One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (7 page)

“What the hell is wrong with this?” Gretchen said.

“Must be some kind of electrical delay,” Jagger said.

Before anyone else could speak, I lifted my chest in a dramatic convulsion and even went so far as to arch my back. Suddenly I was Meryl Streep performing as if my life depended on it.

And apparently it did.

Exhausted, I lay on the twin bed in my room after Sister Liz tucked me in following my “treatment.” She'd hovered about like a helicopter, every once in a while poking at the blanket. I wanted to see Jagger to “thank” him, but he'd disappeared before anyone caught on.

Thank him. That was perfect.

For crying out loud, he'd gotten me kidnapped and admitted to a psychiatric facility against my will, and I wanted to thank him for pulling the plug before my brain fried. What was wrong with
that
scenario?

This time
I
shook my head. I had to get out of there . . . soon.

I did try to convince myself that in this job I might have to do things that I wouldn't normally do, but being locked up was not one of them.

My eyes started to close. Obviously stress and the threat of losing brain cells had taken a toll on me. I decided to give in to a short nap. After all, plenty of foreign countries had siestas every day. One couldn't hurt me. Then I'd be in better shape to plan my exit from the Cortona Institute of Life.

“Stop! No!”

My eyes flew wide open. The voice shouting in the hallway was female. Sounded a bit like Margaret Seabright. Then I heard Miss Myra shouting too. I had to see what was going on and if I could help. So, I un-tucked myself and jumped up. Thank goodness the higher-ups hadn't deemed it necessary to have me on “constant” watch. I wasn't sure if they even did that kind of thing anymore, but back in my psychiatric training days, a staff member had to watch “at risk” patients constantly. That meant in bed, in the john, in the dayroom. The patients even had to sleep with their hands outside their covers, since most were either suicidal or homicidal.

Well, at least those in charge gave me some credit for sanity.

I grabbed my hospital robe and ran to the door. When I swung it open, I saw a scuffle in the dayroom. Miss Myra was pulling at someone. Jackie Dee sat twirling her hair. I imagined she envisioned a real feast soon. A huge person pushed Margaret up to the wall. At first I thought it was Sister Dolores in her whites, but when I got a load of the arms, I knew the wrists were way too big for a female.

That had always been dear Goldie's one flaw. And I do mean one.

I ran to the side wall—and froze.

It was him. The man who had given me the intramuscular mickey at the airport. Vito Doran! I ran forward and grabbed at his arm. “Leave her alone!”

With one turn of his head, he gave me a look that sent me flying. Well, his left arm was what actually sent me to the floor, but the look would have done it.

“Ouch!”

Ruby grabbed my hand and yanked me up. “If you know what's good for you, stay out of it.”

I would hope at my age I would know what was good for me, but Ruby's tone gave me pause. Did she mean she'd do something to me . . . or . . . that
he
would?

Before I was able to ask her, Margaret was led out of the dayroom toward a locked door.

“Shit,” Ruby mumbled.

“Shit?” I repeated.

She turned to me as if I didn't know what the four-letter word meant. Maybe she, too, had heard that my version of cursing was “Jagger.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Cold wet packs,” she mumbled and I figured Ruby had been swaddled in them before.

Now it was Margaret's turn.

I would have loved to go help her, but knew I couldn't if I ever wanted to get out of here. A chill raced up my spine at the thought of the cold wet packs. That I remembered from the old days too. When a patient got “out of control,” their clothes were stripped off, wet sheets were wrapped around them like a cocoon of comfort to calm them down.

Once I had to sit in a tiny closet of a room with a patient swaddled in the sheets, who kept seeing bugs on the walls. I had to take her temporal pulse over and over until, thank goodness, my shift ended . . . because I was starting to see those bugs too, and was ready to call my mother to borrow her flyswatter.

My heart ached for Margaret. I looked at Ruby. “What'd she do?”

Ruby gave me a vacant stare. “Grabbed his cell phone—”

“—And was going to call someone to help her get out of here. She said she doesn't belong here,” I added.

“She doesn't.” With that Ruby headed off toward the

TV, plopped herself in front and stared at a commercial for low-carb snacks.

I leaned against the wall and knew I had to find Jagger . . . fast. Maybe I could succeed at getting one of the staff's cell phones.

The instincts that had served me so well during my nursing career said Margaret Seabright was right. She didn't belong here . . . and who else didn't?

I looked around the dayroom to make sure some staff was within listening distance. Of course, in a psych hospital you didn't have to look too far to find any staff. The patients were never, or at least should never be, left alone. I shut my eyes and told myself I was Meryl Streep again. With that thought, I opened my eyes and started to wail.

“Oooooooh! Oooooooh! I need to seeeeeee . . . Dr. Carpenter.” I looked at Spike heading toward me.

Ruby turned around from the TV long enough to whisper, “Plummer.”

I paused my wailing to let that sink in. Oops. Wrong building trade. “Doctor. My Dr. Plummer. I need to see him!”

By now Spike was within breathing distance, but hadn't grabbed me yet. Sister Barbara was fast behind. Suddenly I worried that she might have some kind of “calming” shot in her hand, so I eased up on the Meryl bit and wiped at my eyes.

“Oh, Sister Barbara, could you please call Dr. Plummer for me? I'd really appreciate seeing him right now.”

She stopped within a few feet, her forehead wrinkled in what I could assume was suspicion. Maybe my transformation was too quick. Maybe I was too good an actress. Or, maybe the nun bought my act and thought I was really
whacko. Either way she didn't stick any needle into my arm or any other body part.

Phew.

“What is wrong?” she asked.

Damn. Now what? I couldn't say I needed to fill my partner in on our fraud case. So, I said, “It's . . . personal. You know, Sister, no offense, but it's between my doc and myself. I really feel the need to talk to him.”

From behind her I could see Ruby smirk. Hmm. Maybe I could use her. We seemed to have made some kind of connection and at least I knew Ruby didn't eat her hair, talk to herself or throw herself at walls. Not that I took a drug problem lightly, but Sister Liz insinuated that Ruby was “normal” and here instead of in jail. Besides, the kid appeared perceptive and clever, as lots of drug addicts are. She probably was a rich kid hooked on coke and who knew what else. At least she wasn't wiped out all the time.

Geez, now I was relying on a rich, bratty, teenage druggie.

I gave her a quick wink and turned toward Sister Barbie. “Please.”

“You know, you're lucky he left orders to call him if you asked us to. That's pretty unusual. Most doctors don't do that unless it's an emergency. I'll put in a call to him.” With that she turned toward Spike. “Stay with her until her doctor arrives.”

Yikes. “I'm just going to watch TV,” I mumbled, quickly took a seat next to Ruby and glued my gaze to the set. That way Spike wouldn't have any reason to manhandle me.

Every once in a while I'd sneak a peek at him. Yep, within manhandling distance. Even though I didn't watch daytime TV, I was suddenly very interested in why
women cheat on other women who are their ex-lovers' relatives and never moved out of their homes, along with only wearing bright red and sharing a common bathroom, courtesy of Mr. Springer.

What was this world coming to?

“Pauline?”

I swung around to see Sister Liz. How cute. She'd used my real name. Our bond tightened. “Yes, Sister?”

“Your doctor is here to see you.”

Maybe I sprung up a little too fast, but my action had Sister Liz pull back, clutching her new rosary beads. Spike was fast on the nun's black, sensible heels and he looked anxious to subdue me.

I felt bad about the rosary, but stood ready to go. “Where to, Sister?”

She motioned for me to come with her. Spike joined in. Guess once you made a bad name for yourself on this unit, it followed you until discharge.

Please, God, I prayed that there was a discharge—soon.

Sister opened the door to an office and moved to the side.

“Thanks,” I whispered as I looked to see Jagger, still with his carrot-top 'do on and looking delicious, sitting at an oak desk. The guy fit into any situation. I wondered if he'd ever taken acting lessons, and who the hell did his makeup?

He gave Sister Liz his usual smile. For a second I wondered, too, if her sisterly insides reacted like mine always had when he looked at me.
Of course they do
, I thought. Nuns were human.

“I'll be fine with her, Sister. If I need anything, I'll holler.”

And Spike will attack me. Once the gang left, I looked at Jagger. “Vito Doran ruffed up Margaret Seabright today.”

He stared at me.

“Margaret is the patient who said she doesn't belong here.”

“I know.”

“You do?” I hated sounding so fascinated by what he said and reminded myself I was still pissed at Dr.
Dick.

“You know. You know? What the hell does that mean?” I flopped onto a straight-backed chair and let my legs dangle over the side—not out of reach of Jagger's legs, though.

He pulled sideways.

“What's the matter? Don't trust me?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, no. Now, what about Vito?” He eased farther to the side.

I curled my lips. “She tried to grab his cell phone to call someone, I guess.” Damn. That sounded stupid. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean. Did he say anything to you?”

“Me? No. He merely flung me across the room.”

Jagger's no-nonsense look appeared to crack. Maybe he felt a bit worried about me. “I'm assuming you're all right.”

My legs kicked out farther. I admittedly wanted to make contact. “All right? How can I be all right in
here
?” My left toe brushed his leg.

“Look, Sherlock—”

“Don't ‘Sherlock' me.”
Please don't, because it melts me to the very core, and I lose all rational thought.
I held my legs close to the table now and leaned forward. “Jagger. Jagger, please. I have to get out of here. I mean . . . ” I sniffled and this time it was for real. Damn it. I really didn't want to do this, but he was too much a reminder of the outside world. “Isn't there a way I can come back undercover to help?” What a waste of words. I already knew
the answer to that one. How could I, after everyone had seen me as a patient? I knew in my heart that patients wouldn't confide in a staff member. But to one of their own, they might.

He took a deep breath. “Vito Doran is working with someone on the inside here. We have to find out who.”

“Working at doing what?”

He looked at me for several seconds. I could almost hear the cogs in his brain turning. “They get people to fly out here to the country, thinking they are coming to some resort. People who need some R & R, like with relationship problems or alcohol or just too much stress. Here they're promised luxury in a wealthy New England setting. A resort.”

I looked down at my hospital johnny coat and fuzzy slippers. “Yeah, this is the Ritz, this is.”

“Once they get the person's insurance approved with some fake diagnosis, they keep them here until the insurance runs out, they've collected, and I'm sure, pocketed the profits.”

My hand flew to my face. “Wow.”

Actually, that was quite the ingenious plan, if not the illegal one. I thought for a second and asked, “Don't the people who get released report it to the police?”

Jagger merely stared for a few seconds.

“Oh, right. That's why we are here.”

“It's not easy to prove they didn't belong here, and there haven't been many reports . . . yet. Once you've been in a mental hospital, sometimes your credibility to report things like this falters.”

Once I'd let it sink in that, again, I'd learned there are really bad people in this world, I said, “Then what? I mean . . . do they hurt the people?”

“So far, no.”

“So far?” My eyes filled with tears. I looked past Jagger to the bar-covered window. From there I could see that the Cortona Institute of Life sat miles from the main road on secluded grounds. It resembled a college campus, and Jagger said it used to be a mansion, a private residence, for some wealthy psychiatrist who left the nuns the money to open the hospital.

What a coincidence.

I looked back at Jagger. “If by ‘so far' you mean they haven't killed anyone yet but you think they will, then I insist you get me out of here. Now.” A stupid sniffle followed. I pulled myself straight until my back hurt and added, “No, I
demand
you get me out of here.”

Sister Barbara came to the door. “Everything all right in here, Dr. Plummer?”

I gave her a smile and wiped my forearm across my eyes. Good. She'd think I'd had some epiphany of sorts. I'm sure weeping patients were a daily occurrence around here.

Jagger walked to the door.

I got ready to scream that we weren't finished yet. I was still here, for crying out loud!

Slowly he turned to look at me, but said to Sister, “Make arrangements to give Miss . . . Sokol a weekend pass. I know it's soon, but she needs it. Her . . . mother will be picking her up at three. She lives nearby.”