Linwood Barclay - Trust Your Eyes

“Sounds like one of those hoarders shows,” I said.

“The interesting thing is,” Laura said, “the newspaper did burn down.”

My jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. “And they found the gas can that started it in the patient’s house.”

I was stunned, briefly, and then laughed. “You’re not suggesting Thomas is going to arrange a global map-destroying virus, are you? Because I think that’s a bit beyond him.”

“I only mention the other story to show you that your brother’s obsession, while unusual, is not entirely unique. Just different in its shadings.”

“My God,” I said. Something occurred to me. “McLean.”

“What?”

“Isn’t that where the CIA has its headquarters? Thomas wanted to program a route into my car’s GPS system to get there, then thought better of it. Maybe because I didn’t yet have clearance.” I laughed. “I guess, now that he’s letting you tell me all this, I have it now.”

“Your brother trusts you. That’s a plus. People with schizophrenia often lose trust in those closest to them. They’re fearful of everyone.” She took a breath. “Now, I started off telling you there were different elements to this.”

“Okay.”

“In the meantime, before this map-destroying incident happens, Thomas believes the CIA may call on him for other help. For example, let’s say they have an agent in jeopardy in, I don’t know, Caracas or someplace. The bad guys have found him and he’s on the run, and he doesn’t know which way to turn. The CIA will put in a call to Thomas, ask him for an escape route. He’ll be able to give them one, faster than they could get it on a computer.”

I ran my palm from my forehead to the back of my neck. “He just might be able to do it, too.”

“Thomas mentions escape routes quite often, about being able to help people who are trapped, cornered in some way.”

I shook my head slowly, trying to imagine being in his head.

Grigorin continued, “And governments might also want him for help in disasters. Natural or otherwise. Think about all the tornadoes we’ve been having lately, or the earthquakes in Christchurch, in Haiti, the tsunami in Japan. Entire communities wiped out, vanished. Or, God forbid, another 9/11 kind of event. Rescuers could call Thomas, tell him that they’re at such and such a corner, and he could tell them what was there, what they should be looking for.”

“Anything else?”

Grigorin smiled sadly. “That about covers it.”

I rested my palms atop my thighs. “So where does this leave us?”

“I’m not sure. I understand, as a result of your father’s death, there may be a need to change Thomas’s living arrangements.”

I discussed my concerns about his living in the house alone.

“Your concerns are valid,” she said. “He should be living in town, in an environment where he can be checked in on. Not in a repressive kind of way, just someone watching out for him. I can recommend a place you might want to take a look at.”

“Do you think he’d go?”

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I think, if you introduce him to the idea gradually, he might. He’d be able to keep his computer. He could still maintain his…hobby. But it’s important you get him out of the house more. Take him on a picnic. A movie. The grocery store. To the mall. The more he’s out of his bedroom, the more comfortable he becomes, the easier it will be to move him into a new environment. I take it you don’t want to move back to your father’s house and look after your brother full-time.”

“I don’t…I don’t want you to think I don’t care about him.”

She shook her head. “Not at all. In fact, I’m not sure that would be the best thing for him. We need him to be more independent. Your father meant well, but he allowed Thomas to become totally dependent on him. He did everything for him. In many ways, he enabled your brother’s obsession by freeing him of all responsibilities.”

“I think Dad figured it was just easier to do everything himself,” I said. “Do you think Thomas is worse? Since Dad died?”

“I don’t know. I asked him if he still hears the voices-often associated with schizophrenia-and he says occasionally. He talks to former president Bill Clinton, who’s acting as his liaison with the CIA. Thomas’s medication keeps the voices to little more than a whisper, and I don’t want to up his dose. He does take his medication every day, yes? You’ve seen him? Olanzapine?”

“Yes.”

“A higher dosage would make Thomas sluggish. It could also cause some dizziness, weight gain, dry mouth, a number of things he wouldn’t like. What we’re looking for is a good balance. With your support, we can continue to manage the situation adequately.”

“Yesterday, he got all worked up because he’d seen what he thought was some minor traffic mishap in Boston. He wanted me to do something about it, try to get in touch with some anonymous driver who had his headlight broken probably months ago.”

“You need to be patient,” she said. “It’s easy to become discouraged. I think, considering everything, Thomas is doing well. He has his troubles, some of which he won’t talk to me about, but-”

“Like what troubles? What’s he not talking about?”

“Well, if he’d talk about them I’d know,” she said. “I know there’s something, from his childhood, that haunts him, but he’s never opened up about it.”

I thought about that infamous car trip, where Thomas bloodied his head against the window. I told her the story, wondering whether she’d heard it.

“I have,” she said, so that wasn’t it.

She moved on. “The good thing is, Thomas thinks the world of you. He’s brought me clippings of your illustrations to show me.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said.

“I think he’s always been envious of your talent, of being able to take a picture that’s in your head and put it on paper.”

“It’s what he does with maps,” I said.

“You have similar gifts, but they manifest themselves in different ways,” Laura Grigorin said.

“Did you talk to my father when he came in with Thomas?”

“Yes,” she said.

“How did he seem to you?”

“What are you asking?”

“I don’t know, exactly. When I was talking to Harry Peyton, the lawyer handling the estate, who was also a friend of Dad’s, I got the idea Dad might have been depressed.”

“I can’t offer an opinion as to whether he was clinically depressed,” she said. “I never treated him. But he did seem… weary. I think the strain of looking after your brother, alone, was wearing on him.”

“He had an accidental death insurance policy,” I said. “That, along with the some other things, would be enough to set Thomas up for a while, at least.”

Dr. Grigorin’s green eyes were piercing. “Are you suggesting something, Ray?”

I just shook my head. “I don’t know.” I waved my hand. “Let’s forget about it.”

“How about you?” she asked. “How are you doing?”

“Me?” The question took me by surprise. “I’m fine.”

Our time was up. I stood. “Oh,” she said. “I almost forgot. I’m supposed to give you something to deal with your bossiness.”

She reached into her desk and came out with an opaque prescription container filled with oversized pills in several different, brilliant colors.

“What are these?” I asked as she put them into my hand.

“M and M’s,” she said.

Stunned after recognizing her new lover on television, Allison Fitch fires up her laptop to do some research.

“Son of a bitch,” she keeps whispering under her breath.