Domain (4 page)

“I’m sorry, you lost me on that last bit.”

Foletta leafs through the file, removing a series of Polaroids from a manila envelope. “This is the man he attacked. Take a good look at the picture, Intern. Make sure you don’t let your defenses down.”

It is a close-up of a man’s face, brutally battered. The right eye socket is covered in blood.

“Mick tore the microphone from the podium and beat the victim senseless with it. Poor man ended up losing his eye. I think you’ll recognize the victim’s name. Pierre Borgia.”

“Borgia? You’re kidding? The Secretary of State?”

“This was nearly eleven years ago, before Borgia was appointed UN representative. He was running for senator at the time. Some say the attack probably helped get him elected. Before the Borgia political machine pushed him into politics, Pierre was apparently quite the scholar. He and Julius Gabriel were in the same doctoral program at Cambridge. Believe it or not, the two of them actually worked together as colleagues after graduation, exploring ancient ruins for a good five or six years before having a major fallout. Borgia’s family finally convinced him to return to the States and enter politics, but the bad blood never went away.”

“Turns out it was Borgia who actually introduced Julius as the keynote speaker. Pierre probably said a few things he shouldn’t have said, which helped incite the crowd. Julius Gabriel had a bad heart. After he dropped dead backstage, Mick retaliated. Took six cops to pull him off. It’s all in the file.”

“Sounds more like an isolated emotional outburst, brought on by—”

“That kind of rage takes years to build up, Intern. Michael Gabriel was a volcano, waiting to erupt. Here we have an only child, raised by two prominent archaeologists in some of the most desolate areas of the world. He never attended school or had the opportunity to socialize with other children, all of which contributed to an extreme case of antisocial-personality disorder. Hell, Mick has probably never gone out on a date. Everything he ever learned was taught to him by his only companions, his parents, at least one of which was certifiable.”

Foletta hands her the file.

“What happened to his mother?”

“Died of pancreatic cancer while the family was living in Peru. For some reason, her death still haunts him. Once or twice a month he’ll wake up screaming. Vicious night terrors.”

“How old was Mick when she died?”

“Twelve.”

“Any idea why her death still creates such trauma?”

“No. Mick refuses to speak about it.” Foletta adjusts himself, unable to get comfortable in the small chair. “The truth, Intern Vazquez, is that Michael Gabriel doesn’t like me very much.”

“Transference neurosis?”

“No. Mick and I never had that kind of doctor-patient relationship. I’ve become his jailer, part of his paranoia. Some of that no doubt stems from his first years of residence. Mick had a hard time adjusting to confinement. One week before his six-month evaluation, he flipped out on one of our guards, breaking both the man’s arms and kicking him repeatedly in the scrotum. Caused so much damage that both testicles had to be surgically removed. There’s a picture somewhere in the file if you care—”

“No thanks.”

“As punishment for the attack, Mick spent most of the last ten years in solitary confinement.”

“That’s a bit severe, isn’t it?”

“Not where I come from. Mick’s a lot more clever than the men whom we hire to guard him. It’s best for all concerned to keep him isolated.”

“Will he be allowed to participate in group activities?”

“They have strict rules about mainstreaming residents down here, but for now, the answer’s no.”

Dominique stares at the Polaroids again. “How concerned do I need to be about this guy attacking me?”

“In our business, Intern, you always have to be concerned. Is Mick Gabriel a threat to attack? Always. Do I think he will? Doubtful. The last ten years haven’t been easy on him.”

“Will he ever be permitted to reenter society?”

Foletta shakes his head. “Never. In the road of life, this is Mick Gabriel’s last stop. He’d never be able to handle the rigors of society. Mick’s scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“His own schizophrenia. Mick claims he can sense the presence of evil growing stronger, feeding off society’s hatred and violence. His phobia reaches a breaking point every time another angry kid grabs his father’s gun and shoots up a high school. This kind of stuff really gets to him.”

“It gets to me, too.”

“Not like this. Mick becomes a tiger.”

“Is he being medicated?”

“We keep him on zyprexa—twice a day. Knocks most of the fight out of him.”

“So what do you want me to do with him?”

“State law requires that he receive therapy. Use the opportunity to gain some valuable experience.”

He’s hiding something
. “I appreciate the opportunity, Doctor. But why me?”

Foletta pushes up from the desk and stands, the furniture creaking beneath his weight. “As director of this facility, it might be construed as a conflict of interest if I were the only one treating him.”

“But why not assign a full team to—”

“No.” Foletta’s patience is wearing thin. “Michael Gabriel is still my patient, and I’ll determine what avenue of therapy is best suited for him, not some board of trustees. What you’ll soon find out for yourself is that Mick’s a bit of a con artist—quite clever, very articulate, and very intelligent. His IQ’s close to 160.”

“That’s rather unusual for a schizophrenic, isn’t it?”

“Unusual, but not unheard of. My point is—he’d only toy with a social worker or rehab specialist. It takes someone with your training to see through his bullshit.”

“So when do I meet him?”

“Right now. He’s being brought to a seclusion room so I can observe your first encounter. I told him all about you this morning. He’s looking forward to speaking with you. Just be careful.”

The top four floors of the facility, referred to as units by the SFETC staff, each house forty-eight residents. Units are divided into north and south wings, each wing containing three pods. A pod consists of a small rec room with sofas and a television, centered around eight private dorm rooms. Each floor has its own security and nurses’ station. There are no windows.

Foletta and Dominique ride the staff elevator to the seventh floor. An African-American security guard is speaking to one of the nurses at the central station. The seclusion room is to his left.

The director acknowledges the guard, then introduces him to the new intern. Marvis Jones is in his late forties, with kind, brown eyes that exude confidence gained through experience. Dominique notices that the guard is unarmed. Foletta explains that no weapons are permitted on residential floors at any time.

Marvis leads them through the central station to a one-way security glass looking in on the seclusion room.

Michael Gabriel is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the far wall facing the window. He is wearing a white tee shirt and matching slacks, his physique appearing surprisingly fit, the upper body well-defined. He is tall, nearly six-four, 220 pounds. The hair is dark brown, a bit on the long side, curling at the fringes. The face is handsome and cleanly shaven. A three-inch scar stretches across the right side of the jawline, close to the ear. His eyes remain fixed on the floor.

“He’s cute.”

“So was Ted Bundy,” Foletta says. “I’ll be watching you from here. I’m sure Mick will be quite charming, wanting to impress you. When I think you’ve had enough, I’ll have the nurse come in and give him his medication.”

“Okay.” Her voice quavers.
Relax, God dammit
.

Foletta smiles. “Are you nervous?”

“No, just a little excited.”

She exits the station, motioning to Marvis to unlock the seclusion room. The door swings open, stimulating butterflies to take wing in her stomach. Pausing long enough to allow her pulse to slow, she enters, shuddering as the double click seals the door behind her.

The seclusion room is ten by twelve feet long. An iron bed is bolted to the floor and wall directly in front of her, a thin pad serving as a mattress. A solitary chair faces the bed, also bolted to the floor. A smoked panel of glass on the wall to her right is the undisguised viewing window. The room smells of antiseptic.

Mick Gabriel is standing now, his head slightly bowed so she cannot see his eyes.

Dominique extends a hand, forcing a smile. “Dominique Vazquez.”

Mick looks up, revealing animal eyes so intensely black that it is impossible to determine where the pupils end and the irises begin.

“Dominique Vazquez. Dominique Vazquez.” The resident pronounces each syllable carefully, as if locking it into his memory. “It’s so very nice to…”

The smile suddenly disappears, the pasted expression going blank.

Dominique’s heart pounds in her ears.
Stay calm. Don’t move
.

Mick closes his eyes. Something unexpected is happening to him. Dominique sees his jawline rise slightly, revealing the scar. The nostrils flare like an animal tracking its prey.

“May I come closer, please?” The words are spoken softly, almost whispered. She senses an emotional dam cracking behind the voice.

Dominique fights the urge to turn toward the smoked glass.

The eyes reopen. “I swear on my mother’s soul that I won’t harm you.”

Watch his hands. Drive the knee home if he lunges
. “You can come closer, but no sudden movements, okay? Dr. Foletta’s watching.”

Mick takes two steps forward, remaining half an arm’s length away. He leans his face forward, closing his eyes, inhaling—as if her face is an exquisite bottle of wine.

The man’s presence is causing the hairs on the back of her arms to stand on end. She watches his facial muscles relax as his mind leaves the room. Water wells behind the closed eyelids. Several tears escape, flowing freely down his cheeks.

For a brief moment, maternal instincts cause her defenses to drop.
Is this an act
? Her muscles recoil.

Mick opens his eyes, now black pools. The animal intensity has vanished.

“Thank you. I think my mother must have worn the same perfume.”

She takes a step back. “It’s Calvin Klein. Does it bring back happy memories?”

“Some bad ones as well.”

The spell is broken. Mick moves to the cot. “Would you prefer the chair or the bed?”

“The chair’s fine.” He waits for her to sit first, then positions himself on the edge of the cot so that he can lean back against the wall. Mick moves like an athlete.

“You look like you’ve managed to stay in shape.”

“Living in solitary can do that if one’s mind is disciplined enough. I do a thousand push-ups and sit-ups every day.” She feels his eyes absorb her figure. “You look like you work out as well.”

“I try.”

“Vazquez. Is that with an s or a z?”

“Z.”

“Puerto Rico?”

“Yes. My … my biological father grew up in Arecibo.”

“Site of the largest radio telescope in the world. But the accent sounds Guatemalan.”

“I was raised there.”
He’s controlling the conversation
. “I take it you’ve been to Central America?”

“I’ve been to many places.” Mick tucks his heels into a lotus position. “So you were raised in Guatemala. How did you find your way to this great land of opportunity?”

“My parents died when I was young. I was sent to live in with a cousin in Florida. Now let’s talk about you.”

“You said your biological father. You felt it important to distinguish him as such. Who’s the man you consider your true father?”

“Isadore Axler. He and his wife adopted me. I spent some time in an orphanage after I left my cousins. Iz and Edith Axler are wonderful people. They’re both marine biologists. They operate a SOSUS station on Sanibel Island.”

“SOSUS?”

“It’s a sound underwater surveillance system, a global network of undersea microphones. The Navy deployed SOSUS during the cold war to detect enemy subs. Biologists took over the system, using it to eavesdrop on marine life. It’s actually sensitive enough to listen in on pods of whales hundreds of miles away as—”

The penetrating eyes cut her off. “Why did you leave your cousin? Something traumatic must have happened for you to have ended up in an orphanage.”

He’s worse than Foletta
. “Mick, I’m here to talk about you.”

“Yes, but perhaps I’ve also had a traumatic childhood. Perhaps your story could help me.”

“I doubt it. Everything turned out fine. The Axlers gave me back my childhood, and I’m—”

“But not your innocence.”

Dominique feels the blood rush from her face. “All right, now that we’ve established that you’re a quick study, let’s see if you can focus that amazing IQ of yours in on yourself.”

“You mean, so you can help me?”

“So we can help each other.”

“You haven’t read my file yet, have you?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Do you know why Director Foletta assigned you to me?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Mick stares at his hands, contemplating a response. “There’s a study, written by Rosenhan. Have you read it?”

“No.”

“Would you mind reading it before we meet again? I’m sure Dr. Foletta must have a copy stashed in one of those cardboard boxes he calls a filing system.”

She smiles. “If it’s important to you, then I’ll read it.”

“Thank you.” He leans forward. “I like you, Dominique. Do you know why I like you?”

“No.” The fluorescent bulbs perform a moonlight dance in his eyes.

“I like you because your mind hasn’t become institutionalized. You’re still fresh, and that’s important to me, because I really want to confide in you, but I can’t, at least not in this room, not with Foletta watching. I also think you may be able to relate to some of the hardships I’ve gone through. So I’d like to talk to you about a lot of things, very important things. Do you think we could talk in private next time? Perhaps down in the yard?”

“I’ll ask Dr. Foletta.”

“Remind him of the facility’s rules when you do. Would you also ask him to give you my father’s journal. If you’re to be my therapist, then I feel it’s of vital importance that you read it. Would you mind doing that for me?”