Domain (7 page)

“Well, good morning, Sunshine. I’m Raymond, and I bet you’re our new intern.”

“Dominique Vazquez.” She shakes his callused hand, noticing beads of perspiration across the thick, freckled forearm.

“Sorry, just came from the gym.” Raymond wipes his arms down with a hand towel, over exaggerating the movement to flex his pump. “I’m competing in the Mr. Florida Regional in November. Think I’ve got a chance?”

“Uh, sure.”
God, please don’t let him start posing
…

“Maybe you could come down and watch me compete, you know, root me on?” The pale hazel eyes widen behind short amber eyelashes.

Be gentle
. “Are a lot of the staff going?”

“A few, but I’ll make sure you get a seat close to the stage. Come on back, Sunshine, I need to make you a security card and record a thermal image of your face.” Raymond unlocks the steel security gate and holds it open for her by flexing his triceps. Dominique feels his eyes running over her as she passes through.

“Have a seat over there, we’ll take care of the security card first. I’ll need your driver’s license.”

She hands it to him, then sits in an upright chair positioned before a black machine the size of a refrigerator. Raymond loads a square disk into a slot on one side, then types in her information on the computer.

“Smile.” The flash explodes in her eyes, leaving an annoying spot. “I’ll have the card ready by the time you leave tonight.” He hands back her driver’s license. “Okay, come over here and have a seat in front of this infrared camera. Ever have your face mapped?”

Ever have your back shaved
? “Uh, not that I know of.”

“The infrared camera creates a unique image of your face by registering the heat emitted by the blood vessels beneath your skin. Even identical twins look different under infrared, and facial patterns never changes. The computer records nineteen hundred different thermal points. Pupil scans use 266 measurable characteristics, while fingerprints only have forty—”

“Ray, this is fascinating—really—but is it necessary? I haven’t seen anyone use an infrared scan.”

“That’s because you haven’t been here at night. The magnetic strip on your identification card is all you’ll need to enter or exit the facility during the day. But after seven-thirty, you’ll need to enter your password, then allow the infrared scanner to identify you. The machine will compare your thermal facial features with the ones we’re about to place on your permanent file. No one gets in or out of this facility at night without being scanned, and nothing fools the machine. Smile.”

Dominique stares sullenly at the sphere-shaped camera behind the plate-glass window, feeling foolish.

“Okay, turn to your left. Good. Now right, now look down. Done. Hey, Sunshine, do you like Italian?”

Here we go
. “Sometimes.”

“There’s a great place not far from here. What time you get off?”

“Tonight’s not really a good—”

“When is good?”

“Ray, I have to be honest, I usually make it a rule not to date anyone on staff.”

“Who said anything about a date? I said dinner.”

“If it’s just dinner, then yes, I’d love to go sometime, but tonight’s really not good. Give me a few weeks to get situated.”
And to work on another excuse
. She smiles sweetly, hoping to ease the pain of rejection. “Besides, you can’t go out for a big Italian meal if you’re in training.”

“Okay, Sunshine, but I’m going to hold you to that.” The big redhead smiles. “Now listen, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I won’t. I really should be going, Dr. Foletta’s waiting—”

“Foletta won’t be in until later this afternoon. Monthly board meeting. Hey, I hear he assigned you that patient of his. What’s his name?”

“Michael Gabriel. What do you know about him?”

“Not much. Transferred down from Massachusetts with Foletta. I know the board and medical staff were pretty pissed off when he arrived. Foletta must have pulled quite a few strings.”

“What do you mean?”

Raymond looks away, avoiding her eyes. “Ah, never mind.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

“Nah. I gotta learn to keep my big yap shut. Foletta’s your boss. I wouldn’t want to say anything that might give you a bad impression.”

“I’ll keep it between the two of us.”

Two more guards enter, waving at Raymond.

“Okay, I’ll tell you, but not here. Too many ears with big mouths. We’ll talk over dinner. I punch out at six.” The yellow teeth flash a triumphant smile.

Raymond holds the gate open for her. Dominique exits the security station and waits for the staff elevator, grimacing.
Way to go, Sunshine. You should have seen that one coming a mile away
.

Marvis Jones watches her exit the elevator from his security monitor. “Morning, Intern. If you’re here to see resident Gabriel, he’s confined to his room.”

“Can I see him?”

The guard looks up from his paperwork. “Maybe you should wait until the director returns.”

“No. I want to speak with him now. And not in the seclusion room.”

Marvis appears annoyed. “I highly advise against that. This man has a history of violence and—”

“I’m not sure I’d label one instance in eleven years a history.”

They make eye contact. Marvis sees that Dominique will not back down. “Okay, miss, have it your way. Jason, escort Intern Vazquez to room 714. Give her your security transponder, then lock her in.”

Dominique follows the guard through a short hall, entering the middle pod of three located in the northern wing. The lounge area is empty.

The guard stops at room 714 and speaks into the hall intercom. “Resident, remain on your bed where I can see you.” He unlocks the door, then hands her what appears to be a thick pen. “If you need me, just double-click this pen.” He demonstrates, causing the beeper on his belt to vibrate. “Just be careful. Don’t allow him to get too close.”

“Thank you.” She enters the room.

The cell is ten by twelve feet long. Daylight streams in from a three-inch sliver of plastic running vertically along one wall. There are no windows. The bed is iron, fastened to the floor. A desk and set of cubbies are fastened next to it. A sink and steel toilet are anchored by the wall to her right, angled to give its occupant some privacy from the hall.

The bed is made, the room immaculate. Michael Gabriel is sitting on the edge of a magazine-thin mattress. He stands, greeting her with a warm smile. “Good morning, Dominique. I see Dr. Foletta hasn’t arrived yet. How fortunate.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we’re speaking in my cell instead of the interview room. Please, sit on the bed, I’ll take the floor. Unless you prefer the toilet?”

She returns his smile, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

Mick leans back against the wall to her left. His black eyes twinkle beneath the fluorescent light.

He wastes no time interrogating her. “So, how was your weekend? Did you read my father’s journal?”

“I’m sorry. I only managed to make it through the first ten pages. I did manage to finish Rosenhan’s study.”

“On being sane in an insane place. Your thoughts, please?”

“I found it interesting, maybe even a bit surprising. His staff had quite the time sorting subjects from patients. Why did you have me read it?”

“Why do you think?” The ebony eyes glitter at her, exuding their animal-like intelligence.

“Obviously you want me to consider the possibility that you’re not insane.”

“Obviously.” He sits up, pulling his heels into a lotus position. “Let’s play a game, shall we? Let’s imagine it’s eleven years ago and you’re me, Michael Gabriel, son of the soon-to-be-infamous and quite dead archaeologist, Julius Gabriel. You’re standing backstage at Harvard University before a capacity crowd, listening to your father share a lifetime of information with some of the greatest minds in the scientific community. Your heart is pounding with adrenaline because you’ve worked side by side with your father from the day you were born, and you know how important this lecture is, not just to him but to the future of mankind. Ten minutes into his lecture, you see Julius’s longtime nemesis stroll across the stage to another podium. Pierre Borgia, the prodigal son of a political family dynasty, decides he’s going to challenge my father’s research right there, onstage. Turns out the whole lecture was just one big setup, arranged personally by Borgia to engage my father in a verbal assault designed to destroy his credibility. At least a dozen members of the audience were in on the joke. After ten minutes, Julius couldn’t even be heard over his colleagues’ laughter.”

Mick pauses, momentarily lost in the memory. “My father was a selfless, brilliant man who dedicated his life to the pursuit of truth. Halfway through the most important speaking engagement of his life, he had his entire existence pulled out from under him, his pride destroyed, his life’s work—thirty-two years of sacrifice—desecrated in the blink of an eye. Can you imagine the humiliation he must have felt?”

“What happened next?”

“He staggered backstage and fell into my arms, clutching his chest. Julius had a bad heart. With his last ounce of strength, he whispered some instructions to me, then died in my arms.”

“And that’s when you went after Borgia?”

“The bastard was still onstage, spewing hatred. Despite what I’m sure you’ve been told, I’m not a violent man”—the dark eyes widen—“but at that moment, I wanted to shove that microphone down his throat. I remember stalking the podium, the world around me moving in slow motion. All I could hear was my own breathing, all I could see was Borgia, but it seemed like I was looking at him through a tunnel. The next thing I know, he’s lying on the floor, and I’m bashing his skull in with the mike.”

Dominique crosses her legs, disguising the shudder.

“My father’s body ended up in the county morgue, cremated without a ceremony. Borgia spent the next three weeks in a private hospital room where his family ran his senatorial campaign, engineering what the press referred to as ‘an unprecedented come-from-behind victory.’ I sat rotting in a jail cell, no friends or family to bail me out, waiting to face what I assumed were assault charges. Borgia had other ideas. Using his family’s political influence, he manipulated the system, striking a deal with the DA and my state-appointed attorney. The next thing I know, I’m being proclaimed a nutcase, the judge shipping me off to some run-down asylum in Massachusetts, a place where Borgia could keep an eye on me, no pun intended.”

“You say Borgia manipulated the legal system. How?”

“The same way he manipulates Foletta, my state-appointed keeper. Pierre Borgia rewards loyalty, but God help you if you make his shit list. The judge who sentenced me was promoted to the state supreme court within three months of finding me criminally insane. A short time later our good doctor was made facility director, somehow managing to hopscotch over a dozen more qualified applicants.”

The black eyes read her thoughts. “Say what you’re really dunking, Dominique. You think I’m a delusional, paranoid schizophrenic.”

“I didn’t say that. What about the other incident? Are you denying that you brutally attacked a guard?”

Mick stares up at her, the look in his eyes unnerving. “Robert Griggs was more sadist than homosexual, a guard whose acts you’d probably diagnose as being anger-excitation rape. Foletta purposely assigned him to the night shift in my ward a month before my first evaluation was scheduled. Ol’ Griggsy used to make his rounds about two in the morning.” Dominique feels her heart pounding.

“Thirty residents per ward, all of us sleeping with one wrist and one ankle shackled to the center posts of our beds. One night Griggs came in drunk, looking for me. I guess he decided I’d make a nice addition to his harem. First thing he did was lubricate me up a bit by shoving a broomstick—”

“Stop! Where were the other guards?”

“Griggs was it. Since there was nothing I could do to stop him, I sweet-talked him, trying to convince him that he’d enjoy things a bit more if both my legs were free. Dumb son of a bitch unlocked my leg shackle. I won’t bore you with the details about what happened next—”

“I heard. You scrambled his eggs, so to speak.”

“I could have killed him, but I didn’t. I’m not a murderer.”

“And for that you spent the rest of your days in solitary?” Mick nods. “Eleven years in the concrete mother. Cold and hard, but she’s always there. Now you tell. How old were you when your cousin sodomized you?”

“You’ll excuse me, I don’t feel comfortable discussing it with you.”

“Because you’re the psychotherapist and I’m the psycho?”

“No, I mean yes—because I’m the doctor and you’re my patient.”

“Are we really so different, you and I? Do you think Rosenhan’s staff could determine which one of us belongs in this cell?” He leans back against the wall. “May I call you Dom?”

“Yes.”

“Dom, solitary confinement can wear on a man. I’m probably suffering from sensory deprivation, and I might even scare you a bit, but I’m just as sane as you or Foletta or that guard posted by the door. What can I do to convince you of that?”

“It’s not me you have to convince, it’s Dr. Foletta.”

“I told you, Foletta works for Borgia, and Borgia will never allow me out.”

“I can talk to him. Push him into giving you the same rights and privileges as the other residents. In time, I could—”

“Christ, I can already hear Foletta now. ‘Wake up, Intern Vazquez. You’re falling for Gabriel’s famous conspiracy theory.’ He’s probably got you convinced that I’m another Ted Bundy.”

“Not at all. Mick, I became a psychiatrist to help people like—”

“People like me. Lunatics?”

“Let me finish. You’re not a lunatic, but I think you need help. The first step is to convince Foletta to assign an evaluation team to you—”

“No. Foletta won’t allow it, and even if he did, there’s no time.”

“Why isn’t there time?”

“My annual evaluation and hearing is coming up in six days. Haven’t you figured out why Foletta assigned you to me? You’re a student, easily manipulated. ‘The patient shows some encouraging signs of improvement, Intern Vazquez, but he’s still unfit to rejoin society.’ You’ll concur with his diagnosis, which is all the evaluation board needs to hear.”