THAT FALL

Doctor Andre Antoine, defeated by the insomnia monster, wrestled the jealousy monster. His fiancé, Wanda, slept soundly. He watched the muted news flash across his wide screen television, skipping reports about the boom-madness. The United States and Russia had not reached a cease-fire agreement in Serbia. An estimated six-hundred Americans and eight-hundred Russian soldiers were dead. The screen filled with brutal pictures of tarp-wrapped bodies arriving on United States’ soil to be delivered to husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. After his tenure in the Air Force, Andre had no illusions about warfare or politics. Nothing stopped superpowers from demonstrating superiority at the expense of young men and women. Using tradition, patriotism, honor and duty as supporting biases, the powers deemed the soldiers’ devotion following orders. The Americans were using drones. The Russians had used chemical warfare. Accusations and division between foolish, godless men. He wished he could mute the picture as he had done the sound, and realized his only choice was to turn off the television. He did so.

He listened to the random chirps of the three-in-the-morning birds which would get the worms. Changing his career path from surgeon to psychiatry was something those wars had forced him to do. Let others put brains back into skulls. As a neuroscientist and psychiatrist with two PhDs, he mused how unintelligent men with inoperable moral compasses, pushed others down to achieve power. The ethical man, the brilliant man, sees himself in every other living thing—whether woman or another sexuality; whether a child or an elder; whether a plant or buffalo. The lesser man, the foolish man, the selfish man, achieves relatedness by joining: By being part of a group. Foolish men see the world as us against them. Foolish men pile bodies for parents to retrieve in grief.

Wanda turned over, exposing her dark brown shoulder. Enticed, Andre’s eyes passed over her soft skin. The curve of her arm, the dip of her shoulder towards her neck, nothing was ever so beautiful. The first time he had seen Wanda, and had fallen desperately in love with her, she was disciplining a junior nurse who had failed to note the exact measure of a post-op patient’s urine. After that moment, he arranged to have Wanda assigned to assist him. He had even gifted his two tickets to the Superbowl to a fellow doctor who, over several weeks, conveniently requested the junior nurses, leaving Wanda the only nurse available when Andre needed assistance. By the time Andre was Chief Psychiatrist, and Wanda permanently assigned to Andre’s staff, the two were living together. Sure, he had had to negotiate with his supervisors, concerned the situation could result in sexual-harassment lawsuits or worse. But when Andre placed that ring on Wanda’s finger, all corporate resistance became futile. And Andre was happy until six months ago, when he dragged his beautiful fiancé into the hole called Longwood.

“The transition will take six to eight months. Maybe twelve,” the hospital Director said, handing Andre the project binder.

Andre tapped the knee of his crossed leg with his pen, struggling to construct an argument to dissuade Director Florio from appointing him transition supervisor. He asked, “A year? You want me to spend a year at Longwood? What about my patients here?”

The Director peered over his wireless glasses at Andre. “Your patients are transitional. And we can ensure you have office hours here, if needed. Your role is to evaluate Longwood’s patient roster. Assess the staff, release or transfer, as appropriate. Figure out who needs to testify for Gwen Coster’s death. And, obviously, investigate the charges against Victor Perez.”

“Don’t you think Wilson is more appropriate?”

“Wilson’s too green. You know the crap going on at Longwood. The board insisted that I assign a battle-experienced administrator to this one. And you will select from the staff there to form your staff here. You should be the one who handles the transition.”

“But what about Lansing? Won’t your appointing me over him jilt him. He’s been there since the ice age.”

Director Florio leaned back in his wide burgundy leather chair. “I’ve spoken to Lansing. If he had done a better job, these lawsuits would not be on my desk. And, everyone except Lansing’s wife knows that he should retire. She probably doesn’t want that old cogger hanging around the house making her more miserable.”

Everyone knew Lansing had earned and secured his position by flattering and patronizing the last director. “So, what if I find Lansing knew about the abuse?”

The Director shifted in his chair, regarding the sheets of April rain covering his office windows. Both men knew that Lansing turned a blind eye to the abusing of female patients. Both men knew that Lansing was sleeping in his office when sixteen-year-old Gwen Coster, drugged senseless, roamed the halls, unobserved and unsupervised, and found her way into the pool. He replied, “Don’t.”

Andre asked, “So, I bring my staff?”

“Just Vasquez. The job is simple, Andre. Collect the information. Complete those damn review forms so we know who to lay off. Keep your eye on Victor Perez until we absolutely know what to do. And, put Lansing on the night shift. He’s been sleeping at his desk, literally, for at least ten years. Now he can sleep and no one will give a damn.”

Just as I had reached the pinnacle of my career, Andre mused. Just as I get appointed as Chief Psychiatrist. Just as I form my staff. Just as I am planning my wedding. He asked, “When do we start?”

“Next week. You won’t need much. We have set up an office for you there.”

Andre and Wanda moved into the offices on Longwood’s second floor, where they treated the occasional suicide or drug addict. Andre held weekly sessions with both perpetually sedated third-floor psychopaths and the only one learning anything was Andre. He now knew how to dismember a dead body while still retaining the sexual organs for later use. Very important. He would transfer them and the first-floor patients to PRGH by the end of the month. He had transitioned select staff to PRGH and retained a skeleton crew for Longwood. The grapevine rumor that the administration would release Oren Clark amused Andre. Fire Oren Clark? Impossible. Oren was the best staff member in that hellhole. Andre had already designed a new position for the old guy: He would be Andre’s senior night nurse because Oren could be alone and in charge. Nothing shook that man.

As for Lansing, Andre had enjoyed their first and last conversation. Getting right to the point, Andre said, “Your retirement package is in that envelope. Review it. Sign it. When we close, probably in November, make sure your golf club dues are paid,” Andre said, sliding a large white envelope across the desk towards Lansing.

“I presumed I would transition to PRGH,” Lansing said, not reaching for the envelope.

“Not possible.”

Lansing tightened his jaw. He asked, “So, that’s it? Almost forty years and that’s it?”

“It’s time, Bruce. You and I both know that you should have retired five years ago—”

“No, we don’t both know that. I don’t know that.”

Andre leaned forward across the desk and pushed the envelope closer to Lansing. He said, “We both know that you turned a blind eye to serious infractions. We have reports of jewelry stolen from Alzheimer’s patients. Drug addict’s stashes disappearing. That girl left unattended to drown in that cursed pool with no one finding her for almost four hours. Never mind the sexual assault suit against Victor. Come on, Bruce. You did nothing.” But nap in your office, Andre added mentally.

Lansing took the envelope and left Andre’s office. To Lansing, this seemed an insult. To Andre, it was justice. To the Director and the Board, it was necessary. To Longwood’s victims, it was too late. All about perspective. Even Wanda did not know how many times Andre would sneak into that locked pool room and stare at the blue cover, wondering how the lesser of the world were granted power to misuse. Wondering how Longwood had not been closed years before. Wondering if he could escape without further incident. And wishing he believed the world was a good place.

“The world is full of adventure and miracles,” his mother said as he mourned over a rejection letter from Harvard Medical School.

“I don’t believe in miracles,” he said.

She smiled and continued to poach her morning egg. “You just need to keep your eyes open.”

Wanda moaned and tossed once more. Andre felt his heart skip a beat and his morning-penis salute. Wanda was his only miracle he thought, smiling to himself. He could not pursue his lascivious interest, however, as they would both be woefully late if they digressed from sleep and insomnia into intercourse. Last night’s eight until midnight romp was enough to satisfy Andre for the time being. He slid his fingers across her exposed shoulder. Well, almost satisfied.

He decided to skip his morning run and be out of the shower in time to give Wanda space. She seemed to create her own crises every morning, rising at least thirty minutes late and panicking as she searched for her curling iron and toothbrush. That endearing morning ritual was only one of the many joys since she had finally moved in and sold her own house. In the beginning, she was methodically filling the larger closet with her clothes. For convenience, she told him. So, she could visit without having to rush home in the morning. They could spend more time together. Her belief she needed to manipulate him into having her move in with him was adorable. He wanted nothing more, but she seemed to enjoy the game, so he let her play.

She readily slipped the diamond on her finger when Andre took the knee as they finished the night tour of the Eiffel Tower. Since that magical moment, until she finally vomited the truth, whenever he raised the subject of the wedding and children, she would change the subject. She was far too stressed with her duties at Longwood to plan a wedding. She was too tired to talk about it. She was too busy with paperwork. But she had finally sold her house, so Andre set his concerns aside.

“We can use that money for the wedding. Unless you want to buy a house together?” Andre asked.

“We can decide after all this Longwood nonsense is done. I can’t think about it now, Andre.” She turned away from him and continued to sort the mail on the kitchen counter.

He had wrapped his arms around her from behind, whispering in her ear, “I just don’t want our first child to be une enfant sans pére. A bastard.”

That was the day Wanda confessed to him that there would be no children. She tried to push the engagement ring into his clenched fist. He soothed her, assured her. She expected him to run away, to demand she return his ring. She did not understand how he much he loved her. He reasserted his love, only internally admitting his disappointment.

He watched her stretch and let out a long and loud yawn. The blanket fell away and exposed her full breasts and round belly. His goddess. At least in his bed, in his home… when they were Andre and Wanda. At work, she was a master sergeant without mercy, executing plans and programs, ordering supplies and directing staff. He loved both Wanda and Nurse Vasquez. Baby or not.

He unconsciously reached for the television remote and found another scrolling report about the sonic boom nonsense. Unmuting the sound, he listened:

NASA has confirmed the three sonic booms experienced yesterday are originating from deep space. Scientists cannot confirm the precise origin or how the sound is traveling directly at us. Doctor Randall Yarwood of NASA states: “It’s not earthquakes or anything planetary. We have confirmed the wave is traveling through space towards the Earth. When we know something more, we will keep the population informed.”

The reporter said that the booms were a worldwide phenomenon. Even Antarctica had confirmed sonic incidents. The reporter noted the fear and the need for answers. The screen showed video after video of Jews, Muslims, Christians, all praying.

He jumped into the cool shower to help wake him. The persistent insomnia was taking a toll on his heath and his focus. A few times each week for the past month, he would remain awake long after he and Wanda had made love and Wanda had begun her adorable squeaky snore. He would stare out the window with an impending sense of doom. He would read. He would watch the idiot box and surf just to click the button. He would recall his time in the Air Force or in medical school. He would recall a particular exam or a particular patient. He would remember his parents, both lost. He would remember places he had seen, like his family’s town of origin in France, Piana. His parents had married there and emigrated to the United States long before they had him. Seeking solace, he had visited Piana when touring with the military. Except for the comfort with others with whom he could speak French, he found no peace, no magic and no adventure.

Perhaps turning forty created his sense of doom. Perhaps marrying Wanda and his desire for a family, and his disappointment, was the cause. Perhaps it was his appointment at Chief of Psychiatry, with a new entire wing at PRGH to run. Whatever it was, Andre kept pulling his past into his present and staying awake all night to watch his mind-show. He concluded it was his lack of faith. He would like to have something in which to believe, but life had disappointed him. He acknowledged that he could have done so much more with his life—and could have been practicing up in Boston instead of this little town in Pennsylvania. He could have been making big money and able to give Wanda and their hoped-for children an amazing and wealthy lifestyle. But he had come here to take care of his ailing parents and gotten stuck in a job in which he felt trapped. He had under-achieved.

He toweled off, poking his head into the bedroom to find Wanda was no longer curled up in bed. Probably making her infamous Killer Coffee. She would brew a dark roast coffee and add shots of espresso. Andre supposed the recipe was like any of the other big-chain coffee houses, but Wanda’s was rich and dark, mysterious and strong. Just like her.

He skipped shaving and donned casual slacks and a golf shirt. He would wear his white coat all day and he had no business meetings requiring a tie and a clean-shaven jaw. He added a touch of the cologne Wanda liked, hoping they could have another special lunch in the janitorial closet. Chiding himself for the moment of base instinct and high-school behavior, he recanted and celebrated the passion he finally had with a woman of substance.

Now, where was his woman of substance? “Wan? You there?” he called, making his way towards his closet. Andre pulled on his socks and slipped on his loafers. It was almost six. He had to hustle. He quickly ran a brush over his thick, black hair and regarded his dark brown eyes with black-circle highlights. He looked like a French raccoon.

“Wan?” As he descended the stairs, the scent of rich coffee wafted to him.

He found Wanda in the kitchen watching the news, still as stone, still in her nightshirt, holding her Killer Coffee. “Andre. Have you seen this?” she asked, pointing to the screen.

He focused on the television. There, looping over and over, was a shot of a spaceship hovering over what looked like the Louvre. Andre frowned, asking, “What the hell is that?”

“They don’t know,” she said, her voice quavering slightly. They both stared at the screen. First, it was a shot of the Louvre and bright, blue sky, then an immense metal and glowing spaceship flashed into the frame, then was gone. “They said someone was taking a video of the Louvre and caught that flash. See how it’s there and then it’s not. What the hell is it, Andre?”

“I’ve no idea…” Andre thought of his patient, Jack. That brilliant bastard.

“It’s a camera trick, right, Andre?”

He nodded, slowly, saying without commitment, “Oui, probably. Just kids. Like the crop circle nonsense.”

She leaned against him and said, “It made me uncomfortable. I need comforting…”

“It will get a lot of people upset, I imagine,” he said as he tilted her face towards him, kissing her gently. He rubbed his thumb across her cheek. “No worries, mon amour. I’m here.”

She pushed against him, all warm and Wanda. “Save me you big, strong, doctor.” Back to being Nurse Vasquez, she looked up at him and said, “I need a vacation. What’s so funny?” she asked as he chuckled.

“I was going to say, ‘Not in Paris.’”

She pushed away from him. “Ass.”

“Wait. Let me watch this.” Andre leaned over the counter and increased the volume on the flat screen he had installed to watch cooking shows when he attempted to behave like a Frenchman. Who was he kidding? He was apple-pie American and could only grill steaks. White sauce was a mystery to him.

The reporter looked ill as he struggled to read:

“The tape is being investigated for tampering. Mister and Misses Frantz, German citizens, brought the video into police and sources have confirmed authenticity. French Police have also confirmed that over fifty visitors to the Louvre this morning witnessed the sudden appearance and disappearance of the craft. Obviously, the world is wondering if the appearance of the craft has anything to do with the recent incidents of sonic booms. Back to you, Jackie.”

“It’s got to be a hoax,” Andre said as he reached for a large mug and filled it with Wanda’s brew. Another reporter appeared on screen. Grasping the timbre of the report, Andre moved to the other side of the counter, blocking the television from Wanda’s view. He also quickly muted the sound.

She tossed the rest of her coffee into the sink and announced, “I’m grabbing a shower. I won’t dry my hair, so I’ll be down in fifteen.” Disappearing into the living room, she returned, adding, “Drink some coffee. You look like shit. You need to get some sleep.” She paused, raising one finger as she was apt to do when enumerating directives, and said, “Oh. And Tricia called. Said it’s urgent. Probably that stopped-up toilet again. I forgot after I saw that weirdness on the tv.” She disappeared again.

Andre confirmed her footsteps ascending the stairs. He unmuted the television:

“Sources say these additional tapes were already under investigation by Cairo authorities. The students, on a field trip, captured the flash of the craft on several cell phones and cameras. World leaders are questioning why Cairo did not disclose this information yesterday and have received no comment.”

On the screen illustrating the reporter’s shaky words, were several videos of a craft appearing and disappearing directly over the Great Pyramid at Giza. This craft, photos of which observers had taken from multiple angles, was distinctly different from the one in France. The one in France was a metallic disc of lights. Andre considered how it looked very much like all the alien spacecraft described by fanatics and science fiction authors. Which is why it was, likely, a hoax, he assured himself. The one in Egypt was a long, Star Wars mimic: a tube shape. He thought of the ship in 2001, A Space Odyssey. Why would hoaxers use two different styles of ships?

The report showed additional video of ships over the Capital in Washington, over Big Ben, over Mount Fuji. What the hell was going on? He leaned closer to the screen, realizing the reporter was detailing the investigation of the videos. All were the same: The ships would just appear and then disappear. One hell of a cruel hoax. Videos like that would scare a lot of people already stressed because of the booms. He wondered if they would call him up with reserve forces to control citizen reaction.

Andre took a long sip of coffee knowing there was nothing he could do about hoaxes or spaceships or alien invasion as Chief of Psychiatry of Longwood. He stared at the television as the video showed a throng praying outside of Notre Dame. Humans who spoke his language, but whom Andre could not comprehend. Andre shut the television off, muting the images. He retrieved his cell phone from the sideboard and dialed Longwood. After several rings, Nurse Washburn finally answered.

Andre listened attentively. He summed up his plan in the order of his personal and professional priority, including stationing a security guard at the front desk to keep patients from wandering through the gaping maw that was the entrance. He would need to inquire after Lansing. Question the staff. He pocketed his cell, briefly hoping it was the end of the world to escape his failure. During the drive over to Longwood, Andre would slowly and guardedly explain the situation to Wanda.

As he concluded his carefully worded report to her and parked the car in his designated spot at Longwood, he added, “And I’ll need those scans on that new patient immediately.”

Wanda continued to stare out the passenger window. She said, “Yes, Doctor.”

He groaned, mourning the loss of his lover and the appearance of the professional Nurse Vasquez. “Don’t be like that, Wan. We’re almost done here.”

“It cannot be too soon,” she said, exiting the car and slamming the door. She marched to the employee entrance, her pocketbook swinging against her hip.

Andre assumed his professional face, although his attention stuck on the view of her ass as she marched away. So much for the office romance.

They took the two flights of stairs and slipped into their respective offices. Andre reviewed the pile of papers on his desk, including the maintenance report promising completion of the vestibule repair in two days. That was good news for which Andre was sure he could not count. Maintenance had to travel from PRGH and took ten times any promised time to complete a project. The toilet maintenance was to repair in an hour last week was still overflowing.

Wanda popped her head into his office. She said, “Lansing’s in surgery. Should I bring Oren in?”

Andre nodded, returning to his pile of papers. The second slip was the transfer order for patient Sam Reynolds. Psychotic and violent. Wonderful. The notes said he was sedated and secured on three. Andre could find no reason that the attending at the prison would have transferred Reynolds. Andre flipped the page over. Merde. He dialed the prison and was told the attending would return his call after two. He returned his attention to the files and on his desk and reviewed Krigare’s information, thinking the blood pressure and pulse readings were in error until he read the two nonsense CT scans. He would need to call the tech to decipher that mystery.

Oren appeared at his door. “Can we talk now, Doc?”

Andre tapped his pen on the pad mindlessly. “Yes, if you’re up to it. You must be exhausted.”

Wanda entered and sat at the edge of Andre’s desk, facing Oren. Andre reminded himself to focus as her curvy ass captured his attention.

Oren adjusted his mass into the tiny chair and offered a weak smile. He said, “It was almost ten. Krigare was coming through with the medics and the vestibule exploded. Glass everywhere. I thought the medics crashed into it with their truck or something. Dave investigated. You’ll need to ask him what he and maintenance found out.”

“I will,” Andre assured him. “Continue.”

Oren described the explosion in the vestibule and ended with, “I don’t know how she got out of her strait jacket. And later with Doctor Lansing. He was talking to her, all calm and fine. And I gave her a few glasses of water. She drank it all down. She wanted more. Like you do on a hot day. The doc moves towards her to take her vitals. I was watching. Like we always do on the third floor. Just like normal. And I checked her restraints. Legs and arms. They were all done up proper. I checked.”

“I want to believe you, Oren,” Andre said, knowing Oren as meticulous.

Oren held the chain around his neck. He said, “And then she… somehow gets out of the restraints and… and… and raises her hand—like stop, like a stop signal.” He raised his hand to show them. “And Doctor Lansing flies backward. Flies. And hits the wall. And he sticks there, crucified.” Oren grasped the chain around his neck, his eyes wide and his breath shallow. He gulped then said, “And the crack starts and just keeps going. It started at the floor and then up and up into the ceiling. Doctor Lansing was stuck to the wall as it cracked, and then she lowered her hand and he slipped down the wall and crumpled right there like a puddle of mud or something.”

They were silent, listening to Oren’s breath catching in his throat. Nurse Vasquez went to his side and placed her hand on his shoulder.

Oren finished, closed his eyes briefly and, almost in a whisper, asked, “Do you believe in God, Doc?”

Andre sighed, not responding. He tapped his pen on his desk waiting for Oren to continue.

“Because, Doc. I swear. What I saw last night was an act of Satan himself.”

Wanda hopped off the desk and said, “Okay, Oren. I think you should go home and get some rest.”

“No,” Oren said. “I’ll grab some winks in an empty room and be on post this afternoon. I feel… I feel working would be better than staring at the television and all those ship pictures and thinking about… about all that happened.”

Wanda said, “Oren is the only one scheduled. Unless we get someone from PRGH?”

Andre said, “Okay, Oren. Take your shift as of now. But get some rest. Use the end room on one.”

Wanda led Oren out of the office. She returned and sat on the edge of the desk, facing him. He looked up at her and she slid a finger along his jaw as she said, “Let Oren run this place. We can just leave.”

He chuckled. “I think you’re right. But I have to assess these patients.”

“She’s dangerous.”

“What psychotic isn’t dangerous, Wanda? I wish I had more information before I visit her. These charts are useless. Did you see this file?” he asked, handing Wanda Krigare’s medical file.

She sifted through it, saying, “Well, this is a mess. And this CT scan? Can’t be.”

“Agreed.” He said, “I need to speak with Roblewski. She did the scan.”

“I’ll reach out to her. She should be at PRGH by now.” Wanda placed Krigare’s file on the desk, adding, “Washburn left the second-floor patient reports at reception. She’s finishing up. And there are a few faxes for you. I was going down when Oren got here.”

“I’ll get them.” He considered his next words. He said, “Maybe you can review Krigare’s file and see if we can contact family or coworkers or someone?”

“Sure,” she said, picking up Krigare’s file once again. “What do we do about these news reports? We’re bound to have more of these boom-patients.”

“Route all patients to PRGH. Not here.”

“Okay. And what about the staff that called out?”

“Who called out?” Andre asked.

“My nurse. And Don. Oren is it for today. Unless we function with no orderly. It’s the ship videos. Everyone’s freaking out.”

“So, it’s just you right now? And no orderly?”

She pursed her lips. She said, “Victor is on three now.”

“Wonderful.”

“And then just me. And the intern. The one who never puts down her phone.”

“Perfect.” Andre asked, “No security on site?”

“They put a guy from PRGH on reception to watch the door. Dave comes back in after lunch.”

“I have enough on my plate with the three criminals on the third floor - including that new guy - and a criminal on our staff. The Director will use me as a scapegoat unless I clear all this up. And I do not understand why they even brought Reynolds here.”

Wanda toyed with his shirt collar. She said, “Getting hot in there.”

“I can’t believe this shit-show could get worse. But here we are.” Andre leaned forward and grabbed Reynolds transfer order. He handed it to Wanda and asked, “You ever get one of these before?”

She nodded, reviewing the pages. “Sure. They will send the chart in a few days.” She frowned, asking, “This is the only page?”

“That’s all I have.”

“Well, there should be another page with the rationale and medication list.”

“Nope.” He tapped his pen on his knee. He added, “I left a message for the prison attending.”

She shrugged, placing the form on the desk. “Maybe they faxed it?”

He went to the door. “I’ll check and grab the pile from reception. Want any coffee?” She shook her head. I need gallons, he thought. He dragged himself up the stairs to the third floor, dreading every step and considering taking a dose of Adderall. He passed his key card over the scanner and pushed through the heavy door. He waved at Victor in the security booth, not offering the fiction of a friendly chat. Down the dark hallway, he reached room thirty-one, considering he should do what he needed to like one would rip off a bandage. He scanned his card and opened the door of thirty-one’s observation room.

Through the observation window, he could see the floor to ceiling crack. At least an inch or so of plaster dust was piled on the floor. No way Lansing’s reedy frame caused that damage even if the building was old. Some truck crashed into that wall. Perhaps the patient had pushed Oren. That was much more likely. A three-hundred-pound man hitting an old wall. Considering the layoff, Oren would never admit failing to restrain her properly. Andre left the room secured and took the hall to the back stairs, not interested in even feigning another smirk to Victor. He took the stairs to the first floor and made his way down the brightly lit hallway. Josey Nordstrom, the little sneak, was lurking around the reception desk.

“Good morning, Miss Nordstrom. How are you doing today?”

“Peachy, Doc. Did you lose your razor?”

Doctor Antoine smiled, rubbing his stubble-coating face. “Ah, yes. I’m trying to look rugged.”

“It’s working.” Josey passed him and took the hallway back to her room.

Andre briefly examined the frame of the vestibule. He acknowledged the security guard with a nod. Realistically, the building was secure as the patients on the first floor were self-commits, like Josey, or court-commits, like Jack Geddies. None of them would consider leaving. He retrieved the clipboard from the chart rack. Lansing had diagnosed all five boom-patients with anxiety. Krigare and Reynolds were listed right after Eleanor Bergstrom. Lovely. More good news to have a board member admitted.

His cell phone buzzed in his shirt. He slipped his hand into his smock and retrieved it, sliding his finger across the screen. It was Wanda. “Yeah?”

“Director Florio is on line three for you.”

“Glorious,” he said, disconnecting the cell call and grabbing the desk phone receiver. “Antoine here.”

“Andre. Some interesting developments for your new arrivals,” Director Florio said. “I received a call from the FBI this morning. They say you have two patients, an Angie Krigare and a Sam Reynolds, who we are to deliver to their custody tomorrow morning. They faxed you medical instructions. Did you get them?”

“I’ll check. I interviewed Clark and was investigating the third-floor damage.”

“Lansing’s still in surgery.” The Director hesitated, then added, “Every bone in his body was broken, Andre. Except for T3 and 4 and a rib or two. He probably won’t make it.”

Andre did not know how to respond. All he could manage was, “Aha.”

“So, I’m expecting a report that will explain how a senior doctor was pulverized.”

Andre considered what sort of position he could secure after he became the scapegoat of the Longwood disasters. He said, “All I know now is the wall in thirty-one is damaged so badly maintenance will take months to fix it.”

“Get photos. And the security report. And read that fax.” The Director disconnected the call.

Andre stood before the fax machine and found several charts, but nothing from the penitentiary about Reynolds. He located the fax with the FBI logo at the top. Charming. He reviewed it carefully. Sedate and restrain Reynolds. For Krigare, sedate, restrain. ADMINISTER NO WATER written in all-caps. Question as possible. Both to be delivered to Federal authorities on Friday. Friday was only a day away, but from Andre’s perspective, Friday was as soon as the new year. Taking the faxes and roster, he made his way to the elevator. He had no energy left for the stairs.