But Slycke wasn't listening to anything but the voices of his own paranoia. "I expressly advised against appointing that man Director, and I was overruled. Imagine; the man is demoted to no more than a security guard position in some godforsaken place in Nebraska. The facility he's responsible for gets blown up, he disappears for a year, and when he surfaces he's appointed Director of the agency. It's inconceivable!"
Valhalla again. Siegmund Loge and his minions were continuing to haunt me, his legacy hanging like a poisonous mist even over this mental hospital in Rockland County. It would be interesting to see what Slycke's reaction would be if he knew what Lippitt had been up to during that year-but I wasn't about to tell him. "I don't know anything about that, Doctor," I said tightly, "and my guess is that Mr. Lippitt couldn't care less about your opinion of him; Garth is here because Mr. Lippitt thinks highly of you and your facility. You're looking for enemies where there aren't any; they must have a term for that in psychiatry."
"I run this clinic, Frederickson, not Mr. Lippitt! This is a medical facility, and I have the final say here!"
"I've tried to be polite to you, Slycke," I said evenly, getting to my feet. "Obviously, simple professional courtesy and good manners aren't high on your list of priorities. I don't owe you explanations about anything, and I resent having to expend physical and emotional energy defending myself to you when my brother lies sick in bed here. I repeat; you have nothing to worry about from me, I'm not spying on you or anybody else, and my only concern is in seeing that my brother gets the best possible medical care. It's definitely not in Garth's or my interests to have you, or any other member of the staff here, distracted and looking over your shoulders because of me. So please stop doing it."
Slycke sprang to his feet, and his hands began to tremble. "Are you suggesting that personal considerations could cause me to provide anything less than the best possible care for a patient?!"
"I'm suggesting that you stop losing sleep over me and my ID badge, and I'm suggesting that you get off my back and get on with your business. Mr. Lippitt seems to think you're a pretty good psychiatrist, and I'll go along with his judgment. For now."
"For now?"
"Your hearing is no worse than mine."
"There really is no alternative care for your brother, Frederickson, considering the circumstances and cause of his condition."
"You say. If that's true, then we're stuck with each other, aren't we? I'm not about to stop visiting my brother just because you've got a problem with me."
Slycke dropped his gaze, absently patted his hair, sat back down again. "Look, Frederickson-"
"You look, Slycke. What you think of Mr. Lippitt and me is your business, but I take it as a serious personal insult for you to imply that I might use a desperately sick brother as an excuse to spy on you. Now, as far as the facility here is concerned, you do run it. I'm sorry I wandered somewhere you preferred I didn't go. From now on I will personally make it a point to notify you when I enter the building, and again when I leave; if you're not around, I'll leave a note taped to your door. In the meantime, I intend to proceed as if this conversation had never taken place. I will certainly try to stay out of your way, but I will also expect to be kept fully informed of any treatment prescribed for my brother, as well as his progress-or lack of it. That's my right as a close relative, not someone with a Z-13 badge. Good day."
Slycke started to say something, but I was in no mood to listen to any more of his nonsense; I wheeled and stalked out of the office, slamming the door behind me. I was definitely not pleased with the man in charge of Garth's medical treatment. I wanted to call Mr. Lippitt to complain, or at least ask him to try to assuage Slycke's anxieties, but knew I wouldn't. Slycke, I thought, was probably right; he and the D.I.A. clinic were probably the only game in town, and getting our ancient friend to intervene personally in this unexpected conflict might not only be construed as inappropriate, but could well prove counterproductive-after a phone call from Lippitt, Slycke's paranoia index would end up topping the charts. Charles Slycke was my problem. I would try solving it by doing as I had promised; I would stay out of his way, and hope that he focused his attention where it belonged, on finding wherever it was Garth's mind had gone, and returning it to him.
5
I was highly agitated when I left Building 26, but on reflection I decided that Charles Slycke was probably no more paranoid than a lot of other high-ranking civil service bureaucrats, jealous of-and constantly feeling compelled to defend-their turf. In retrospect, I could see that Mr. Lippitt had probably used poor judgment in issuing me a high-powered Z-13 ID badge, but he had erred out of compassion, total trust, and friendship. There was just no way to describe to the overexcited head psychiatrist the nature of the strong bonds that existed between Lippitt, Garth, and me, a relationship that had begun many years before, in New York City, in connection with a bizarre case I was working on, and which had culminated in the horror and death of the Valhalla Project. In any case, I believed I had made my point with Slycke that I was going to be close by at all times, and expected to be consulted at all stages of Garth's treatment, whatever that treatment might be. Now I thought it might be a good idea to lie low for a while.
That meant I was going to have to find a way to keep myself occupied, off the streets and out of trouble, when I wasn't visiting Garth. To that end, I walked four blocks, turned left, walked down a hill and crossed a large field next to the reservoir to the locked entrance of the Rockland Children's Psychiatric Center, rang the bell.
If at first glance I seemed an unlikely candidate to work as a substitute teacher-a pesky and most trying endeavor in the best of schools with the mellowest of student bodies-in a psychiatric hospital where half the population was unpredictable and dangerous, the educational director, a pleasant and attractive but obviously tough woman by the name of Gladys Jacubowicz, didn't show it; she was simply delighted to find somebody-anybody-who was willing to work as a substitute in her school. I didn't mention my Z-13 badge, which I had put in my pocket; I did tell her I had a Ph.D. and had done a good deal of college teaching. I was hurriedly signed on. She personally took me on an orientation tour, and as she was unlocking the door to let me out asked somewhat tentatively if I could possibly come in the next day to substitute for a social studies teacher who was taking a day of personal leave. I said I would be delighted to come in.
"My name's Frederickson," I said to the seven high-school age students and one huge, black, stony-faced cottage worker who sat in wooden desks, staring at me.
"Who let you in here, shorty?"
I had arrived at the school ninety minutes early in order to familiarize myself with the teacher's class lists and lesson plans, check out the appropriate patient files, and read the "cottage sheet"-a record of disturbances and other incidents that had taken place in the cottages during the night which the teachers should be aware of. If information is a weapon, which it most decidedly is, I was loaded for bear.
The heavyset boy with the pockmarked face and hooded eyes who had spoken would be Dane Potter.
Dane Potter, now a few months shy of eighteen years of age, had, with his parents' consent, enlisted in the Marines at the age of sixteen as an alternative to being sent away to reform school. In the Marines he had gotten into drugs, finally fried his brains with angel dust, then gone over the edge-and the hill; he'd deserted, taking his semiautomatic rifle along with him. He'd paused in his travels long enough to hold up a service station, then tried to call his girl friend in order to tell her he was on the way home. He hadn't much liked it when he found out she was on a date with another boy, and he'd proceeded to shoot up the station. He'd been put into a Detention for Youth facility-"kiddie jail"-and then transferred to RCPC when, as his file phrased it, he had begun to display "bizarre behavior"; he'd tried to rape his social worker. He'd been diagnosed schizophrenic with a personality disorder-one of the most dangerous kinds of psychotics. For the past week he had been extremely prone to violence, in school and down in his cottage, and was now heavily medicated, with enough Thorazine in him to give a rhinoceros the staggers; his muddy brown eyes were glassy, saucer-wide beneath their heavy lids. Also, he had been placed on a "level one," which meant that he had to be accompanied at all times by a male staff member who could never be more than an arm's length away from him. The big man nestled in the desk next to the boy wasn't there to give me moral support, help me maintain class decorum, or help me with anything else; he was there for the sole purpose of pouncing on Dane Potter if the boy went berserk, to prevent him from hurting himself or others. As far as teaching was concerned, I was on my own.