Mind Over Psyche (30 page)

Puzzled, Joshua sang “Margaritaville,” until a large, umbrella'd drink appeared in Sachiko's hand. She drank it down in long steady gulps, spilling a few drops on her chest for good measure. Jos
hua gaped.

“Are you this conniving in real life?”
He asked.

She smiled, flipped her hair, and sauntered over to the station, letting her hips sway with enough exaggeration to suggest she'd been drinking more than she'd just had. Danny looked up when she greeted him with a warm yet kind of sad, “Hey there.” Soon she had him absorbed in conversation about how her no-good, immature excuse for a fiancée had gotten cold feet once he got back to Colorado, and how what she needed was a good fight and maybe a little fun. Tasmae waited until Danny was completely focused on her and silently sidled around behind him. Joshua hovered by the corridor entrance, marveling at Sachiko's acting ability. What else didn't he know abou
t her yet?

“What is going on here?” A stern, familiar voice said from behind him. Joshua whirled to face Dr. Malachai. “Mr. Lawson, what are you doing back?” He demanded. He looked past the still-gaping intern. “Who
is that?”

Danny had looked up at the sound of the chief psychiatrist's voice—he had everyone well-trained that way—and noticed Tasmae sneaking up behind him. He spun with an exaggerated “HEE-yah!” And sent a flying round kick in her direction. She swung her arm, but instead of blocking, caught his leg on the outside and used his own momentum to make him turn his back to her. A single chop to the base of the skull and he
was down.

By then, however, Malachai had Joshua in an iron-firm grip and several orderlies and a couple of guards were pounding up the hallway behind him. “Don't you think you've caused enough bad press for this institution?” H
e scolded.

“Matter of fact, no!” He couldn't play with Malachai holding one arm, but he sang, “Wanna make your living off the evening news / Well I got something, something you can use / I want Malachai to lose / Come get his dirty
laundry!”

“What are you doing?” Malachai asked calmly, but his grip
tightened.

“Could have been a singer but in the end / Gotta use my singing to rescue my friend / So come and shout out in his ear / He's got the dirty
laundry!”

Suddenly, twenty reporters, photographers, and cameramen surrounded them. They thrust their mikes into Dr. Malachai's face, calling out questions, and he was forced to let go of Joshua. He backed away, smiling as he watched the chief psychiatrist struggle to figure out what was happening even as he put on a professional face and replied calmly to their ac
cusations.

“What about the allegations of Deryl Stephens' family that your inept handling of him has rendered him incurabl
y insane?”

“Is it true that you have a real psyc
hic here?”

“Are you holding a teen hostage behind tho
se doors?”

Must have gotten the grocery store gossip rag reporters
. Sachiko and Tasmae had opened the door and were gesturing for him to hurry when a reporter asked Malachai, “And what about the rumors concerning you and Sachiko
Luchese?”

What about Sachiko?
Joshua paused, wanting to hear more, but Sachiko pulled him away. “Let me handle this. You have to save Deryl, remember? He's seventh to
the left.”

“What about you and Randall?” Without thinking, he used the chief psychiatrist's first name. Somehow he had the feeling the rumors were personal
in nature.

“Go! Rescue Deryl!” She shoved him toward Tasmae, and he ran. He glanced back to see her button up her shirt, put the ring on her finger, and turn to the
reporters.

Then the scene dissolved until only gray fog was at the end of
the hall.

“'Ko?”

“Joshua! Here!” Tasma
e shouted.

He turned and ran to Tasmae, the fog swelling up slowly behind him. He stopped next to her at Deryl's door. “Are you doing that?” He demanded, jerking a thumb b
ehind him.

“We must be entering Deryl's reality. He's in here. I can feel it. How do we open
the door?”

“Remotely, or with a key—both of which…” His voice trailed off and he indicated the now vanished nurses
' station.

The fog moved inexorab
ly closer.

Tasmae shut her eyes in concentration. She shook her head. “I can't reach him. I can't get through to him. His world, his perceptions, are behind this door. I can feel that much. We have to get through t
hat door.”

“No kidding.” Somehow, he knew that if they were here when the fog reached them, they'd vanish with everything else. His heart pounded. He couldn't tear his eyes off
the haze.

“Joshua!” Tasmae snapped, but he couldn't think of anything. His brain moved too fast to co
ncentrate.

She slammed her fist against the keytar, and a heavy rap beat began to pla
y. “Sing!”

“Okay! Um… Right! All right, world, you hearken to me / 'Cause I've got the words to change reality / Hold back the fog an' it be bogging ‘cause the verses ain't a slogging / Don't see why we should need no key / You open up with Aladdin's sesame!” He stopped, breathing heavily
, praying.

The fog slowed, boiled upward, but no longer
advanced.

The door opened with a qu
iet snick.

Despite himself, Joshua grinned and crossed his arms over his chest, rapper styl
e. “Word.”

Tasmae gave him a confused look, then pulled the
door open.

They
rushed in.

“I don't understand!” Clarissa
spat at the policeman who stood in their apartment, his hands nervously playing with his walkie-talkie. “He could barely move! How could he have escaped?”

The policeman grimaced, and Deryl fought to keep his own mouth from mimicking the gesture. He could feel everything the officer felt: embarrassment for his force, anger and a little fear that a man who had been beaten so thoroughly was still able to get up and walk out of a hospital, and sadness at having to bring such terrible news to a woman who had to be at least seven months along. “Ma'am. It happens. Not of
ten, but—”

“I do
n't care!”

He winced a little at her vehemence, and Deryl felt a new emotion from him—annoyance that the poor lady's husband didn't do something besides stare at the floor. Deryl forced himself to put an arm around Clarissa and pull her against his shoulder, kissing her head softly. Her emotions seared into him, but at least the officer was
satisfied.

He squatted down in front of them. “We'll increase the patrols around your house
and work.”

“For how long?” She sniffled hopelessly. “All you're going to do is make
him wait.”

“If we keep him waiting long enough, he'll make a mistake,” Deryl spoke the officer's thought for him, though he knew it wouldn't happen. He looked at the policeman, tried to smile. He felt desperate to have him leave. He gave Clarissa a quick squeeze, then rose to open the door. “Thank you, officer. Anything you can do, we ap
preciate.”

The officer set a card on the entryway table and left. No sooner had the door shut than Clarissa burst into full sobs. “It's
not fair!”

“I know,” he said dully as he sat beside her. The police had arrested him along with Clarissa's attacker. He was released on bail only on the condition that he see a psychiatrist. After everything he'd done that night, there was no hiding anything from Clarissa—or Dr. Acker. The lobectomy was scheduled for
next week.

You can't let them do it
, that part of his mind screamed again, drowning out Clarissa's muffled words as she sobbed into a Kleenex.
If you do this, there'll be no escaping. He'll have a hold on you forever. You have to remember what's real. You have
to think!

He sat beside Clarissa but couldn't touch her. When he touched her, there was only her, and the baby, and keeping them both happy and safe. When she was away, there were too many holes, too many doubts. He'd looked at his medicine yesterday, and it had seemed evil somehow. He'd flushed it down the toilet and done the s
ame today.

Now he wasn't sure that had been such a good idea. The headaches had returned, increasing and fading, it seemed, with how involved he was with the world around him. Just like when he was a kid, the thoughts and emotions and even attitudes of others pressed themselves on him. He could feel the Master working on him, but in a new way, playing upon recent events so that he found himself regarding everyone as a potential threat until he was afraid to leave the apartment. Only his greater desperation to be alone enabled him to let Clarissa go to work that morning. He'd stood on the balcony that afternoon and looked longingly at the pool below, but couldn't overcome his fear even to go downstairs for a swim. He'd felt Tasmae's pull, too, almost as if she were calling from behind his locked door. He couldn't let her in. Whether she was real or not, somehow he knew it was dangerous to bring h
er to him.

He'd had visions, too, all playing on a theme: things—balls, cars, worlds—colliding, him stopping them with a thought; people falling before him like autumn leaves as he grew in strength and power. He didn't know what they meant, but they
felt
so important! In the end, he'd reclined on the couch, a book in his hands as his cover story, and given himself to the visions until Clarissa came home, griping about being stuck working the office and telling him she craved Chinese. She had pulled him out of the visions and back t
o himself.

He looked at her now, his heart breaking to see her so distraught. He loved her. Or was it an illusion? He couldn't think when she was near. And
now this.

You have to get her away
, something in him urged, and he wondered if it was for her safety or h
is sanity.

“I want you to go to Sachiko's and Josh's for awhile,” he found himse
lf saying.

“And leave you alone to have major brain surgery? I don't
think so!”

“Listen to me!” He spoke urgently, but didn't touch her. He couldn't, not now. “I need you to go. I need to know…that you're safe.” He wanted to say, “what's real.” He was torn between the desire to comfort her and the need to push
her away.

“You hit him with a hundred pound weight and he
laughed
at you!” She croaked. “He
walked
out of the Intensive Care Unit! He said he'd never stop. He killed Jacob. He wants to kill me—and our baby! What makes you think going to Colorado will
stop him?”

She paced the room. He wanted to make her stop, to reassure her, to remind her what her doctor had said about stress and the baby. He couldn't make himself do anything. He sank onto
the couch.

She got to the Closet of Doom and spun to face him. “Why didn't you finish
him off?”

“What?”

“You could have done it. You wouldn't even have had to hit him. You could have stopped his heart, and no one would have known!” She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes, her hair wild, her cheeks stained with tears, her lips curled into a snarl of anguish, and she suddenly seemed horrific and surreal. His mind felt scalded, his nerves shattered, and his dinner ready to com
e back up.

“You know what? I hope he comes back. Soon! This week, and I want you to kill him. Kill him so we can put this whole damn thing behind us and have our baby and be happy.” She dissolved i
nto tears.

“You don't mean that,” he
whispered.

“Yes! Yes, I do! Kill him for me, Deryl
. Please!”

A stabbing pain through the back of his skull made him buckle over
, gasping.

She looked up from her tissue. “Deryl? Deryl wh
at is it?”

Something alive in his brain tried to claw itself out. For a moment, he felt his mind ripping; then everything resolved itself in a blinding flash. He still felt the pressure, but he had shields again, and he pushed it back. He looked up at Clarissa, saw the concern in her eyes, and felt nothing but a low-key horror. “This isn't real,” he said, not realizing he spoke aloud. “How long have I been st
uck here?”

“Oh, God! Deryl, no! Don't do this to me! Deryl, did you take your pills? Deryl!” She clutched his arm. For a moment, he felt a stab of tenderness. He swayed, but then stood, pulling himself out of
her grasp.

“It won't work this time, Alugiac!” He looked around the apartment and laughed in amazement. Did he really have this vivid an im
agination?

Disbelieve it all
, his mind warned.
None of i
t is real!

He picked a direction at random and started walking. He passed right through the cof
fee table.

Clarissa jumped in front of him, clung to his chest. “Come on, honey, please. I'm sorry. I was upset and the hormones and—please, let's just both calm down, and you take your me
dication—”

He didn't even glance at Clarissa as he walked right through her, but couldn't help looking back when he heard her yelp. She was on the floor, as if pushed. She looked at him with shock
and fear.

For a moment, his steps
faltered.

She trembled, but stood slowly. “I'm going to call D
r. Acker.”

Dr. Alouicious Grant Acker. Al Lou G. Acker. Alugiac.
Again he laughed. How could he have been so blind? He turned from her and headed to th
e balcony.

Don't believe anything. Don'
t believe—

But again her scream brought him back to her reality and he found himself teetering on the balcony's ledge, eight stories from the ground. He looked down. The swimming pool seemed small and
far away.

“Deryl, please, please come back in and let's talk about this! Deryl! Don't do this to me! I can't
lose you!”

Yes, you can. Because you're not real.
Without thinking about what he was doing, he st
epped off.

She
screamed.

He fell, and kept falling until his body smacked painfully against
a surface.

And still he fell, deep into a nightmare. Gardianju's nightmare. Demon-specters flailed at him, pulling him down, ripping him apart. A sword appeared in his hand, and he knew one swing would destroy them. He forced his hand to open and the sword fell from his grip.
It's not real. It's
not real!

He fell out of nightmare and into a pink room. This time, when he hit the floor, he didn't continue through, but lay there, groaning and disoriented. When he at last had enough wits to look around, he found himself in the high-intensity ward at SK-Mental, his arms bound in a str
aitjacket.

Tasmae and Joshua were staring at him in open-mout
hed shock.

*

Tasmae gave a cry of joy and relief as she stepped toward Deryl, but that step faltered when he didn't reply. He'd sat himself up and had scooted away until his back pressed against the wall, but otherwise showed no sign of being aware of his sur
roundings.

“Deryl?” Joshua approached him slowly. “Deryl, bud? We need to get out
of here.”

Deryl spoke in a dead voice. “Nice try, Alugiac. I'm not buying it, not any more. I'm tired of being you
r puppet.”

“Deryl, what are you talking about?” Tasmae knelt in front of him. He glanced at her just long enough to di
smiss her.

The Sphinx had warned them about this. Still in the background, Joshua brought his keytar around and softly started playing. “You can talk to me/Come, talk to me.” He played the song through, changing the lyrics as necessary, pouring sincerity and love into each verse. He finished the song and was segueing back into the chorus when Deryl looked him in the eye. “Singing me sane, Joshua? Fine. You want me to believe you're real?
Prove it.”

“All right,” Joshua said softly, reasonably. “Remember how you told me I had to be real because you'd never have imagined me with five o'clock shadow? Ever seen a keytar before?” He was betting that five years in the institution and even longer without watching television, the answer wo
uld be no.

He watched doubt soften Deryl's features, then disappear. “Not goo
d enough.”

“Deryl,” Tasmae said, and his eyes flicked his way. “Could Alugiac have really faked me? Could he have fa
ked this?”

She gazed lovingly at Deryl, and Joshua saw his pupils pinpoint just before Deryl closed his eyes. Tasmae touched Deryl on the cheek, and he pressed against her palm, trembling. But when she leaned toward him, he jerked his head away w
ith a sob.

Joshua swore. “What did he d
o to you?”

Deryl didn't answer, but neither could he look at Tasmae. He tried to hug himself tighter beneath the str
aitjacket.

Tasmae stood. “When we find Alugiac, I will
kill him.”

“Shut up, Taz,” Joshua hissed. “The last thing we need is to go spoiling for a fight. We do
not
want to bring that mani
ac to us.”

He knelt down beside his confused and grieving friend. “Deryl, listen to me. Tasmae and I came to help you, but once we came through that door, we entered this world. Your world. Now we're trapped, too, and no one can get us out of here except you. You've got to believe in us, Deryl, and disbelieve th
is world.”

Deryl wouldn't look at him. Instead, he dropped his head, and rocked. “You'll die. You'll die, you'll die…” Tears trickled down h
is cheeks.

Joshua watched as Deryl slipped away from them. Tasmae again sat at an angle to him, her face a mirror of his misery. Her body started to rock slightly in time to his, and Joshua knew with horror that he could lose them both and end up trapped here forever. He sat down cross-legged, his keytar on his lap, and let his hands play randomly over the keys while
he prayed.

Dear Father in Heaven, I could really use your help right now. St. Jude, patron of lost causes, show me the way through this. St. Cecilia, patron saint of music, inspire me. Help me do God's will. Help me ge
t us home!

Suspended in time, the trio sat there, each caught in their own thoughts. Even Joshua began to rock slightly. His fingers moved over the keys, filling the room with snatches of song—oldies, top 40, a chorus or two of Chipotle's, and hymns. Finally, his hands settled on one hymn in particular and he began to sing: “Brother let me be your servant / Let me show the Truth to you / Pray that I may have the grace / To let you be my serv
ant, too.”

As he moved through the second verse, he felt Tasmae's hand on his shoulder and she joined him in the third verse. He let her take the fourth on her own: “I will weep when you are weeping / When you laugh, I'll laugh with you / Let us share both hope and danger / 'Till we've seen this journey
through.”