One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (19 page)

Naw.

From the kitchen he called, “You might want to go change into something more comfortable and that fits better.”

More comfortable!

My heart started to speed up, and then Jagger came in the door and I realized we had some self-defense moves to learn. He handed me a Coors Light with a glass. I set it down on the coffee table and took a sip from the bottle.

“That's right. Not from cans, but you drink from bottles.” He pushed the heavy couch farther toward the wall.

Amazed and, yes, a bit pleased that he remembered something about me, I went upstairs and put on my navy jogging outfit with a Steelers tee shirt.

I hurried downstairs, realizing we really didn't have much time. Logically, I'd have to be back at the hospital soon, or our cover would be in jeopardy.

“Okay, first lesson. Forget what your mother taught you to do when a guy grabs you from behind.”

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Obviously he didn't know Stella Sokol very well. My mother had never—nor would she ever—teach us girls to kick a guy—there. Instead she always taught us to avoid situations that might warrant the old knee to the groin. In fact, I think she truly believed nothing bad would ever happen to us and backed it up with prayers and lots of novenas.

I knew what Jagger meant and decided not to mention Mother. “Why?”

“Let's just say, every guy has a mother, sister, friend, cousin or some female who knows to go for where it hurts.”

“And what is wrong with that?” I walked to the coffee table, lifted my beer and took a sip.

“Nothing. I'm not saying don't ever try it. Hell, the only wrong move in a dangerous situation is no move at all. What I'm saying is, the guy is going to
expect
it. So, you have to surprise him. The element of surprise might save your . . . butt.”

I knew he meant “life” but was kind enough not to remind me.

“Makes sense.”

“Come here.” He held out his hands. “Lesson One. Make a claw of your hand and scrape it along the guy or gal's face and don't be shy or grossed out about digging into the eyes.”

“Gal?”

“Yes, Sherlock, sometimes women are attackers.”

I really hadn't considered that. I thought we were trying to protect me from Terry and whoever killed Vito, which very likely could have been Terry.

“Don't get hung up on the small stuff.” He held his hand up toward me. “If the knee to the groin works, run like hell. If not, here's your second choice.” He sprang forward and pretended to “claw” my face.

I screamed.

He pulled back. “Good. You could be hired for a B movie. Make sure you can exercise your lungs like that while acting though. Try it.”

He grabbed my arm and I tried to do the move, but at first hesitated.

“Don't be afraid to hurt me. You'll never learn if you don't practice.”

“Okay,” I said while Jagger “attacked” me again.

“Go for the face, eyes, throat, and nose.” He showed me how to hit with my solid fist against someone's lower throat—which could crush his or her trachea and be my saving grace.

After a gazillion moves and practices, I wanted to collapse on the carpet, but, being the stubborn Polack that I was, I refused to give into my exhaustion, even when he had me “raking” my clawlike hand down his face or learning a very disturbing yet probably effective move that involved fingers inside the attacker's nose.

Anything for self-preservation, he had said.

Then, to my amazement, he pulled this little thing from his pocket. He held it out toward me. It was smaller than a gun, black and looked a bit like a weird bracelet. “Fifty thousand volts of electricity shoot out of these probes in five-second cycles. Incapacitates the attacker.”

“A stun gun?”

“A camouflaged taser gun, Sherlock. Cops use the ones that don't need to be camouflaged instead of having to shoot some suspects. This is only to be used as a last resort though. Fleeing the scene is your first.
Remember
that.”

He proceeded to give me instructions on it. I insisted I understood and knew the effects it would have as I constantly mentioned how amazing it was that a taser gun could be made to look like a bracelet. Jagger only shook his head—once.

Okay, some things in this business still impressed me.

“You really want me to wear that thing?” I knew it sounded like a good idea but I also knew both Jagger and I worried I might taser myself.

He put it on my wrist. “I'll make sure the staff knows you are allowed to wear your mother's heirloom to help with your recovery.

I looked at the ugly bracelet. “Stella Sokol wearing a taser bracelet. I don't think so.”

He chuckled.

Jagger finally stepped back and picked up his beer. “That'll do for now. Run the routines through your head over and over and practice them in your room when no one is around.” He came closer and took me by the shoulders. “And, Sherlock, do not let your need to help people get in the way of your safety. If you ever, God forbid, have to use any of these techniques,
do not
stick around to help the assailant out and make sure he or she lives. In other words, no nursing the criminal, 'cause if it happens, you're a victim.”

Jagger obviously had my number.

The old one though.

I told him and myself that I would do my best and not feel sorry for anyone who had attacked me or hurt someone else.

He leaned forward, touched my cheek and said, “I'm glad you finally believe that advice, Sherlock.”

After I'd changed back into the janitor's outfit, Jagger pushed all the furniture back in order so that Miles and Goldie would not see it and have a collective fit. Just as we were about to leave, the door opened and my two best friends walked in, screeching, hugging and kissing me.

Jagger stood to the side and watched.

I could tell there were no derogatory thoughts in his mind. He actually looked a bit jealous of our friendship.

“What the hell?” Goldie said as he held me out to take a better look. “I didn't know Halloween was in March!”

Miles looked concerned. “That's part of the job, isn't it? I really think you should let me call my friend Hammy and set you up with a job in his furniture store.”

I smiled at both of them. “I'm fine. Really. Jagger just taught me some self-defense moves—”

“
Whoosh
!” flew out of my mouth.

Before I knew it, Goldie had me in some kind of body lock. I didn't even think, but reacted with what I'd been taught by stepping on Goldie's little toe, causing him to let go, then I grabbed his arm and flipped him onto the floor. I knew then that if it had been for real, I would have done my moves with a hell of a lot more force.

Goldie got up and kissed my cheek while Miles hugged me. “Okay, get the hell on out of here,” Goldie said like a proud mamma, taking a zebra handkerchief out of his black furry purse. He dabbed his eyes and waved me off with the hanky.

I walked on air past a smiling Jagger.

I barely had the energy or appetite to go to the dining room to eat that night. Jagger had gotten my hospital gown and pants back, walked me to my ward and left me in my room after reporting to Sister Liz that I was back.

I sat on the bed contemplating poor Margaret in the other ward. Why on earth did they move her? I figured that someone knew this place was being “looked at.” But how? Jagger and I had been so secretive. Still, maybe I was wrong. Maybe my imagination had me thinking someone had found out about our investigation, but they really hadn't. But there was the broom handle . . . maybe I was a target for another reason.

Maybe I should just chalk it all up to bad vibes from being in here. After all, the aura of these patients had to be in shades of gray to black. Sad but true.

“Hello, Pauline.”

I swung around to see Terry in my doorway!

“Oh. Hey, Ter.” I shifted on my bed ready to get up and react if need be. “You know you can't come in here. No visiting in other patients' rooms. Sister Barbie . . . Barbara Immaculatta's rule.”

Terry poked his big toe through the doorway.

Despite my exhaustion, I pushed myself up to stand. “Where are your shoes, Ter?”

He wiggled his toe. “Why do I need shoes for what I need to do?”

Yikes! My throat went dry. “Er . . . what is it that you need to do, Terry?”

He stepped forward.

Instead of my life flashing before my eyes, Jagger's self-defense instructions played like a video before me. I ran my finger across my bracelet. “I'm going to have to call Spike or whoever's working this shift if you come any closer.”

Terry laughed. What a God-awful sound. Talk about chills running down your spine. Mine were on speedboats. He wiggled his naked foot. Even that looked sinister.

I backed toward the wall, wishing I could get past him and out the door. But Terry was a decent size in height and a generous portion in weight.

I couldn't take him.

What I could do was protect myself with Jagger's techniques and taser Terry's butt if necessary, along with screaming for help.

“Well, it's time to go to the dining hall, Ter.You hungry?”

He stood still. “Don't call me ‘Ter.'
He
called me that and look what happened to him.”

Whoa boy.

“Who called you that?”

He clucked his tongue. “You know.
Him.
He called me ‘Ter,' so that happened to him.”

“Um. What is that, Terry?”

“You know.”

“No. I don't . . . remember.”

He walked toward the bed. “Stop fooling me, Pauline. You know. You are smart. That's why you're here.”

Oh . . . my . . . God. Terry knew! “Hooow?” my words kinda croaked out.

This time Terry came within taser distance.

Good. I actually felt rather brave with the knowledge that Jagger had given me, not to mention the weapon on my wrist. I could do this, I told myself. Of course, I could scream too, but knew full well what happened to screaming patients around here. Terry would be out the door in a flash and no one would believe me as I rambled on while tucked in the wet sheets. The nuns already thought I'd hurt myself.

He clucked his tongue. “You know you are smart and they have you here for that. You know that I only wanted him to see the light. You know all that, Pauline. I don't see why you are pretending.”

Suddenly I knew what it meant when someone's eyes grew cold. I eased back and swallowed.

“Pauline. Pauline. Pauline.” He started that laugh again.

Oh, boy. Terry's elevator didn't go to the top floor. It was actually plummeting to the basement before my eyes, like the Tower of Terror at Disney. “Okay, I'm just hungry. So, let's go see what there is to eat.” I called his bluff and started to walk past him. Not knowing where the courage came from, I let adrenaline power my legs as I looked him in the eye and walked toward the door. Then I stopped and realized maybe I could get more info out of Terry.

He must have killed Vito. He'd just about confessed.

“You're not afraid to die, Pauline?” He closed the door.

Got my attention with that one. I turned around. “Die? Why would I die, Terry?” I stood firm and decided I had to do my job and part of that job might just involve Vito's death.

Terry started to hum and wiggle his toes. If I wasn't facing a probable murderer, his actions would be comical. Instead, they came across as disturbing. Evil.

“I guess we all have to die someday, Ter.” I'd purposely used the nickname to rile him. I figured he might spill more beans while losing what little control he actually had.

I preferred him spilling his beans instead of spilling me. I held my bracelet with the other hand.

“And you want to see the light on Tuesday?”

Today
was Tuesday. “No, Ter. I want to see my grandchildren's children grow up. No light for me yet.”

He came closer and looked much larger.

Gone was the pleasant doctor look that I'd originally seen when we first met. Mentally ill folks do have some chameleonlike qualities. That's what makes psych so hard to work in. One never could tell if someone was sane . . . or not.

I was going with “not” for Ter.

For a second, I wished Jagger would come running in the door and zap Terry. But then I decided I could do this. I was an investigator and needed to face the risks of the job on my own.

So, going for the sixty-four-thousand-dollar risk, I asked, “Hey, Ter . . . did Vito see the light?”

“Vito!” he shouted then lunged at me with all his crazy force. I fell against the wall and started to call for Spike or anyone. Someone! Terry had wrapped his gigantic hands around my neck and wasn't about to let go. He started to squeeze as he asked, “Is the light getting brighter yet? Is it?” he raised his voice.

The damn light is about to wink out
, I thought. I tried to move, but ended up flailing about under his weight. Taking a hint from Spike, I spit at Terry. He shifted and

cursed while I lifted my knee to his groin enough to get him to jerk up and yelp.

Then he grabbed my wrist against his shoulder . . . and tasered himself.

His eyes bugged out. His body had some kind of convulsion. And Terry landed like a limp, gigantic rag doll on my chest, with a
whoosh
of air into my face.

Geez. I would have thought his reaction to being stunned would have been different. More stiff. I pushed at him until he tumbled to the side.

In the meantime, I jumped up so fast my head spun, while a gang crowded into the doorway. The first row of spectators consisted of patients. Staring. Mumbling. Hollering. Some woman with a Barbie doll stood in front shaking it at us.

From behind, I could hear Spike and the staff yelling at the spectators to move. Spike shoved past everyone.