Blake Crouch: Birds of Prey

Carmichael pulled his black Mercedes S-Class under the covered entryway and killed the engine. Lingered for a moment longer, enjoying the heated leather as it warmed his back through his woolen jacket.

Eventually, he grabbed his briefcase and stepped out of the car into the raw, damp night. The sound of rain hammering the drive and the roof over his head nearly drowned out the deeper booms of thunder, which he could feel in his backbone.

Everything smelled of Heathrow’s cold, wet stone.

Inside, it was still as a tomb, and the air reeked of disinfectant, which barely masked the odor of urine, desperation, and crazy.

Crazy had a distinct smell. It was medicinal, metallic, like an open bottle of pills. Almost human, but not quite.

The good doctor walked to the reception desk where a nurse in burgundy scrubs was filling out an intake form.

“Good evening,” he said. “I have an appointment with one of your patients.”

The nurse looked up from her paperwork, gave a tired smile. She was young, might have been pretty, but her face was scrubbed free of any trace of makeup, and her hair was tied up in a tight knot against the back of her head.

“Your name?”

He said it slowly, patiently. “Doctor Vincent Carmichael.”

“Who’s the patient you’re here to see?”

“Alexandra Kork.”

He registered some reaction in the nurse’s face at the utterance of that name. Disgust or horror or some mix of the two.

The nurse rolled her chair over to a computer, whose monitor Carmichael could just barely see. She was studying a calendar.

“Yes, I see you’re on here for 9:15.”

“It’s a late appointment, but I wanted to see her after a full day. When she’s tired. More compliant.”

“Yeah. Sure. Let me know how that works out for you.” The nurse lifted a phone and punched in a three-digit extension. “Hey, Jonas, Dr. Carmichael is here to see Little Miss Sunshine. You want to come up and take him back?”

“Have you examined Ms. Kork before?” asked Jonas, head orderly of D-Wing. He was a large, bearded man who might have played guard or tackle at a small college. He reminded Carmichael of a combat orderly—white uniform, white tennis shoes, and a belt outfitted with a radio, pepper spray, zip-ties, and an assortment of other restraint tools.

“This is my first time,” Carmichael said.

They were walking down a long, dark corridor that linked the quadrangle to its most outlying, most secure wing.

Lightning spiderwebbed across the sky, flashing through the tall windows on either side of them, casting the checkered floor in a burst of electric blue.

“She is, without a doubt, our most violent, most dangerous patient.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“In your email, you mentioned you wanted to meet with her in a private room.”

“That’s correct.”

Thunder shook the windowglass all around them.

“I would strongly advise against that,” Jonas said. “Our preference would be to have you meet in separate rooms connected by a Plexiglas window. You would be able to see her and speak to her through a telephone.”

“Unacceptable.”

“If she decides to kill you, you’ll be dead before we get to you. Ms. Kork has tremendous physical strength.”

“But her ankles and wrists will be chained, correct?”

“They haven’t stopped her before.”

Carmichael quit walking and faced the orderly.

“Jonas, everything I do, any progress I make with Ms. Kork, will be based upon a foundation of trust.”

“I under—”

“And that foundation is not built by speaking to someone through reinforced Plexiglas on a telephone. It’s by sharing the same space, breathing the same air.”

“You know that Ms. Kork killed two of her previous psychiatrists.”

“I am aware.”

“The first was a two-hundred fifteen pound man who insisted on the same conditions you’re requesting. Seventy-four minutes into their third session, Alex went into convulsions. When Dr. Andrews attempted to help her, she shoved a sharpened, plastic toothbrush through his right eye socket. It went all the way in, right up to the bristles.”

“I’ll watch out for the convulsion trick.”

“The second shrink, she snapped her neck when the poor woman reached out to shake her hand. They hadn’t even said two words. Alex blamed it on her period.”

“Periods can be rough.”

Jonas eyed Dr. Carmichael oddly.

“So I won’t shake hands with her,” Carmichael said.

Jonas nodded, apparently satisfied. He lifted his radio to his mouth and said, “Move Kork to Interview One.”

They continued walking toward a pair of double doors in the distance.

“What is it you hope to achieve here?” Jonas asked.

“I want to learn from her,” Carmichael said.

“Why?” Jonas pulled a keycard out of his pocket.

“Maybe so we can stop people like her from happening again.”

“Amen to that.”

Carmichael shot Jonas another cold stare.

“Despite all the terrible things she’s done, all the pain she’s caused, Alex Kork is still a human being. A broken one, sure. But one just the same. You could stand to have a bit more empathy. Perhaps I need to speak with your superiors about that.”

“Uh, I don’t think that’s necessary. But this one…she’s a real pisser, Doc. No bullshit.”

“Which is why I’m here to study her.”

Jonas rubbed his hairy chin. “I have to say, and this may be my ignorance showing, that I’ve never heard of you before. Your credentials check out, but let’s be realistic. In this day and age, with the Internet and photoshop, anyone can impersonate a doctor.”

Carmichael stopped walking, forcing Jonas to do the same. “You’re correct,” Carmichael said.

“Really? How so?”

“Your ignorance is showing.”

Jonas blinked twice. Carmichael didn’t blink at all.

“Um, Dr. Panko instructed me to assist you in any way I could,” Jonas said, “so that’s what I’m going to do.”

Jonas swiped the keycard, and through the space between the heavy steel doors, Carmichael saw two bolts retract.

One of the doors swung back and they walked over the threshold into D-Wing.

Harsh, fluorescent lights glared down.

They passed a utility closet and arrived at a reception desk that stood protected behind steel bars. It looked less like a hospital, more like a military bunker. Behind the desk, one doorway opened into a room that resembled a small armory—stun guns, cattle prods, face-masks, canisters of pepper spray and tear gas, batons, straight-jackets, blackjacks, riot gear. Along the back wall, several pistols and shotguns had been mounted.

The other doorway opened into a pharmacy.

Jonas and Carmichael stopped at the reception desk, and Jonas smiled at a behemoth of a woman in a gray suit with the unmistakable countenance of a prison guard. She was playing Solitaire on an old-school computer that must have been fifteen years old. Clearly, the funding had been poured into better weapons.

Jonas said, “Hi, Bernice. All quiet?”

Her eyes didn’t avert from the screen as she said, “Mostly. This the one here to study our precious little angel?”

“I’m Dr. Carmichael,” Carmichael said.

“Little Miss Sunshine is waiting in Interview One.”

“She’s secure?” Jonas asked.

“I strip-searched her myself. Her wrist-and ankle-irons are bolted into the new D-ring in the floor. Still ain’t safe, you ask me.” She caught Carmichael’s eyes for this comment.

“I’ve been duly warned.”

“She’s in a real foul mood tonight,” Bernice said, “even for her.”

Carmichael smiled. “Then any progress will be readily apparent. Would you take me back, please, Jonas?”