Т Паркер - The Room of White Fire

“Not yet. Back to the electroshock, Dr. Hulet. It isn’t mentioned in Clay’s file. The one you gave me.”

“It’s called electroconvulsive therapy, or ECT. It is a modality we use. Sparingly and judiciously. And generally with success. Dr. Spencer demands unilateral placement of the electrodes, never bilateral. Far fewer side effects.”

“Did you personally conduct the ECT on Clay?”

She stared at me. “Yes, of course. It’s not in the treatment history for reasons of confidentiality.”

“Clay also told his friend he’d built up resistance to the shocks.”

Paige Hulet looked hard at me again, then closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. She opened her eyes and I saw the moisture on them. “Very unlikely. Maybe Clay was just trying to... impress his lady friend.”

“What is it between you and Clay?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You seem inordinately focused on him.”

She fixed me with her dark, no longer moist eyes. “I am his doctor and I am ordinately focused on him, Mr. Ford. He’s a wonderful, troubled man. And though it is absolutely none of your business, I’m going to share something personal with you. I live for my partners. They are what I have and what I want. I have never married and have no children. When I hired you, I’d hoped you’d see my passion for my work. And respect it. I’d hoped you’d prove to be more than a base-model hominid just up from the mud.”

I thought about that a moment. “No. That’s me. But I meant no offense, Doctor. I like it that your voice rises slightly in volume and you blush and your blood pressure probably goes up when you talk about Clay Hickman. I like it that you like him and he moves you and you seem to want what’s best for him. Maybe I’m even envious. Maybe I want a doctor like you.”

Slowly, very slowly, Dr. Hulet’s look went from staunch defense to acceptance. I wasn’t sure just what she was accepting. Whatever it was it took a while. She sighed. “You come at me from so many directions. And are much closer to being fired than you seem to know.”

“Well, why not just get it over with?”

“I want you to succeed. Yes, okay. I am wound rather tight, Mr. Ford. I understand that. And I meant no offense, either, about your ape likeness.”

“I couldn’t handle working here for long.”

“There are, well, rewards and punishments.”

I hesitated. In for a penny. “Have you given any thought to my invitation to dance?”

“None. I’m so sorry, but when I said I would think about it, I was trying hard to be polite but not leading. It’s a difficult balance with men.”

Ouch. But never with women. “No apology needed, Dr. Hulet, but you were the one who brought up five years of dancelessness.”

It was the first time I’d seen her smile. A ray of sunlight in a cloud. “That’s not even a word.”

I shrugged. “We both know what it means. What do you think Clay Hickman’s paintings mean?”

“Your mind jumps from thought to thought.”

“Who cares what my mind does?”

A shadow of gravity on her face. “I find the paintings disturbing. Those same two figures, trapped over and over in varying postures. Their pointed heads. They made me think of hell. You?”

I stood. “The same. Can I ask you a question about this place?”

“Of course.”

“How much do people pay for their loved ones to get treatment here?”

“I’m not authorized to discuss costs. That’s a very personal thing for the families, Mr. Ford. You understand.”

“You told me that Arcadia’s goal was discharge and reintegration.”

“When possible.”

“What percentage of partners go back into normal life?”

“It’s in line with other institutions like ours.”

“Can you ballpark it for me?”

“Again, not my information to give.”

“So, Arcadia is more of a residence than a treatment center.”

“Words can be slippery.”

“So let’s use the right ones.”

A hard, brown-eyed stare, analytical but not unkind. “Like ‘dancelessness’? Now I have a question for you, Mr. Ford. Have you given any thought to calling me first when you find Clay? Not Alec. Not Dr. Spencer. Me? ”

“I’m still considering. Your signature is on the contract but Briggs Spencer is your superior.”

“It would be in Clay’s best interest.”

“So you’ve said.”

“You must do the right thing for Clay. I’m banking on you.”

“You’re smart to. Because I’m Roland Ford, the go-to hominid.”

A knot began forming in my throat as I walked toward the Waterfront Bar and Grill in downtown San Diego. The knot tightened as I climbed onto a familiar stool. I knew the odds were small that Clay Hickman and Sequoia Blain would just come strolling in, arm in arm, but Evan Southern had vouched for Clay’s enthusiasm about this place before he was committed to Arcadia. So maybe Clay would show up and make my job easy. Maybe, now free after three years of confinement, he wouldn’t be able to resist his favorite drink at his former favorite watering hole.

Sergio, one of the Waterfront’s senior bartenders, was on duty that evening. He’s an easygoing, quick-to-smile man, well fitted to a place that is often crowded and rowdy. He made me a light bourbon and soda and we talked Padres until he got busy. The TV news was speculating on who would be the new secretary of Homeland Security. Springtime, I thought, and like everything else in spring, our new president is moving and shaking. New policy. New people. New words. Then a brief story on the latest bloodshed in Fallujah. Nothing new there, I thought. All that flesh and blood. That belief. Wasted. Forget.

But remember: I had spent more than a little time here at the Waterfront the first year after Justine died. Some of it on this very stool. It had seemed important to be out of my depressing house, somewhere out in the open, where I couldn’t overdrink and hide from a world I wanted no part of. Another life. I felt that knot in my throat again. I realized that Clay Hickman’s time here in the Waterfront wasn’t that much earlier than my own. He had checked into Arcadia a year before Justine had died and I had checked into my own private, inner asylum. According to delusional Evan Southern, on good authority from possibly delusional Clay Hickman, this had been Clay’s downtown haunt. And mine. We’d barely missed each other.

Sergio was twisting a white towel inside a beer glass as I held up the picture that Paige Hulet had given me. The towel stopped. “Rick Sims,” he said.

“Seen him lately?”

Sergio’s brow furrowed as the towel started up again. “Six hours ago.”

I tried to sound casual. “With a girl?”

“Yeah. I carded her and she made an excuse and ordered an Arnold Palmer. What’s up with him? Haven’t seen him in three years. The day Tony Gwynn died. Big Tony fan. Nice guy. Serious.” Sergio looked down at me, nodding, his brow furrowing again. “Is he all right?”

“Not fully.”

Sergio shook his head quickly and unhappily, as if shaking off a bad thought. “Today I didn’t think so. Too happy. Too loud. Not like he was. The girl kind of pulled him out of here.”

“Any clue where they were going?”

“None. I just served them drinks while they waited for a table and he talked at her. Is he in trouble?”

“Headed for that neighborhood.”

“Where’s he been the last three years?”

“Back east. I’d appreciate a call if you see him again. An immediate call, Sergio.”

“Sure, okay.”

“How about a table and a menu?”

The table was just big enough to hold another bourbon and Paige Hulet’s file on Clay Hickman.