THE HIDING PLACE. John Burley

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ on his this time, and I think I was crying but I’m not sure. He looked at me in disbelief. ‘What’s wrong with you,’ he said, and it wasn’t a question but an accusation. In my mind, I could hear Alex asking me the same thing, bewildered by the sudden panic that had taken hold of me as we lay there together on the ice, her arm wrapped around my chest. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at us,’ Michael had said, assuming that the hurt and yearning in my eyes was directed at her, not him. Suddenly, the realization dawned on him, and his face changed as if he’d unexpectedly come across something pungent and revolting.

      “That’s when he struck me, his arm flashing out so quickly that I think it surprised even him. I took the blow in the left temple, my head rocking back and to the right as my vision became a kaleidoscope of images in front of me. The house was quiet except for the sound of our breathing, and standing there—blinded by my tears—I remember wondering whether he would hit me again. My arms hung loosely at my sides, refusing to defend me, and I stood there waiting for it—that second blow—and however many more would follow. Instead, I heard something worse: the sound of the door opening and closing as he left. And it was only then that I allowed myself to crumple to the floor, the sobs ripping through me like bullets, the self-loathing rising in a great wave, and a vague awareness that I had uncovered something in myself that I did not want to deal with. I wanted it to disappear for a while inside me, to come out different or not at all.

      “The house stood still around me—silent and watchful—and I remember feeling alone in a way I had never experienced before. I did not think about the ramifications of what I’d done, did not consider the price I would pay in the weeks ahead. That would come later. For the time being, I only sat there with my discovery, not knowing what to do with it. The palm of one hand went to my face to wipe away the tears, and when I looked down I noticed a streak of blood crossing the lifeline. I stood up on my one good leg and, situating my crutches beneath my arms, lurched to the bathroom where I inspected myself in the mirror. There was a gash just beneath my left temple—here.” He pointed to the remnants of a faint scar I hadn’t noticed before.

      “My mom took me back to the hospital to get stitches, and I saw the same doctor who’d treated me for my ankle a week and a half before. When he asked me how it had happened, I gave him some lie about tripping on my crutches, striking my head on the counter. He must not have believed me because he cleared everyone else out of the exam room, asked me if someone had done this to me, if anyone was hitting me at home. I could feel my face flush at the response—a liar’s face—as I told him, ‘No, it was my own fault. I wasn’t being careful. I did this to myself.’ He studied me for a moment, then pulled out his pen and jotted something down on the chart. I remember wanting to look at what he’d written, convinced that the final diagnosis would not be ‘fall’ or ‘laceration,’ but rather the same accusatory question that had been posed to me twice over the past month. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ it would say, and for the first time I had an answer.

      “I winced when the pinch of the needle entered my body. The burn of the Novocain ebbed into a strange numbness. What’s wrong with you? I thought over and over again as the sutures pulled the edges of my wound together, their futile attempt to return me into something whole. And when I began to cry, Mother squeezed my hand and whispered her own false reassurance—that it would be over soon, that I just had to be brave a few minutes longer.”

       Chapter 10

      I want to know what he did,” I told Wagner, cornering him near the nurses’ station.

      “Who?” he asked, glancing uncomfortably at the patients around us and signaling to me, perhaps, that it was inappropriate for us to be seen interacting like this.

      I didn’t care.

      “Jason Edwards,” I said. “My patient—the one who showed up with no court order, no medical records, no written documentation of any kind. I want to know his psychiatric history, his family background, whether he’s ever been hospitalized before … and I want to know about the events that landed him here—what crime he was charged with.”

      “We’ve been through this before,” Wagner reminded me. “I don’t have any more information than you do.”

      “Bullshit,” I replied. A few heads turned in our direction and I lowered my voice. “You wouldn’t have accepted him here otherwise. You can’t commit a patient to a state psychiatric hospital without a court order, and you know it. Now, there’s something you’re not telling me about this case, and I want to know what it is.”

      He sighed, as if what I was demanding wasn’t relevant to my patient’s treatment, as if we’d been through this charade a thousand times before. He glanced down at his watch. “I have a meeting in half an hour.”

      “Well then,” I pressed, “you’ve got twenty-five minutes to talk to me.”

      Wagner appeared to consider his options. He’d been avoiding me lately; I was almost certain of it. I watched him deliberate a moment longer, then he shook his head with an air of resignation. “Fine,” he said. “You want some background on this case? Come with me.”

      I followed him down the hall, feeling the eyes of patients and staff upon us as we exited the dayroom. It irritated me, those stares. I wanted to turn around and tell them to mind their own damn business, that I was the only one acting responsibly here. Instead, I focused my attention on the back of Wagner’s sport coat, something beige and polyester that made a soft swishing noise with the pendulum movement of his arms as he walked.

      When we were both inside his office, he shut the door and went around his large oak desk to a tall wooden cabinet against the far wall. He pulled open the top drawer and fingered his way through a series of files before finding the right one. I took a seat, inwardly reflecting on how ugly this office was with its rigid, unyielding furniture, its decrepit gray carpet, its complete lack of any natural light, its pretentious but cheaply framed diplomas hanging slightly askew on sickly yellow walls. I wondered how he could stand it, or whether he even noticed.

      “The case surrounding Mr. Edwards’s presence at Menaker involves the death of an individual named Amir Massoud,” he said.

      I waited for him to go on, but he seemed to need further prodding. “They knew each other?”

      “They were in a relationship,” Wagner replied, tossing a newspaper article on the desktop in front of me. I bent to study it.

      MAN STABBED TO DEATH IN SILVER SPRING TOWN HOUSE the headline said. My eyes scanned the lines of text, taking in the story.

      Twenty-five-year-old Amir Massoud was fatally stabbed within his Silver Spring townhome in Montgomery County, Maryland, on the evening of May 12. Police report no signs of forced entry. The victim’s domestic partner, 25-year-old Jason Edwards, was taken into custody for questioning, as the incident is suspected to have been the result of a possible domestic dispute. Mr. Massoud was a graduate student in civil engineering at University of Maryland. He is survived by his father and two siblings. Funeral services are scheduled to be held at National Memorial Park in Falls Church, Virginia.

      “He was convicted?” I asked Wagner, picturing the quiet, thoughtful face of the patient I’d been interacting with over the past several weeks. We all have the potential for violence, I know—particularly when it comes to crimes of passion—but I was having difficulty imagining Jason wielding a knife in a homicidal rage. It didn’t coincide with the impression I’d formed of him.

      Charles studied me from across the desk. “Not СКАЧАТЬ