebody else tells me. He was here when I was hired. Anyway, he's got a near-genius IQ, and he's extremely well read. If I knew who you were, he will too. He'll be curious-he's curious about everything. He's been through every book in our library, as well as that of the main hospital, and he keeps the people in the interlibrary system working overtime. He's extremely articulate, and about the only time you'll even get a hint that he's not wrapped too tightly is when he starts talking about his 'maid of constant sorrows.' "

"Who's she?"

"Maybe Wong knows. I don't-and as far as I know, nobody else around here does either. She's just somebody he occasionally refers to."

"What about the others?"

"The same-crazy and dangerous; but more obviously crazy and dangerous. They're all under heavy medication, so there shouldn't be anything to worry about. Still, it can get hairy in the secure unit, and you can pass if you feel uncomfortable."

"What? Not complete the tour? I'll stick with you."

Carling turned a key on his ring in the lock, and I held the door open while he wheeled the cart through. When I released the door, it sighed shut, locked with an audible click.

It appeared that this section of the fourteenth floor had been extensively remodeled to meet the needs of the secure unit; there was lots of open space, making the sections of the clinic I had already seen seem relatively cramped. Individual rooms, without doors, radiated off a huge, circular commons area which contained a large projection TV, game tables, a music system with half a dozen sets of earphones, a mini-library stocked with a few hundred books, current newspapers and magazines, and a work-study area complete with word processing equipment.

"Depending on tension levels, the other patients are allowed in here a few at a time to socialize or use the equipment," Carling said as we headed across the commons area toward three men who sat in armchairs beside the barred windows. "But these men don't come out."

"I'm impressed," I said, and I was.

"Meds time, gentlemen," Carling said cheerfully as he brought the cart to a stop a few feet away from the men.

"Remember, we don't call this place Club Med for nothing; a pill a day keeps the nasties away."

Two of the men took their pills without comment, washing them down with orange juice, then walked away. Carling signed the cards, then held out a cup filled with a purple liquid. "Down the hatch, Mama," the nurse continued easily.

The third patient, a rangy man wearing rubber thongs, cut-off jeans, and a tank top with camouflage design, made no move to take the cup, and I hoped nothing in my face or manner betrayed the revulsion I felt when I looked at him. Suddenly I found myself taking comfort in the fact that there were five other white-coated male nurses, all reassuringly big and burly, standing or sitting around the area.

The marks on the man's face and shaved head hadn't been applied in any tattoo parlor; the dye-stained, ragged scars were obviously self-inflicted, probably with a razor blade. Circling his head was a crown of thorns, complete with scar-puckered drops of blood extending down over his shoulders, chest, and back, JESUS, in red-stained capital letters, was carved into his left cheek, SAVES into the right. The man was looking directly at me with bright, slightly unfocused green eyes, and it had been a long time since I'd seen as much naked hatred in a face.

"Mama?" Carling continued in a low, hard voice which had lost all traces of its lisp. "What's up, Mama? Talk to me.”

"I'm not sure I want to take my medication today," the man called Mama said in a low, guttural voice that was close to a snarl. Rage mingled with the hatred in his eyes as he glared at me, and the muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched.

Something about me was seriously upsetting the man, and I wasn't sure whether walking away would pacify him or enrage him even more. Consequently I remained very still, dropped my gaze, and stared at the floor in what I hoped the man would take as a gesture of passivity; but I made sure I kept him well within my range of peripheral vision. If he got tired of talking and nasty faces and made a move for me, I was prepared to drop him with a kick to the groin or the side of the knee.

"You suit yourself, Mama," Tommy Carling said in the same low, hard voice. "Nobody's going to force you to take your meds, and you know it. But you also know what's going to happen if you don't take it. By noontime, you'll be hopping around inside your skin. Then you'll want to calm down, but you won't be able to; you'll ask for your stuff, but by then it will be too late for oral medication, pill or liquid. You'll get belligerent and want to fight. You'll throw some furniture around. You'll be confused, and you'll get very threatening. That's when we'll have to take you down, put you in a camisole, and stick a needle in your ass. You'll end up in the Critical Care room for a minimum of twenty-four hours, trussed up in that camisole and lying on a mat. You know it's going to happen, Mama, so why don't you just take your meds now and save us all a lot of grief?"

"Why the hell did you bring a dwarf in here?!" the man shouted, half rising from the chair and clenching his bony fists. "God hates dwarfs! Dwarfs are evil, and God wants them all dead! I wouldn't be here if it weren't for dwarfs! You bring one in here, it's bad luck for all of us!"

Ah, yes. It just didn't seem like a good time to try to point out all the sterling qualities of dwarfs, and so I remained still and silent-but ready, balanced on the balls of my feet.

"Mama, I'm sorry," Carling said in a voice that had suddenly become soothing. The other nurses, who had hurried over as soon as the man had begun shouting, now stood shoulder to shoulder in a semicircle behind his chair. "This is something new, a view of yours I wasn't aware of. I didn't mean to do anything to upset you, and I'm going to make it right. I'm going to take this man out of here right now. When I come back, you're going to be calmed down, and you're going to take your meds. Okay?" Carling paused, inclined his head toward me, continued evenly: "Walk to the door; I'll be right behind you."

I certainly didn't need any prompting-but as I turned to leave I found my way blocked by someone with a slim waist connected to a pair of massive thighs, very close. I hadn't heard anyone come up behind me, and I was thoroughly startled.

"Take your medication, Baker, and stop this bullshit," a voice above me said curtly.

I stepped back, looked up at the man who had spoken. The owner of the thighs and the deep, commanding voice was about the same size as my brother, six feet two or three. He obviously spent a lot of time in the gym, for his chest and heavily muscled arms bulged inside a short-sleeved knit jersey. He had a rugged but not unhandsome face, with a straight nose, pronounced cheekbones, and an ocher tinge to his flesh that made me think he might have more than a little American Indian in him. His eyes were black-bright, piercing. He had a full head of hair only slightly tinged with gray around the temples. The sharp widow's peak that extended low on his forehead gave him an elfin-or devilish-look. I put his age at around forty-five.

"This is none of your business, Braxton!" Mama Baker shouted. His eyes had grown very wide, and both JESUS and SAVES were outlined in pink as he flushed. He continued to tremble with rage, but something else-respect, and perhaps fear-moved in his green eyes, and he eased himself back down into his chair.

"It's the business of everybody in this unit, Baker, when your bullshit involves our privileges," the tall man with the piercing eyes said evenly. "The last time you refused to take your medication, it was less than three hours before you went apeshit. You busted up the place, and it took two months to get the television and stereo repaired."

Marl Braxton paused, glanced at Tommy Carling, and held out his right hand. Carling handed a paper cup to the big man, who swallowed the two tiny pink pills in it without juice or water. "See?" Braxton said quietly to the man with the scar-shrouded head. "Nothing to it. This man you've been insulting is Dr. Robert Frederickson. I have no idea what he's doing here, but he should be treated as an honored guest. I mean, we wouldn't want Dr. Frederickson to think we're too crazy, would we, Mama? In any case, I wish to think of him as my honored guest. He's a most accomplished and interesting man, and I'd like to speak with him about many subjects. If he leaves prematurely because of you, Baker, I'll take personal offense. Now, calm down and take your medication."

Mama Baker swallowed hard, and his knuckles were white where they gripped the armrests of his chair. "Are you threatening me, Braxton?!"

"No," the big man replied mildly. "I'm asking you to do what you should be doing anyway. The rest of us don't care to suffer because of your stupidity."

"What are you going to do if I don't?"

"I'll do nothing. But there's always the chance that my maid of constant sorrows may visit you one night."

"Fuck you and your creepy maid of constant sorrows."

"My maid of constant sorrows will most assuredly fuck you, Mama." Marl Braxton's voice, calm and quiet to begin with, had become softer-which only made it more chilling. "She'll really stick it to you. You won't like it."

There was a prolonged silence during which Mama Baker glared at Marl Braxton, who calmly gazed back at him.

"Give me the fucking stuff," Baker said at last.

There was a barely audible, communal sigh of relief around the room as Mama Baker took a cup from Tommy Carling's outstretched hand, swallowed the purple liquid. He crumpled the cup and hurled it to the floor, then jumped out of his chair and stalked away.

"Ah, yes, just another boring day at the office," Tommy Carling said as he picked up the crumpled cup and dropped it into a slot in the side of the cart. He nodded to the other male nurses, who then walked away to various sections of the commons area. "Mongo, meet Marl Braxton."

"Mr. Braxton," I said, extending my hand.

Marl Braxton stared down into my face, but made no move to take my outstretched hand. He continued to stare, and then he frowned slightly. "You're afraid of me," he said at last.

I dropped my hand back to my side, said nothing.

"No," the other man continued thoughtfully, after a pause. "Not afraid; but I make you nervous."

"I'm a little strung out at the moment, Mr. Braxton."

The man with the widow's peak and bright black eyes nodded toward Tommy Carling. "Our ponytailed friend here has been talking to you about me, hasn't he? Tommy really loves to gossip; I'll never understand how he got a security clearance. They must tape his mouth shut every day when he leaves here."

"What would you like to discuss with me, Mr. Braxton?"

"Please don't patronize me, Frederickson," Marl Braxton said evenly, and then sighed. "I'm just crazy; I'm not simple. I've read many of your monographs on the so-called criminally insane, and I found them most impressive. You're a professor, with a doctorate in criminology; you're an ex-circus headliner, a noted private investigator; you have a black belt in karate. I just wanted to talk."

"Then let's talk. Maybe we can get some coffee, and-"

"No," Braxton said curtly. "Not today; not when the air has been poisoned the way it has. Perhaps some other time."

Marl Braxton turned on his heel and walked quickly away, disappearing into one of the rooms that radiated off the commons area. When I looked back at Tommy Carling, the male nurse's expression was thoughtful.

"Well, now you've met Marl Braxton," he said dryly.

"This Mama Baker was afraid of him."

"Oh, yes. Baker's real name is Marion, incidentally, in case you're interested. He insists everyone call him Mama, and we oblige. Anyway, there's a pecking order here, just like there is in all groups."

"And here, Marl Braxton is at the top of the pecking order."

"You've got it."

Suddenly, I heard the door to the unit bang open. I turned, saw the director of the clinic, his face flushed with anger, hurrying toward us. Dr. Charles Slycke was a man in his late fifties or early sixties, and most of the time acted like an extremely stressed individual in need of a good psychiatrist-at least that's how he seemed to me. He was a couple of inches under six feet, overweight but not obese, with thinning gray hair that stuck out at odd angles from his head and watery gray eyes with dark pouches under them. At the moment, those eyes were flashing with anger-and, I thought, perhaps just a touch of insecurity.

"What is this man doing here?!" Slycke snapped at the male nurse.

"Sir, he has a Z-13 identity badge, and I just thought-"

"I'm well aware of what kind of badge he's wearing, and I don't care what you thought! Sometimes you go too far, mister! Do you think this is some kind of a game?!"

Carling shook his head. "I don't know what you mean, sir," he said evenly.

Slycke sucked in a deep breath, took a step backward, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his checked sports jacket. "Did he ask you to bring him into the secure unit?"

"No, sir, but-"

"Excuse me, Doctor," I said to the psychiatrist in what I hoped was a properly soothing and thoroughly deferential tone. "There seems to have been a misunderstanding, and it's my fault."

Slycke continued to ignore me as he glared at Tommy Carling. "Why wasn't I even informed that this man was in the building?!"

"Sir, with his Z-13, I didn't think-"

"That is correct! You didn't think!" "Excuse me, Doctor," I said a bit more forcefully. "I apologize for any inconvenience or trouble I've caused, and I'll try to make certain it won't happen again. I'll be more than happy to follow any procedure you want to lay out. Mr. Carling was just trying to be-"

"Come with me, Frederickson," Slycke snapped, abruptly wheeling around and heading back toward the door, which was being held open by two nurses. "We have to talk."