Method of Madness Page 2

  Her bot­tom lip qu­ive­red and her eyes im­me­di­ately flo­oded with te­ars. "You bas­tard. You're still do­ing it!"

  "I'm sorry. I didn't me­an that. I just me­ant that you're a gre­at mot­her. A per­fect: mot­her. I co­uld ne­ver, I wo­uld ne­ver, ta­ke that away from you."

  Glo­ria sho­ok her he­ad and lo­oked away to the flo­or. Te­ars we­re rol­ling down her che­eks now.

  Wa sto­od and a wa­ve of na­usea swept thro­ugh him. He strug­gled slightly with his ba­lan­ce as he mo­ved to­ward her. He lif­ted his arm to to­uch hers but stop­ped, he didn't know how she'd re­act.

  "You're still a son of a bitch, Mitc­hell," she snif­fed. "What hap­pe­ned to you? Why did you chan­ge? I can't be­li­eve what hap­pe­ned to you."

  "I'm so sorry," he sa­id and put his arm aro­und her sho­ul­der be­fo­re he re­ali­zed he'd do­ne it. She didn't even flinch.

  "Everyt­hing was fi­ne. Everyt­hing was fi­ne till that bas­tard Ed­ward Car­ter. I told you to le­ave that ca­se alo­ne. I told you not to do anyt­hing to hurt yo­ur­self, to hurt us. I wish you'd just lis­te­ned to me."

  It was myfuc­kin'job, he tho­ught but re­ma­ined si­lent.

  "Sin­ce you mo­ved out I'm sick all the ti­me. I get dizzy. I can't sle­ep. I think I'm go­ing crazy. I don't know what's go­ing on. I had to see a psycho­lo­gist and she's ma­king a re­fer­ral for me to see a psychi­at­rist. I'm pro­bably go­ing to ha­ve to go on me­di­ca­ti­on be­ca­use of this-be­ca­use of you."

  He pul­led her clo­ser to him and le­aned to kiss her on the he­ad. Her ha­ir smel­led gre­at and was still slightly damp un­der­ne­ath. She must ha­ve sho­we­red ear­li­er in the eve­ning.

  "What hap­pe­ned to you? Just tell me that. What hap­pe­ned?"

  Wa ba­rely he­ard her. He le­aned down and kis­sed her he­ad aga­in, bre­at­hing in de­eply. He let his fa­ce sit aga­inst the top of her he­ad and pul­led her clo­ser to him. Her tight lit­tle body was per­fect. He wan­ted to sli­de his hand un­der her clot­hes, cup her bre­asts in his hand. A pa­in shot thro­ugh his he­ad, sen­ding a bright light thro­ugh his re­ti­nas, but it was go­ne be­fo­re he co­uld re­act.

  "Mitc­hell," Glo­ria sa­id, pus­hing away from him. "What are you do­ing?"

  Wa lo­oked down at the wo­man he was hol­ding. It wasn't Glo­ria. He was sta­ring at a hi­de­o­us fa­ce with black eyes; it's body was only a va­gue out­li­ne of his wi­fe's small fra­me. The cre­atu­re sta­red back.

  Do you fe­el me in­si­de? Was it Qwnran that de­li­ve­red you?

  Wa frow­ned. "'Qum­ran'? What's that? What are you tal­king abo­ut?"

  The cre­atu­re la­ug­hed at him, a hi­de­o­us grin stretc­hing over sta­ined te­eth.

  "Stop it!" Wa scre­amed and threw the cre­atu­re back­ward.

  Glo­ria fell back in­to her cha­ir, tip­ping it over. As she hit the flo­or she cur­led in­to a ball, trying to hi­de from Wa. Her he­ad po­un­ded and she felt li­ke she might throw up.

  Wa blin­ked on­ce, then aga­in. He was sta­ring down at Glo­ria Wa, not the cre­atu­re he'd se­en a mo­ment ear­li­er. He was sud­denly dizzy. He ins­tinc­ti­vely bent to try and com­fort his ne­ar hyste­ri­cal wi­fe but jum­ped back when her who­le body spas­med in re­vul­si­on.

  "GET OUT!" Glo­ria scre­amed with her fa­ce hid­den bet­we­en her kne­es.

  "GET OUT!"

  "Glo­ria, ple­ase," he sa­id qu­i­etly. "You'll wa­ke the kids."

  "GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!" she yel­led hyste­ri­cal­ly.

  He he­si­ta­ted but re­ali­zed it was too la­te. He tur­ned and left as qu­ickly as he co­uld.

  THREE

  The te­ars wo­uldn't stop now. Dr. Bri­an Cla­ric knew that the ses­si­on wo­uld ha­ve to con­ti­nue thro­ugh the pa­in. It was una­vo­idab­le. You can't kill ever­yo­ne you lo­ve and not fe­el pa­in af­ter­ward.

  "You ha­ve to be­li­eve me," she beg­ged. "I know it so­unds crazy but you ha­ve to be­li­eve me. Ple­ase."

  The emo­ti­onal­ly bro­ken wo­man mo­ved for­ward on her cha­ir. She clas­ped her hands so tightly that her knuck­les we­re whi­te and her fin­ger­tips left in­dents on the tops of her hands.

  Dr. Cla­ric le­aned for­ward, exu­ding em­pathy and un­ders­tan­ding. "I know it se­ems re­al but-"

  "No!" she how­led as mo­re te­ars es­ca­ped her blo­od-red eyes. "Don't say that! Don't use that 'the­rapy vo­ice.' I ne­ed so­me­one to be­li­eve me. Ple­ase! Don't tell me it isn't re­al."

  Wit­ho­ut war­ning, she re­ac­hed out and to­ok Dr. Cla­ric's hand in hers. She clenc­hed it in an icy, wet grip and lo­oked at him with an ur­gency that was al­most pal­pab­le.

  As a ref­lex, Dr. Cla­ric mo­ved back, jer­king his hand with him, but she didn't re­le­ase her grip.

  "Dr. Cla­ric," she ple­aded. "I'm not in­sa­ne. I know you think I am, but I'm not. Ple­ase don't let me die he­re."

  "Cat­he­ri­ne, ple­ase, we all want to help. That's why you're he­re. No one bla­mes you for-"

  "Don't say it! Don't say it! Don't say it!" She re­le­ased his hand and flung her­self back in the cha­ir.

  "Cat­he­ri­ne, you ne­ed to let me help you."

  "Don't say I kil­led my fa­mily aga­in. I know I did. I know I kil­led them. I know. I know. I KNOW!"

  "Cat­he­ri­ne," Dr. Cla­ric be­gan aga­in, re­pe­ating her na­me to emp­ha­si­ze the in­ti­macy of the­rapy, "I wasn't go­ing to men­ti­on that. We don't ne­ed to talk abo­ut that now. We ne­ed to talk abo­ut you." He le­aned for­ward, put his el­bows on his kne­es and ma­in­ta­ined an exp­res­si­on of de­ep con­cern.

  "They're de­ad!" she scre­amed and then softly ad­ded, "They're all de­ad. De­ad. De­ad. Li­ke me. I'm go­ing to die he­re." The ten­si­on left her body and she slum­ped in­to the cha­ir in de­fe­at.

  "Why do you say that? Why do you say you're go­ing to die he­re? Do you fe­el thre­ate­ned?"

  She lo­oked up at him with a we­ary smi­le. Her fa­ce was stre­aked with te­ars and red­de­ned from wi­ping away her te­ars.

  "Don't pat­ro­ni­ze me. Don't pro­be for symptoms of my 'illness,'" she sa­id sar­cas­ti­cal­ly. "I'm go­ing to die in he­re be­ca­use I'm lo­sing it. I'm lo­sing any will to get up in the mor­ning. I don't want to li­ve any­mo­re."

  "Let's talk abo­ut that."

  "Let's not," she snap­ped back. "That has not­hing to do with anyt­hing. You'd fe­el the sa­me way I do. You'd lo­se in­te­rest in li­ving, too, if you stab­bed yo­ur fa­mily to de­ath and then ever­yo­ne told you that you we­re a men­tal pa­ti­ent." She sta­red at him, chal­len­ging him to reply, then con­ti­nu­ed. "So what exactly, Dr. Cla­ric, do I ha­ve to li­ve for?"

  He con­temp­la­ted en­ding the ses­si­on but didn't want to je­opar­di­ze a fu­tu­re the­ra­pe­utic re­la­ti­ons­hip with Cat­he­ri­ne Mer­cer. In his eigh­te­en ye­ars with the Ma­xi­mum Se­cu­rity Psychi­at­ric Cent­re he'd se­en do­zens of pa­ti­ents li­ke her. If you cut them off too qu­ickly, it wo­uld da­ma­ge rap­port down the ro­ad. And in the three months Cat­he­ri­ne had be­en he­re no one had be­en ab­le to con­nect with her. She con­ti­nu­ed to va­cil­la­te bet­we­en comp­le­te ho­pe- les­sness, self-hat­red and des­pa­ir, to fits of al­most ma­nic ra­ge aga­inst the hos­pi­tal staff that had "la­bel­led" her schi­zoph­re­nic. It was un­ders­tan­dab­le that she was dis­tur­bed. She'd ta­ken a lar­ge butc­her kni­fe and at­tac­ked her hus­band whi­le he slept. When her son and da­ugh­ter in­ter­ve­ned, she kil­led them too. Af­ter her ar­rest she cla­imed they we­ren't her re­al fa­mily but im­pos­ters who we­re go­ing to kill her. It wasn't long be­fo­re the co­urts sent her for a psychi­at­ric eva­lu­ati­on.

  Cat­he­ri­ne's ca­se was so­mew­hat unu­su­al in that, at forty
-one, she was slightly ol­der than what you'd ex­pect for a first-bre­ak psycho­sis. In ad­di­ti­on, vi­olen­ce among fe­ma­le psychi­at­ric pa­ti­ents wasn't es­pe­ci­al­ly com­mon. The pe­cu­li­ari­ti­es of the ca­se only ma­de it mo­re up­set­ting sin­ce the de­ta­ils we­re not easily exp­la­ined. Cat­he­ri­ne had be­en a stab­le, ca­ring wi­fe and mot­her. She'd be­en the kind of per­son this sort of thing wasn't sup­po­sed to hap­pen to. The fact that Cat­he­ri­ne be­ca­me men­tal­ly ill and com­mit­ted such an at­ro­ci­o­us cri­me thre­ate­ned ever­yo­ne's fe­eling of sa­fety and se­cu­rity. If this kind of thing co­uld hap­pen to Cat­he­ri­ne Mer­cer, co­uld it hap­pen to an­yo­ne?

  Dr. Cla­ric de­ci­ded he ne­eded to try har­der to re­ach this wo­man. Con­si­de­ring what she was go­ing thro­ugh, it was the le­ast he co­uld do.

  "I know you fe­el ho­pe­less, but we want to help. We want to help you thro­ugh this."

  "The­re is no 'thro­ugh this'!" she scre­amed. "My fa­mily is de­ad. No the­rapy is go­ing to bring them back. I ha­ve not­hing to li­ve for."

  "You're right, we aren't go­ing to bring yo­ur fa­mily back. That's not what you're he­re for. We want to help you get bet­ter. We want to-"

  "You want to what?" she chal­len­ged. "I know you think I'm crazy but I know I'm not. Be­fo­re this hap­pe­ned I was the mo­del ci­ti­zen. I was ra­ising my child­ren, lo­oking af­ter my hus­band. I went to church every Sun­day and hel­ped out with all of the church fund­ra­isers. I even ran a Bib­le study gro­up with Pas­tor Wright­land. So you can't jud­ge me. You don't know what hap- pe­ned. You we­ren't the­re. You don't know anyt­hing abo­ut what's go­ing on." She pa­used, con­si­de­ring so­met­hing. "If you re­al­ly want to help find out who's do­ing this, find out who's tes­ting the­se we­apons on in­no­cent pe­op­le. Find out what sick bas­tard is ma­king pe­op­le kill each ot­her."

  Dr. Cla­ric didn't want to ta­ke the dis­cus­si­on down that ro­ad-elect­ro­nic we­apons. It rep­re­sen­ted her most sig­ni­fi­cant, de­ep-se­ated de­lu­si­onal be­li­ef, her exp­la­na­ti­on of the vi­olen­ce. With pa­ti­ents suf­fe­ring from de­lu­si­ons it was best to li­mit the amo­unt of ti­me they we­re al­lo­wed to desc­ri­be tho­se be­li­efs. The mo­re air ti­me the be­li­efs got, the stron­ger the de­lu­si­on be­ca­me. The story wo­uld grow ful­ler, mo­re be­li­evab­le, in­con­sis­ten­ci­es wo­uld di­sap- pe­ar, lit­tle de­ta­ils wo­uld get wor­ked out, and the story co­uld be­co­me con- vin­cing, even to pro­fes­si­onals.

  But Dr. Cla­ric knew the the­ra­pe­utic re­la­ti­ons­hip was te­nu­o­us at this po­int. Aga­inst his bet­ter jud­ge­ment he felt ob­li­ga­ted to fo­re­go psychi­at­ric con­si­de­ra­ti­ons for pu­rely cli­ent-doc­tor re­la­ti­ons­hip is­su­es. He wan­ted to let Cat­he­ri­ne vent. He wan­ted to show res­pect for her fe­elings be­ca­use too of­ten the psychi­at­ric pa­ti­ent felt de­va­lu­ed, dis­res­pec­ted and mi­sun­ders­to­od. When he spo­ke aga­in he cho­se his words ca­uti­o­usly.

  "You're spe­aking of the elect­ro­nic we­apon that you be­li­eve you we­re shot with?"

  She nod­ded.

  "You bla­me tho­se we­apons for ta­king yo­ur li­fe away."

  Her he­ad shot up in dis­be­li­ef. She wasn't su­re she'd he­ard him cor­rectly. "What?"

  "I know that yo­ur who­le li­fe has be­en ta­ken from you. I know that you've ex­pe­ri­en­ced pa­in that no one can ever un­ders­tand, or even ima­gi­ne," he con­ti­nu­ed.

  Cat­he­ri­ne nod­ded, figh­ting hard not to lo­se cont­rol of her te­ars aga­in.

  Dr. Cla­ric sen­sed that he was re­ac­hing her, and tri­ed to re­ma­in calm and com­po­sed. "I know that everyt­hing is wrong now. Everyt­hing has go­ne to hell."

  Her eyes flo­oded, but no te­ars fell.

  "But I al­so know it isn't yo­ur fa­ult. You can't bla­me yo­ur­self for what hap­pe­ned."

  "You me­an you know abo­ut the we­apons? The tes­ting?"

  "Cat­he­ri­ne, I think we ne­ed to ag­ree to di­sag­ree on the exact ca­use of…," he se­arc­hed for the right phra­se, "…of what hap­pe­ned, but I think we can both ag­ree that so­met­hing hap­pe­ned to you. So­met­hing ter­rib­le hap­pe­ned and we ne­ed to work to­get­her to help get you thro­ugh this."

  She to­ok a mi­nu­te to con­si­der the comp­ro­mi­se and nod­ded. "So­met­hing did hap­pen to me."

  Dr. Cla­ric wa­ited, re­sis­ting the ur­ge to let the dis­cus­si­on ta­ke the next step. It was re­la­ti­vely early in the­ir me­etings to del­ve in­to her de­lu­si­ons. He fi­nal­ly re­len­ted, "What do you think hap­pe­ned to you?"

  "I don't think it, I know it," she sa­id with eno­ugh con­vic­ti­on that the col- lec­ted te­ars bro­ke free. They fell down her fa­ce and her eyes sho­ne with an­ger. "I was at­tac­ked. I was tar­ge­ted by so­me­one or so­me gro­up."

  Dr. Cla­ric nod­ded.

  "It might ha­ve be­en a go­vern­ment ex­pe­ri­ment. I don't know exactly, but you he­ar abo­ut shit hap­pe­ning and then no one finds out for ye­ars and ye­ars. The go­vern­ment is al­ways do­ing tes­ting and they only tell pe­op­le abo­ut a small por­ti­on of it. You ne­ver know what's go­ing on. And then if so­me­one spe­aks out, that per­son is la­bel­led crazy. The go­vern­ment de­ni­es everyt­hing and bla­mes everyt­hing on the 'crazy per­son.' It's the per­fect co­ver for them when they're abo­ut to be ex­po­sed." She pa­used and stu­di­ed Dr. Cla­ric ca­re­ful­ly. "You don't be­li­eve anyt­hing I'm sa­ying, do you? You're on the the­ir si­de, aren't you? To you, I'm just the 'crazy per­son.'"

  "I'm not on an­yo­ne's si­de."

  "Well tell me this then, ha­ve you ever wor­ked with an­yo­ne el­se who cla­imed to ha­ve be­en at­tac­ked by an elect­ro­nic we­apon?"

  He con­si­de­red the qu­es­ti­on ca­re­ful­ly. He knew he'd wor­ked with at le­ast half a do­zen pa­ti­ents in the last ten ye­ars who held de­lu­si­ons very si­mi­lar to

  Cat­he­ri­ne's, but he wasn't su­re he sho­uld disc­lo­se this. It wo­uld in­di­rectly sup­port her cla­im even tho­ugh he knew it simply me­ant it was a com­mon de­lu­si­on. In­di­vi­du­als with de­lu­si­onal be­li­efs we­re very qu­ick to grab on­to any shred of evi­den­ce to sup­port them. They we­re of­ten des­pe­ra­te to pro­ve they we­ren't "crazy." He de­ci­ded to play it sa­fe.

  "Cat­he­ri­ne, that's not the is­sue. The­re can be com­mo­nal­ti­es in de­lu- si­onal be­li­ef systems but that do­esn't me­an that they aren't de­lu­si­ons. It just me­ans that pe­op­le sha­re-"

  "So yo­ur ans­wer is yes."

  "No, my ans­wer is that it do­esn't mat­ter."

  "Lis­ten, I'm no doc­tor with a fancy Ph.D., but I know that if I was the first per­son ever to tell a 'crazy' story abo­ut elect­ro­nic we­apons, you'd be happy to tell me so. That wo­uld only help pro­ve that I'm wrong. Sin­ce you won't tell me, I can only as­su­me you've had pa­ti­ents tell you abo­ut the­se we­apons be­fo­re, which me­ans they do exist and you know it!"

  "It's not abo­ut right or wrong," Dr. Cla­ric sa­id qu­i­etly.

  She gla­red at him. "Just ans­wer my qu­es­ti­on then. Ha­ve you ever had anot­her pa­ti­ent tell you abo­ut elect­ro­nic we­apons be­fo­re?"

  "Cat­he­ri­ne," he be­gan ca­re­ful­ly, "I've had a do­zen pa­ti­ents tell me they're Jesus Christ. I've had just as many tell me they're the king of Eng­land, or the re­in­car­na­ti­on of Gand­hi. I've he­ard lots of sto­ri­es abo­ut ali­en ab­duc­ti­on, glo­bal cons­pi­ra­ci­es, for­ced sur­ge­ri­es and so on. And yes, I've had ot­her pa­ti­ents talk abo­ut elect­ro­nic we­apons, but that do­esn't ma­ke it re­al. If I used that kind of lo­gic, then I wo­uld ha­ve a co­up­le of pa­ti­ents right now who are Jesus Christ!"

 
; She smi­led and shrug­ged. "Why not?"

  "I don't think so."

  "But if Jesus ca­me back and star­ted pre­ac­hing on the stre­et, sa­ying he was the Son of God, don't you think he'd end up in a psychi­at­ric fa­ci­lity?"

  Dr. Cla­ric knew he was get­ting suc­ked in­to a con­ver­sa­ti­on he didn't want to ha­ve. She was bac­king him in­to a cor­ner. It had be­en a mis­ta­ke to open the do­or to this dis­cus­si­on.

  "That isn't the po­int," he tri­ed to re­ason.

  "And whe­re do­es that le­ave you? You're one of Pon­ti­us Pi­la­te's gu­ards ke­eping watch over the Son of God un­til he's exe­cu­ted."

  He de­ci­ded to con­ce­de a po­int to try to mo­ve past this is­sue; de­ba­ting it wo­uld only strengt­hen her de­lu­si­ons.

  "Of co­ur­se I've con­si­de­red that pos­si­bi­lity. The world is a myste­ri­o­us pla­ce, but I ne­ed to work with what I know, what I've be­en ta­ught. I ne­ed to ha­ve fa­ith in my pro­fes­si­on, which has hel­ped so many pe­op­le. I me­an, if I can tre­at one hund­red pa­ti­ents who think they're Jesus and it turns out one of them is the re­al thing, then at le­ast I've hel­ped ni­nety-ni­ne pa­ti­ents."

  "And then you'd go to hell."

  "May­be."

  The­re was a bri­ef si­len­ce be­fo­re Cat­he­ri­ne be­gan aga­in. "Well, I'm the one hund­redth pa­ti­ent then."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "If you've hel­ped ni­nety-ni­ne pa­ti­ents who we­re only men­tal­ly ill and hadn't re­al­ly be­en at­tac­ked by an elect­ro­nic we­apon, then I'm the hund­redth one, the one who re­al­ly was zap­ped."

  Dr. Cla­ric co­uldn't help but la­ugh, Cat­he­ri­ne was sharp.

  Cat­he­ri­ne be­ca­me se­ri­o­us. "Dr. Cla­ric, let me tell you what hap­pe­ned. Let me tell you everyt­hing I know abo­ut this, and then you tell me if I so­und in­sa­ne,,"

  He nod­ded. He'd al­lo­wed the­ir me­eting to go down this ro­ad and he had to let her fi­nish. He wo­uld let her tell her story.