Blood. D.D. noticed it first in the common area. It splattered across one table, dotted a nearby wall, then trailed down the carpeted hall.
“Jesus Christ,” D.D. breathed. She’d been wrong. They didn’t have until six p.m. The evildoer had already struck, while she’d been chattering away in Admin. Shit.
“The kids,” Karen exclaimed immediately. “Where are the kids?”
Just then, another rage-filled scream, high and piercing from down the hall: “No, no, no. Get away. I will kill you. I will EAT YOUR EYEBALLS!”
D.D. and Karen bolted toward the sound, making it partly down the hall before drawing up short. A bathroom loomed to the right. The door was open and an older girl with huge dark eyes and lank brown hair stood in front of the sink, holding a pair of scissors and dripping blood. Outside the bathroom, an older MC was positioned with his hands outstretched, as if to block the girl’s escape.
“Don’t fucking touch me! I’ll punch you in the nuts. I’ll rip off your penis!” The shrieks continued farther down the hall. D.D. shook her head in confusion. So far, she heard one extremely pissed-off young boy, and she saw one very bloody young girl. What the hell?
“Come on, Aimee,” the MC was crooning as D.D. and Karen approached. “Time to hand over the scissors. Everything’s all right. Just take a deep breath and put the scissors down. Nothing we can’t handle here, right? You and me, a few of your favorite coloring books—”
“I WILL DRINK YOUR BLOOD!” the distant boy roared.
Aimee held up her left arm and, deliberately, dragged the blade of the scissors down her forearm. A thin line of red bloomed across her skin. She stared at it with rapt fascination. More lines covered both arms, her cheeks, the exposed column of her throat. Her skin looked like a crazy quilt, seamed with stitches of blood.
A violent crash from the end of the hallway. Something heavy and wooden smashing against a wall. “DON’T TOUCH ME DON’T TOUCH ME DON’T TOUCH ME.”
Aimee jerked toward the sound, then promptly sliced open her collarbone.
“Jesus Christ, get the damn scissors,” D.D. commanded. “What are you waiting for?”
Karen, however, placed a quieting hand on her shoulder.
“Ed?” the nurse manager asked softly.
“Aimee didn’t start it,” the MC murmured back. “Not sure what happened. New kid arrived. Greg was escorting him through the unit, when all of a sudden Benny bolted across the common area into a wall. That set off Jimmy, who started tossing chairs, and everything disintegrated from there. I was trying to get Jamal back to his room. Cecille had Jimmy in a bear hug, Greg was trying to get the new kid tucked away. Andrew came out to see what he could do, and Jorge socked him in the eye.”
“NO NO NO NO NOOOOOOOO!”
“Jorge?” Karen asked in shock. “Hit Andrew?”
“Solid right hook. Who knew? Fortunately, Lightfoot is, as his name implies, light on his feet. He started working with Jorge. I returned from tending Jamal and, lo and behold, discovered that during the ruckus, our friend Aimee got her hands on a pair of scissors.”
“How? We keep the craft supplies locked up.”
Ed stopped staring at Aimee long enough to give his boss an exasperated stare. “News flash, Karen, we’re not exactly at the top of our game. Unit’s a little funky, and that was before Benny tried to fly through Sheetrock.”
“BITCH BITCH BITCH. I WILL RIP OFF YOUR EARS. I WILL BEAT YOUR BRAINS. MASH THEM UP. BRAIN SMOOTHIE. ADD BANANAS. YUM YUM YUM.”
“Oh no.” D.D. finally figured out who was screaming. Benny. The small, dark-eyed boy who liked mashing fruit and playing with cars and making airplane noises. She could tell by Karen’s resigned expression that the head nurse already knew, had figured it out way before D.D. A day in the life.
Ed returned his attention to Aimee, whose dark eyes glazed over as she ran the open scissors along a vein in her neck.
“Hey, Aimee,” Ed said, voice sharper now, commanding the girl’s attention. “I know your safety plan requests that you not be touched. You want to be talked through these episodes. But we’re nearing the end of talking here. What are the rules of this unit? We treat ourselves and one another with respect. You’re not showing yourself respect. You’re hurting yourself, and you’re ignoring my orders. You have until the count of ten, Aimee. Then I come in after you.”
More crashing. Fresh screams, not Benny’s but another child’s as the agitation spread from room to room. Aimee calmly lifted her left hand and sliced open her palm. She inspected the wound, then added a second.
“Take her out,” D.D. hissed in Karen’s ear, practically dancing on the balls of her feet with the need for action. “I’ll grab her, you grab the scissors. Come on!”
Karen curled her fingers on D.D.’s forearm and didn’t let go. “The cuts are mostly shallow and will heal. Betray a child’s trust, however, and we lose months of hard work….”
“She’s filleting her own skin—”
“Five, six, seven …” Ed intoned.
“No, no, no,” another child wailed down the hall. “Won’t do it! Can’t make me, YOU FUCKING CUNT!”
“Shhh, shhh, shhh …”
“¡Diablo, Diablo, Diablo!”
D.D. didn’t think she could take it. She needed to tackle Aimee and grab the scissors. She needed to dash down the hall and take down crazy Benny. So many places to be, so many things to do. More screaming. Fresh cries. A dark-eyed girl making happy with craft scissors …
“Eight, nine, ten,” Ed completed.
The MC squared his shoulders, took a determined step forward. Aimee raised the scissors. She held them aloft, right above her heart, and in that instant of time, D.D. knew exactly what the girl was going to do.
D.D. started to cry, “Stop!” Started to dash forward. Aimee’s white hand flashed down, bloody scissors slicing through the air—
“I WILL GET YOU ALL. I WILL KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU. JUST YOU WAIT JUST YOU WAIT JUST YOU WAIT. I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE—”
Ed grabbed Aimee’s wrist. The burly MC twisted the small girl’s arm behind her back as quickly and effectively as any cop. The girl cried out once. The scissors clattered to the floor. Aimee slumped forward, all fight draining from her body.
“I’ll grab bandages,” Karen said.
While down the hall came a fresh burst of screams.
It took an hour to restore the unit. Children were medicated; soothed with music; bribed with Game Boys; placated with small, quiet spaces; and read endless stories. D.D. paced. Banned from the action, treated as the inexperienced outsiders they were, she and her investigative team prowled the classroom end of the unit, trying to read files, but mostly twitching as various screams, crashes, and thuds echoed across the ward.
D.D. couldn’t sit. Neither could Alex. They roamed the lower hallway, feeling as agitated as the kids.
“Negative energy,” Alex told her, hands deep in his front pockets, restlessly jiggling his loose change.
“Fuck you.”
“Just proved my point.”
“Still fuck you.”
“No inner angel?”
“I will strangle you with my bare hands.”
“Again, score one for the shaman. I haven’t felt a vibe this bad since I visited Souza-Baranowski.” The Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center was Massachusetts’s maximum security prison.
“This is what happens at institutions. One person goes crazy, everyone goes crazy.”
“From shared negative energy,” Alex chirped.
“Seriously, I will strangle you.”
“Or we could find a broom closet and have sex.”
D.D. drew up short. Blinked several times. Was genuinely shocked by how instantaneously she wanted to do exactly that. Rip off Alex’s shirt. Dig her fingers into his shoulders. Ride him like a—
Her expression must’ve given her away, because his eyes darkened. “As much as I’d like to take credit for the look on your face, I think it’s score two for
the shaman. In the midst of the negative, we are drawn to the positive. Each action calling for an equal level of reaction.”
“Every act of destruction calling for an equal act of creation?”
“Hell yeah. In a broom closet.”
“Deal.”
Or not. The unit doors opened and Danielle Burton strode into the common area. The nurse spotted the blood and stopped short, just as Andrew Lightfoot appeared in the hall.
D.D. motioned to Alex. They drew back quietly and got ready for the show.
“What happened?” Danielle demanded. “Who’s hurt? How bad?”
“Aimee got her hands on a pair of scissors,” Lightfoot provided, walking toward the dark-haired nurse. He came to a halt just a foot away from Danielle, taking a long drink from his water bottle. He studied her intently. She took a noticeable step back.
“Is Aimee okay?” Danielle asked, refusing to meet Lightfoot’s gaze.
“Well enough,” the healer murmured, dropping his water bottle to his side. “The milieu went acute, each child going off like firecrackers. I’d like to say there were many learning opportunities, but I’m not sure. The energy here … it is all wrong. Toxic. I’ve spent hours trying to cleanse the girl’s room. I can’t make headway. I’m too spent for this deep a taint.”
“You were working in Lucy’s room?” Danielle asked sharply.
“At Karen’s request.”
“You didn’t know her.”
“I’ve met her soul on the interplanes. She said to tell you thank you.”
“Stop.” Danielle walked away, setting her bag down on one of the tables. For the first time, she noticed D.D. and Alex, standing at the classroom end of the hallway. “Don’t you have work to do?” Danielle asked them pointedly.
“Doing it,” D.D. replied. She and Alex remained in place.
“How are you feeling, Danielle?” Lightfoot asked.
“Just fine,” she bit out.
“It’s not polite to lie.”
“It’s not polite to pretend you know me better than I do.”
“If you feel that I’m overstepping, then I apologize. It’s never my intention to cause you discomfort.” Lightfoot positioned himself closer to Danielle, sticking one hand in the pocket of his white linen trousers, the other tapping his water bottle against his leg.
Despite his earlier assertion that his interest in Danielle was purely professional, D.D. decided his gaze looked awfully personal. As if he wanted to step closer to the young nurse, savor the scent of her skin.
Danielle, on the other hand, clearly didn’t return the sentiment. She marched over to a set of cabinets, unlocked them, and started to pull out cleaning supplies. She snapped on plastic gloves, then grabbed a disinfectant spray.
“Clean or bounce,” she informed Lightfoot. “Those are the choices.” She turned to D.D. and Alex. “That goes for you two, as well. This is a working psych ward, not an after-dinner show. Earn your keep, or get lost.”
D.D. looked at Alex. He shrugged his agreement, so they crossed the common area and helped themselves to cleaning supplies. A small price to pay.
Apparently, Andrew thought the same. He got his hands on a roll of paper towels. “Your father needs to talk to you—” he started, his attention back on Danielle.
“Not interested.”
“Hatred is a negative energy, Danielle. Denying him only hurts yourself.”
“Stop it. We’ve already had this conversation. Your mumbo jumbo is your business. I’m not going there. For God’s sake, didn’t you do enough damage with Ozzie?”
Lightfoot frowned. D.D. perked up.
“Ozzie made remarkable progress,” the healer told Danielle. “His entire family was on the path to becoming more centered and loving—”
“His entire family is dead.”
“I don’t know what happened, but I’m sure it wasn’t Ozzie’s fault.”
“You’re sure? How? Ozzie’s soul tell you that on the interplanes?”
Good question, D.D. thought.
“Unfortunately,” Lightfoot said, “while souls enter this plane to experience the corporal world, once they leave they show little interest in the physical realities encountered here. Ozzie’s soul is not fixated on corporal death. Instead, he’s moved on to the next set of desired experiences. Which is how it should be.”
“Really?” Danielle mocked, starting to scrub the nearest table. “So Ozzie, a young boy who was brutally murdered, has already moved on, but my father, twenty-five years later, still wants to chat.”
Lightfoot shrugged. “Your father’s soul has unfinished business. The lesson has not been learned. The experience isn’t completed.”
“And Lucy?”
“I dreamt of her last night,” Lightfoot said. “She was dancing among the moonbeams of my mind. I knew immediately she was someone special, a being of incredible light and love. She told me she loves you. And she asked me to help you. She worries about you, senses the sadness in your heart.”
“Yeah? Did she tell you who killed her, too? Or is that too mundane a topic for your higher mind?”
D.D. looked expectantly at Lightfoot. Another excellent question.
“Death is merely a transition,” Lightfoot started, and across the table from D.D., Danielle rolled her eyes. D.D. found herself liking the nurse more than she should.
Lightfoot remained steadfast. “The unit is acute. You must find your forgiveness, Danielle. You must open your heart to love. Let go of your past. If you don’t, the dark forces will win.”
“And now a message from our sponsor,” Danielle said. “Hello, One-Nine-Hundred Rent A Soul? My boyfriend has a thing for asps, so for next Friday night, can I borrow Cleopatra?”
“I’m not joking,” Andrew said stiffly.
“Neither am I.”
“He has unbelievable power, Danielle.”
“Who?”
“You tell me.”
Lightfoot stared at the nurse. The nurse stared back at him. Slowly but surely, Danielle set down her cleaning supplies.
“You want to help someone, Andrew, pick a room, any room. The kids need you. I don’t.”
“It’s bad and it’s going to get worse.”
“Then go work a little voodoo. In your own words, life is about choice, and I don’t choose you.”
Lightfoot thinned his lips. His eyes flashed darkly. Slowly but surely, he turned and stalked down the hall. Upon reaching Lucy’s room, he glanced over his shoulder one last time at Danielle. Then he disappeared inside.
D.D. released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“I take it you don’t care for woo-woo,” D.D. said.
“No, I don’t.” The nurse gathered her cleaning supplies. “Unfortunately, Andrew’s not wrong about everything.” She started scrubbing a bloody wall. “Man, this place is fucked up.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
DANIELLE
“Did you come back just for me?” the sergeant asked a few minutes later. We’d finished cleaning and were now combining smaller tables to form a larger rectangle for the upcoming staff meeting. The other detective, the George Clooney look-alike, had taken over scrubbing the blood out of the carpet. Kept him busy, but also within earshot. D.D. continued, “Because I’d love to speak with you.”
“I’m here for the debriefing,” I said stiffly, fitting in the final table. “Karen said I could attend.”
“Gonna mention the anniversary, Danielle? You remember that twenty-five years ago your father gunned down your family?”
The sergeant was goading me. I understood that, and still had to work not to rise to the bait. I noticed some blood droplets on the far window, picked up the Windex, and got busy again.
For the past twenty-five years, I thought I’d done okay. I’d gotten myself through college. I’d landed a job that I loved, and three hundred and sixty days out of the year, I was pretty solid. I didn’t replay the events of one night over and over again. I
didn’t dredge up old photos of my family. I didn’t recall the stink of whiskey on my father’s breath and I didn’t fixate on the weight of a nine-millimeter gun in a child’s hands.
I worked with my kids. And I made it a point not to look back.
Until one goddamn week a year.
I felt inundated with my family these days. Scalded by memories I’d made it a point not to remember. And suddenly flush with new information. My mom had been leaving my dad? She’d found a “good guy”? Maybe my father had slaughtered everyone over her affair, instead of my rebellion?
I didn’t know, and for the first time, I was desperate to speak with someone about my past. I’d tried Sheriff Wayne, wanting to ask exactly what time he’d arrived at the house that night. Could it really have been two and half hours between my conversation with my mom and my father opening fire?
A police receptionist had informed me that Sheriff Wayne had passed away two years ago. Died in his sleep. I couldn’t believe it. Sheriff Wayne was supposed to live forever. He owed it to me.
Now there was only Aunt Helen and myself who remembered my mother’s smile, my sister’s giggle, my brother’s goofy grin. It wasn’t enough. I needed more people. I needed more information.
“Tell us about Lightfoot,” D.D. prodded, behind me. “Is it just me, or is he way into you?”
I stopped wiping windows, turning around enough to meet the detective’s eye. “Andrew and I are not, and never were, an item. We had one date, which he spent grilling me about my father. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t consider discussions of my homicidal parental unit to be a turn-on. That was the beginning and end of our personal relationship right there.”
“He’s solely interested in your father?”
“From what I can tell, I represent some kind of celestial challenge. If Andrew can get me to forgive my father, to open my heart to the light, then, hey, he can convert anyone. Score one for the good guys.”
“But you don’t want to forgive your father.”
“Nope. I’m comfortable hating him. No need for group hugs on the mumbo-jumbo superhighway.”
D.D. arched a brow. “Is that what Lightfoot wants to do? Arrange a ‘meeting’ on the spiritual interplanes?”