Kristin didn't seem to mind just standing here at the back of the parking lot with me. Her mother's features rose for a moment like a drowned woman's face bobbing to the surface. Maybe Mrs. Devington had been going for a wrench the other day, or maybe Kristin had just wanted to brain me with that broom handle.
Abruptly she said, almost too softly to be heard, "I'm sorry."
Arnie Devington wouldn't have slashed tires. That showed plenty of rage, all right, but directed toward Katie. Arnie hadn't broken into Katie's shop or mashed the orchids in the street. "Why'd you do it?"
"I don't know exactly," Kristin said. "I guess. . . I guess, maybe, because when you showed up at the house the other day, it reminded me of the prom, how handsome you looked, and the way I thought it was going to be, you know, one day. With you, or maybe with just anyone, but it never was. I ironed the corsage between two pieces of wax paper, still have it saved in the bible on my nightstand. You never asked me out again."
She was wrong, we'd had a couple more dates afterwards. Then she'd joined her family in badmouthing me in order to keep what little self-respect they had in the wake of their life-long failures. I thought she might cry, but she didn't appear to be particularly abashed.
"Sometimes," she told me. "I wish it hadn't been that stupid dog that ate the rat poison. I should've done it myself. You ever feel like that, Jonny?"
Nothing I could do would change anything. There was nothing left to be said except what I came here to say. "Please, Kristin. Don't go near her again."
The gentleness in her eyes as she'd watched her brother and I tearing it up on the lawn had fled; she had her own harbored resentments to deal with. Or those she'd failed to deal with. The orchids stepped on in the street, like a flattened corsage kept between pages in a book, might still haunt her years from now.
Kristin looked at me the same way she had the other day; as if she knew this wasn't over, and might never be.
Panecraft continued to rise into the reddening sky, silhouetted in the rotund face of the full moon breaching the sunset. Rest-less clouds curled, parted and twisted in argument, then thinned and drifted away. The air grew heavy and began to still, and the temperature dropped significantly in only a few minutes.
I drove up to the black-and-white striped semaphore arm at the front gate checkpoint, and the same guard performed another extravaganza of looking for my name on the pages of his clipboard.
I said, "Just call ahead to Dr. Brent."
He didn't pick up the red phone in his little booth, and wouldn't do so until he'd gone through the rest of his paperwork. I leaned out of the car window and scanned the tiny cubicle again. He actually had a bookmark placed in the men's magazine so he wouldn't lose his place. If he was really reading the articles in a magazine called Gozangas then no wonder he had to entertain himself with his clipboard. He must've desperately wanted to pull his firearm just to fend off the tedium.
I didn't think Brent would let me inside without a growing series of threats that might culminate with my reaching for the red phone myself and finally giving the bored guard a chance to wave his gun around. I waited while the guy ran his finger down another sheet. He said, "Yes sir, Mr. Kendrick. Enjoy your visit." I shot up in my seat as he palmed the button that opened the gate, and waved me on.
So, Brent wanted to see me.
Or perhaps Harnes wanted Brent to see me.
I found the parking lot and left Teddy's books in the back seat, but took his folded sketches and put them in my back pocket. I got out and scanned the thickets in the distance where Nick Crummler had told me he'd been watching from when I'd first visited the hospital. I didn't see him anywhere but that didn't mean he wasn't out beyond the fields and back fence, where Michelle and I had made love years ago. At the main doors two guards gave my identification a cursory viewing. I was frisked much more poorly this time and wasn't even told to turn out my pockets. They let me keep my cell phone.
The same guard, Philip, escorted me up to the sixth floor again, and back to Brent's disinfected white office. I got used to the fluorescent brightness quickly this time. We were all getting used to one another. The decontaminated white walls, chairs, and floor appeared to be even cleaner, if possible.
Dr. Brennan Brent sat at his desk sucking his pipe loudly. For a man who should be on edge he looked annoyingly serene and self-possessed. The murder of his right-hand employee raised his confidence level, now that he wouldn't have to call a subordinate "mister" anymore. His mustache continued to skitter on its own, but like a friendly cat it perked up some when he spotted me. He smiled pleasantly. I thought perhaps my plan had already been foiled.
He nodded to the guard and said, "Thank you, Philip. Proceed with your rounds." Philip spun on his heel and slid down the hall, and I felt my chest hitch with an overwhelming sense of deja vu, as if the hospital had a piece of me now that would forever play out these exact same scenes.
His smile widened, and he showed the stubby brown teeth on one side of his mouth where he'd been gnawing the pipe half his life. "And what can I do for you today, Mr. Kendrick?" He said it like a clerk behind a counter.
"I'd like to see Zebediah Crummler, please."
"Yes, certainly."
The good doctor made no move though, resting in his chair peacefully, as though he'd just been walked on by a Geisha girl with sandalwood slippers. I shifted and tried to appear indignant. His eyelids lowered to half-mast and he let out a sigh. I was not exactly impressing him with my self-righteous contempt. If he'd had a desk piled high with files, books, and personal mementos I might've reached over and swept them onto the floor in a gesture of scorn. I didn't think I'd get the same effect by knocking over his No Smoking paperweights.
"It's all falling apart, Brent," I said. "How many new cases came in this week?"
"Twelve."
"I'll guarantee that one of them is undercover, a cop or a reporter who'll be keeping carefully detailed notes about this facility."
At least his eyes opened wide again, though he didn't appear to be concerned. "This is one of the leading rehabilitation clinics in the state. Who do you think you are threatening in such an insolent manner?"
"Better I should threaten you in a respectful manner?"
His mustache appeared to want to leave his face, sidle up to me, and make friends by rubbing itself against my ankle. "You are not an officer of the law."
I figured I'd push the bluff. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
So much for bluffing. "I'd like to see Crummler now.”
“Certainly."
"You already said that. Let's go."
He almost pouted, and the milieu between us shifted as if he considered himself some exasperated but beloved uncle of mine. "I must say," he whined. "Your grandmother didn't behave in such an impolite manner."
"What?"
"She is a woman of refinement, manners and gentility.”
“My grandmother? My grandmother was here today?”
“Certainly. With Mr. Harnes."
For a moment I thought he might be lying, but recalled the signs posted around the hospital showing it to be fully accessible to the physically handicapped. While I'd been at Duke's garage and sitting out front of McGreary's store waiting for Kristin, Anna had been here, with him-the emperor of the asylum.
Brent and I walked down the corridor and passed that same room with the murals of cliffs and cloudscapes, the kids already battling drugs and liquor seated in a semi-circle among the older faces that regretted too much of their own lives. A few were crying, most of them looked annoyed and angry that their parents, wives, and husbands had forced them into rehab. Maybe some of them, like my father, would get the help they needed to stop robbing their families and taking off their clothes and singing "Green Dolphin Street" at five AM and finally manage to straighten out.