believe it.
The President of the United States should be here any minute. But right now, I wonder if that’s the least of our problems.
“Clementine,” I say, grabbing her hand and heading to the door, “we need to get you out of here.”
8
St. Elizabeths Hospital
Washington, D.C.
They don’t call them mental patients anymore.
Now they’re called consumers .
Such a turd idea, orderly Rupert Baird thought as he pushed the juice cart down the pale sterile hallway. Almost as bad as when they started calling it KFC instead of Kentucky Fried Chicken. It was the same with the patients. If you’re fried, you’re fried.
Heh.
That was funny, Rupert thought.
But still a damn turd idea.
“Hey there, Jerome,” he called out as he rolled the juice cart into Room 710. “I got apple and orange. What’s your pick?”
Cross-legged on his bed, Jerome just sat there, refusing to look up from the newspaper advertising supplements, the only section of the paper he ever read.
“Apple or orange?” Rupert asked again.
No response.
“Any good coupons for Best Buy?” Rupert added.
No response. Same as ever.
Rupert knew not to take it personally—this was Ward 5 of the John Howard Pavilion, home to the NGIs. Not Guilty by reason of Insanity.
As he pivoted the juice cart into a three-point turn and headed for Room 711 across the hall, he knew that the next patient—no, the next consumer— would be far easier to deal with.
It wasn’t always that way. When Patient 711 first arrived ten years ago, he wasn’t allowed visitors, mail privileges, sharp objects, or shoelaces. And he certainly wasn’t allowed the juice cart. In fact, according to Karyn Palumbo, who’d been here longer than anyone, during his second year on the ward, 711 was caught filing his middle fingernail to a razor point, hoping to carve a bloody cross into the neck of one of the girls from the salon school who used to come and give free haircuts.
Of course, they quickly called the Secret Service.
Whenever 711 was involved, they had to call the Secret Service.
That’s what happens when a man tries to put a bullet into the President of the United States.
But after ten years of therapy and drugs—so much therapy and drugs—711 was a brand-new man. A better man.
A cured man, Rupert and most of the doctors thought.
“Hey there, Nico,” Rupert called out as he entered the sparsely furnished room. There was a single bed, a wooden nightstand, and a painted dresser that held just Nico’s Bible, his red glass rosary, and the newest Washington Redskins giveaway calendar.
“Apple or orange?” Rupert asked.
Nico looked up from the book he was reading, revealing his salt-and-pepper buzzed hair and his chocolate brown eyes, set close together. Ten years ago, in the middle of the President’s visit to a NASCAR race, Nico nearly murdered the most powerful man in the world. The video was played time and again, still showing up every year on the anniversary.
As the screaming began, a swarm of Secret Service agents tore at Nico from behind, ripping the gun from his hands.
These days, though, Nico was smart.
He knew better than to talk of those times.
He knew he should’ve never let the world see him like that.
But the one thing that Nicholas “Nico” Hadrian didn’t know back then, as he was tugged and clawed so viciously to the ground, was that he had a young daughter.
“C’mon, Nico—apple or orange?” Rupert called out.
Nico’s lips parted, offering a warm smile. “Whatever you have more of,” he replied. “You know I’m easy.”
9
Tell me what you’re not telling me,” Clementine demands as I reright the chair and finish my crude cleanup. Darting for the door, I’ve got the old dictionary in one hand and my coffee-stained coat in the other.
“Orlando, I have to—”
“Go. I need to rearm the alarm,” he calls back, fiddling with the electronic keypad. “Just remember: zipped lips, right? Be Mark Felt. Not
The President of the United States should be here any minute. But right now, I wonder if that’s the least of our problems.
“Clementine,” I say, grabbing her hand and heading to the door, “we need to get you out of here.”
8
St. Elizabeths Hospital
Washington, D.C.
They don’t call them mental patients anymore.
Now they’re called consumers .
Such a turd idea, orderly Rupert Baird thought as he pushed the juice cart down the pale sterile hallway. Almost as bad as when they started calling it KFC instead of Kentucky Fried Chicken. It was the same with the patients. If you’re fried, you’re fried.
Heh.
That was funny, Rupert thought.
But still a damn turd idea.
“Hey there, Jerome,” he called out as he rolled the juice cart into Room 710. “I got apple and orange. What’s your pick?”
Cross-legged on his bed, Jerome just sat there, refusing to look up from the newspaper advertising supplements, the only section of the paper he ever read.
“Apple or orange?” Rupert asked again.
No response.
“Any good coupons for Best Buy?” Rupert added.
No response. Same as ever.
Rupert knew not to take it personally—this was Ward 5 of the John Howard Pavilion, home to the NGIs. Not Guilty by reason of Insanity.
As he pivoted the juice cart into a three-point turn and headed for Room 711 across the hall, he knew that the next patient—no, the next consumer— would be far easier to deal with.
It wasn’t always that way. When Patient 711 first arrived ten years ago, he wasn’t allowed visitors, mail privileges, sharp objects, or shoelaces. And he certainly wasn’t allowed the juice cart. In fact, according to Karyn Palumbo, who’d been here longer than anyone, during his second year on the ward, 711 was caught filing his middle fingernail to a razor point, hoping to carve a bloody cross into the neck of one of the girls from the salon school who used to come and give free haircuts.
Of course, they quickly called the Secret Service.
Whenever 711 was involved, they had to call the Secret Service.
That’s what happens when a man tries to put a bullet into the President of the United States.
But after ten years of therapy and drugs—so much therapy and drugs—711 was a brand-new man. A better man.
A cured man, Rupert and most of the doctors thought.
“Hey there, Nico,” Rupert called out as he entered the sparsely furnished room. There was a single bed, a wooden nightstand, and a painted dresser that held just Nico’s Bible, his red glass rosary, and the newest Washington Redskins giveaway calendar.
“Apple or orange?” Rupert asked.
Nico looked up from the book he was reading, revealing his salt-and-pepper buzzed hair and his chocolate brown eyes, set close together. Ten years ago, in the middle of the President’s visit to a NASCAR race, Nico nearly murdered the most powerful man in the world. The video was played time and again, still showing up every year on the anniversary.
As the screaming began, a swarm of Secret Service agents tore at Nico from behind, ripping the gun from his hands.
These days, though, Nico was smart.
He knew better than to talk of those times.
He knew he should’ve never let the world see him like that.
But the one thing that Nicholas “Nico” Hadrian didn’t know back then, as he was tugged and clawed so viciously to the ground, was that he had a young daughter.
“C’mon, Nico—apple or orange?” Rupert called out.
Nico’s lips parted, offering a warm smile. “Whatever you have more of,” he replied. “You know I’m easy.”
9
Tell me what you’re not telling me,” Clementine demands as I reright the chair and finish my crude cleanup. Darting for the door, I’ve got the old dictionary in one hand and my coffee-stained coat in the other.
“Orlando, I have to—”
“Go. I need to rearm the alarm,” he calls back, fiddling with the electronic keypad. “Just remember: zipped lips, right? Be Mark Felt. Not
Similar Books
