Part 1 (1/2)
Now Playing on the Jukebox in h.e.l.l.
K Simpson.
CHAPTER 1.
Sunday After Thanksgiving.
On the third day back, I finally got around to visiting my boss and my employee in the mental hospital, where demons had driven them, with a little help from me.
All right, it was Ca.s.sie's demon who drove Jack to the hospital -- literally, in a red BMW with a Jesus fish on the back. Kurt had taken a taxi. And I may have had more than a little to do with the situation. But there were demons at the bottom of everything that year, especially that December. If it hadn't been for Monica and especially Vanessa...
Well, it's a long story. But I guess this part of it starts at the hospital.
Clearwater Stress Center.
Wednesday, 5:43 p.m.
”This is it?”
Ca.s.sie asked, incredulous.
”This is it.”
”But it looks like an office park.”
That it did. My guess was that it was supposed to. The development we were in was actually called a medical park, but the building ahead could have been anything. I'd probably driven by it a hundred times without a clue. Only the discreet little sign at the entrance gave it away -- not just the words on the sign, but also the logo. There is no deader giveaway of rehab than bird-and-sun graphics.
”No bars on the windows,” Ca.s.sie mused as we got out of the car. ”What kind of loony bin is this, anyway?”
”It's not a loony bin. It's a stress center.”
She snorted. ”It's a loony bin if Jack and Kurt are in it. Are you sure this is a good idea?”
”No. But you don't have to go in, Ca.s.s. If you want to just wait in the car...”
The way she looked at my MG gave me pause. She seemed to have a personal grudge against it.
”We won't stay long,” I promised, locking the door. ”Then we'll do whatever you want for dinner. All right? Where do you want to go?”
She thought for a second. ”Italian.”
That helped. That narrowed it down to about a thousand restaurants. But she was a little edgy, and there was no reason to force the issue.
”Great,” I said. ”Let's go get this over with.”
At the stroke of 6, a nurse appeared in the lobby to take the visitors back to the visiting area. We'd all been through the third degree -- signing in, being checked against a list, surrendering our Uzis and crack pipes -- and were in a fairly surly mood, so when the nurse suggested that we follow her single-file, rude words were said.
I didn't say them, partly because Ca.s.sie had clamped down on my arm as a warning. But I did smile a little.
The nurse pretended not to hear. The residents, she said, were just finis.h.i.+ng dinner...
”The what?” Ca.s.sie asked. ”The what are finis.h.i.+ng dinner?”
I clamped down on her.
”We don't use the word 'patients,'” the nurse explained. ”Now, if you'll step this way...”
Ca.s.sie leaned close to murmur in my ear. ”I want this hospital's account. And then I want you to change their image.”
”It's not a hospital,” I said. ”It's a residential therapy facility.”
”It's a nuthouse. Will you do it if I get the account?”
”What's in it for me?”
She whispered what she had in mind...and I walked right into a pillar. The crash, or maybe the language that followed, stopped our little group in its tracks.
”That's why I said you should follow me single-file,” the nurse said pitilessly. ”One of those papers you signed at the front desk was an injury waiver. Just thought you'd like to know. Now, if you'll all come this way...”
We made it to the visiting room with no further casualties. There was my pride, of course, but that had been DOA since Thanksgiving.
Ca.s.sie pulled me under a light fixture to check for damage and frowned slightly. ”Honey, your nose is bleeding. Maybe you should lie down for a minute.”
”That would be a cliche. Lying down on a couch in a loony bin.” I started to check my purse for Kleenex but then remembered they'd made me leave it at the front desk, just because they'd found a Swiss Army knife in it. Ca.s.sie had one in hers, too, but she'd batted her lashes at a male guard and gotten away with it. Sometimes, I feared her powers. ”Do you have any Kleenex?”
”Not in this purse. Wait here. I'll go ask the nurse.”
She took off, leaving me nothing to do but check out the room. Which reminded me of a furniture showroom, with all the brutally modern earth-tone couches and chairs. In fact, I thought I'd seen those very couches in a Bennison's Home Store ad. It wasn't our account, but I bet I could find out whether there'd been a trade-out involved. Maybe furniture-store owners went wacko, too.
Idly, I watched the double doors at the far end of the room, waiting for Jack and Kurt. A few patients had already showed up, and there were little reunions going on all around. There was also some activity in the courtyard outside. Through the window, I saw a small mob of patients smoking as though their very lives depended on it. Had I looked that desperate when I was still a smoker?
Not wanting an answer to that question, I walked to the other end of the room, toward the door we'd all come in through. At that moment, it opened again. d.a.m.n. Of all people, the person coming through it was Kurt's wife. The instant she saw me, she stopped cold.
Now what? I hardly knew the woman. We'd crossed paths at company parties and unavoidable social events over the years, but I doubted we'd had a minute of real conversation. Of course, Kurt always did all the talking for both of them. But never mind that. What did I say to her now?
”Hi, Peg,” I said uncertainly.
She nodded. She didn't look hostile, though -- just bewildered. I tried again.