Part 8 (2/2)
Susan might be awake, but over there, Aaron Stein, painting that horrific thing-what was it, a woman colliding with a gigantic p.e.n.i.s?-obviously still needed to wake up.
”What's that guy's problem?”
”Schizoaffective disorder,” Sam replied in a self-important tone. Proud of his jargon.
Beautiful, poetic Aaron, so quick to laugh and so full of gentle wisdom ...
She would soon be painting as well, but it wouldn't be an outlet for mental illness, far from it.
It was essential that it be completed quickly, for there would come a time soon that the chaos would be too great, and it would be impossible to finish it. Even the color of the sky was going to change, and without good color, she could not make this artifact that was to be a perfect confluence of the knowledge of science and the energy of art.
If Mr. Acton's plan worked.
”Let's get out of here,” she muttered to Sam.
Another member of the cla.s.s-a grinning Amy Makepeace-looked up from a painting of what appeared to be some sort of grim tower, and smiled the too-radiant smile of a madwoman.
”What's your death going to be?” she asked, her tone crisply genial, her eyes b.u.t.ton-bright. ”Me, I prefer to jump.”
At least there was plenty of painting going on, which was an important part of the plan. The device she had been trained in cla.s.s to create would appear to be a painting, at least at first. Later, as it developed, it would reveal itself to be a doorway through time, and when it did, n.o.body would imagine for a moment that it was just a picture.
By balancing the artistic skill and scientific knowledge in her mind, all enhanced by the power of the alchemical gold she would make, she was actually generating their escape route. What she would create in this room would look like a painting for a while. But it was not a painting, not at all.
”Ma'am, we want to move on.”
”Sure. Gotta cover my cage, I'm too noisy.”
”The tower,” the woman said, ”you walk and you fall.” She thrust her grinning face into Caroline's. ”And you fall fall ...” ...”
And Caroline saw an opportunity to reinforce her own feigned symptoms. She pretended to have a seizure, letting herself pitch backward shaking. She hit the floor so hard that she blacked out.
A moonlike face appeared, its demon eyes fearsome. She gasped, then screamed-and the face of Mack Graham smiled, and it was as if the demon had withdrawn-hidden, once again, in its lair in the man's heart.
He helped her to her feet. ”I'm so sorry, Miss-”
Do not tell him your name.
Brus.h.i.+ng herself off, she scrambled away from him.
”Maybe your medications are affecting your balance,” Sam said.
”That's just it! I'm not on any. I've run out so I came here-” She looked around the room. Every eye was on her, and she was looking at gargoyles, at smoldering s.e.x maniacs, at wild-eyed schizophrenics, at paranoids in their sullen corners-it was awful, a gallery of the d.a.m.ned in the faces of people she loved dearly and respected enormously. That brilliant cla.s.s of wonderful kids were the center of her heart and to see them like this was almost enough to induce actual insanity in her.
She smiled, forced a laugh. ”I won't miss that step again,” she sang out. ”Let's see my suite.”
”Of course, Ma'am.”
Sam laid an arm around her shoulder, or rather, his big arm came oozing around her with the muscular stealth of a python. She allowed herself to be guided out of the art room and down yet another long inst.i.tutional corridor.
Ahead was another of the black doors, looming at her like a hungry trap. ”Do we have to go back in there?”
”Your suite is there.”
”Where does Mack live?”
”Next door, actually.”
”No,” she said, ”no. I need to live in the house, you see. It's what I'm used to. This-oh, my G.o.d, it's a prison.”
”The rooms are nice, Ma'am. So, please-”
She had to lay it on. She had to continue to seem insane, here. She must not raise the suspicions of that monster Mack, and he was suspicious already, there could be no doubt of that. She pulled away from her minder. ”Look, I've made a mistake. I can't do this. I'm going home.”
”Caroline-”
”I'm going home!” But now she found herself confronting not just dear old Sam, but David and his a.s.sistant, Katrina Starnes. Katrina, the modern name of the Mexican G.o.ddess of death.
”Caroline, you need to go in now,” she said.
”Please, Caroline,” David added-and the lack of recognition stabbed her heart.
”We're still processing your intake,” the death G.o.ddess said. ”Someone will be along to help you with your program in a few minutes.”
She had to continue her act.
”I'm free to leave,” she snapped. As she tried to push between them, the enforcer laid his thick-and surprisingly gentle-hands on her shoulders.
Drawing herself away from him, she cried out, ”How dare you touch me!”
His body blocked her way, but when she tried to get around him, he proved to be as adept as any dancer.
”What's she doing, Doctor?”
”I don't know.”
She turned on David. ”Get these people out of my face!”
As she tried to make her way back into the main house, Katrina dropped a leather strap around her arms and pinned them to her sides. Even fighting as hard as she did, she could not free herself.
She did a little method acting, imagining what it would be like if this were real, if she were actually mad and being trapped, and terror exploded through her with such intensity that she just burst out screaming, surprising even herself with the ferocity of it.
The sounds of the struggle echoed up and down the corridor, and the cries of other patients were soon added to her own screams. As patients came out of the art room and other public rooms, some of them laughed, their voices warbling high with hysteria, while others shouted for help, or came rus.h.i.+ng forward to do battle on her behalf.
Susan Denman watched, amused and appalled at the baroque antics.
But before any of this chaos could resolve itself, she was dragged backward hard, there was a great crash and sudden silence, and she was on the floor looking up into David's dear, empty face.
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