The two counselors looked up when she came in but didn't say a word, and she didn't see anything but mild interest in their eyes. That would change. She crossed the room quickly. Dennis saw her coming. He smiled. "Onetwothreefourfivesixseven. Seven books."
"Yes, Dennis, that's right. Seven books." She leaned into him and whispered, "I'm sorry about this," and then she put her hand on his forearm, let her hand rest firmly so he could feel it.
The reaction was immediate. Dennis jerked away from her like he had been burned. He shook his head. She steeled herself and reached for him again.
"Don't touch Dennis, no touching, that's the rules, Dennis doesn't like to be touched . . ." His voice wound up like a siren. He backed into the bookcase, eyes rolling, and turned, not looking at anything now. He flailed out with both arms. Books fell to the floor with a loud double thump. He pushed at more books and they teetered and fell like dominoes, pages fluttering. "No touching, Nononono-nonono ..."
The two counselors got up and came over fast. "You're not supposed to do that," one of them said over the shouting. "God. Nicki, get someone in here." The other woman scurried out of the room. "Now, Dennis, calm down--oh, hell."
Dennis had backed himself into the corner and looked like he wanted to go right on through. He was big, clumsy; it wouldn't be easy to get him back in line. He had reached a fever pitch now, his head whipping back and forth, and his voice had begun to stir up the other children, one of them laughing, another starting to throw toys at the screen on the window. Bang-bang. The female counselor was trying to get him to stop flailing his arms without touching him again.
I'll make this up to you, Dennis, Jess thought. I promise. She ducked out of the room and back down the hall. Wasserman's office door was ajar, she could hear voices. Nobody came out after her. She hoped she had bought herself enough time.
The elevator was damnably slow, and she wished she had taken the fire stairs. Finally the doors opened onto the smell of disinfectant and stale air. It's cold down here, too cold, and she resisted the urge to hug her arms to her chest.
The man behind the desk (not Andre, thank God) looked like he had left high school about a week ago. She didn't recognize him. "There's a problem in the play area," she said, as he came around to meet her in his white hospital suit. "It's Dennis. They need help calming him down."
"I'm not supposed to leave--"
"Listen to me. Andre's out for coffee and Evan asked me to come get you. We're short staffed and Dennis is going to give them trouble. Go on now. I'll watch the desk here until you get back."
He swallowed hard. "I'll be just a minute."
She waited until the elevator doors closed. There was not much time. It wouldn't be long before Wasserman and the others figured out what she had done, and why. She had to get Sarah out now.
But the keys proved impossible to find. Behind the desk was an intercom speaker, a series of cubbyholes labeled with patients' names and doses of medication, heavy canvas gloves, and a can of mace. A little three-inch television flickered from the corner, the sound turned low.
The orderly would have the keys on him, she thought, of course he would. If they came back down before she got Sarah to the stairs, she would be trapped. Damn. How the hell are you going to get through that door?
Despair settled over her like dusty cobwebs. She had been driven by emotion, by need, not stopping long enough to think more than a few minutes ahead. Whatever she was searching for was close now, she could taste it like blood on her teeth. But she had backed herself into a corner, and now the walls were closing in on all sides as she imagined what might happen to her when she got caught down here.
It's too late. Just get out while you still can.
That was the voice of a quitter, and she refused to listen.
It wasn't until she turned away in frustration that she felt the answer, an unseen presence so vivid she brushed instinctively at her face and hair as if to push it away. Only then did she wonder how she had failed to notice it before. It was as if the air itself were alive.
Jess Chambers felt an odd transient moment of doubling, as if she were looking through two pair of eyes, one outside, one within. The hair on her neck and arms rose as if in warning. For another long moment she stood silent, immobile, and then pushed through into the corridor with a sense that she had stepped into a darker place.
--35--
The corridor was in shadows, and any other residents who might remain behind the padded walls were still. An eerie calm had settled over the basement. Jess Chambers passed each door with ghost images burned into her mind, the feeling that she had been here before, that she existed both on the outside and the inside of these prison cells.
As a psychologist you have to listen to other people's private thoughts, thoughts nobody else ever has to know about. But a child doesn't hide things the way adults do; with children, you don't have the same barriers. So why, in the time they had spent together, did Jess still feel Sarah had been hiding from her?
She knew the answer, in this cold place, inside the buzzing of electric air; Sarah did not trust anyone, not even herself. Things had happened within these walls, accidents that were not entirely blameless.
Mental illness is a matter of mistrust, Jess thought, as she walked. Never knowing when your own mind might betray you. Jess had private thoughts, of course. She was sometimes unable to keep her mind from things that might be considered inappropriate. She knew that it gave her distance. But what must it be like to a little girl who had felt responsible for others' lives ever since she had been able to form such thoughts? Who knew with certainty that her every emotion could end up with such dire consequences?
They played into that here, didn't they, Sarah? Made you feel guilty? Made you feel responsible when accidents happened, when you could not control yourself?
The air seemed to pulse, as if in answer. Hands tickled the inside of her skull.
Jess crouched at Sarah's door, the last along the line. She considered the lock. This was not one that could be sprung with a bobby pin. She stood and peered through the little window. Touched the glass and found it ice-cold. Traced a fingernail along the surface; it was translucent, lightly covered by frost. She rubbed it away.
Sarah Voorsanger stood against the far wall. The jacket that had contained her was lying torn and discarded on the floor. Jess was awed by the changes in the girl, how tall and straight she stood now, the power that she held in the depths of her dark eyes, pulsing from her like waves. Oh, we only saw the barest glimpse of it, didn't we? We only knew the edges of the truth. Sarah had been afraid before, and her faith and hope of an eventual release had faded long ago; perhaps her urge to fight had faded with them. But now she was stronger, and older, and she had a reason to fight for her life. She had been introduced to a world of possibilities outside this place.
Sarah looked up into the glass, and they found each other. Jess could see her breath, puffing like silver clouds before her face. She could feel something inside her mind, probing.
In spite of her best efforts to subdue it, fear trickled through, cut deep into her gut. Sarah crossed the little room and put her hand up against the glass. Their fingers touched with the window between them. Something groaned, and the glass cracked and buckled. The hand twitched inside her skull.
Jess felt it just in time, fell away from the door as it shrieked and split at its hinges, as it tipped with a shuddering crash to the floor.