What Looks Like Crazy Page 11

  “Does this mean you two are getting back together?” he asked.

  I tugged playfully at his short beard. “It means we got hungry at the same time.”

  He started to lead us to our old table. “Could we sit by the window instead?” I asked. Jay looked amused. Rusty shrugged and led us to it.

  “Drinks are on the house,” he announced.

  Jay and I ordered drafts and New York strips. “I see nothing has changed,” I said once we were alone. Same dark paneling on the walls, the same customers at the long bar, which offered discounted appetizers and booze at happy hour. I wondered whether Jay had brought dates there.

  “I think Rusty is more concerned with serving good food than making cosmetic changes,” Jay said, “but that’s what I like about the place. You want some quarters for the jukebox?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not really in the mood for music.”

  He grinned. “What are you in the mood for?”

  “A nice thick steak cooked just the way I like it.”

  “Then you’re in the right place.” Jay took a sip of his beer and leaned back in his chair. “How is the practice coming along?” he asked.

  “I’m getting new patients here and there,” I told him.

  “Anybody interesting?”

  I’d always felt comfortable discussing my patients with Jay, although I never mentioned names. “I had someone threatening to blow up my office with fake nitroglycerin.”

  He immediately frowned. “What makes you think it’s fake?”

  I told him about the vial of insulin George Moss was forced to keep with him for his diabetes. “This patient is histrionic, a male version of a drama queen. If he doesn’t get his way, he throws temper tantrums and threatens people.”

  “It bothers me that you’re not taking him seriously,” Jay said. “You only have to watch the news to see what people are capable of making right in their own kitchens. You should let me ask a friend from the APD to look into it, Katie.”

  “He’s not my patient anymore,” I said. “I called Thad and told him to find the guy another therapist.”

  I noted the sudden stiffening of Jay’s jaw. He’d never liked Thad, but it was easy to figure out why.

  “Just be careful,” Jay said.

  I didn’t know if he was warning me about George Moss, or Thad, or both.

  “Wait till you get a load of the new chiropractor on the sixth floor, who just happens to be single,” Mona said when I walked into the office the next morning. “He’s hot.”

  “Does this mean you’re going to stop seeing Liam?” I asked.

  Her eyes clouded. “I should probably back off slowly and just be friends with him. Think what it would be like to fall in love with somebody like Liam. I mean, the man is gorgeous, and I haven’t even seen him naked yet.”

  “Okay, so he’s gorgeous. What’s the problem?”

  “Maybe he’s too gorgeous. Plus, he’s surrounded by all those sweet young things at school.”

  “Yeah, but he seems to prefer you,” I pointed out.

  “For now,” she said. “But he’s young. How do I know he’ll feel that way in ten years when I’m forty-three? Botox injections can only do so much, you know.”

  She looked away, and I got the impression she didn’t want to talk about it. “So when are you going out with this hot new chiropractor?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “We haven’t actually met yet. I’m planning my strategy. I’m sure the competition will be stiff. Every woman in the building is going to be after him.”

  “I’m really confused. How is that different from what you just described with Liam?”

  “Dr. Manning—that’s his name—is closer to my age. I wouldn’t be self-conscious getting naked with him.”

  “Oh, well. When you say it like that, it makes perfect sense.” I headed toward the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

  My first patient of the morning was Harold Fry, a manic depressive sent to me by none other than Thad Glazer. When Harold took his medication and showed up for our weekly therapy sessions, he managed his life pretty well. When Harold got off his medication—he hated the side effects—he became Agent Fry, CIA operative, working in espionage.

  One look at Harold in his beige trench coat, hat, and sunglasses, and I knew he had probably flushed his lithium tablets down the toilet again.

  Mona was intrigued by Harold. He did not appear delusional when he discussed (in strict confidence, mind you) his past and present assignments with the CIA. Although it would have been unethical for me to tell Mona that Harold was bipolar and borrowing his tales from his late grandfather, who’d authored dozens of spy novels, I had warned her not to take him seriously.

  Inside my office, Harold spent the first ten minutes checking to see whether the room or my phone was bugged. When he was convinced it was safe to speak, he leaned forward on the sofa and motioned me closer.

  “There is a new tenant in my building,” he said. “His name is Vladimir Guchkov. I saw it with my own eyes, listed on his mailbox. He’s a professor. He plans to teach Russian history at the university.”

  “That has you concerned?” I asked.

  Harold nodded. “I’ve done some checking. You’d be surprised how many Russian professors there are in this country. There are even a couple at Harvard. It’s clear they’re infiltrating our colleges and brainwashing our students into becoming Communist sympathizers.”

  “And you feel confident you can put a stop to it?”

  Harold sat up straight and squared his shoulders. “Absolutely,” he said. “This is my area of expertise, after all.”

  Harold’s so-called expertise, his feelings of specialness, that only he could save the world from Russian invasion, were a clear case of grandiosity and a dead giveaway that he was in full-blown mania. He would work tirelessly and spend great amounts of money, if need be, to prove his claims. Those delusions of grandeur were what set Harold apart from the paranoid schizophrenics, even though I personally felt he suffered from paranoia. Thad and I were not in full agreement about that.

  “Have you discussed your suspicions with Dr. Glazer?” I asked, knowing that Thad saw Harold once a month for medication checks.

  “I don’t trust Dr. Glazer,” Harold said. “I think he’s trying to erase my memory. Why else would he send me to those laboratories where people in white coats are always sticking needles in me and taking my blood?”

  “Dr. Glazer is not trying to erase your memory, Harold,” I said, having had this conversation with him before. “He is checking your lithium levels.”

  “So he says.”

  “I think we need to give Dr. Glazer a call,” I said.

  Harold didn’t look pleased. “Okay, but can I use your bathroom first?”

  “Sure.” It would give me a chance to speak to Thad privately about Harold. I picked up the phone and dialed Thad’s office as Harold left the room. His receptionist informed me that he had taken the day off to go fishing with his brother. I was impressed that Thad had decided to reach out to Thomas, but I still needed to talk to him about Harold. I left a message for him to call me as soon as possible.

  I knew that Thad would want to admit Harold to the psych ward until he was safely on his meds, but Harold hated hospitals. Fortunately Harold had a sister in town, and she had helped get him back on track once before. I felt certain we could enlist her again.

  I waited for Harold to return. When he didn’t, I stepped outside my office. I found Mona at her desk looking through a Tiffany catalog. “Where is Harold?” I asked.

  “He said he had to be somewhere.”

  “Oh, great!” I muttered and raced from the reception area. I should have known Harold would bolt at the sound of Thad’s name.

  I caught the elevator just as the door was about to close. I got off on the main floor and hurried outside, but there was no sign of Harold. I cased the parking lot, peeking through car windows. It had started to rain. The sky was dark, clouds rollin
g in. Finally I gave up.

  Mr. Lewey was sitting in the reception room when I returned. I did my best to act calm and natural, knowing Mr. Lewey would immediately pick up on my anxiety and go into panic mode. “Do me a favor,” I said to Mona. “In about half an hour, start calling Mr. Fry’s home number. Tell him he needs to come back in and see me.”

  “I’m on it,” she said and went back to her catalog.

  I ushered Mr. Lewey inside my office and closed the door.

  “Today is the day,” he said.

  His announcement was followed by a roll of thunder. I glanced out my window and saw a flash of lightning in the distance. The rain was coming down hard. I turned back to him. “The day for what?” I asked.

  “I’m ready to get on the elevator. Today. Now.”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “What brought about the sudden change?” I asked.

  “I just made up my mind to do it, even if it kills me.”

  I could see his fists balled at his side, his teeth gritted. “You look like you’re ready to go into battle,” I said. I’d barely gotten the words out before a loud clap of thunder rattled the windows in my office and made him jump. “I don’t want you to fight the fear, Mr. Lewey. We’ve discussed how that only makes it worse.”

  “I don’t care how I have to do it,” he said. “I just want to get it over with. You’re either with me or you’re not.”

  I followed a determined Mr. Lewey from my office. Mona was dialing a number on the phone. “Mr. Lewey and I need to step out for a moment.”

  Mona nodded and gave Mr. Lewey the thumbs-up sign. He’d obviously told her of his decision.

  Mr. Lewey and I were both doing deep-breathing exercises as we waited for the elevator. No doubt he was trying to remain calm now that he’d made a decision to conquer his fear. I, on the other hand, was trying to figure out what to do about Harold Fry’s disappearance. I worried he would never set foot in my office again if I participated in having him hospitalized. Any progress we’d made trying to control his mood swings and manic episodes would go down the toilet.

  The elevator doors opened. Fortunately it was empty. Mr. Lewey and I stepped inside; he went to the back. I held the door open with my foot. “How are you?”

  He took a shaky breath. “I’m about a seven or eight, but I’m okay. Let’s take it to the top.”

  I stepped back, and the metal doors closed. I punched the tenth-floor button, and we started up. I turned to Mr. Lewey and found him plastered against the back of the elevator, white-knuckling the rail. His eyes were squinched closed. “Why don’t you stand at the front beside me?” I said. “You can press the button and make it stop if you need to get off.”

  “I’m fine.”

  But he didn’t look fine. Perspiration beaded his brow; his breathing was shallow. I feared he would hyperventilate. We reached the top floor, and the doors opened. “Let’s get off here,” I said, convinced the whole thing had been a bad idea.

  “Keep going,” he said between clenched teeth. The doors closed before I could stop them. The elevator paused on the eighth floor, and a woman got on bearing an umbrella. She shot a curious look at Mr. Lewey before turning to me.

  “Some weather we’re having,” she said. “It’s getting downright nasty outside. I hear we’re under a severe thunderstorm warning.”

  “Be careful driving,” I told her, even as I darted looks at Mr. Lewey.

  We started down again. We’d almost reached the lobby floor when the lights flickered, followed by a boom of thunder that seemed to shake the entire building. The elevator gave a jolt and went completely black.

  “Uh-oh!” Mr. Lewey said.

  “Looks like we’re stuck,” the woman said.

  “Uh-oh!” Mr. Lewey said more loudly.

  “We’re not stuck,” I said in the darkness. “Just give it a second. The lights will come back on.”

  “No, no, this is really bad!” Mr. Lewey was clearly having a panic attack.

  “What’s his problem?” the woman asked.

  Without warning, Mr. Lewey shoved me aside so hard I bumped my elbow on the rail. I could hear him gasping and struggling. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Trying to pry open the door before our oxygen supply runs out!” he yelled. “We’re all going to die!”

  “Oh no!” the woman said. “I’m stuck in an elevator with a maniac.” She began banging on the door as well. “Help!” she cried.

  “Move out of my way, lady,” Mr. Lewey ordered. “Where is that damn phone?”

  “Don’t touch me, you weirdo!”

  I heard several thumps. Mr. Lewey yelped. “Stop hitting me with your umbrella, you old bag!”

  “Both of you stop it!” I shouted as Mr. Lewey grappled for the phone and began shouting into it that we were all dying, even though we’d only been stopped little more than a minute.

  “Mr. Lewey, I think we should practice our deep-breathing exercises,” I said.

  “How the hell are we going to do that when there is no air!” he yelled. “We’re going to die in here. I’m passing out!”

  I heard him hit the floor only a split second before the lights flashed on. The elevator gave a jolt and started down. The door opened, and the crowd waiting to get on stepped back as the woman with the umbrella cried out in alarm, “Let me out of here! That man is a psycho!”

  Mr. Lewey scrambled to his feet, touched his face. “I’m alive! I’m alive!”

  “Mr. Lewey, why don’t we go back up to my office and—”

  He wasn’t listening. He all but hurled himself from the elevator, pushed through the small crowd, and exited via the double glass doors leading outside.

  I ran after him, even as the rain pelted my face and lightning flashed ominously in the dark sky, even as I wondered whether other psychologists were forced to chase their patients through parking lots on a regular basis. Had I not been so caught up in my thoughts, I might have noticed the steel drainage grate in the asphalt parking lot. Which was why I was so surprised when the heel of my shoe jammed inside one of the holes. I immediately fell forward. I tried to catch my fall with my hands. Pain shot through my left wrist.

  A car skidded toward me. I glanced up to see a panicked Mr. Lewey behind the wheel, headed straight toward me in an old, battered red Ford Mustang. I closed my eyes and prepared to die, just as he swerved to one side to keep from running over me. He hit a speed bump so hard that his tires left the pavement for a split second before landing hard in a mud puddle. Black, oily water sprayed my face and hair. His back hubcap flew off, came at me like a Frisbee, and bounced off my head. Then all went black.

  chapter 9

  When I opened my eyes I found myself lying just inside the lobby, on what appeared to be a blanket made up of men’s jackets. Someone had covered me with another one. A sweet-smelling woman pressed ice to my head. I heard two men in the background arguing the merits of having moved me.

  “You just opened yourself up to a lawsuit, pal,” one of them said. “You’re never supposed to move someone who has been badly injured.”

  “You’re saying we should have left her in the parking lot, where she could have been struck by lightning?” the other man said. “What a jerk!”

  “Please stop fussing!” the woman holding the ice to my head told them. “She’s awake.”

  I blinked up at her. “How badly am I injured?” I asked.

  “You have a bump on your forehead, hon. An ambulance is on the way. How’s your vision?”

  I vaguely recognized her. She wore a nurse’s uniform. “I can see okay, but my wrist hurts,” I told her.

  “Try to lie very still,” she said. “Is there someone we can call? A relative?” she added.

  I had to think for a moment. I did not want to give my mother’s name: I knew she would go ape on me. I debated telling the nurse I was an orphan.

  Then I heard, “Eek. Oh, my God! Is she dead?”

  I recognized Mona’s voice. She pushed through t
he crowd and gave a huge gasp. “Kate, are you okay? What happened to you?”

  “Mr. Lewey flipped out on the elevator and almost ran over me in the parking lot.”

  “We’re waiting on the ambulance,” the nurse said to Mona, even as I heard a siren in the distance. “You might want to try to contact a relative.”

  I looked at Mona. “Please don’t call the Junk Sisters.”

  I arrived at the ER, where I was immediately placed on a gurney and wheeled into X-ray. When I was returned to my cubicle in the ER, I found Jay waiting.

  “Mona said she was told to contact your next of kin,” he said and grinned. “I knew you’d choose me.”

  “Where is Mona?”

  “She’s on her way. She figured she should cancel your appointments for the day. How’re you feeling?”

  “Not so good.”

  Jay was interrupted from answering when the staff surgeon, Dr. Beau Bodine, reappeared, carrying my X-rays. He had a shock of red hair and wore the usual green hospital garb. He looked surprised to see Jay. “Is the hospital on fire?”

  Jay shook his head. “I hope not. I just finished a twenty-four-hour shift, and I’m not in the mood to work. Actually, I’m married to this pretty lady.”

  “No way!” Bodine said.

  Jay looked at me. “Katie, you’ve probably heard me mention Bobo. He and I play racquetball at the gym a couple of times a week.”

  “Bobo is my nickname,” Dr. Bodine told me.

  “Tell her your other nickname.”

  Bobo’s face turned as red as his hair. “This might not be the right time.”

  “They call him Knife,” Jay said.

  I gulped.

  “I have good news and bad news,” Bobo said to me. “The good news is, you don’t have a concussion. That knot on your head should go down in a couple of days if you keep icing it. The bad news is, you’ve got one hell of a wrist fracture. We could set it and slap on a cast, but I’d have trouble sleeping at night if I didn’t put in a couple of pins.”

  “Surgery?” I asked, giving another gulp.