We Are Monsters (11 page)

Chapter Nineteen

While Eli had seemed uneasy at dinner, he appeared downright disheveled the next day. Alex had known something was up when he saw the email from Eli calling for an urgent staff meeting that same morning. It had been sent at 1:55 a.m.
This can't be good,
Alex had thought. He had been both right and wrong.

Eli arrived to the meeting looking tired and confused, like he had gotten little, if any, sleep the night before. He swayed at the front of the room on unsteady feet and spoke with a raspy voice, coughing hoarsely into his hand.

The apparent purpose of the meeting was for Eli to reiterate his stance regarding the humane treatment of patients. It was a lecture the senior staff had heard many times before, and there didn't seem to be a purpose for it now.

Whether it was due to repetition or Eli's weakened condition, Alex wasn't sure, but the room turned on Eli, voicing complaints that he was unprepared to address. Several of the nurses spoke out in favor of modern therapeutics and criticized what many considered to be outmoded practices on the hospital's behalf. Devon stood up and questioned Eli's safety protocols, citing the near altercation with Crosby. It was the first time Alex had seen people say to Eli's face what they had been whispering behind his back. And Eli was caught off guard.

As more people began voicing their grievances, the backlash grew so severe Alex felt obligated to intervene. He stood up and hushed the room. And, with just a few placating lines, rescued Eli from the outcry while simultaneously appeasing the senior staff members' valid concerns. He then called the meeting to a timely close.

Yes, the meeting had been both bad and good. Bad for Eli, good for Alex.
Looks like this succession plan may be enacted even earlier than expected,
he thought as he pushed open his office door, floating on a cloud of euphoria.

The message light was flashing on his phone. He checked his voice mail and found two messages waiting for him. One was from Rachel, the other from Mac Childress, his financial advisor. They both sounded equally distressed.

Who to call? Who to call?
he thought, still basking in the afterglow from his impromptu performance. He leaned against his desk as he dialed the first number, smiling as the line picked up on the first ring. Mac was always quick to answer.

“Yo, MC. Just got your message. What's up, my man?” Alex always felt compelled to present a cooler, more carefree persona for Mac. Like he was some streetballer with stacks of cash.

“Alex, I've got some bad news.” The fictitious image had become harder to hold up as of late. Alex circled his desk and sat down.

“Ah shit, Mac. You got any good news we can start with?”

“Good news.” Mac pondered. “Well, you've got your health. Not to mention a smoking-hot wife who I can only imagine is a savage in bed.”

Rachel could pass for a saint, given her devotion to the missionary position, but Alex did nothing to discourage Mac's perception. “Can't argue that,” he said.

“But,” Mac said.

“Yeah, she's got a fine ass as well, not that it's any of your business.”

Mac offered a commiserate snicker. “Alex, I don't have a whole lot of time.”

“Right, sorry. Go ahead.”

“Well, look. Remember how we talked about getting more aggressive with your portfolio given this influx of new money you have coming in? Well, as I was quick to caution, the more aggressive we get, the more risk we assume.”

If Mac had issued a word of caution, Alex hadn't heard it. In fact, it was Mac who had encouraged Alex to invest in higher-risk ventures, prattling off a list of can't-miss investments while they sipped top-shelf scotch at his country club's bar. Alex had already consumed six beers on the golf course, causing him to double-bogey the back nine.
“The market's depleted, buddy,”
Mac had said.
“Prices can't go any lower. It's a gold mine for people like you with a large stream of capital to invest. You'll make a killing.”

It seemed as if Mac always preferred to meet in person when discussing spending money, but preferred to speak over the phone when discussing losing it.

“Okay?” Alex prompted.

“Well, I hate to say it, but we took a hit, friend. We got run through the wash with a couple of overseas tech firms. It's nothing we can't rebound from, but I'm going to need for you to settle up on what you owe.”

While on the golf course, just about the time he had cracked open his sixth beer, Alex had begun to blab about the money he expected to start pulling in from a pharmaceutical sale. He had exaggerated a bit, suggesting that it was already a done deal and revealing figures that were well beyond what he could even expect should the deal have gone through.

Listening, Mac's expanding smile could have housed a family of four. He had pulled the hidden latch on his golf cart humidor and cut two Cuban cigars, handing one to Alex and lighting it with a butane torch.
“Congratulations, buddy. Let's post up at the bar and talk about putting that money to work.”

Alex had explained that the money wasn't currently available, but Mac had offered to cover him. Had said the firm did it all the time for high-net-worth clients, at a nominal fee. Alex had resisted for the duration of the first scotch. But after the second one, he'd agreed. They'd celebrated with a third, and that was the last thing Alex could remember.

“Sure,” Alex said, stalling. “But here's the deal. I'm still waiting on it to come through. There're some…” he began shuffling papers for no reason, “…legal technicalities that we're working out. But it shouldn't take long. I'll have to get back to you.”

The silence on the other end resembled the center of a black hole. Finally, Mac spoke, “Don't fuck with me here, Alex. The firm won't hold out for long. Shit, I shouldn't have even covered you in the first place. We're talking about a lot of money. They'll look to put a lien against your assets until their losses are recovered. I can buy a little time, but not much. The sooner we clear this up, the better. Then we can work out a plan to get you out of this hole.”

Alex closed his eyes and saw Popeye's blood-matted body lying in the ditch that he had dug. “Right. I know. I'll be in touch,” he said, and hung up the phone.

It rang before he could pull his hand away. He brought the receiver back up to his ear.

“Dr. Drexler,” he said.

“Hey, honey. Jesus, where have you been? Look, I think you need to get over here.” It was Rachel and she sounded even more frantic than she had on her message. “It's Jerry. He's acting…strange.”

Alex felt an electrical current shoot up his spine, causing him to straighten in his chair. “Strange how?”

“Like, you know, bad. Like he's having an episode, only worse. He's acting extremely paranoid. Aggressive even. He's…he's scaring me.”

“Be specific. What's he doing?”

There was a rustle on the other end of the line. When Rachel spoke again, her voice sounded muffled and muted, like she was cupping her mouth with her hand. “Shit, he just walked into the room.”

“So what? Honey, what's the problem?” Alex's voice took on a panicked edge.

Rachel pulled away from the receiver. Her voice sounded remote. Alex heard her say, “Jerry, what are you doing with that?” More rustling. “Please put that away.”

Alex shifted the receiver to his other ear and pressed it hard against his head. His eyes turned to slits as he strained to hear. “Rachel, what's he doing?”

She whispered into the receiver, her voice wavering, “Honey, he's scaring me. He's holding a knife, and he's looking at me really strangely. It's like he doesn't recognize me.” She apparently turned her head away from the phone. Her voice was distant. “Jerry, what's wrong, honey? I'm talking to your brother. Please tell me if anything's wrong so we can help you.” Alex heard a mumbled, indecipherable voice in the background. Then Rachel responded, “Who are you talking about? I don't know who that is. Jerry, nobody is going to hurt you.”

Alex gripped the phone in both hands and squeezed. “Rachel,” he said. She didn't respond. He spoke louder, “Rachel, honey, head for the bedroom. I'm going to call the facility and have them send help.”

Rachel's voice was high-pitched and trembling, like she was struggling to choke back tears. “Okay. I…I… Okay, yeah. I think I can…”

Alex heard shuffling and heavy breathing, rustling as the phone brushed against her clothes. Then he heard the sound of a door closing and ragged breaths.

“Rachel? What's happening?”

“Honey, I'm so sorry. I just don't know what to do?”

“What the hell is going on?”

There was silence on the other line. Then she whispered, “He's right outside the door.” Now her voice sounded louder and away from the phone. “Jerry, everything's okay. Just give me a minute and I'll be right out. Okay?” It sounded like she was walking across the room. “I'm sorry, this just caught me off guard. He's been doing so well, and then this comes out of nowhere. He's got this look. It's like a dog defending its litter. The distant eyes. The tilt of the head. I'm sure it's nothing, but it's starting to scare me. Now with the knife.”

“It's okay. Are you safe?”

“Yes, I think so. I mean, yes, I'm sure it's fine, it's just—”

“No, you're doing the right thing. Where did he get a knife?” There was a rule against sharp objects at the assisted-living-facility apartments, even childproof scissors were prohibited.

“I have no idea. He just walked in with it.” Alex heard a distant knocking sound. “Wait,” Rachel said. “There's someone here. Thank God, that was fast.”

Alex frowned. He hadn't called the facility.

“Jerry, wait. Let me answer it,” he heard Rachel say. He heard the door open and Rachel walk through. “Jesus,” she said. “Jerry's tucked himself in the corner. He's shaking. What is going on?”

Alex had stopped listening. His mind was spinning, obsessing over the implications that this apparent regression would have on his plans to begin clinical tests on his refined formula. Clearly the new formula worked. It must be a matter of maintenance and treatment frequency. That should be an easy fix.

Alex's attention returned to the phone. He heard another knock, closer now, and a deep voice muffled by the door.

“Here, let me call you back,” Rachel said.

“No, keep me on the line.”

“Okay.” Alex heard a door open. Rachel sounded surprised. “Oh hi. Wow, that was fast. Alex must have alerted you. Thank you for coming.” There was a pause; then Alex heard a deep, mumbling voice and Rachel respond, “Right, come on in. Oh, look at this little cutie? Is he yours? I had one just like him.”

Alex cringed as a burst of barking came blasting through the phone. “Hey, down boy,” Rachel said. Her voice was drowned out by a series of sharp, high-pitched barks. She sounded panicked. “No! Down! Hey, please help get him off me!”

A jostling sound came from the other end, and then the phone went dead. Alex sat there listening to the drone of an open line.

He pulled the receiver back and furrowed his brow. He dialed Jerry's line and listened to it ring. Next he tried Rachel's cell phone. No answer.

Slowly, he stood up and walked stiffly towards his office door. He threw open the door and began to run, his leather-soled shoes slipping on the linoleum as he gathered speed. Alex slid blindly around the corner, breaking into a full sprint, and then was sent crashing against the wall as he collided into someone on the other side.

“Damn, Dr. Drexler. You okay?” Devon said, reaching out a hand to help Alex to his feet. “Where you rushing off to?”

“Family emergency,” Alex said as he stood, pushing past Devon and scrambling down the hall. He glanced over his shoulder before rounding the next corner and saw Devon looking at him through crooked eyes like he was crazy.

If you think I'm crazy, you should see my brother,
Alex thought as he windmilled around the next turn.
Oh wait. You already have.

Part Two

Inner Demons

Chapter Twenty

The parking lot was filled with police, their silent rooftop lights flashing red and blue, like beacons of sorrow. The residents, all either disabled or mentally ill, stood dressed in their robes and unkempt clothes behind a barrier of yellow tape. They made for an unruly group of spectators. Much of the staff was on hand, attempting to settle them down.

Alex maneuvered through the crowd and approached the officer standing sentry beside Jerry's apartment door.

“Sorry, no one's allowed in,” the man said.

“What's happened?”

“You'll need to step back, sir.” The officer instinctively placed his hand upon the Taser clipped to his belt.

“This is my brother's apartment. My wife's in there.” Alex looked over the officer's shoulder at the closed door, its flimsy pine surface withholding some grim secret.

“Sir, we have your wife. She's with the paramedics, but she's doing fine.”

Alex was too wound up to feel relief. “What about my brother?”

The officer's shifty eyes answered for him. “Sir, please clear this area and we'll fill you in on everything we know.”

Alex turned and located the ambulance. His eyesight felt enhanced, his senses intensified. The scene was now moving in slow motion, while he was operating at regular speed. The crowd of onlookers became a snapshot of staring faces. He saw a man with Down syndrome slowly sip red liquid through a straw. They met eyes and the man offered a friendly smile, raising his right hand as though taking an oath.

The ambulance came rushing towards him in a silent tunnel and he staggered on wobbly legs, feeling the strange distortions of a world rearranging itself into a different place. One harboring a dark secret behind a flimsy pinewood door.

Rachel was breathing into an oxygen mask. She was pale. Damp hair clung to her face and wound around the plastic tubing leading to the oxygen bag. She was breathing deeply at the urging of a female medic who was rubbing her back. A policeman stood by the back of the van, looking on with obvious impatience. When Alex approached, her eyes went wide and she began hyperventilating. The cop cursed and turned his back.

“I'm her husband,” Alex said as he entered the van.

Rachel tore the mask off her face and wrapped her arms around his neck, nearly cutting off his air.

He grimaced, then noticed the medic watching him and changed his expression to concern. He repositioned his hands from Rachel's rib cage, where he had been preparing to push her away, and placed them on her back, pulling her tight.

“It's okay. It's okay.” He summoned his most soothing voice. “Take deep breaths.”

The policeman walked up to the back of the van and leaned in. “Sir, I understand that emotions are running high right now. But it's important that we collect a statement from the witness as soon as possible.”

Alex felt Rachel nodding against his shoulder. She inhaled, sniffling against a blockade of snot, swallowing a wad of saliva. She pushed back. Color was returning to her pallid face, splotches on her cheeks and scarlet rivulets streaming up from her neck.

“It's okay. I can talk.”

She took a deep breath, tucking frizzed hair behind each ear with trembling fingers, looking at Alex with red-rimmed eyes. He saw the tears well up, her lower lip curl in, her chest begin to hitch.

“Christ, will you give her something, please?” he said to the paramedic.

She became much calmer after the shot.

Alex saddled up next to her on the bed and leaned over. “What happened?” he asked.

The policeman hopped into the van and placed a pen against his notepad.

Rachel stared up at the grey-cloth ceiling and sighed. “The door rang,” she said. “I answered it. It was that guy from the hospital.”

“What guy?” Alex said.

Her eyes floated as they peered inward, trolling for a memory in her medicated mind. “I don't know. The one who helped Jerry to the car. The large African-American man.”

“Devon?”

Rachel nodded her head slowly. The drugs were making her drowsy. “He had a dog with him.” Her tongue became obese. It struggled to lift itself up from the bottom of her mouth. “It was Popeye,” she slurred. “He attacked me.”

Alex's lips formed a white line. His ears turned red.

The policeman inhaled, hesitated and then spoke, “Who's Popeye?”

“Our dog,” Alex said.

“So, this guy…” the cop consulted his notes, “…Devon, he came to the door with your dog?”

“No,” Alex said. “That's impossible.”

“Sir, let's let your wife answer.”

“Go ahead, but you'll have to disregard what she says.”

“Why's that?”

“Because our dog's dead. I buried him last week.”

“Okay,” the cop said slowly, tapping the pen against his teeth. “So this dog resembled your recently deceased pet.”

Rachel shook her head. It rocked back and forth on loose bearings. “No, it was Popeye. I know it was. He even had—”

“Look, just keep going,” Alex cut her off, his voice strained.

“No, wait, hold on,” the officer said. “Let's back this up.”

“Listen.” Alex glared at the cop. “I don't give a shit about the dog. I'd like to know what the fuck happened to my brother.”

“Sir, I understand. That's what I'm trying to determine as well.”

“Just shut up, then, and let her tell the story.”

The cop's jaw muscles clenched, his eyes narrowed. He turned towards Rachel and nodded. “Go ahead, miss.”

Rachel exhaled through rubbery lips. She lifted her hand an inch off the gurney and let it drop back down. “Popeye chased me back into the eating area. He was barking, biting at me. I ran around the table to get away, but he followed me. When I came around the other side, I looked up and saw Jerry and the orderly fighting. They were fighting over the knife. The man, he was so much bigger. He took the knife.” Rachel's voice was trailing off, becoming softer and harder to hear. “He was smiling. Jerry turned to run, but he grabbed him from behind. He pulled him back, and—”

The cop scooted forward. “Wait, wait. What knife? Who had the knife?”

“Good Christ!” Alex shot off the gurney and stormed out the back of the van. He marched straight for the apartment door. The door opened before he could reach it and two paramedics came out, wheeling a stretcher with a thick, white sheet draped over the outline of a body. A murmur erupted from the spectators and they pressed forward. Two policemen stepped up to perform crowd control. Alex skirted past the distracted officers, following the paramedics to the van. This one black, sans siren. It was in no rush to reach its destination. The morgue.

“I'm Dr. Drexler.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his identification card. “I'm family.”

“Sir, I'm sorry,” one of the men said. He dealt with death every day and still his sympathy looked sincere. He moved out of the way as Alex walked forward.

“I need to see,” Alex said. He reached out towards the head of the gurney and pulled aside the sheet.

Jerry looked just like he did when they had shared a bedroom, asleep on his back, with the sheets pulled up to his chest. The soft glow of moonlight shining through the bedside window, turning his pale face blue. But this wasn't sleep. He was much too still. And his face was far too pale, his lips more purple than blue. There were just a few specks of blood freckling his cheeks, but the ragged gash running across his neck was still seeping. It was like a canyon ridge with a stagnant riverbed at the bottom.

The paramedic grabbed the sheet from Alex and pulled it back over Jerry's head. It fell against his face and outlined his features. A few drops of blood spotted the sheet and spread.

It didn't make sense. He had just seen Devon. Had literally run into him on his way out of Sugar Hill. Rachel must be mistaken.

Well, of course she was. She was hysterical. Delirious, convinced Popeye had returned from doggy heaven to exact his canine revenge.

The sound of the ambulance doors shutting startled Alex. He took a step back, blinking, as the engine started and the ambulance drove his brother away.

That left…
the dog. What about the dog?

He turned and jogged back to the van where Rachel was being questioned. She offered a bleary smile when she saw him, a sedated grin.

“Honey, what happened to the dog?” Alex said, hopping back inside.

“You mean the imaginary dog?” the cop replied.

Alex ignored him. “Where did it go?”

Rachel raised her head from the pillow. She fought to focus her eyes. Her lips moved, but Alex could hardly hear her. He moved closer and asked again.

This time Rachel raised her hands in front of her face, mesmerized as though they held some mystical import. “Poof,” she said, spreading her hands outward like a magician making something disappear.

“What?” Alex said.

“When Jerry died,” she whispered, laying her head back down and closing her eyes. “Popeye just…disappeared.”