She took a sip from her coffee. The pause seemed to signal the turning of a page. “If, on the other hand, the DEs find the patient is no danger to herself or others and recommend release or outpatient treatment, and the attending psychiatrist concurs …” She smiled. “It’s not against the law to be crazy. Anyone can be crazy and still mix with the rest of society as long as they don’t pose a danger.” She leaned toward him slightly. “They can have jobs, they can get training, they can pursue careers.” She held her eyes on him to make her point, then settled back and had another sip of coffee.
“What if the patient escapes?”
She gave a knowing half chuckle, as if they’d shared an inside joke. “Oooooooh boy.”
Dane just waited. This was good.
She thought about that one, looking at her coffee, looking at him, looking out the window. Finally she drew an audible breath and said, “As far as anyone knows, no patient has ever escaped from the Behavioral Health Unit. Given the security measures, it would be next to impossible.” Then she let her eyes drop off sideways as she added, “And if it did happen, especially after the seventy-two hours had elapsed, it would be such an embarrassment to the unit and to the hospital that”—she thought another moment—“that they could decide to go with the recommendations of the designated examiners and chief psychiatrist, record the patient as officially released, and close the file.”
Not exactly the answer Dane was expecting. “ ‘Officially released’?”
“As a matter of record. She would have been released from the hospital anyway, so her leaving on her own at a time of her choosing would be a mere technicality that could be cleared up in the paperwork.”
“So … in that case the hospital would not be looking for the individual?”
“Looking … ?”
“They wouldn’t send people out to find and apprehend the person, sedate them, and bring them back?”
Her face fell. “Oh, dear.” He could read the incredulity, even dismay, in her face. “No. That’s not … the hospital would not do that. If anything, they would contact the police, and that’s only if the original hold was still in force.”
“They wouldn’t send two men in an SUV with a taser and a hypodermic—”
She winced. Her fingers went to her forehead. “Ohhh, Mandy …”
For Dane, all forward motion stopped. His next thought went on hold. Did she say … ? “Excuse me?”
She recovered and told him, “I hope you realize that some people live in a different world than ours.”
He steeled himself, drew on any stagecraft he could muster to look normal, and said, “Mandy can be that way.”
She signaled him with a slight raise of her hand. “Could we forget I used her name?”
chapter
23
It was the classic bottle-and-glass routine. The Hobett started out with a glass and a wine bottle on a table and two tubes to slip over them. “Tube one goes over the glass, tube number two goes over the bottle.” When she lifted the tubes away, “The bottle has become a glass and the glass has become a bottle.” She replaced the tubes, lifted them away again, and the bottle and glass had traded places again. “So you see, you just—oops!” A second bottle appeared from a tube that should have been empty, and from there the trick was on the Hobett as more bottles appeared from the tubes until eight bottles cluttered the table. She played it all for laughs and got plenty, mugging and intentionally fumbling, the unwitting foil through the whole routine.
Her twist on the routine was when she lined up the eight bottles, blew across their openings to produce a musical scale, and then made them sing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” simply by waving her fingers at them. As the bottles ended the song in four-part harmony, she slipped a tube over each one and made it vanish until the last bottle, singing the highest note, disappeared into the tube and went silent. She held up the tube, looked at the audience through it, then put her arm through it, showing it to be empty. Great finish.
Dane was one of four folks sharing a table just one row back, and he wouldn’t have gotten that seat without a reservation. Every table in McCaffee’s was full, and there were folks sitting in chairs anywhere the chairs would fit. Whatever the room’s maximum legal occupancy, they had to have reached it.
Roger Calhoun must have been doing well enough to spare a little change. Eloise now had a small stage and backdrop to work from, some spotlights, and some additional recorded background music, something between Sinatra saloon and hip elevator.
Ifhe were her coach and mentor, Dane could have addressed a few weaknesses in the performance, mainly in the timing of her reactions—just a shade too soon, as if she knew what was going to happen—and in her body placement—sometimes she held the bottles and other objects too high, blocking her face; sometimes she played things too open, where a slight turn of her body would withhold a reveal and increase the surprise. These were small details, easy to fix. Overall, her pacing was just about right and she was connecting with the audience, making eye contact, pulling them in. The wonder, the delight in every little event were still there. She was a natural.
Just like Mandy.
Oh, yes. He always came back to that. Much as he tried to watch only her performance, he couldn’t help but watch her.Much as he tried to see Eloise, with every turn of her head, every tease in her eyes, every playful smile, he was seeing memories. He tried again and again to blame it on grief, denial, delusion, fantasy, even coincidence, but such explanations were tiresome and easily trumped by what he’d heard today: her name coming from the lips of a total stranger. Unless he imagined that as well, the supposed “delusion” now existed outside his mind, in the real world, which only restirred the aggravating madness of it all.
And what in the world could he tell her? As much as he wanted to share his meeting with Bernadette Nolan and alleviate her fears, the good news came with questions, and the answers could make things worse.
Well, he would step carefully, but he had to go there.
She was winding up her show, starting the levitation. Some of the folks had seen it before and were shooting sideways glances at the friends they’d brought: This is it. This is what I told you about.Dane was interested in how she would sell it. Was the wonder still there? Was it still an adventure for her as much as for the audience?
Her feet came off the floor, and the crowd leaned into the act, marveling, questioning, astounded.
Hmm.Now Dane leaned in. She was trying a different tack, one he wouldn’t have advised: Fear. Dark forces. The unknown. She was acting tentative, extending her hands into space as if something might bite them, her eyes darting about as if seeing something sinister. She was playing it well and giving people the willies.
Still, Dane winced to himself. This wasn’t consistent with the rest of her act, her wonder-eyed, playful persona. The fun was gone, and he was disappointed. He made a mental note. The goofy Hobett tampering with the dark side? That would have worked better with the Gypsy.
She’d also trimmed down the routine. No rotations, no gleeful somersaults. She rose a few feet, held herself there in the precarious grip of whatever power supposedly had her, then settled to the floor at the peak of the crowd’s interest. She got her enthusiastic big finish. To Dane’s thinking, the response would have been even better if she’d not “tapped into the unknown” and come back sweating, trembling, and looking faint even as she greeted members of the audience. Some folks asked if she was all right, and her acting was so good they couldn’t be sure from her assurances that she was. As the folks sharing Dane’s table rose to go, a lady said, “Creepy!”