Danielle watches from a distance as Doaks stumps toward the main entrance to Fountainview, a ragged legal pad in his hand. She pushes aside the empty soda cans, coffee cups and junk-food wrappers that carpet his old Nova. The glare of the sun compounds her headache. When she pulls down the visor of Doaks’s car, the keys drop onto the driver’s seat. She looks around the deserted lane where Doaks has parked her—safely, he thinks—far from Maitland.
Outrage and panic at the draconian measures the State has taken to threaten Max roil within her. She stares at the white, evil place where both she and Max began on a tortured road that may lead them both to prison—or death. Although she believes that Max will not get the death penalty due to his age, she has no idea what kind of prison sentence a jury would give him. After all, he was found lying on the floor next to Jonas, covered in his blood. She knows that if she were on that jury, not knowing Max or Jonas, she would give a life sentence very serious consideration.
Danielle snaps the visor back into place. The hell with the restraining order. She can’t stand being so close to Max and not seeing him. Their wretched, truncated calls have done nothing to quell Max’s terror or hers.
She slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car. That alone is a feat, not to mention jamming the antique gearshift into Reverse without killing the engine. She backs slowly out of
the lane and onto the service road behind Maitland. When she gets to the unit, she puts the car into Park and leans back in the seat. The almost-cool air from the decrepit air conditioner blows over her face. The sun shines down on a bright, blue Iowa day. Which means that the visibility is perfect. Anyone on the grounds will remember her car. And anyone around the unit will be able to identify her: the slim woman in the black pantsuit—with the cumbersome ankle bracelet. At least they won’t be able to track her. Thank God the anklet doesn’t have GPS. Sevillas explained that GPS is expensive, and the county can’t afford to use it. The anklet is activated only if she attempts to flee the jurisdiction, about a fifty-mile radius from her apartment. It doesn’t keep her from going onto Maitland property—and Maitland is very much within the holy circle. Although it seems illogical, it is up to Maitland to be aware if she has violated the T.R.O. and then report it to the judge, who will revoke her bail and fine her.
It frightens her, this thing that compels her to put the car into Drive and cross the invisible border. Simply pressing the gas pedal could seal her fate. The State can slam her back into jail and revoke her bond—if they catch her. But, damn it, Max is in trouble. The layer of ice under her skin tells her that he needs her—only her.
The gravel crunches under the Nova’s tires as she comes to a stop in the side parking lot. She has chosen this location hoping that the trees will partially camouflage her as she tries to sneak into the unit. This is stupid, she knows, terribly stupid. The duty nurse will see her and call security. She sits and tries to think clearly. She can’t let her aching heart be the instrument of her imprisonment. What good can she do Max if she’s in jail? Just before she turns around to back out of the lot, a movement catches her eye. She puts her foot on the brake and stares. One of the janitors has propped open a metal
door with his foot. He grapples with an industrial trash can, which he uses to hold the door open. He yells something back into the building and disappears. The door stands open.
Danielle tries to think of the location of this door in terms of the unit’s layout. It hits her. She parks, grabs her purse, and walks quickly but casually into the building. She ducks behind the door.
“Goddammit!” she hears a male voice yell. “I got to take out the trash. Tell Percy to do it!”
She hears footsteps recede from the door. She looks around. No one. She glides through the doorway and into the cool dimness of the storage room. She maneuvers around stacks of neatly organized linens, towels and bath soap, her sandals soundless on the concrete floor. The doorway to the unit is closed. She holds her breath and turns the knob. It releases and opens into the hallway one bedroom away from Max’s—if they haven’t moved him.
Blood thrums in her ears. Her adrenaline pumps so hard that every nerve is poised to flee or fight. She looks both ways down the hall and sees the back of one of the nurses headed in the opposite direction. The doors to the patient rooms are closed. She looks at her watch. Ten o’clock—time for the nurses to supervise the patients in their daily toilette: shower, brush teeth, dress. If the patient is unable to participate, the nurse simply changes the sheets and goes on to the next room. Danielle has no idea where they are in the cycle. Or when and if one of them will pop out of Max’s room, assuming he’s in his room. But it’s too late to turn back now. She walks along the wall, head down, and stops. She peeks into the small window. He’s there. And he’s alone.
She glances up and down the hall once more and slips in. There’s no way to lock the door from inside. Shit! She slides with her back along the wall, underneath the camera. She
takes off her jacket and hooks it over the probing eye of the lens. Max is asleep, his arms and legs in the grip of leather restraints. He seems heavily sedated. She unbuckles the restraints and holds him to her, feeling his heart beat strong and clear. He does not stir. She lays him back on the bed and notices dark, purple marks on the inside of his right elbow. Needle marks. Her heart lurches. His thin arm has the tortured tracks of a heroin addict. What are they doing to him? She starts to panic and then forces herself to stay clearheaded.
She scans the counter. His chart is there, as well as two cobalt capsules she doesn’t recognize. She puts them into her purse. Then she sees a sterile syringe packet, neatly enclosed in clear plastic, next to a glass test tube with a rubber stopper. Someone is coming to take his blood again. Why?
She doesn’t have time to read the entire chart, but the scribbling on the cover catches her eye. It is a schedule of medications and blood drawings. She turns once again to the syringe, rips off the cellophane packaging, and removes the protective tip from the syringe. She takes a deep breath, knowing full well that watching nurses draw Max’s blood for years is a far cry from doing it herself. But she has no choice—she has to know what they’re doing to him.
Hands shaking, she gently lays out Max’s left arm. She cannot bear to pierce the pathetically damaged right one. She tears a strip of cloth from the T-shirt he wears and wraps the makeshift tourniquet gently around his arm. When the vein is prominent, she carefully inserts the needle and then slowly loosens the binding. Max moans and looks straight into her eyes, but does not see her. As she watches the cardinal fluid gush into the test tube, Max’s eyes flutter. She withdraws the needle; presses her finger against the tiny wound; and puts the tip back on the needle.
Frightened by the depth of Max’s stupor, she shakes his
shoulder.
“Max.”
This time she sees recognition and joy in his clouded eyes. “Mom.” He wraps his thin arms tightly around her neck and sobs, his rasps wretched and deep. Danielle hears footsteps far away. She holds Max’s beautiful, pale face in her hands. “Sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry. I know this has been terrible for you, and I promise you won’t be here long, but right now I have to go. Please don’t worry.”
“No!”
Max struggles to embrace her again, his speech slurred. “Mom, they’re drugging me. I don’t know what they’re giving me, but it makes me nuts and then knocks me out.” He sits up and rubs his swollen, bloodshot eyes.
Danielle puts a hand on his arm and makes him look into her eyes. “Listen, sweetheart, I can’t explain now, but if they find me here, they’ll revoke my bond and I won’t be free to try to save you.”
Disbelief and horror flood his face. “
No way!
I’m getting dressed, and you’re taking me with you.” He swings his legs out of the bed and stands. He takes a few steps, but his legs crumple beneath him. He falls into her arms, his thin body a leaden weight. “Mom, I—”
“I promise I’ll get you out of here.” She lays him back on the bed. “Where’s your Game Boy?”
He points a shaking finger at the desk and seems confused until she pulls his iPhone out of her purse and slips the charger into a side drawer. He smiles faintly, clutching it as if it were the Holy Grail.
She bends down and gives him a last kiss, tears streaming down her face. “Use it to call me or text me. Just let me know you’re all right.”
He is clearly fighting to keep his eyes open, to hang on to her words, but she fears he is losing the battle. She shakes him again—hard. “Max, I need you to find out as much as you can about Fastow, the pills, anything you can. I don’t know
what’s in them, but I think they have something to do with why you’ve been…behaving as you have.”
His eyes widen. He starts to speak, but Danielle interrupts him. “And don’t let them give you any more pills.”
“How—”
She grasps his face and forces his eyes to focus on hers. “Hold them under your tongue. Flush them down the commode. They’re making you sick; keeping you drugged.”
“But why, Mom? Why would they—”
“Just do it, Max.
Please.
And pretend to cooperate.”
“What?”
She shakes her head. “If you don’t fight them, they won’t put you in restraints…” She can’t trust her voice to finish the sentence.
His eyes fill with tears; his mouth quivers. “Don’t leave me here all alone, Mom. I can’t handle this—I really can’t.”
She puts her arms around him. “You won’t be alone. Tony will see you every few days. His friend Doaks will come, too. I’ve already put their numbers in your phone. I’ll try to get your aunt Georgia to fly down. You can see her as often as you like.” A sob breaks from her as she holds him tighter. “I’ll fix this—I promise. And I’ll have my phone on every minute.”
He nods, his eyes sick with resignation—worse even than when she first abandoned him to this hellish place. Max’s eyes flutter again, but even as he falls back into a stupor, he grasps her arm as if it is a sailor’s oar delivering him from an icy death. She buckles the four-point restraints, tears falling again—this time darkening the cracked, worn leather. She then gently unclasps his fingers and tucks the thin, blue blanket around him, the swirled emblem of Maitland emblazoned in bone white in the center. How can she possibly leave him?
“I’ve got to take care of the Parkman boy. Fastow’s orders,” says a voice down the hall.
Danielle freezes. She grabs her purse and jacket, drops to the floor, and creeps on hands and knees like a soldier in enemy territory—all well beneath the glaring, venomous eye of the security camera. After what seems like eons, she reaches the shower stall. The last thing she sees before she closes the shower curtain are the remains of the syringe packet and the test tube lying on top of Max’s bed.
“Michelle is always running behind.” The voice is loud now, but still outside the door. “You don’t see anyone paying me double to do her job, do you?”
Danielle holds her breath. She hears the knob turn as someone enters the room. A bustle of activity and then angry muttering. “Look at that. She draws blood and leaves everything else lying around—on the patient’s bed, no less! Kreng is going to have a fit.”
A sudden silence convinces Danielle that she is gone. She rushes back to the bed and throws the needle and everything—even the torn T-shirt strip—into her purse. She creeps over to Max and presses her lips against his pale, moist forehead. She breathes deeply. He is still Max. He is still alive. And she will, so help her God, come back and get him out of this place. She slips to the wall, ducks beneath the camera, and removes her jacket. She leaves the same way she came in.
By some miracle, she manages to retrace her path to Doaks’s car unobserved—she hopes. She crouches low in the seat as she slowly rolls the Nova through the Maitland gates and toward the small, wooded lane. Her heart pounds with the dreadful risk she has taken. From the ravages on Max’s arms. From the knowledge that she has to leave him there. Sweat pours from her body for the next twenty minutes as her eyes fix on the rearview mirror, waiting for the police to arrest her and take her away.
Like the thief she is.
The next morning Sevillas takes his usual place at the head of the table. Doaks plops down somewhere in the middle and props his feet up on one of the leather chairs. Danielle sits next to Sevillas, trying not to let her nervousness show. Sevillas has called them together to tell them about his meeting with the D.A. His face is stern. “Here’s the bottom line. I think the D.A.’s trying to force Danielle’s hand.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“They want Max to plead out.”
“No shit?” asks Doaks.
Danielle’s heart races. “Why would they do that? I thought they wanted a high-profile trial—especially because of Maitland.”
Sevillas shakes his head. “It’s because of Maitland that they want us to take a deal. Maitland is the biggest employer in Plano, Danielle. A mentally ill patient was brutally murdered in his room, with no one on the unit. Another patient, who was supposed to be in restraints, is found covered in blood with the murder weapon in the dead boy’s room. The civil negligence suit, which I’m sure Mrs. Morrison’s lawyer is preparing as we speak, will be in the millions. Given that the prime suspect is also a psychiatric patient with no criminal record won’t help Maitland’s standing in the community, its national reputation or its position in the Morrison lawsuit. Maitland has to limit its exposure—fast.”
Doaks shrugs. “Makes sense to me.”
“I can’t believe this,” says Danielle.
“The D.A.’s also using this threat to bolster their bond–no bond argument against you,” says Sevillas. “With a murder charge, there’s a good chance the judge will grant their motion and no bond you until trial.”
Danielle gasps. She won’t be able to try to find another suspect. She’ll be in jail, helpless to speak to Max or even attend his trial. She locks frantic eyes on Sevillas and braces herself. “Tell me what they want.”
“They’ll give you deferred adjudication on the obstruction and accessory charges,” he says.
“Sounds too good to be true.” Danielle gives him a piercing look. “What about Max?”
Sevillas reaches across the table and grasps her hand. “The State will agree to drop all charges against Max in return for a plea by reason of insanity and a joint motion to the court requesting an order to confine Max to an indefinite stay in a private or state institution until it is determined that he is competent.”
“Christ,” mutters Doaks.
Danielle no longer feels Sevillas’s warm touch. All in her is ice. “You mean Maitland.”
Sevillas clasps both of her hands in his and squeezes them. His brown eyes are solemn. “Yes. The D.A. made it clear that they will strongly urge the judge to keep Max at Maitland until they believe that he is well enough to be released into the general population. Maitland has agreed to treat Max without charge, but only if the terms of the plea are kept confidential.”
Danielle pulls her hands free. “You want me to let them keep Max locked up in that lunatic asylum? They’re the ones
who made him crazy in the first place!” Her voice shakes. “What about the state institution?”
“It’s in Des Moines and has the worst reputation there is,” says Sevillas quietly. “The judge will never send Max there.”
Danielle stalks to the other side of the room. She turns, fists balled. “I will never agree to this. I don’t care if they throw me in jail.”
Sevillas sighs. “But are you willing to risk that Max may spend the rest of his life there? Even with good behavior, he’ll serve fifteen years.”
Danielle leans against the wall. Bile rises in her throat.
Thirty-one.
He’ll be thirty-one when he gets out. His whole life will be forfeited. All he’ll know is what he’ll learn locked away with other…murderers. And if she violates the restraining order, they will try her for the obstruction and abetting charges. If convicted, she may not see him for years. She holds a cold hand to her forehead and then goes back to her chair. She puts steel into her voice. “I won’t do it. It’s too soon to even think about cutting a deal.”
Sevillas shakes his head. “They want an answer before the hearing—two weeks from today. If not, they’ll rescind the offer.”
Danielle crosses her arms and looks Tony straight in the eyes. “That means we’ve got fourteen days to find a killer.”
It is after lunch. Sevillas and Doaks are in the conference-room office marshalling evidence for the hearing. Danielle has stepped into Tony’s office to call Max. Now that Max has his iPhone, she can call him, but she knows it is dangerous. Kreng and the staff could easily catch him at it and confiscate the phone—not to mention what Sevillas would do if he finds out what she did yesterday. Even though it was only yesterday
since she broke into Maitland, she simply has to hear his voice. She slips into Tony’s office and shuts the door. Max answers immediately.
“Hi, Mom.”
He sounds so normal that she is taken aback. “How are you, honey?”
“For being in this hellhole, I’m doing okay.” She hears him tapping away. “I’ve found out some stuff you aren’t going to believe.”
“What is that noise?”
He sounds preoccupied. “Doing research.”
“On what?”
There is a pause as the tapping ceases. “Fastow, what else?”
“How are you doing that?”
He groans. “On my iPhone.”
“On the Web?”
There is a sound that is somewhere between a chortle and a laugh. “Come on, Mom. Think outside the box.”
She tries to keep her irritation at bay. “Max, tell me how you are. I worry about you constantly.”
A sigh filters through the receiver. “I’m fine. I stopped taking the meds, and I act like a dumb cow every time they’re around me.”
“What about the blood draws? Is that all they’re doing or are they also injecting you with something?”
“Neither one. I don’t know why.”
“Have you found out anything about Fastow?”
“Not much,” he says. “Just stuff about how great he is. He’s won all kinds of awards.”
“What else did you find out. Anything about the meds?”
“I’m working on that,” he says absently. “I took some photos of them with my phone, but I don’t see anything that
looks like the blue capsules in the Pharmacology Flash Cards, in Skyscape or Epocrates. The last one surprises me, because you can usually plug in any mystery pill and it comes up with a match in about three seconds.”
Danielle sits down. “Max, what in the world are you talking about?”
Another exasperated sigh. “Let me make it simple for you. The iPhone has access to lots of apps—applications. I down loaded the ones I thought I’d need, using your credit card number, of course….”
She ignores the latter. “What applications?”
“Hmm, let’s see.” She can almost see him ticking off his fingers one at a time. “The Pharmacology Flash Cards are really cool. They keep up with the latest head drugs, clinical trials—all that kind of stuff.”
“Max, how long have you been doing this?”
She hears a snort. “C’mon, Mom, what did you think? That you could feed me those lousy pills for years and I wouldn’t find out what they are? Even a dumb-shit could tell they aren’t aspirin.”
Danielle blanches. So he knows he’s been on antipsychotics.
“It’s cool, Mom,” he continues. “Skyscape is another drug program, like Epocrates, except that Epocrates has pictures.”
“Of what?”
“Of the meds, Mom.”
“Did you find out what they are?”
“No, that’s the weird part. I’ve looked at every drug that could even be close to the ones Fastow gives me, and nothing matches—at least not any of the lunatic meds.”
She doesn’t touch that one, either. “This could be very
important, Max. Were you able to do a visual comparison with—”
“Other atypical antipsychotics?”
Her heart stops. Oh, her son is no dummy. “Yes,” she says weakly.
“None of them look like these. There’s no imprint code, no nothing. I’ve even read the clinical studies and description of the conventional meds and compared the side effects and drug-drug interactions.”
My God, how long has this been going on? He sounds like a Harvard Medical School graduate.
“It must be experimental. Max, I don’t want you taking a single one of the meds those people are giving you, even ones you’ve had before. And the more information you can collect, the better chance we’ll have at the hearing to get you out of there.”
“God, Mom, I hope so. I try not to think about it, but…”
“About what?”
The silence is knotted, fragile. If sadness were a color, it would be a blue stripe wound tightly around Max’s voice. “Whether or not I’m crazy, even without that weird shit Fastow’s been giving me.”
Danielle puts a hand to her forehead and closes her eyes. At least she doesn’t have to see him. She couldn’t bear it.
“Mom?”
“Yes, honey.” The pause lengthens. “I don’t think you’re psychotic, Max. I think they’re wrong.”
“But what if they’re not? I pass out at night just like I did when they said I killed Jonas.”
“Max, stop it.”
He is quiet a moment. “Okay.” Another pause. “Then let me tell you what else I found, and then I’ve got to go. It’s
time for the Dragon Lady to make sure I’ve done my ‘personal hygiene.’”
Danielle laughs. “You don’t do it at home. Why would you do it there?”
“Right. Okay, here’s the scoop on Sylvius and Osirix.” Danielle sighs. From experience, she knows she is about to get another Asperger’s lecture, filled with minutiae she probably doesn’t need. It seems as if psychopharmacology has been Max’s obsession for a long time.
“I hacked into Maitland’s database with my iPhone and then downloaded my MRIs using Osirix.”
“How did you manage
that?
”
“Got lucky,” he says. “The nurse’s station is right outside my room. I snitched the password when no one was looking. Man, they’re worthless.”
Like mother, like son,
she thinks.
“Anyway,” says Max, “you can pan around it and see how your brain lights up when you take certain meds, and—”
“Max…”
“I know, I know, but this is important. With Sylvius, I sectioned through my own MRI, which I found in Maitland’s database, to try to find out what’s lighting up and what drugs might… Anyway, that’s what I was doing when you called.” He exhales deeply, as if his thoughts are racing ahead of his conclusions.
Danielle hears a noise. Sevillas opened the door and points a finger at the conference room. Danielle waits until Sevillas is gone and then whispers quickly into the phone. “Max, I have to go. You’re doing amazing things. Send me everything you get, and I’ll forward it on to Sevillas and Doaks so they can see if it’s something we can use. I think it’s clear that Fastow is hiding something.”
“You really think he murdered Jonas?” Max’s voice seems excited.
Danielle can’t take any more. “Honey, I have to go. Call me later.”
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“If I can prove Fastow did it, then I’ll know I didn’t.”
She puts her hand to her forehead, glad that he can’t see her. “You didn’t do it, Max,” she says quietly.
He is silent for a long, painful moment. “I just don’t know anymore, Mom,” he whispers.
“Sweetheart, I know you better than anyone in the world, and I don’t believe it.”
The sad voice that comes through the line is that of an old man. “You’re my mom. You have to say that.”
“No, I don’t,” she says. “Now stop worrying about all of this for a while and try to rest.” She utters a soft goodbye and sneaks out to the ladies’ room. Where she cries as if her heart is breaking.
Back on the battlefield, they have spent the past few hours culling through the remainder of the State’s documents.
“Not much there,” says Sevillas.
“I didn’t expect there to be.” Danielle points to the tabs she has placed on a few of the documents the State has produced in response to their subpoena. “All I’ve found are a few minor discrepancies in Jonas’s application to Maitland.”
“What do you think, Doaks?”
“I always look at family first when you’re talkin’ about murder.” He shrugs. “Most people kill those they love.”
“A rosy view of the world,” says Sevillas, “but it doesn’t seem to be the case here.”
“No kiddin’,” says Doaks. “According to Barnes and the
boys down at the station, Jonas’s mom is fuckin’ Mother Teresa.”
There is a knock, and Sevillas’s secretary comes in with a manila envelope; hands it to Doaks; and leaves. He tears it open and pulls out a single piece of paper. He skims it and wads it into a ball. “Forget it. There ain’t no angle on the mother. Damn, all we need is one stinkin’ person who coulda, woulda, shoulda done it…and we ain’t got jack.”
“What was that?” asks Sevillas.
Doaks flops back into his chair. “Barnes sent it over. Told me he had a surprise for me. Man, just when you think those morons down there are dumber than stone, they turn around and do somethin’ really smart.”
“Fill us in, John.”
He sighs. “The cops luminoled everyone at the hospital right after they got there. They all came out clean as a whistle.”
“Luminoled?” asks Danielle. “What’s that?”
Sevillas picks up his pen and makes a note. “Luminol is a chemical used to detect trace amounts of blood. When shown under a black light, the areas in which blood has adhered to a surface are identifiable. It’s commonly used at a crime scene to see if and where a murderer might have tried to clean up after himself.”
“Yeah,” says Doaks, “but you’ll never guess what those bozos did. They didn’t just luminol everybody’s clothes.”
“What do you mean?” asks Sevillas.
“I mean they sprayed their hands, that’s what.” He shakes his head. “You ever heard of such bullshit?”
Sevillas stares at Doaks. “Their hands?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I didn’t even know the stuff worked on skin. You?”
“I’ve never had a case where they used it on the body.”
“Doesn’t matter,” says Doaks. “They’re all clean on that one, too.”
“I’ll have to do some research and find out if the results are reliable when used on human skin,” says Sevillas. “It certainly wasn’t the manufacturer’s intended use.”
“Well, don’t get your hopes up.” Doaks rubs his neck. “I’m strikin’ out on a few other fronts, too. That girl—Naomi? She wasn’t even on the unit the day of the murder. She was at the cafeteria eatin’ fried chicken in front of about fifty witnesses.” He shrugs. “Too bad about her. Just one look at her, and a jury would love to put her away.”