(2005) Wrapped in Rain (24 page)

We drove through San Marco, and Jase pulled the covers off his face, wiped his eyes, and said, "Mama, Donnamackles?"

I looked at Katie, the question written across my face. She didn't answer, so Jase pulled on my shirtsleeve and said, "Unca Tuck, can we go to Donnamackles?"

Katie rubbed her eyes and said, "You know, that sounds pretty good, Jase." She looked at me and said, "How about an Egg McMuffin?"

"Oh." I nodded. "McDonald's."

A few minutes later, I bit into a sausage biscuit and sipped my coffee. Jase sat across the backseat, eating his second Egg McMuffin. Katie was picking around the edges of an egg biscuit. She had been quiet since the drive-through. "You look like you want to say something," I said. She thought a moment and then shook her head.

Nobody said a word as I drove south on State Road 13 through historic San Jose and eventually through Mandarin toward Julington Creek. When we stopped at a red light, Jase tugged me on the shirtsleeve and said, "Unca Tuck?"

I rubbed my eyes, looked out at the rising sun, and realized that kid had just tugged on more than my shirtsleeve. "Yeah, buddy."

"Was your dad real mean?"

"Well"-I looked for a way to soften it-"let's just say he really licked the red off my lollipop."

Jase thought for a minute and then said with confidence, "Unca Tuck, I'm just like you."

"Oh yeah, partner, how's that?"

"My daddy hit me too."

AT 7:00 A.M. WE PULLED INTO SPIRALING OAKS AND Gibby walked out to meet us. He hadn't aged a bit. Still the same scraggly, unkempt, goofy-looking man I had remembered meeting seven years earlier. Then and now, he'd have made a great picture.

"Hello, Tucker," he said, extending his hand.

"Hey, Gibby. I'd like for you to meet ... two friends of mine. This is Katie Withers, and"-I knelt down-"this little cowboy is Jase."

Gibby bent over, shook Jase's hand, and then Katie's. We didn't waste much time on small talk. Gibby's tone told me we could catch up later. We sat down in Gibby's office, and he said, "Tuck, here's what I know. If Mutt is true to the last seven years, he is soon to cycle through one of his more obsessive periods. I knew he was growing restless, more compulsive, double-checking more, but I didn't see this coming. I admit, if I have made a mistake lately in my professional career, it may be this. About thirty-six hours ago, a nurse came to check on Mutt after dinner and found his window open, dinner flushed down the toilet, and Mutt gone. Apparently, he'd taken his chess set, a few bars of soap, and my fly-tying vise."

"Soap?" I asked.

"The progression of his illness. Mutt obsesses, and one of his more recent is the cleanliness of his hands, of everything." I nodded. "He has been having a difficult time getting to sleep, and once asleep, he would wake often. In the last few months, he began to doubt his nurses and, I suspect, feared they were plotting against him. For years, he has believed people are staring at him everywhere he goes, and you know about the voices. The change since you saw him last is the volume of those voices-I believe it is almost deafening. When they're really talking, you can see it on his face. The voices have also begun to accuse him, threaten him, and argue with him.

"Mutt has no stable relationships, a growing paranoia, delusional thinking, auditory hallucinations worse than ever, and lately, he has complained of being bothered by his dreams. Specifically, he dreams of being frozen, paralyzed, unable to help a loved one in need. Until now, he's never been combative or suicidal, but I do believe he is quite possibly the most tormented man I've ever met. No matter what I give him, or how much I give him, no intervention-chemical, electric, or otherwise-is able to root out whatever is the cause of his illness. And in my professional opinion, whereas my other patients are truly insane, Mutt's insanity is a by-product of some issue he can never overcome. Some demon buried deep in his past that no exorcism can vanquish."

I wasn't sure what I expected, but it wasn't what I was hearing. Gibby continued. "Mutt's obsessions, his eccentricities if you want to be polite, are many. He washes his hands three times during any meal, holds his sandwich or a utensil with a napkin, and then throws away the napkin after every bite. He wears rubber gloves 90 percent of the time; his room is clouded with cleaning bottles; he even washes the bar of soap to get the germs off the soap. If we buy him liquid soap, he sprays the top of the squeeze nozzle with disinfectant while wearing rubber gloves. The doorknobs in his room have no brass because it's been polished off. He keeps hand sanitizer in his pockets at all times and clips his fingernails constantly. Without a doubt he is the cleanest, most germ-free human being I've ever met."

I looked out the window and let my eyes float to the river. The thought of Mutt being somehow less than what he was when I dropped him off touched a deep pain inside. Like somebody had gripped the sword by the hilt, stabbed it into my back, and turned it like a corkscrew. If I thought my people place hurt before I got here, it throbbed when Gibby finished talking. "Any ideas where he went?"

Gibby stood and walked to the window, and I followed his finger across the creek to Clark's. Behind me, Katie held Jase on her knee. I couldn't tell what she was thinking, but whatever it was, she was wrapped pretty far inside it. Jase was sucking on a Tootsie Pop and looking at Gibby's fly rods and reels, oblivious to the weight of the conversation. Gibby pointed to Clark's. "He ate dinner over there, apparently a good bit of food, and disappeared among the other people on the dock."

With his knowledge of the rail system, Mutt could be in North Dakota by now. I walked to the window, saw Clark's, let my eyes follow the waterline, and noticed the marina. "Has he ever been to that marina?"

"On a few occasions, the staff have rented canoes and taken some of the patients up creek a few hundred yards. Nothing out of sight of the dock though."

"Did Mutt go on any of those excursions?"

"Every time they were offered."

"How well do you know the owner?"

"Well enough to rent a boat."

"Let's go see him."

Gibby stopped me as we walked toward the door. "One more thing. I told you on the phone, he's a ticking time bomb."

"Think Mutt will become violent?"

Gibby nodded.

"But Mutt's never been violent a day in his life."

"I know, Tuck. It's just something I sense. He has this look ... like a cat poised, ready to pounce. And when he does ..." Gibby just shook his head. "It's as if he's been crouched in that position for fifteen years and can't hold back the springs anymore."

"What makes you say this?"

"The further deterioration of his reasoning faculties."

"Meaning?"

"His mind is lying to him now more than ever. He can't differentiate between a crazy thought and a sane thought. Or if he can, he chooses not to. He's been on medication, and lots of it, for a long time. When it wears off, he's going to become confused. Schizophrenia, bipolar disorders, and schizoeffective illnesses are long-term, chronic illnesses. Unfortunately, they only get worse. Not better. When patients stop taking meds, they decompensate, become psychotic, and need hospitalization. I don't know what you expect to find here, but I warn you: it's not as if you dropped him off here seven years ago with a flesh wound that has now healed, leaving only a scar. It's more like you dropped him off with a cancer and it's spread to every corner of his anatomy. If you find him, your best bet is to give him this." Gibby pulled a clear plastic box containing two syringes from his pocket and extended them in his open palm. "Three hundred milligrams of Thorazine each. And if you can't get back here inside of an hour, give him the second." Gibby grabbed my arm and squeezed the meat on the outside of my shoulder. `Just like a flu shot."

I took the box, studied the insides, and zipped it inside the pocket of my fleece jacket. "Gibby, what's best and worst case if I find him?"

"If you find him, we could send him north, to a `safer' hospital, one where the walls are padded and where he'd eventually die of old age."

"What about taking him home?"

"Not advisable, and not really possible."

"Why not?"

"Bluntly?"

I nodded.

"Because you're going to suffer hell if you do."

I looked out the window, my eyes swimming the creek to Clark's. "With all due respect, we were born there and we're a bit used to it."

THE OWNER OF THE MARINA WAS NOT PLEASED TO SEE Gibby. Nor me for that matter. Word had spread and people up and down the creek were antsy, disliking the idea that a lunatic was on the loose with no capture in sight. Clark's had hired a retired and undercover police officer to mill around the docks, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious.

"Morning," the owner said, reluctantly extending his hand. "Steve Baxter."

"Tucker Rain."

"You related to that boy that escaped?"

"He's my brother."

"Well, no offense, but I hope you catch him before he goes off and does something crazy. Word is his elevator don't make it to the top floor."

I shrugged. "Either that or he just prefers to take the stairs."

"Well, I've been telling the city for years that dang nuthouse needed to be moved before somebody got hurt. Maybe they'll listen to me now that one of the cuckoos has flown the nest."

I wasn't in the mood for conversation, so I changed it. "I need to rent a canoe. Maybe a square-stern with a fivehorse. You got anything like that?"

He nodded. "I'll loan you mine. It's an Old Town, fifteenfooter, and I've got a little Honda five-horse that ought to get you up creek and back without any hassle."

I turned to Gibby. "You mind keeping an eye on Katie and Jase for me?"

"Not at all." He put his hand onjase's shoulder. "Me and this cowboy here were just about to do some flyfishing."

"We'll be fine," Katie said, picking up Jase and resting him on her hip. He was half as big as she was and his legs dangled around her shins. He was chewing on the Tootsie Pop stick and looked a lot like a local. Baxter pulled up in his canoe, climbed out, and held her steady while I stepped in. It was clean, stable, and quiet. Perfect for hunting ducks, fish, or people. I looked up on the dock and realized how petite Katie really was. But being petite didn't make her weak. I pushed away from the dock and felt my people place opening up and the two of them sliding in.

I didn't try to stop it.

THE BLACK WATER FELT WARM FOR THIS TIME OF YEAR. I motored past Clark's and immediately faced a problem. The creek split. It was only eight in the morning, so I decided on the methodical approach. I took the left finger, the smaller of the two, and began the snaking, winding course. The banks were covered in turtles, small alligators, and a few raccoons, and broad, fat lily pads dotted the water's edge like freckles on the arms of a redhead. Luckily, the mosquitoes were tolerable. At ten thirty, I cut the engine and decided to paddle. The creek had narrowed to maybe forty feet across, and I figured if Mutt were back here, I might need the element of surprise. At noon, a manatee surfaced next to the canoe, blew a hole through the top of the water, and scared me half to death. He was all of eight feet, and his wide, massive tail bumped the back of the boat. I paddled alongside, brushed his barnacled back with my hand, and saw the scars of one too many boat propellers. "Hey, buddy," I said, "if you stay back here, you'll keep away from those spinning blades." He kicked once and was forty feet away before he surfaced again. "But if I was you, I'd want to get to that wide open water too. You take care." He blew again and disappeared.

At noon, I was frustrated at finding no trace of another human but found myself enjoying the quiet, methodical paddling and the smooth gliding feel of the canoe. By midafternoon, the creek fanned out with fingers going every which way. It would have been easier to find the proverbial needle. I cut my paddle into the water like a rudder, turned the boat, marveled at the canopy that now covered the creek, and cranked the motor. I grabbed the handle, revved the engine, and the canoe slid out underneath the canopy. By three thirty I was back at Clark's and could see the dock at Spiraling Oaks. Gibby was tirelessly teaching Jase the art of casting while Katie sat on the dock, reading through sunglasses. From a distance she looked peaceful. Maybe the first peace she'd had in some time.

I turned the canoe, waved tojase, who was smiling larger than life, nodded to Katie, who smiled at me from behind her sunglasses, and started up the right finger of the creek. I tried to think like Mutt but decided that was impossible. I wasn't sure his escape was purposeful. He'd just as easily choose one finger over the other without a care in the world. The creek was wider and held more water than the one I traveled this morning, but the beauty was the same. A world unto itself. A great blue heron passed overhead, gliding on one or two wing flaps, then alighting quickly and settling among a section of lily pads where the shiners were stirring up the water.

A mile up creek, I came to an old, now-dead cypress tree where years earlier some fun-loving kids had hung a rope swing from a branch fifty feet in the air. Using a neighboring tree as a platform, the swinger could launch himself off the platform, swing out into the middle of the creek, and plunge into the dark middle where it looked to be about fifteen feet deep. The rope was rotten, covered in green mold, and hadn't seen use in years. Given the look of use on the platform and the number of swinging knots on the rope, I guessed this place had at one time been covered up in screams and laughter. It reminded me of the quarry.

At five, I switched gas tanks and began thinking about dinner. I hadn't eaten all day, and aside from trying to think like Mutt, I was getting hungry. The smell of Clark's wafted up creek and hooked my nose, and I dug in the rudder. I reached the dock thirty minutes after dark and beached the canoe in the ferns. I found Gibby working in his office and Katie and Jase playing ping-pong in an otherwise empty game room. The smell reminded me of Rolling Hills.