The Rasner Effect Page 15

  Clara’s eyes remained wide and accusing—at him. She was right, he should’ve done something. James let go of her long enough to unlock the door of the seclusion room, reach in, and come out with a straitjacket. Clara’s eyes widened further and she sobbed.

  Rick watched with a sense of uselessness. Miller stood near his right side with her arms folded just under her breasts. Breasts that he just noticed sagging.

  Why had she deliberately set out to provoke the girl?

  Before James finished buckling her into the jacket, Rick had to speak, had to let Clara know he hadn’t betrayed her. “Was that really necessary?” he said, realizing any challenge to her authority would be dealt with firmly—and for the first time, not caring. “She was perfectly calm. Why would you antag…”

  “Clara Blue is criminally insane, Mr. Rasner.” Miller shouted. “She’s a sociopath. I cannot understand why you fail to see this.”

  “She’s not an angel, but she wasn’t causing a problem. She was totally calm and rational, until you…” Rick’s better judgment took over. This wasn’t the place for such accusations. “This was all over nothing.” His hand shot to his forehead. Dizziness had overshadowed all other thoughts.

  “She assaulted my head of security. And, after making a threat on my life, she attempted to assault me.”

  “No…” Rick truly wanted to make his point, but he could barely hear his voice over the pounding in his head.

  “That is why she’ll be scheduled for a psychiatric evaluation with Doctor Barnes. Then she can be provided with a permanent intramuscular drip. She has gone beyond our ability to help her at this point. I cannot and will not have my staff endangered.”

  Rick looked over Miller’s shoulder to see Tyrell Birkins, a victim of the doctor’s IM drip. The aide, who’d stopped to watch the altercation, now decided to turn Tyrell around and continue walking him to their destination. Tyrell, Rick remembered, had been all mouth when he arrived at Brookhill Children’s Psychiatric Residence. Loud and aggressive about being physically touched. Now, he was led, like a puppy dog, down the hallway with slow steps, drool dripping down his chin.

  “You want to turn her into one of the zombies?” Rick realized immediately his description was not well received by their head director. “Is that really necessary?”

  “You wish to judge what is necessary? It was necessary that you report to me immediately when your patient made threats in your presence. You chose not to do that! As a therapist, you are a mandated reporter. If a patient’s intentions could lead to harm, it is negligence not to report it. Keeping such information to yourself makes you incompetent at your job and as much of a threat as these children.”

  “But…but she was only venting her feelings.” He still had no idea how Miller knew anything Clara had told him. “It was not a real threat. As a therapist, it’s my job to get them to release their…”

  “You felt it was not necessary for me, the director of this facility, to know a mentally unstable and violent patient had homicidal tendencies toward my life! You allowed her to make these statements without consequence, repercussion, or even reprimand. This is an incompetence on your part that I feel I cannot fix.”

  Rick was unable to respond. The dizziness increased, his eyes blinking uncontrollably.

  “I find you to be as emotionally impaired as the patients here! Perhaps you should have a room upstairs—with them!”

  He opened his mouth but the dryness in his throat made it impossible for him to speak. He found himself frozen in place, both overwhelmed by what was happening and by the pounding he felt at the front of his skull.

  “By not responding to Clara Blue’s threat, you are teaching her she does not have to respect my authority in this building. I cannot have that.” Miller no longer screamed. She now spoke in a calm voice, which Rick found to be even more chilling.

  “I hired you because one of our biggest benefactors asked a favor. I strongly suggest you return to him and ask him to find a place for you to work elsewhere.”

  Rick was both startled and horrified by her remarks. He realized his mouth hung open and shut it with an audible snap.

  “If you have not resigned within the month, I will terminate your employment with this institution. I will be expecting your letter of resignation soon. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work I must attend to.” Miller unfolded her arms and strode away, leaving him standing in stunned silence. He felt as though he’d received one of Barnes’ hypodermics.

  James and Hefner dragged Clara into the seclusion room. Clara’s equally stunned gaze stayed with him even after they’d slammed the door and Rick had turned away.

  After a few long moments, he roused himself enough to saunter to the therapy suite where Officer James waited to unlock the door for him. In the office Rick searched high and low, even going so far as to climb on a chair and undo the air vent. How had Miller known what was discussed in his private office? He shoved the chair to the desk and flopped into it. He leaned forward on his elbows and covered his throbbing face with both hands.

  It had been only a few days since Obenchain suggested Rick leave the facility. He’d told Obenchain he wasn’t ready to leave just yet. The reality of it was he felt a responsibility toward Clara more than any other patient. The decision was out of his hands. The irony was not lost on him.

  There was movement in front of him. He peered between his fingers to see Janet pulling up a chair and sitting across the desk. He hadn’t realized anyone was in the room. Rick clutched the side of his head, somehow managing not to groan from the pain.

  “You look like you need to talk,” Janet said. She lifted something from her lap and clutched it to her chest. It was her Bible.

  “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “You could talk about it, you know.”

  “Another time.” He really did want to talk about the humiliating confrontation in the hallway. He wanted to hash out the entire situation moment by moment and really let loose on what he thought of Katherine Miller and her entire institution. He wanted to learn why Miller apparently had it in for certain people, particularly he and Clara Blue. But he couldn’t say a word.

  She might be listening.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Doctor Obenchain followed his usual routine on entering his house. After going through the mail and placing it on the brown marble table in the vestibule, he hung his suit jacket on a coat rack near the door. He loosened his watered silk tie and draped it on top of his jacket. Then he walked into the den where he checked the answering machine for messages. The digital number on the machine read “00.” No messages.

  He stepped back into the hallway and shouted, “Hey, Arnold, I’m home!” He heard a television playing upstairs. It seemed to be coming from the direction of his son’s bedroom.

  “You hear me up there, Arnold?” Obenchain yelled again, this time louder. “Today’s your lucky day, I’m ordering pizza for dinner! Come down so we can pick a topping!”

  Obenchain waited at the bottom of the steps for Arnold to run down and greet him, as he did every day. There was no answer. Maybe the boy had fallen asleep. He did sleep like a rock, never hearing a thing once he was out.

  He listened again for the television that continued to play. It sounded like one of those kid shows. Arnold had to be up there, he knew better than to leave the house without permission. He was such a good boy. Obenchain couldn’t think of a single time he’d had to yell at the boy. Come to think if it, he’d been that way since his mother died.

  “Arnold?” the doctor shouted again, louder and beginning to grow alarmed. Why wasn’t he answering?

  What was that? Had he heard footsteps up there? If so, they were too heavy and too orderly to be Arnold’s. So, who the hell was up there?

  Obenchain peeked around the stairwell. Yes, there was a shadow. Too big to be his son. The footsteps moved closer. The shadow elongated and morphed into a large dark-skinned Hispanic man wearing a camouflage military outf
it and combat boots, holding a rifle aimed downward—at him.

  Showing an agility that would later amaze him, Obenchain ducked around the corner. He ran through the house and past the den to the dining room. In a panic, he dashed toward the large antique breakfront against the wall. He yanked open the top drawer and shoved his hand in. Obenchain slid his hand around in the drawer until it became apparent that what he searched for was not there.

  “See Jennie,” came a voice that made him spin around, “I told you that would be the first place he’d go.”

  Derrick sat at the end of the ornate marble dining table. Jennifer Duke sat in a chair to his immediate right. She tilted her head and winked at him. Although both were years older, Obenchain recognized them well. And it meant their presence in his home justified the panic attack he was experiencing. A movement in Jen’s hands on the table brought his gaze downward. She was playing with the weapon that should have been tucked in the breakfront drawer.

  “You were right, Derrick.” She stood up from her seat and walked toward Obenchain. She tossed the small black object in her hands a few inches in the air. Just high enough to taunt him. “It is a quaint little item. One of those new police-issued tasers I’ve heard of.” She threw it up again. Obenchain prepared to lunge for it if she dropped it, but the thing landed neatly back in her cupped palms. “Legal in only eleven states. Which makes a girl wonder where you got it.”

  Jen pointed the barrel up. There were two probes at one end. She made a display of examining them. She flicked her gaze back to the doctor, that familiar and unmistakable smirk running across her lips. He hadn’t seen her in quite some time, but she hadn’t changed much; if anything she’d grown prettier. Too bad such a cold person was trapped inside such a warm looking body.

  “It figures this guy would keep the manual right next to the weapon.” Derrick laughed and held up the thin pamphlet with his left hand.

  “Where’s my son?”

  “Did you know these things can shoot up to fifteen feet at two hundred feet per second? That’s really fast,” Jen said to Obenchain. Then she lifted the taser and pointed the prongs at him. She sat only three feet away. No doubt the damage she could do if she wanted. Sure he’d bought the thing, but never used it. Who was there to try it on, Arnold? He had read the booklet, though, and Jen was absolutely right, the thing shot fast and far. He realized she was still speaking. “…single shot could last up to five seconds, giving the body a shock that disrupts nerves…muscular response…and other…body elements.” She drew out the last part like a suspenseful movie. “Wow, I wonder what it would feel like.”

  He tried again. “Where’s my son? What do you want?”

  Her reply was to pull the trigger. The pair of probes shot out and attached like suction cups, one to his chest, one to his stomach. Both were against his shirt. Although the current was not visible as it traveled through the two wires that attached the barrel of the taser to the probes, Obenchain felt the jolt of electricity. His knees buckled. He’d tried to put his hands up, to tear off the probes, but his arms had turned useless. He dropped to the floor, jerking and twitching like a spastic cat. Through a glazed vision of pain and trembling, he saw Jorge Alvino. Shit, he’d thought the bastard was dead. A rifle barrel appeared and poked his forehead directly between his eyes.

  Obenchain thought he heard Jen say, “Hmm, I wonder what a higher setting would have done.” Then her voice changed tone. “Get him up and onto a chair.”

  They lifted him by the arms. The toes of his new Florsheims dragged across the carpet. They hefted him up and dumped him into a chair. The momentum nearly toppled him to the floor. Unable to catch himself, someone propped him upright. The pain was excruciating, but his brain focused on one thing—these people had his son.

  He struggled to shake off the effects of the electric shock. “M-my s-son. Where’s my s-son?”

  “Oh, he’s with his babysitter right now,” Jen said giving a nasty smile. “The young lad is just fine. At least for right now. I can’t assure your safety, but I can say your son’s future is entirely dependent on how helpful you are, Doctor. I have questions and I want answers. Now, if I do not like your…”

  The phone rang. Nobody in the room moved. It then rang a second time. Obenchain looked toward the hallway. The nearest phone sat on the coffee table in the den, a room away. He started to move from his seat, but Jorge’s bulky hand clamped down on his shoulder and kept him in place. The phone rang a third time. His captors remained silent, as if any movement would be heard by whomever was calling. On the fourth ring, the answering machine picked up. The message, in his tenor voice, echoed throughout the house: “You have reached the home of Doctor Harold T. Obenchain. I am unavailable to take your phone call at this time. Please leave your name, telephone number, and a brief message. I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you.”

  “That the best message you could think of?” Derrick sneered.

  The machine beeped. There was a long pause before the caller spoke. For a moment, Obenchain thought he’d hung up. “Um, hello, Doctor Obenchain? It’s Rick.” At the sound of his voice, Jen rose and strode to the other room.

  Rick Rasner continued speaking, “I was hoping you would be home by now. I really need to speak to you. I-I…am getting those headaches again. I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner. I have other issues I need to speak to you about. Um…if you have time, could you please call me back tonight? That is, if you have time. If not, that’s okay, I’ll speak to you later in the week. Sorry for bothering you. Bye.”

  The voice stopped. After a few seconds delay, the machine clicked off. Another click and a smooth whirring then Rick’s tentative voice came again.

  When the message finished playing the second time, Jen stormed back into the dining room and stopped beside him. She stared down at him, anger shooting from her violet-colored eyes.

  “Please, what do you want? Whatever it is, my son had nothing to do with it. Let him go, I’ll do anything you say.” All his life he’d wondered if he’d lay down his life for someone. It was at that moment, Obenchain knew he would. He’d walk through fire to ensure his son’s safety.

  Jen pulled one of the dining room chairs away from the table and positioned it opposite him. She put a sandaled foot on it and leaned in forward, accentuating that look of rage, suggesting she mustered all her willpower to refrain from murdering him. What the hell did she want? She was obviously the leader of this group. Derrick watched her like a hawk, waiting, for the next command. The sudden clap of Jen’s hands made him jump. She folded them and set them on the knee still up on the chair. “Okay Doctor, here’s the deal. One signal on my cell and Arnold will find out why we call our ally ‘The Kobayashi.’ You do remember him?”

  She was using a calm and rational voice, but this lady was anything but calm and rational. She wanted something and she wanted it bad. Probably enough to kill to get it. “I recall the moniker,” he said. “It belonged to Jun Sanaga.” He let his eyes rove to Derrick, trying to gauge his mood. Alert and restive but not, so far, murderous.

  “Yes,” Jen said, “and he hasn’t killed anyone in a long time. I’m sure he looks forward to the taste of fresh blood.”

  “Please, I will tell you what you want to know. Just assure my son’s safety.”

  “I assure you nothing,” Jen answered with a smirk, “But we’ll see how cooperative you are. Now start talking!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was hours past closing time at the Dollar Store on this quiet campus town street corner. This meant Jake was only a few hours into his night shift, which he spent alone. He was so alone that if he decided to strip naked and dance throughout the store the entire night, no one would be any wiser. Jake found himself staring through the double glass doors, both of which were locked and had a “Closed” sign across them. Outside the street was deserted. Not a sign of life, except a mangy calico cat and an occasional group of drunken college students stumbling back to the camp
us a couple of miles away.

  Jake knew full-well he was procrastinating. Two hundred cans of lima beans sat in a stack of opened boxes next to an empty display case marked “Today’s Special.” He had until morning to stock all the shelves on the display rack before the store opened for the day.

  “The toughest part of any job,” Jake said out loud in an attempt to both motivate himself and feel less alone, “is getting started.”

  Jake reached down and picked up one can of the generic no-name brand of lima beans and placed it on the display. “Only a few hundred more to go.” He laughed. His voice echoed in the huge empty store.

  A knock sounded on the glass window. Jake nearly jumped out of his shoes. Wiping instantly sweaty palms on his apron, he turned and saw a middle-aged man wearing dirty jeans, a light brown jacket, and a baseball cap turned backward on his head. Jake waved him off, but the man knocked again. His knuckles were black with crusted dirt.

  “We’re closed!” Jake shouted, walking close enough so the man could hear through the tempered glass.

  “My car broke down about a block up. I just need to use a phone. Nothing in this town is open.”

  “We’re not open either.”

  “Please, I just need to use your phone to call my wife to come and pick me up.”

  Jake let out a sigh and then allowed the man to come into the store. “The phone is behind the counter on the far wall. Try to hurry up, okay?” Jake turned his attention back to his mission for the night.

  “Thanks a lot, sir, and while you’re at it, you can also open your cash register for me.”

  The man pulled a gun from under his jacket and aimed it at Jake. Jake dropped the can. It thunked back into the box on top of the others. The would-be thief flinched. Jake planted a heel in the tile floor and turned slowly on it.

  “Hurry up!” The man moved the barrel of the gun to the right, pointing it at the register, as though Jake might have forgotten where it was.