With Henry still ranting behind them, Striker approached the desk. ‘Detectives Striker and Santos,’ he explained. He showed the woman his badge and credentials. ‘We’re here to speak with Dr Ostermann.’
She still did not smile. ‘Did you book an appointment?’
‘For an asylum?’ he asked. ‘No, we didn’t.’
The woman’s face tightened – her first sign of any emotion. ‘We don’t call it that any more,’ she corrected. ‘This is a mental health facility.’ She leafed through a ledger on her desk and made an unhappy sound. ‘Dr Ostermann is in session for another twenty minutes. Until eleven. And after that he has to be at his personal practice by twelve . . . I don’t know if he’ll be able to fit you in today.’
‘He can and will,’ Striker said. ‘He knows we’re coming. I talked to him yesterday.’
‘I was never informed of this.’
Felicia’s face darkened. ‘So there’s some things in this world you don’t know?’ she asked.
Striker offered the woman a smile. ‘I’m sure it just slipped his mind.’
The woman showed no reaction to the words. She just gestured to a row of seats along the far wall. ‘Sit there. I’ll let the doctor know you’re waiting for him.’
Striker looked over at the door to Dr Ostermann’s office. He walked across the room, grabbed the handle, and opened it.
‘Sir! Sir!
Detective!
’ the receptionist called.
Striker played ignorant. ‘Yes?’
‘Out here, please.’
‘Oh, sorry. I thought you wanted us to wait inside his office.’
‘No.’
Striker sat down next to Felicia, who craned her neck and grinned at him.
‘Nice try, Sherlock.’
He said nothing back. He just sat next to her, breathed in deeply and smelled the vanilla perfume she always wore. The scent filled his head with other memories, enjoyable ones, and he tried not to think about it. He focused instead on a way to get inside the office.
They waited for another five minutes, until the receptionist got up from her desk. ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ she said. She offered no further explanation, and disappeared down the hallway. Striker waited for her to disappear around the corner. Then he stood up.
‘What are you doing?’ Felicia asked.
‘Magic,’ he said.
He walked over to the wall, leaned against it, then made a soft whistling sound. In the common room, Henry was still muttering to himself about the knives being too dangerous. He heard the whistle and looked over.
This time, Striker did not look away. Instead, he smiled at the man, winked, and whispered, ‘Look at what I got.’ Then he brushed the tail of his jacket to the side, revealing the pistol holstered beneath. ‘I
snuck
it in here.’
Henry let out a loud gasp. ‘You can’t have that in here!’
Striker thumbed the release button and slid out the magazine. He popped out a bullet, reloaded it, then slid the magazine back into the gun. He looked back at Henry.
‘Got three full mags.’
‘You can’t have those – they’re
dangerous
!’
‘Real dangerous.’
‘It’s against the rules!’
‘I don’t follow the rules.’
Henry’s face darkened and he started to tremble all over. ‘YOU CAN’T HAVE THAT IN HERE – IT’S DANGEROUS!’ he bellowed. He stepped forward and kicked one of the chairs, just as the receptionist returned. She let out a gasp and dropped her coffee cup as the chair went sliding across the floor and slammed into the door, rattling the safety glass.
‘Henry, calm down!’ she ordered. ‘
Calm down!
’
‘HE CAN’T HAVE THAT IN HERE! CAN’T HAVE IT! IT’S FUCKING DANGEROUS!’
The guards came rushing over, took custody of Henry, and quickly escorted him back to his room in an effort to maintain calmness in the area.
But the damage was done. The other patients were already leaving their card games and backgammon tournament, and the TV had lost its appeal. Striker turned to face the receptionist.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I stood up to stretch and I guess he saw the gun. He just
freaked
.’ He glanced around the area. ‘Jesus, they all look angry now.’
The receptionist looked at the spilled coffee on the floor, then at the mass of patients mustering near the doorway. ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps it would be best if you did wait inside the office, after all.’
Striker smiled at the woman and held up his hands.
‘Whatever you think is best,’ he said.
The moment the receptionist allowed them inside Dr Ostermann’s office and shut the door behind them, Felicia looked over at him and a grin spread her lips.
‘That was terrible,’ she said.
Striker just shrugged. ‘I know, and believe me I’m not proud of it, but we had no choice. We needed to get in here before Ostermann got back. We
need
to know who this Billy guy is. It’s as simple as that.’ He looked at his watch and saw that it was ten-fifty now. ‘What time she say his session ended?’
‘Eleven – and that’s if he doesn’t finish early.’
Striker frowned at that. Ten minutes wasn’t a lot of time. He looked around the room. To his surprise, the office was fairly barren. He’d expected to see medical diplomas hung on every wall. Plaques and certificates and awards. Maybe some pamphlets for the EvenHealth programme. A row of books, at the very least.
But there was none of that.
All that occupied the office was a large oak cabinet in the far corner, a big sturdy wooden desk, and a pair of comfortablelooking leather chairs sitting opposite the desk.
On the walls hung nothing but standard pictures. A sailor looking out over the sea; a little boy at the doctor’s office; and a Native Indian-style wolf head. Aside from this and a few plants decorating the room, there was nothing of interest. No shelves, no books at all.
Striker moved over to the desk. He tried to open the drawers but they were all locked. On it was nothing but an ink blotter, a computer and a keyboard with mouse. The computer screen was blank, and when Striker moved the mouse, the logon screen appeared.
‘Needs a password,’ Felicia said.
‘EvenHealth?’ he asked.
‘Lots of luck,’ she said.
He knew she was right, and didn’t even venture to guess. Instead, he moved over to the cabinet on the far side of the room and opened the doors. Inside was a small TV set with built-in DVD player. A Samsung. On the shelf below was a row of DVDs, each one with a name on the side. Striker searched for any with the names Larisa Logan or Mandy Gill, but found none. Instead, he found one labelled
Billy Stephen Mercury
. And in brackets were the words:
Kuwait. Afghanistan. PTSD
.
PTSD – Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.
He turned and looked at Felicia. ‘Our Billy?’
‘Write down the details. Hurry. Before Ostermann gets back.’
‘I’ll do more than that,’ he said. He flicked on the TV and grabbed the DVD case. He opened it, slid out the disc, and slipped it into the tray.
Felicia gave him a nervous look. ‘Jacob, what are you doing?’
‘Just watch the door.’
‘Watch the door? It’s five feet away from you.’
‘Then just stand by it and listen. Let me know if you hear him coming.’
‘Ostermann’s due back
any minute
. And what if I don’t hear him? What then?’
Striker smiled. ‘Then sit back and pull up a chair because there’s gonna be some fireworks.’ He leaned forward and pressed Play, and the disc loaded.
Seconds later, the screen came to life.
The video quality was surprisingly good, damn near high def, though the sound was slightly muffled. The camera was angled from the left side, with Dr Erich Ostermann sitting opposite a young man. Between them was an ordinary wood desk with nothing on it.
A different room.
Striker took note of the walls – there was absolutely nothing on them – and then of the male being interviewed. He was Caucasian, and terribly thin, emaciated, yet he looked wiry, strong. He could have been in his late twenties or early thirties – it was hard to tell. His hair was dark brown, but greying, and the stubble on his face was almost entirely white.
‘He looks young, but old,’ Felicia noted.
Striker made no reply. He just studied the patient on the feed.
The skin of Billy Mercury’s face had few wrinkles, except around his eyes, where there were many. The man looked
tired
, as if he hadn’t slept well in years, and the paleness of his skin amplified this look. Perspiration dampened his skin, and when he breathed, his chest rose and fell heavily, unevenly, as if he were hyperventilating.
Dr Ostermann sat in his chair, then turned it slightly to the left to allow the camera a better angle for recording. He stated the date and time of the interview – it was just two weeks ago – and then briefly introduced himself, humbly giving the most basic of his credentials.
Last of all, he introduced his patient.
‘And this person opposite me is Billy Stephen Mercury,’ Dr Ostermann said to the camera. ‘Billy is a soldier who spent time in Afghanistan. First Class with the 7th Regiment. Coming back from the war, Billy suffered from extreme depression and night terrors, making it difficult to sleep and cope with the normal activities of daily life. He was subsequently diagnosed with Posttraumatic Stress Disorder and has been doing sessions with me here and at EvenHealth for the last seven months. Billy is making significant progress, and if all goes well, will be returning to his life outside the facility very soon. His independence is our first and foremost priority.’
Striker studied everything on the screen. During the entire introduction, Billy Mercury had said nothing. He just sat there and barely moved, staring at nothing in the room. His body trembled. His skin sweated. His breath came in fast and uneven gulps of air.
‘So Billy,’ Dr Ostermann continued. ‘Last session, we ended with you speaking of your time in Afghanistan. More specifically, the enemy engagements. You were talking specifically about Kandahar. This was a very bad time for you, as I understand.’
Dr Ostermann paused to give Billy Mercury a chance to speak; when the patient didn’t, Dr Ostermann continued.
‘When we last left off, you were telling me how one of your company – a Colonel Dylan – was killed by a roadside attack and how you had been separated from your party in the back roads of the town. Would you care to continue the story?’
For a long moment, Billy Mercury said nothing. He just sat there, shaking and sweating, letting the silence envelop them. Then, with a start, he came to life. He began looking all around the room, his eyes shifting rapidly, as if seeing things in the room that no one else could see.
‘They were
everywhere
,’ he finally said. ‘In the streets of the village. In the doorways of the homes and in the open markets and in all the crevices . . . but in the shadows. Always in the shadows.’
‘And this was . . .’
‘The enemy.’
‘The resistance soldiers?’ Dr Ostermann asked. ‘The people of the town? Who exactly were they, Billy?’
‘Who?’ he asked, and suddenly he let out a high-pitched laugh that turned into a cry. ‘
What
is more important.’
Dr Ostermann’s face tensed, though only for an instant. ‘Billy, we’ve been over this before—’
‘I saw them over there. In
Farah
and
Herat
and
Kandahar
. I saw them many times. They were everywhere. Pretending to be soldiers. And citizens. Children, even. They lived in the darkness. Came out of the shadows. They’re
born
in the blackness,
made
from blackness. It seeps right out of their eyes, their mouths.’
‘Billy—’
‘Made of fucking hellfire!’
‘
Billy
, we’ve discussed this before. It’s psychosis, it’s delusions—’
‘NO! You don’t understand, Doctor. You weren’t there, so you can’t know. It’s not like here. It’s another world. Another place. They can live there, they can grow. And they’re getting stronger. They’ll be coming here soon. They’ll get inside the clinic. Come for me. Come for you!
Come for everyone!
’
Dr Ostermann’s face took on a disappointed look, but he said nothing. He just stood up slowly from his chair and shook his head.
‘I think we need to revisit the medications,’ he said.
‘NO!’ Billy said. ‘You don’t understand. You think I’m crazy. But you don’t know. I can hear them at night, whispering. Always whispering. They’re coming for me. For us all.
You can’t
fucking KNOW!
’
Dr Ostermann reached for the door, and Billy suddenly jumped up. He up-ended the desk, grabbed hold of the doctor, and Dr Ostermann began to scream for security. Within seconds, three large men dressed in white pants and shirts burst into the room. They grabbed Billy Mercury, but he fought them. Raked his nails down the first man’s face; hammered the second orderly with a vicious punch to the throat.
‘Daemons!’ he screamed. ‘Fucking
daemons
– THEY’LL GET US ALL!’
Striker stood in the centre of the room, mesmerized by the video footage before him. The man on the screen was completely delusional. And dangerous. Striker could feel it. He was so engrossed in the interview that it took him a few seconds to hear Felicia’s whispered warning from beside the door.
‘. . . coming, Jacob. Dr Ostermann – he’s
coming
!’
Striker finally clued in. He hit the Stop button on the DVD player, powered off the television set, and walked back across the room. He was just nearing Felicia when the door opened and Dr Ostermann walked into the office.
The doctor gave them both a careful look, then nodded. ‘Detectives. Good to see both of you again, though rather unexpected, I must say.’
Felicia said, ‘It’s good to see you as well, Doctor.’
Striker felt less inclined for the bullshit. ‘We said we’d be in contact, Dr Ostermann. So this is anything but unexpected. In fact, the way I remember it, you were supposed to call us.’
Dr Ostermann’s face took on a faraway look, and he nodded. ‘Oh yes. Yes, I believe that is correct. And I planned on doing so. But it has been a very busy morning indeed.’