George Chesbro - The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone

"What I'm saying is that not even psychiatrists-maybe especially not psychiatrists-are immune to a touch of paranoia from time to time, so don't be too surprised if you run into it around here."

"I still don't understand. If everyone's been briefed, why should anyone be paranoid about Garth and me?"

"Not so much Garth as you and your brown bomber. The question is how and why you rate such a high security clearance in order to be with him."

For the first time it occurred to me that Mr. Lippitt not only might be open to charges of nepotism, but might actually get into serious difficulties because of his understanding and kindness toward me. I decided it was time to change the subject. "Exactly what are they doing with Garth now, Tommy?"

Carling cleared his throat. "Officially, you're supposed to direct all of your medical questions to Dr. Slycke," he said in a low voice. "Unofficially, I'll tell you that Slycke hasn't designed a therapy program yet."

"Garth isn't getting any medication?"

"Not yet. For now, all they're doing is conducting blood and chemical tests, and observing."

"I understand that I signed a blanket consent form for any and all treatment, including experimental drugs, but I'd like to be kept informed of what's happening; and I'd like to know what they're going to do before they do it."

"You'll have to take that up with Dr. Slycke."

"What about the other psychiatrists on the staff?"

"Slycke has taken personal charge of Garth, so the other doctors will refer you to him."

"Fair enough. Thanks for the information." I strongly suspected that if Tommy Carling hadn't told me about the privileges I enjoyed with my brown bomber, nobody else would have.

We finished washing Garth, and toweled him off. I combed his hair, then stepped back while the male nurse applied rubbing lotion to my brother's body and massaged him, kneading the muscles and flexing the joints. He dressed him in clean pajamas, made the bed around and under him, then rolled him over on his right side and pulled the clean sheet up to his chin. The whole operation had taken less than a half hour.

"We'll leave him with a little music," Carling said, turning on a small table radio and tuning it to a classical station.

"Why? He can't hear it."

"Why not? Who knows what he can or can't hear?"

"You're right," I replied, and touched the bandage on my forehead. My wound had begun to throb. "Tommy, you wouldn't have a couple of aspirin around this place, would you?"

"Of course," Carling said, and frowned sympathetically. "Obviously, you've been hurt. You're in pain?"

"I've got a headache."

"May I ask what happened?"

"It was just a stupid accident; I bumped into something sharp."

"I'll be right back," Carling said, and walked quickly from the room.

He was back in less than a minute, carrying a bottle of aspirin, a glass of water, and a small medical kit.

"Tommy," I said, "I don't want a fuss; just a couple of aspirin."

"You look a little pale. When did you hurt yourself?"

"Yesterday."

"Did you get a tetanus shot?"

"Yes," I lied.

"Well, it won't hurt to have a look at it to make sure it isn't oozing, and put on a fresh bandage. Just sit down in the chair there."

Tommy Carling was a persistent healer who obviously didn't like to take no for an answer. I sighed, sat down in the chair next to Garth's bed. Carling loosened the strips of adhesive tape over the thick gauze Veil had applied, then carefully peeled back the bandage.

"Man," Carling said, and grimaced. "That is a nasty cut. You did that by bumping your head?"

"Yeah."

"It looks like someone slashed you with a razor."

"I bumped it hard."

Carling shrugged. "It looks clean," he said, and opened the medical kit. He took out a bottle of peroxide and a gauze pad. "I'll just touch it up a little and put on a fresh bandage."

Carling handed me the bottle of aspirin. I shook out three tablets into my palm, washed them down with the water he had brought. Then I sat still while Carling expertly and gently daubed the wound with peroxide.

"That's an interesting stitching job."

"Mmm."

"Whoever did it did a good job. I don't think you'll have much of a scar. It's an unusual style."

"The scar?" I asked, and allowed myself a small smile.

"The stitches."

"I didn't know there was such a thing as a 'style' in stitching up wounds."

"Oh, yes. Doctors are taught to tie off sutures in a particular way. These sutures are perfectly adequate, but I've never seen knots like these."

"My doctor must fancy himself an individualist."

Carling grunted as he finished washing the wound. Then he quickly applied a fresh, much smaller, bandage.

"Nice job," I said when I examined Carling's handiwork in a small mirror in the bathroom. "Now I don't look like a mummy. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Carling said, closing up the medical kit and putting it on the cart. "I've got to do a meds round now. Want to tag along and see the rest of the clinic?"

"I don't want to raise the paranoia index around here."

"With that Z-13 clipped to your shirt, you can raise anything you like. I thought you might be interested."

"I am."

"Then let's go."

I kissed Garth on the cheek and told him I'd be back in a few minutes, then followed after Tommy Carling. We went to a large, glass-enclosed office near what I assumed was the center of the clinic, where Carling traded in his personal hygiene cart for another, larger cart on which was arrayed a host of tiny paper cups that contained pills of various sizes, shapes, and colors, as well as slightly larger cups with liquid medicine. Each cup was stapled to a file card listing the name of the patient and the medication, along with spaces for the signature of the staff member administering the medication, and the time. There was also a large, frosted pitcher of orange juice.

"As I'm sure you know," Carling said as he rolled the cart out of the office, "this is both a research and care facility. However, for all intents and purposes, we're much more oriented toward care than research-with the notable exception, of course, of your brother. You understand; we know what happened to him, but the fact that he was poisoned with NPPD is descriptive information, not prescriptive. The doctors have to make a determination as to exactly what's wrong with him before they can embark on a treatment program. With most of the other patients, the treatment is rather standard and straightforward-conservative and a bit too Freud-oriented, in my unqualified opinion, but that's the way it is around here. Freudians tend to flock together." He paused, shrugged. "But then, so do psychiatrists of various other persuasions. Don't mind my gossip."

"If the treatment of most of the other patients is so straightforward, why couldn't they be put into any good mental hospital, anywhere in the country? Why here, and why all the secrecy?"

"Secrecy about what we do isn't the point so much as the security of the men we're doing it to. All of the patients here were either field operatives or occupied equally sensitive positions. Their mental illness may or may not-usually not-have any connection with the work they did, but they simply carry too many secrets around in their heads to allow them to enter just any hospital and talk to therapists or other staff who don't have the required security clearance."

"Got it."

"Which is not to say that the care here isn't the best; it is. Dr. Slycke and the other psychiatrists are topflight. All of the attendants are R.N.s, well paid, and we like to think we're pretty good. Everyone, psychiatrists and nurses, has been specially trained to deal with the special psychological problems you might expect D.I.A. field operatives to suffer from."