Tom Piccirilli - Sorrow's crown

I said, "Just call ahead to Dr. Brent."

He didn't pick up the red phone in his little booth, and wouldn't do so until he'd gone through the rest of his paperwork. I leaned out of the car window and scanned the tiny cubicle again. He actually had a bookmark placed in the men's magazine so he wouldn't lose his place. If he was really reading the articles in a magazine called Gozangas then no wonder he had to entertain himself with his clipboard. He must've desperately wanted to pull his firearm just to fend off the tedium.

I didn't think Brent would let me inside without a growing series of threats that might culminate with my reaching for the red phone myself and finally giving the bored guard a chance to wave his gun around. I waited while the guy ran his finger down another sheet. He said, "Yes sir, Mr. Kendrick. Enjoy your visit." I shot up in my seat as he palmed the button that opened the gate, and waved me on.

So, Brent wanted to see me.

Or perhaps Harnes wanted Brent to see me.

I found the parking lot and left Teddy's books in the back seat, but took his folded sketches and put them in my back pocket. I got out and scanned the thickets in the distance where Nick Crummler had told me he'd been watching from when I'd first visited the hospital. I didn't see him anywhere but that didn't mean he wasn't out beyond the fields and back fence, where Michelle and I had made love years ago. At the main doors two guards gave my identification a cursory viewing. I was frisked much more poorly this time and wasn't even told to turn out my pockets. They let me keep my cell phone.

The same guard, Philip, escorted me up to the sixth floor again, and back to Brent's disinfected white office. I got used to the fluorescent brightness quickly this time. We were all getting used to one another. The decontaminated white walls, chairs, and floor appeared to be even cleaner, if possible.

Dr. Brennan Brent sat at his desk sucking his pipe loudly. For a man who should be on edge he looked annoyingly serene and self-possessed. The murder of his right-hand employee raised his confidence level, now that he wouldn't have to call a subordinate "mister" anymore. His mustache continued to skitter on its own, but like a friendly cat it perked up some when he spotted me. He smiled pleasantly. I thought perhaps my plan had already been foiled.

He nodded to the guard and said, "Thank you, Philip. Proceed with your rounds." Philip spun on his heel and slid down the hall, and I felt my chest hitch with an overwhelming sense of deja vu , as if the hospital had a piece of me now that would forever play out these exact same scenes.

His smile widened, and he showed the stubby brown teeth on one side of his mouth where he'd been gnawing the pipe half his life. "And what can I do for you today, Mr. Kendrick?" He said it like a clerk behind a counter.

"I'd like to see Zebediah Crummler, please."

"Yes, certainly."

The good doctor made no move though, resting in his chair peacefully, as though he'd just been walked on by a Geisha girl with sandalwood slippers. I shifted and tried to appear indignant. His eyelids lowered to half-mast and he let out a sigh. I was not exactly impressing him with my self-righteous contempt. If he'd had a desk piled high with files, books, and personal mementos I might've reached over and swept them onto the floor in a gesture of scorn. I didn't think I'd get the same effect by knocking over his No Smoking paperweights.

"It's all falling apart, Brent," I said. "How many new cases came in this week?"

"Twelve."

"I'll guarantee that one of them is undercover, a cop or a reporter who'll be keeping carefully detailed notes about this facility."

At least his eyes opened wide again, though he didn't appear to be concerned. "This is one of the leading rehabilitation clinics in the state. Who do you think you are threatening in such an insolent manner?"

"Better I should threaten you in a respectful manner?"

His mustache appeared to want to leave his face, sidle up to me, and make friends by rubbing itself against my ankle. "You are not an officer of the law."

I figured I'd push the bluff. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

So much for bluffing. "I'd like to see Crummler now.”

“Certainly."

"You already said that. Let's go."

He almost pouted, and the milieu between us shifted as if he considered himself some exasperated but beloved uncle of mine. "I must say," he whined. "Your grandmother didn't behave in such an impolite manner."

"What?"

"She is a woman of refinement, manners and gentility.”

“My grandmother? My grandmother was here today?”

“Certainly. With Mr. Harnes."

For a moment I thought he might be lying, but recalled the signs posted around the hospital showing it to be fully accessible to the physically handicapped. While I'd been at Duke's garage and sitting out front of McGreary's store waiting for Kristin, Anna had been here, with him-the emperor of the asylum.

Brent and I walked down the corridor and passed that same room with the murals of cliffs and cloudscapes, the kids already battling drugs and liquor seated in a semi-circle among the older faces that regretted too much of their own lives. A few were crying, most of them looked annoyed and angry that their parents, wives, and husbands had forced them into rehab. Maybe some of them, like my father, would get the help they needed to stop robbing their families and taking off their clothes and singing "Green Dolphin Street" at five AM and finally manage to straighten out.

Brent nodded to the counselor pontificating in front of the two fuming teenagers. We went up to the twelfth floor, down the winding maze of hallways to Crummler's cell. I noticed the small plastic window had a smear of dried blood on it.

The migraine burst full-blown into my head so suddenly that I nearly pitched forward. My heart began a slow crawl up my throat. Cold sweat exploded across my face and I wondered if I really should get a therapist to help me control my temper. The tapered lighting seemed to draw the world back into one corner, and again Crummler lay in the darkness where I couldn't see him.

"We've had some troubles recently. Zebediah has grown torpid to the point of becoming cataleptic. He refuses to shower or even use the toilet."

"How does a catatonic wind up bleeding on the door?" I whispered.

"He had a psychotic outburst two days ago, hammering himself, wailing to be set free. He forced us to use restraints so he wouldn't bring further harm to himself."

The sound of the door unlocking drove a spike into my headache, and it took me a moment to realize that my palms weren't wet simply from sweat, but also because I was squeezing my fists so tightly that my fingernails had cut them open.

Brent didn't bother with a cheerful greeting, but his voice sounded inordinately loud anyway. "Hello, Zebediah, your friend Mr. Kendrick has returned to see you."

The brown blanket lay draped on the bed but couldn't quite hide the arm, leg, and chest restraints. Crummler stared straight up at the ceiling, eyes full of bewilderment and despair, his upper lip occasionally quivering. His baby's face had a shadow of his former beard across it; his shaved head showed specks of hair. There were dried salt tracks down his cherubic cheeks and in the corners of his eyes. I sat beside him. Not only had his manic happiness and the ecstatic fire and passion gone out of him, but so had the terror and horror and his imprisonment.

Brent had let me see Crummler because he knew I wouldn't be able to do any good for my friend. His nostrils and lips had crusts of dried blood on them. I didn't doubt that he'd rammed his face against the little plastic window. I would have done the same. I spoke to his inert form for about fifteen minutes while Brent gazed on complacently, but Crummler didn't stir in the slightest. I wanted to show him the sketches but he wouldn't even see them. Anna probably sat beside him and put her hand on his head and kept it there for a moment, knowing better than to waste her time trying to talk to him. I tried to coax and placate his steaming mind, but nothing got through. He would know when I possessed the power to free him, and he understood-even from his black slumber-that I couldn't help him at the moment. Without his duty of burying the dead, he had no life himself.