“Wait!” I called out. “We need to talk about—”
I plopped down and sat without moving for perhaps another twenty minutes trying to digest what had happened. I hadn’t even had a chance to ask her about videotaping our next meeting so she could see her alter ego for herself. The interview with the reporter for the British magazine was scheduled for that day as well. Never mind—she probably read the back of my mind and knew all about it anyway.
* * *
I was passing through the game room when I heard someone call my name. Howard came puffing over and asked whether I had a minute. I told him I was in no hurry. “I’m going to K-PAX!” he declared happily. I had never seen him like this before.
I didn’t want to burst his bubble, but I didn’t want him to be disappointed later on, either. “How do you know you’re going to K-PAX, Howard?”
“Cassie told me. Isn’t it wonderful? No one there cares that I am ugly.”
“Yes it is. But bear in mind that Cassandra could be wrong in her prediction.”
“She’s never wrong, Doctor Brewer—you know that.”
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. She may be absolutely certain about it, but maybe the plan will fall through. Maybe fled will decide to take someone else at the last minute, or there might be a technical problem and she won’t be able to take anyone at all.” I didn’t want to mention my prime concern—that the government might find a way to stop her.
“I’m not worried.”
“Did Cassie say who else might be going?”
“Only that there will be a lot of others.”
“A lot of the patients, you mean?”
“That’s what she said. And a few from the staff.”
“Staff?? You mean the nurses?”
“She didn’t say.”
I made a note to ask her—or fled herself—as soon as possible. But something else came to mind: Cassie’s predictions were usually only good for a couple of weeks. Did that mean fled would be leaving within that time frame?
“Jerry’s not going, though.”
“What?”
“Jerry’s not going.”
“Why not?”
“Fled is going to cure him,” he whispered. “He won’t need to go.”
“Who told you that?”
“Fled.”
“I see. And when is this miraculous cure going to take place?”
“As soon as she gets back.”
“Okay, Howard. Thanks for the information. And I sincerely hope you get your wish.”
“It can’t be any worse than it is here.” He meant the Earth, of course, not the hospital. He turned to go. “I can’t wait to tell everyone!”
“Just a second, Howard. You seem to have a pretty good idea about what’s going on around here. Tell me (I glanced around to make sure no one could hear us): do you know if any of the patients have had—uh—an intimate relationship with fled?”
“Only one that I know of.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“You mean… she seduced you?”
“She didn’t have to work very hard at it. I’ve never had sex before. I was beginning to think I never would.” He chortled happily. “Now I know what all the fuss is about.”
Though vaguely disgusted by this revelation, I wasn’t really surprised. “Thanks, Howard. We’ll talk again later.”
He waddled off and I headed upstairs for a brief visit with Jerry. He was working as usual. Indeed, the matchsticks were flying. But when I spoke to him he seemed unable to respond. He was grinning, and I heard some sounds coming out of him—little sighs and squeaks—but no words of any kind. Had she already told him about his imminent “cure”? His manner reminded me somehow of Stevie Wonder at the piano. He seemed to be beside himself with happiness. I only hoped his joy wouldn’t be dashed by false promises from a certain alien visitor.
* * *
I had lunch in the Ward Two dining room. Charlotte was in attendance, and I asked for permission to join her. Though still routinely sedated, her drug regimen was more effective than even a few months earlier (it sometimes takes a while to determine the best medication and to optimize the dosage). As a result, she was under far less surveillance than she had been when she moved down to the second floor, monitored only by the security cameras like everyone else. Nevertheless, she would probably never leave the hospital. The difficulty with mental patients is that they can often be temporarily “cured,” but sometimes revert to their former state even if they faithfully take their meds (and they often don’t). In Charlotte’s case we couldn’t take a chance on her being set free—at least not until she had proven herself to be stable for a considerable length of time—and perhaps ending up a dangerous psychopath again.
Her gray, wolflike eyes were absolutely compelling, as they undoubtedly had been for her seven unfortunate victims in 1996-7, though they had lost much of their sparkle. But, despite her apparent malaise, I still found her to be the most beautiful patient in the hospital. I asked her how she was feeling.
“It’s very tiring when no one loves you.”
I was frankly stunned. It had never occurred to me that someone who found the sexual apparatus of the human male so disgusting would want someone to love her. Or perhaps her new medication had counteracted the repression of her instinct to love someone. Or was she looking for a lesbian relationship? I was reminded once again that we are all much more complex than we might seem, our wants and needs often contradictory, our totality far more than the sum of our parts.
Before I could express any thoughts about this, however, she confided to me that she “would really like to leave this place.”
A perfectly normal response to being locked away for nearly a decade. But even if she were no longer deemed to be a menace to society, the courts would have to thoroughly review her case, a process that could take many more months or even years. If the victims’ relatives were consulted, as they undoubtedly would be in a case like hers, she would probably remain here forever regardless of her mental state. And besides all these considerations, who knew if she was faking her improvement, a not uncommon occurrence among the mentally ill? It occurred to me that if fled were able to read minds, and I was pretty certain she could, she might be able to tell us what was going on inside Charlotte’s. But suddenly I realized that fled might be even more helpful than that. If she could read everyone’s mind, what could she tell us about the thoughts and fears of all the other inmates of the Manhattan Psychiatric Institute? If we knew this, it could be a godsend to both patients and staff! But—would she be willing to do this? And, if so, could she “analyze” everyone at the hospital within the next couple of weeks while, at the same time, scouting for 100,000 people to accompany her on a voyage to the stars?
I cursed myself for not thinking of this earlier; I might even have brought it up at the regular Monday morning staff meeting, and it would be another week before the next one. On the other hand, maybe I should ascertain fled’s reaction to this notion before bringing it to everyone’s attention. And maybe it was a dumb idea anyway. My wife likes to remind me that my brain isn’t what it used to be, and I’m not all that sure it was so brilliant in the first place.
I left a message with Will reminding him to set up the videotape equipment for Wednesday. It had only been a week and half, and I was already beginning to get that dragged-out feeling I associated with entertaining visitors from other planets.