Best Forgotten, a fic for Brandy (pt. 5 of ?)
I'm not caught up with reading-commenting, and I actually have some random RL news I'd like to share, but before any of that, I have to post this update. Why the urgency? Frankly, I just need to get it up before I lose the damn thing again. I finished this chapter yesterday, but when I returned to it today for some final revision (read: editing; it's sadly overwritten) the file was missing. Gone! Or rather, all I could find was about 1500 words of a much earlier, incomplete version. I stormed, I ranted, I cursed--and then, coached by a much more computer-savvy friend, I miraculously found the document! It was hiding all along in a cryptic work file. So, before it disappears again, I give you part 5 of this evil-Caleb (or just) evil AU.
Disclaimer 1, in which I dis-claim the characters, who all still belong to Josh & company.
Disclaimer 2, in which I issue a Blatant Melodrama warning.
Disclaimer 3, in which I apologize for the length of this, because I did not make needed revisions after I recovered the file. Done is done.
Best Forgotten, Part 5
Kirsten stopped, one hand still grasping the doorknob. Her gaze clouded with confusion as she studied the group in Sandy’s office. In the half-second of startled silence, Seth bounded forward.
“Um, business meeting, Mom?” he prompted. “Remember, I told you somebody came to see Dad?”
“That’s right, you did. I forgot,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Sandy.” Her tone sounded polite, but her mouth tightened with accusation when she said her husband’s name.
Before Sandy could speak, Charlie swung around, smiling broadly. “Mrs. Cohen, hi,” she said, extending her hand. “Charlie Kepler, remember? We met at the PD Christmas party last year? Sandy and I work together. I was just updating him on an open case we have.”
“Oh. Oh, of course.” Kirsten’s gaze cleared slightly. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. I’ve been . . . distracted."
Charlie’s hearty grin faded into soft understanding. “I know,” she said quietly. “Sandy has too, which is why I should be leaving. I’ve taken enough of your family’s time today.” Shuffling Grady’s report into a messenger bag, she waved a goodbye. “Sandy, I’ll be in touch,” she promised as she started to leave.
She was halfway through the door when a voice stopped her.
“Ms. Kepler?” Kirsten called.
“Please. Call me Charlie.”
“Charlie. You’re an investigator, aren’t you?”
Instantly, Charlie’s hazel eyes narrowed, turning shrewd and guarded. “Yes, I am.”
“I wonder, could you wait just a minute . . .?”
Lowering her voice, Kirsten edged closer to Sandy. Seth promptly followed, trying to be invisible, but wedging himself behind his parents. Across the room, Charlie turned her back discreetly, studying the titles on Sandy’s bookshelves and putting space between herself and the Cohens.
Even so, her trained ears heard every word.
“Sweetheart,” Kirsten whispered. Her voice sounded tentative, shadowed by something like guilt. “Charlie is the investigator who found Ryan’s mother for us, isn’t she?”
Sandy’s cautious expression mirrored Charlie’s. He nodded warily.
“Then do you think . . .” Kirsten paused, the fine line of her jaw tensing. She took a deep, ragged breath before she continued. “Could we ask Charlie to help look for Ryan?”
Sandy had no time to answer.
“Seriously, Mom?” Seth demanded. He pushed between his parents, almost vibrating with excitement. “You want us to hire Charlie? Because it turns that she’s already--”
“Quite busy,” Sandy interjected curtly. His eyebrows shooting skywards, he darted a quick glare at Seth before turning back to Kirsten. “I suppose we could still ask her, though.” His tone became careful, probing. “But why do you want to do that, honey? After all, Grady just gave us a pretty thorough report.”
Unconsciously, Kirsten reached for the aquamarine pendant she wore-a gift from her father-and coiled its slim, silver chain around her fingers. “I know,” she conceded. “But what he told us . . . I keep thinking about it, and it just doesn’t seem right. I can’t believe Ryan would do those things, Sandy. And my father . . .” She bit her lip, pulling the necklace tighter. “He doesn’t like Ryan,” she concluded painfully.
“Serious understatement, but yeah, Mom, true that,” Seth muttered.
Kirsten didn’t appear to notice her son’s comment. “Grady is bound to know how he feels,” she mused. Her voice drifted, as if she were thinking aloud. “And he’s so loyal to dad. Maybe . . . maybe he thinks my father would prefer it if Ryan just disappeared from our lives. I know this sounds crazy, but . . .”
“But what, Kirsten?” Sandy prompted.
She flushed, biting her lip and swallowing hard. “What if Grady found some clue that indicated Ryan had headed for Mexico,” she suggested. “Only he wanted to send us in the wrong direction, or just stop looking at all, so he deliberately tried to make us believe . . .” Abruptly, she released the chain. It snapped, unnoticed,and her pendant fell to the ground. At the same time Kirsten raised her downcast eyes. They looked clear and determined, all trace of uncertainty gone. “We need to know if he told us the truth,” she said firmly. "And no matter what, we need to find Ryan." She beckoned an invitation to Charlie. The other woman joined them, immediately alert and involved. “Charlie, I’m not sure how much you know about our foster son, Ryan, but three days ago he--”
“Disappeared. I know. Sandy told me all about it.”
“Then could we hire you to look for him? I realize that you’re busy with other cases, but you did find Ryan's mother for us. Maybe you could--?”
Charlie’s freckled face broke into a warm, empathetic smile. It circled all of the Cohens, quirking wryly when it reached Sandy and Seth. “For Sandy Cohen’s family, of course I could,” she agreed. “I’d be happy to look for Ryan. But I’ve got to get going now because I’m supposed to meet a contact in--” Plunging her hand in her pocket, she flipped open her cell phone. “Oops, twenty minutes. So why don’t you fax me all the information you have, Sandy? I’ll check it out and get back to you.” Her gaze gravely reassuring, she nodded toward Kirsten. “From what I’ve heard about Ryan, he belongs in your family. We’ll find out what drove him away. And if it’s at all possible, we’ll bring him back home.”
Kirsten’s eyes glistened. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Behind his mother, Seth bounced on the soles of his feet, his dimples flashing impatience, his mouth poised for some announcement. Charlie noticed, frowned, and touched Kirsten’s arm gently. “Maybe you could walk me out?” she suggested.
“Oh. Oh, of course. Sandy--?”
“Seth and I will meet you in the kitchen, sweetheart. Charlie, thanks for everything.”
Charlie waved over her shoulder. “Thank me when Ryan is home,” she replied.
The two women had barely disappeared down the hallway before Seth burst out, “Okay, Dad, I so wouldn’t have believed that if I hadn’t heard it myself! Mom! Mom! Even she knows Grady is feeding us crap. Are you gonna tell her that--”
“No,” Sandy said curtly. He pushed his door closed again, shushing his son. “I am not telling her that I’ve asked Charlie to investigate her father. Not until we have more information. And neither are you.”
“But Dad-”
“But nothing, son. Did you listen to what she said?”
“Yeah. I did. She thinks Grady lied to us about Ryan.”
“That’s right, she does. But she believes that he did it on his own, not because your grandfather ordered him to derail the search.”
Seth’s mouth opened and then closed. His gaze slowly darkening, he mulled Sandy’s statement. “Oh,” he murmured. “Oh. So the way Mom sees it, Grady is like some rogue agent, but Grandpa himself thinks his whole search is legit. Only, she knows he hates Ryan, so why does she still trust him?”
“He’s her father,” Sandy replied tightly. “She loves him. That means she wants to trust him. I don’t want to take that away from her until we’re absolutely sure . . .” He rubbed his forehead, sighing heavily. Tell you what, son,” he suggested. Draping an arm around Seth’s shoulder, Sandy gave him a gentle squeeze. “Let’s just concentrate on finding Ryan. That’s what’s important right now. We’ll deal with everything else once we get him back home.”
Seth nodded into his father’s shoulder. “Okay,” he agreed. He peered upward. All of his fragile optimism had vanished, and his face looked very young and lost. “So, Dad . . . you think it’s going to be okay?” He hesitated, as if dreading the answer. “I mean, Ryan-we’re going to find him, right?”
Sandy looked out the window toward the pool house. His gaze clouded briefly, but he blinked any trace of doubt away before he faced his son again. “Yes, Seth,” he said firmly. “We will.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The instant the doorknob turned, Ryan went rigid. His fists clenched and every muscle in his body tensed. “She didn’t do anything wrong,” he declared before Dr. Keller even reached his bedside.
A shadow of surprise flitted across man’s face before it settled into an expression of clinical appraisal. “Who didn’t?” he asked.
Ryan caught himself just before he used Lucy’s name. Instinctively he sensed doing that would be a mistake. “The nurse,” he replied. “The one who was in here before. All she did was talk to me.”
“Ah, Nurse Forde′.” As he spoke, Dr. Keller checked Ryan’s vital signs, adjusted a monitor and typed a note into his computer. Then he turned around, his arms folded. “Why are you concerned about her?”
Something about the question seemed dangerous to Ryan. He paused, searching for an honest, innocent answer. “You threw her out,” he said. He tried to match the doctor’s cool tone, but despite his efforts a current of anger singed the simple words.
Dr. Keller’s eyes narrowed. Moving closer, he loomed over the bed, studying Ryan’s face, taking the time to examining each blink, every breath, while the silence stretched out, thin and taut, between them.
The inspection made Ryan’s skin crawl. He forced himself not to flinch, not to speak, not even to strain against his restraints. At last the doctor nodded. “Yes,” he said evenly, “I had her leave the room. Why does that bother you?”
There it was again, that awful feeling that he was skating on thin ice, that the wrong answer would shatter the surface beneath him and plunge him into the frigid water below. Shutting his eyes, Ryan willed away the image. Then he made himself look directly at the doctor. “I don’t want her to get in trouble, that’s all,” he said. “She was just doing her job. That’s what you mental health people are supposed to do, right? Talk to patients so that they’ll open up?”
Dr. Keller inclined his head. “And did Nurse Forde′ succeed with you, Brandon?”
Instantly, Ryan’s face shuttered. “I am not. Bran-that person,” he muttered.
“You are Brandon McConnell.”
“No. That’s just what Caleb Nichol wants you to believe. My name is Ryan Atwood.”
Dr. Keller made another notation his laptop. “Hmm,” he mused softly. “So you still insist on that.” The words sounded at once curious and oddly satisfied. “And you claim Mr. Nichol is lying about your real identity.”
“He is.”
Shaking his head in obvious dismissal, Dr. Keller typed a few more words. A surge of fury darkened Ryan’s face. His knuckles whitened, and a muscle pulsed ominously in his jaw. “How much money did Caleb Nichol donate to this clinic anyway?” he demanded.
The doctor peered up from his laptop, fingers frozen above the keyboard. “Mr. Nichol is paying for your treatment,” he said carefully.
“Yeah, but he’s giving you a lot more money too, isn’t he?”
“That is . . . a strange question.”
“Why? I mean, if you have nothing to hide.”
Dr. Keller took a step closer to the bed. Two sharp lines, like warning signs, appeared between his eyes. Unfazed, Ryan continued, “I figure it’s, what? A win-win situation? Your clinic gets a fat contribution and Mr. Nichol gets rid of me. Hell, maybe he even gets a tax write-off at the same time.”
For a moment the doctor’s cool detachment shattered. A flicker of emotion splintered his steady gaze and Ryan, watching closely, thought-he hoped-that he detected a hint of doubt. He couldn’t be sure, though. Instead of answering, the doctor turned abruptly. Pulling out a penlight out of a cabinet, he switched it on and spun back again. Before Ryan could react, a hand clamped around his chin, holding his head still, and the light probed into each of his eyes. Its laser-like intensity burned, blinding him. When he could see again, Dr. Keller had already stepped back, lips pursed judiciously, all trace of empathy gone.
“Well.” He nodded as if satisfied. “You appear to be alert now, young man. How are you feeling?”
Still squinting and breathing hard, Ryan pulled viciously on the straps that held him. He glared upward, his jaw clenched. “How the hell do you suppose I feel?” he growled. Contempt and challenge emanated from his eyes but, though he tried to hide it, so did a deep, wordless fear.
“Trapped?” Dr. Keller suggested blandly. “Helpless, perhaps?”
Ryan bit his lips to keep them from trembling. “That’s what he wants, isn’t it?” he mumbled, more to himself than to the other man, but the doctor heard anyway.
“Nobody wants that,” he claimed. “You know, I might be able to remove those restraints if you would cooperate. Nurse Forde′ insists that you can be trusted.” Hitching a chair close to the bed, Dr. Keller sat down. “Why don’t you show me?” he suggested. “Let’s start by talking. Tell me, what is your very first memory from your childhood?”
Sensing another trap, Ryan shook his head.
“I cannot help you if you refuse to communicate.”
Help? Would he, really?
No. This was just a trick of some kind, a way to lure him into saying something that they could use against him.
Still . . . what was he risking? What more did he have to lose?
“I . . .” he began hoarsely. His fingers scratched into the bed sheet, clutching folds of the fabric. They closed, tighter and tighter, until his nails cut through the cloth into his own palms. “No. I can’t,” he muttered. “You won’t believe me anyway.”
“Why not? If you are telling the truth--”
“I am.”
“Well then.” Dr. Keller inclined his head, waiting, one finger poised over the power switch on a tape recorder.
Desperately, Ryan scanned the room, although he already knew everything he would find: blank walls, the single wire-meshed window near the ceiling, the thick locked door that, he knew, he could never open. But even if he could, where would it lead except to a maze of hallways, each of them ending in another locked door?
Taking a deep breath, he swallowed his despair.
There was no escape from this place. He had to face that. He would never get out, not unless somehow he could prove that he was Ryan Atwood.
So he might as well take the chance.
He nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
“Very good.” Dr. Keller pressed the ‘record’ button. “Now. Take your time,” he urged. “Close your eyes and think back as far as you can. Let yourself be a child again. Can you see something? Hear something perhaps?”
Ryan did, instantly. The words slipped out, unbidden. “My dad, yelling,” he whispered.
“Can you hear what he’s saying? Is he yelling at you?”
“No, I don’t think so . . . No. At my mom.”
“And what is she doing?”
Ryan tensed with the effort of remembering. There were flashes-glass breaking, a TV blaring, a sudden splash of light as the door flew open into his dark bedroom. Then, Dawn, silhouetted in the doorway.
“She’s crying,” he said.
“And where are you? What are you doing?”
Ryan wasn’t sure how, but he could see himself clearly. “I’m in bed, sleeping,” he reported. “I mean, until all the noise. Trey’s there with me.”
Dr. Keller frowned. Unnoticed by Ryan, he studied the screen open on his laptop, clicked another link and then peered up sharply. “Trey?” he prompted.
“He’s my older brother.”
“I see.” The doctor made a quick notation. “So you share a room with Trey. And how old are you both?”
Ryan shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m . . . three maybe? Or four? So Trey would be about seven . . . He steals the covers,” he added, surprising himself.
“Go on. What else can you recall?”
His lashes fluttered down, shutting him in the dark with his memory.
It was hazy: those shouts that jolt him awake, Dawn ordering him and Trey to get up, get out of bed, screaming that they were leaving this fucking hell-hole, his father barging in, cursing, and barring the door . . .
“My mom picks me up,” Ryan said thickly. “And she’s dragging Trey by the hand, but Dad won’t let us get out. He . . . he hits her I think. And Trey too, because I hear him fall down. Then he grabs me away from Mom-she’s still holding me-and he throws me back on the bed. Only it’s not soft, and . . . and I don’t remember anymore.”
He turned away, aching to shield his damp eyes, but that wasn’t possible with his hands tied down. All he could do was squeeze them tight. A single tear trickled out anyway, falling slowly down his cheek until it stopped, trembling, just above his lip.
Ryan burrowed into his pillow to wipe it away. The doctor’s voice followed him.
“Can you tell me where you were living when this happened?”
His face still averted, Ryan choked back his pain. “I was little . . . I guess it had to be in Fresno.”
“Fresno,” Dr. Keller repeated dubiously. He checked his on-screen information again, scrolling through several pages before he spoke again. “All right. Now. I would like you to tell me about something that happened you lived in Bakersfield.”
Ryan blinked hard, silent.
“Remember? Your parents divorced and you went to middle school there--”
“No,” Ryan blurted, turning back to the doctor. “No, that’s wrong. It was Chino, not Bakersfield. And we moved there after my dad went to prison.”
“Chino? Hmm.” Once again, Dr. Keller added a note to Ryan’s file. “And you stayed there until--?”
“I wound up in Newport, with the Cohens.” Ryan’s voice trailed off. It hurt him to say their name.
Dr. Keller nudged the tape recorder closer to the bed. “So you’re saying you never lived in Bakersfield at all?”
“I didn’t,” Ryan protested, “I told you!” He tensed, pulling against the restraints and shaking his head helplessly. “Why are you asking me that?”
Crossing his legs, Dr. Keller leaned back in his chair to give himself a clearer view. He watched Ryan’s chest heave and a muscle convulse in his jaw, noted how his fists clenched over and over again, shredding even more of the sheets below. “You’re becoming agitated,” he observed finally. “Why? Is something about Bakersfield upsetting to you? Did something happen there that you regret?”
“No!” Ryan insisted. “I was never there--” He stopped abruptly, his eyes wide and steel-gray with suspicion. “But Brandon was, right? Mr. Nichol told you he lived there, so you’re trying to make me say that I did.”
“I’m not trying to make you say anything,” Dr. Keller claimed. Leaning forward, he patted Ryan’s arm. “There is no need to get upset.”
Instantly, Ryan recoiled, flinching. “Don’t touch me,” he spat, even though he knew the warning was futile.
Worse. It was a mistake. He saw the doctor’s eyebrows shoot up, detected the flash of gratification on his face, as if Ryan had just confirmed his worst suspicions, watched him swivel around to type a note on his laptop.
The screen faced away from Ryan, but he could imagine what it said.
Uncooperative.
Hostile.
Dangerous.
Violent.
Paranoid.
Some damning diagnosis that would condemn him to this place forever.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. The words almost choked him, but he managed to force them out. “I didn’t mean to say that . . . I’m sorry.”
Dr. Keller glanced over his shoulder and nodded briefly. Other than that, he ignored Ryan’s apology. “Perhaps we should try something else,” he said as he turned around again. “Some subject that makes you feel more comfortable. Tell me about something that happened in Newport.”
Ryan licked his dry lips. He had to answer; he couldn’t afford another error. “Like what?” he asked warily.
“Well, let’s see . . . what was the last thing you remember before you woke up here?”
The pool house, Ryan thought promptly. A rush of memories engulfed him: Huddling on his bed, hands pressed against his ears to block out noise from the party outside. Seth bursting in, his voice all capital letters as he announced the news that “Summer Kissed Me, Dude! On The Lips!” His door clicking shut when, after a small eternity, Seth left, still talking. The distant rumble of the caterers’ van as it pulled away. Finally, nothing but the still, dark night. Only Ryan, alone with his remorse, and the image of Marissa’s face, framed in his doorway, shocked and desolate, the hollow echo of her words, “You’re too late.”
He had tossed restively on his bed for hours, he knew that, until at last . . . What? What had happened then?
More details-hazy, confusing ones-slowly came into focus as he concentrated.
He recalled burrowing into his pillow, almost on the edge of sleep when a sharp, imperious knock shattered the silence. “Seth,” he had groaned. Rubbing his bleary eyes, he had padded across the room. “Dude. Go away. Now,” he growled, barely peering through the door when he cracked it open. Then he registered the figure who loomed in front of him, silhouetted by the pool lights.
Tall. Cold. Impeccably dressed. Forbidding.
Not Seth then. Not even Sandy
“Mr. Nichol,” he stammered, stumbling backward. Almost instantly, his shock drowned in a tidal wave of shame and guilt. Gabrielle. That had to be it. Somehow Caleb had found out that they had been together. “I’m sorry, sir. We-I mean I-didn’t mean to--”
“Didn’t mean to what, boy?” Striding inside, Caleb forced Ryan back toward a corner of the room. “Con your way into my family? Destroy my property? Endanger my grandson? Make me a laughingstock in front of my friends? Live off my money while you steal what’s mine, starting with Gabrielle?”
He had said much more- a tirade that scalded Ryan, blistering him with accusations about his past, his family, his precarious place in the Cohen household. Thief. Low-life. Parasite. Charity Case. Street thug. Welfare project.
“You are nothing,” he had sneered. “Nobody.” Then his eyes had gleamed, as if at some sick, private joke. “Nobody,” he had repeated, and his lips had stretched into an icy smile.
Even the memory made Ryan shiver. He wouldn’t share all of that, not with anyone. All he told Dr. Keller, in a reluctant monotone, was “I was almost asleep, and Mr. Nichol showed up. He was--” Ryan stopped, swallowing painfully. “He was really angry. I guess he had a right to be . . .”
“Why?” the doctor asked when Ryan hesitated again. A probing, incisive edge underscored the question, and he hitched his chair closer to the bed.
“Gabrielle,” Ryan murmured. Lost in a thicket of emotions, he didn’t notice Dr. Keller’s perplexed frown or the way he leaned back, shaking his head. “I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t have . . . but I tried to apologize, only he wouldn’t listen. And he wouldn’t leave. And then--”
“Then what?”
The words floated toward him from far away.
Then, Ryan thought, Caleb had gestured and somebody else had come into the pool house-or had he been there all along, hidden in the shadows? The man had grabbed Ryan roughly. Before he could react, he had been jerked half off his feet, a forearm clamped around his throat, and a hand-or something; something warm, sweet, suffocating-pressed over his mouth and nose. Frantic, unable to breathe, he had tried to claw it away, but a heavy darkness sucked him down, down, down . . .
Or maybe that hadn’t happened. The memory was so ragged; Ryan couldn’t be sure it was real.
“Then what?” Dr. Keller repeated, more sharply.
“I don’t know,” Ryan admitted. “I woke up here.”
“I see.” The doctor’s eyes narrowed and he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So the last thing you recall before you were admitted is this argument with Mr. Nichol,” he said at last. “And it was about somebody named Gabrielle?”
Ryan’s mouth twisted and he licked his chapped lips. “Yes. Well, not only her, but yeah.”
“Ah. So what else was involved?”
For a moment, Ryan considered not answering. His gaze slid sideways, away from the doctor, and fixed on a cabinet. It was metal, and in its mirror-like surface he could glimpse his own reflection. Broken, distorted, its eyes glazed with pain, it barely resembled the self he believed himself to be.
Maybe it wasn’t him at all.
Dr. Keller tapped the bedrail. “What else was involved?” he asked again. “Why was Mr. Nichol so angry with you?”
Reluctantly, Ryan forced himself to answer. “Lots of reasons,” he mumbled. “He just . . . he hates me, that’s all.”
That was it. Dr. Keller waited, but Ryan refused to say anymore. He returned to studying that face in the cabinet, searching for someone he could recognize.
The doctor’s voice, deep and grave, finally roused him. “So, this confrontation with Mr. Nichol,” he mused, “I assume it happened to Ryan?”
Unnerved-what the hell was the man implying with that question?-Ryan whipped around. “It happened to me!” he snapped. His fragile control snapped. Fiercely, heedlessly, he thrashed back and forth, struggling against the restraints until they bit into his skin. “I told you! I’m Ryan.”
“Still?” Dr. Keller drummed his fingers against his leg. “No breakthrough at all, then. Hmm . . . ” Picking up the recording device, he swiveled away from Ryan. “Despite near maximum allowable dosage of all approved drugs, patient’s delusions persist,” he murmured into the microphone. “He has constructed a detailed fantasy life, designed to shield him from reality. Unlike most documented cases of DDT, patient appears to have only a single alternate identity. Also unusual is the fact that the identity patient has assumed is--”
Ryan strained, but he couldn’t make out the last words. It didn’t matter, though. He had heard enough.
Setting down the recorder, Dr. Keller turned around again. His face was set in stern lines and when he spoke, all trace of gentle cajoling had vanished. “Ryan,” he ordered, his voice sharp and commanding. “I want to speak to Brandon. Get Brandon for me.”
Ryan gritted his teeth, breathing hard. “There is no Brandon,” he hissed. “Mr. Nichol made him up.”
“You need to let Brandon out. I want to speak to Brandon now.”
“You can’t! He doesn’t exist. He’s not hiding out in my subconscious somewhere. I am Ryan Atwood. And I am not. Crazy!” Fear and urgency flooded Ryan’s eyes, turning them an intense, storm-sky blue. He fixed his gaze on the doctor, willing the man to read the truth there. Please,” he begged. “You have to believe me.”
Dr. Keller didn’t. Ryan knew there was no chance even before the man stood up, sighing. “Well,” he said, as he unlocked a cabinet. “I suppose we should try one last time.” Opening a door, he pulled out a syringe and vial of some kind.
Instantly, Ryan’s mouth filled with bile. “No! Don’t!” he protested. Desperate, he twisted as far away as he could, but there was no escape, no way to avoid the cold swab inside his elbow, the sting of the needle when it entered a vein. “No,” he moaned, but the serum was already pulsing through his bloodstream. He could feel it burning away bits of him, feel all he knew of himself dying. “’s wrong,” he mumbled thickly. “Shouldn’t. I’m not . . .”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Brandon?” A cotton-wrapped voice, muffled yet oddly menacing, pushed into Ryan’s consciousness. “Brandon, open your eyes. I know you’re awake. Look at me. Now.”
Ryan struggled to shake his head. He wouldn’t look. He wouldn’t. There was something wrong with that summons. No. He would rather stay where he was, shut in a twilight world behind his eyelids. It was dark there, the stippled, shifting black of an ocean at night. Faceless shadows beckoned, but they felt soft somehow, safe and familiar, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear his own name.
Ryan
They were calling him. Ryan.
He turned his head longingly toward the sound.
Something icy-sharp slapped against his cheek. Despite himself, Ryan jerked awake. His eyes flew open, unfocused under the harsh light.
“There. That’s better. You can’t hide forever, Brandon.”
“Not . . . hiding,” Ryan slurred, even though that was all he wanted: a dark, safe place to hide. Instinctively, he tried to curl into himself. To his surprise-because hadn’t he been strapped down? Or had that been part of his persistent, clutching nightmare?-his body obeyed him. They moved limply, like the limbs of a sodden rag doll, but his knees bent and he rolled onto his side, wrapping his arms around his chest.
“No, no, none of that,” a voice chided. “You have to face us, Brandon.”
Hands-they were so cold-gripped his shoulders and forced him onto his back again. Ryan couldn’t find the strength to resist. He couldn’t do anything except shake his head and grunt a wordless objection. Whatever comfort he’d derived from those few moments of control swiftly ebbed away.
Weak. Why was he so weak?
And who were these people staring down at him?
“All right now, Brandon. Let’s begin. I am Dr. Keller, remember?”
Dr. Keller? Ryan blinked, concentrating. Then he nodded obediently. Yes, that sounded familiar . . . at least he sensed that it should. Only what had the man called him? Some name, but what was it? Not his, he knew that. His tongue probing his scorched mouth, he tried to form a polite correction, but the doctor didn’t wait. Gesturing to his right and then to his left he announced, “This is my colleague, Dr. Gall, and this is Nurse Cree. They’ll be with us during this session.”
Ryan’s forehead creased. “Lucy?” he whispered, peering up.
“No,” the woman said flatly. “Nurse Cree.” She bustled around the bed, adjusted a wire-there wires attached to his scalp? That was strange-and returned, busying herself with some equipment Ryan did not recognize.
A sense of vague disappointment, or maybe it was loss, slowly enshrouded him. His lower lip trembled slightly and he caught it in his teeth. Peering past the nurse, Ryan surveyed the small, sterile room. He was searching, he realized, although he wasn’t sure what he hoped to find.
Something was missing, or no, somebody, but who?
Dr. Keller snapped his fingers sharply, reclaiming Ryan’s attention, compelling him to respond. “Are you ready to talk to me now?” he asked.
At least the doctor seemed familiar, someone that Ryan should know. “Uh-uh,” he murmured. “I’ll talk.” The cadence of his own voice, thick and sluggish, surprised him. It sounded as if it belonged to another person. Even the words-had he decided to say them himself? They felt involuntary, squeezed out of him somehow, not really his choice at all.
Still, they made Dr. Keller smile. “Excellent,” he said, patting Ryan’s arm. “Now, think back to your childhood. I would like you to describe your earliest memory, something that happened when you were very young. Tell me, what do you remember?”
“My dad yelling,” Ryan answered instantly.
Above him, Dr. Gall glanced from a computer screen to Dr. Keller. His brows knotted quizzically and he mouthed a question, but Ryan, fumbling in the dark recesses of his mind, didn’t notice.
“I know,” Dr. Keller murmured. His grip tightened on Ryan’s wrist, summoning him again. “Is he yelling at you?”
Automatically, sluggishly, Ryan shook his head. “No, at my mom.” Tears beaded in the corners of his eyes. “She’s crying. Dad hits her-smack! He shouldn’t do that to her. He’s making her cry really hard. Trey too, even though Trey says that boys don’t cry--”
“Brandon!”
The name meant nothing to Ryan. Ignoring it, he pressed his hands hard against his ears. “Mom’s screaming right in my ear,” he moaned. “She’s squeezing me so tight I can’t breathe. It scares me. Now Dad . . . Dad--” His chest heaved, straining for air. “Dad grabs me. No! It hurts! Daddy don’t--!”
“Ryan! Ryan, stop!”
Ryan did. Immediately, his face cleared. “Okay,” he said, sinking into his pillow.
Nurse Cree moved behind him to reposition a wire he had knocked loose. Then she adjusted a knob on the monitor. It gave a bird-like tweet, teasing Ryan’s mouth into a quick, lopsided grin.
“Okay,” he said again.
Three sets of eyes stared down at him, and his smile faltered. They wanted something from him, but what?
“Ryan?” Dr. Gall prompted. “I’m speaking to Ryan Atwood, correct?”
Ryan nodded numbly. “Uh-huh,” he whispered. He watched, his gaze wary, as the doctors and Nurse Cree huddled together at the end of his bed. They glanced at him every now, conferring in low voices, muttering long, alien words that he didn’t know. Only a few clear phrases reached him:
“Prime candidate . . .”
“ . . . clearly justifies the risk”
“Have to notify Mr. Nichol . . .”
“ . . . vulnerable now”
“Shock of the truth may . . .”
At last Dr. Keller returned to Ryan’s bedside. His mouth folded into a grim line. “All right, Ryan. We’re done,” he announced. “This time I need to hear from Brandon. Get him for us now.”
“How?” Ryan asked, confused. “I don’t know Brandon.” A vise seemed to close across his chest as he spoke. There was something about that name, something sinister, maybe lethal. Just the sound of it scared him. “I can’t get him. I don’t know where he is. ”
Dr. Keller shook his head. “Yes you do,” he countered. His eyes bored through Ryan’s, as if seeking to reach his soul. “He’s inside you, Ryan. You know it, and you need to let him out now.”
“Can’t . . .” The vise tightened, blurring his vision, choking him. Blindly, desperately, Ryan pushed himself away from the doctors. He scooted up the bed until his back hit the wall behind it. Then he hunched there, trapped, in a tangle of crumpled sheets. “You’re wrong,” he insisted. “I’m just Ryan.”
The doctors and Nurse Cree studied him for what seemed like an eternity. For the first time Ryan felt the buzz of the wires attached to his scalp, the pinch of adhesive against skin where tape covered his inner arm, the slight sting of the needle held in his vein there.
That was all, though.
A searing current of panic surged through him.
He could feel those things, but no matter how hard he tried Ryan didn’t, couldn’t, feel like himself. He couldn’t find himself anywhere, and he didn’t understand why. Still, “I’m Ryan,” he repeated stubbornly.
Maybe saying the words would make them true.
“No, you’re not,” Dr. Keller replied. His voice was oddly gentle, almost sad. “That’s who you choose to be, but you know the truth. Admit it. You are Brandon McConnell, not Ryan Atwood. Say it. Brandon.”
It would be so easy. Just two simple syllables: “Brandon.”
Something inside Ryan urged him to say the word. It hovered, right there, at the back of his throat, ready to claim him, ready to make him . . . what?
“No,” Ryan said. “I can’t. I’m Ryan.”
Dr. Keller took three steps closer, his face cold again. With nowhere else to go, all Ryan could do was glare, helplessly defiant, and brace himself for whatever blow was coming.
“Lying to yourself won’t work, Brandon,” the doctor warned. “It’s time for you to face who you are. And what you did.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lucy sat hunched over a paper at the nurse’s station, staring at the numbers she had written on a scrap of paper and absently twisting one of her short black curls. Every few minutes she glanced down the hall toward the last of the locked doors on the right.
It hadn’t opened in more than four hours.
She wasn’t sure what that meant, maybe nothing at all, but she couldn’t shake a sickening premonition.
They had decided to do it.
“Just call Sandy Cohen. Please.”
Slowly, carefully, she traced the numbers. Then she touched her nametag and peered down the hallway again.
“He’ll tell you, I’m not Brandon McConnell. I’m Ryan. My name is Ryan Atwood.”
A digital clock on the wall flashed, its numbers red and alarming: nine o’clock. Getting late, later even than she’d thought.
How late was too late?
Abruptly Lucy stood up. Pulling out her phone with grim resolution, she scanned the area, waited while an orderly passed by, and then slipped into a storage closet. She listened, holding her breath, until she heard the lock click behind her. Only a thin thread of light seeped under the door. In the dark, she couldn’t see the paper crumpled in her fist, but it didn’t matter. Lucy had memorized the number.
Taking a deep breath, she fingered her own nametag again. Then she crossed herself, whispered a quick prayer, and dialed.
Somebody answered on the third ring. “Cohen residence,” said a weary male voice.
“May I speak to Mr. Sandy Cohen?”
“Speaking.”
For an instant Lucy stared blindly into the blackness, picturing Ryan’s face. She could see him retreat behind his lashes, head bowed, all of his features shuttered by despair. Then his eyes opened. Clear and beseeching, they fixed on her own, lacerating her with a look of ineffable loss and longing and a single, desperate plea.
Lucy gripped the phone tighter, remembering.
So much was riding on this conversation: a family’s peace of mind; the clinic’s reputation; her own career; but first of all, most of all, the boy’s freedom and sanity.
Maybe even his life.
Lucy took a long, sustaining breath. “Mr. Cohen,” she said, “You don’t know me, but my name is Lucy Vevine-Forde. I am a nurse at the Santa Clara Clinic in Cozumel, Mexico.” The words poured out, rushed, urgent and unstoppable. “I am calling about a patient in my care, a boy about fifteen who was admitted four days ago. There is some question about his identity, and he says you can clear the matter for us. It is extremely important. The boy claims that he is your foster son and that you--”
“Wait, what did you say? My foster son? Ryan?”
Lucy felt a flutter of elation when she heard the man’s response. His voice held so much choked emotion--exactly what a father would feel for his missing child. It must be true then, just as she suspected: the boy must really be Ryan. Smiling to herself, Lucy imagined Sandy Cohen’s sense of relief, the jubilation Ryan would feel when he was released, the sheer joy of the Cohens when their family was finally reunited.
“Yes, Mr. Cohen,” she affirmed. “Your foster son, Ryan Atwood. He's here.”
There was a pause, just a moment, and then the man spoke again. Lucy heard the words at the same time that Ryan, desperately clinging to some thin shreds of self, heard them from Dr. Keller:
“That's not possible. Ryan Atwood is dead. Brandon McConnell killed him.”
TBC
Disclaimer 1, in which I dis-claim the characters, who all still belong to Josh & company.
Disclaimer 2, in which I issue a Blatant Melodrama warning.
Disclaimer 3, in which I apologize for the length of this, because I did not make needed revisions after I recovered the file. Done is done.
Best Forgotten, Part 5
Kirsten stopped, one hand still grasping the doorknob. Her gaze clouded with confusion as she studied the group in Sandy’s office. In the half-second of startled silence, Seth bounded forward.
“Um, business meeting, Mom?” he prompted. “Remember, I told you somebody came to see Dad?”
“That’s right, you did. I forgot,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Sandy.” Her tone sounded polite, but her mouth tightened with accusation when she said her husband’s name.
Before Sandy could speak, Charlie swung around, smiling broadly. “Mrs. Cohen, hi,” she said, extending her hand. “Charlie Kepler, remember? We met at the PD Christmas party last year? Sandy and I work together. I was just updating him on an open case we have.”
“Oh. Oh, of course.” Kirsten’s gaze cleared slightly. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. I’ve been . . . distracted."
Charlie’s hearty grin faded into soft understanding. “I know,” she said quietly. “Sandy has too, which is why I should be leaving. I’ve taken enough of your family’s time today.” Shuffling Grady’s report into a messenger bag, she waved a goodbye. “Sandy, I’ll be in touch,” she promised as she started to leave.
She was halfway through the door when a voice stopped her.
“Ms. Kepler?” Kirsten called.
“Please. Call me Charlie.”
“Charlie. You’re an investigator, aren’t you?”
Instantly, Charlie’s hazel eyes narrowed, turning shrewd and guarded. “Yes, I am.”
“I wonder, could you wait just a minute . . .?”
Lowering her voice, Kirsten edged closer to Sandy. Seth promptly followed, trying to be invisible, but wedging himself behind his parents. Across the room, Charlie turned her back discreetly, studying the titles on Sandy’s bookshelves and putting space between herself and the Cohens.
Even so, her trained ears heard every word.
“Sweetheart,” Kirsten whispered. Her voice sounded tentative, shadowed by something like guilt. “Charlie is the investigator who found Ryan’s mother for us, isn’t she?”
Sandy’s cautious expression mirrored Charlie’s. He nodded warily.
“Then do you think . . .” Kirsten paused, the fine line of her jaw tensing. She took a deep, ragged breath before she continued. “Could we ask Charlie to help look for Ryan?”
Sandy had no time to answer.
“Seriously, Mom?” Seth demanded. He pushed between his parents, almost vibrating with excitement. “You want us to hire Charlie? Because it turns that she’s already--”
“Quite busy,” Sandy interjected curtly. His eyebrows shooting skywards, he darted a quick glare at Seth before turning back to Kirsten. “I suppose we could still ask her, though.” His tone became careful, probing. “But why do you want to do that, honey? After all, Grady just gave us a pretty thorough report.”
Unconsciously, Kirsten reached for the aquamarine pendant she wore-a gift from her father-and coiled its slim, silver chain around her fingers. “I know,” she conceded. “But what he told us . . . I keep thinking about it, and it just doesn’t seem right. I can’t believe Ryan would do those things, Sandy. And my father . . .” She bit her lip, pulling the necklace tighter. “He doesn’t like Ryan,” she concluded painfully.
“Serious understatement, but yeah, Mom, true that,” Seth muttered.
Kirsten didn’t appear to notice her son’s comment. “Grady is bound to know how he feels,” she mused. Her voice drifted, as if she were thinking aloud. “And he’s so loyal to dad. Maybe . . . maybe he thinks my father would prefer it if Ryan just disappeared from our lives. I know this sounds crazy, but . . .”
“But what, Kirsten?” Sandy prompted.
She flushed, biting her lip and swallowing hard. “What if Grady found some clue that indicated Ryan had headed for Mexico,” she suggested. “Only he wanted to send us in the wrong direction, or just stop looking at all, so he deliberately tried to make us believe . . .” Abruptly, she released the chain. It snapped, unnoticed,and her pendant fell to the ground. At the same time Kirsten raised her downcast eyes. They looked clear and determined, all trace of uncertainty gone. “We need to know if he told us the truth,” she said firmly. "And no matter what, we need to find Ryan." She beckoned an invitation to Charlie. The other woman joined them, immediately alert and involved. “Charlie, I’m not sure how much you know about our foster son, Ryan, but three days ago he--”
“Disappeared. I know. Sandy told me all about it.”
“Then could we hire you to look for him? I realize that you’re busy with other cases, but you did find Ryan's mother for us. Maybe you could--?”
Charlie’s freckled face broke into a warm, empathetic smile. It circled all of the Cohens, quirking wryly when it reached Sandy and Seth. “For Sandy Cohen’s family, of course I could,” she agreed. “I’d be happy to look for Ryan. But I’ve got to get going now because I’m supposed to meet a contact in--” Plunging her hand in her pocket, she flipped open her cell phone. “Oops, twenty minutes. So why don’t you fax me all the information you have, Sandy? I’ll check it out and get back to you.” Her gaze gravely reassuring, she nodded toward Kirsten. “From what I’ve heard about Ryan, he belongs in your family. We’ll find out what drove him away. And if it’s at all possible, we’ll bring him back home.”
Kirsten’s eyes glistened. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Behind his mother, Seth bounced on the soles of his feet, his dimples flashing impatience, his mouth poised for some announcement. Charlie noticed, frowned, and touched Kirsten’s arm gently. “Maybe you could walk me out?” she suggested.
“Oh. Oh, of course. Sandy--?”
“Seth and I will meet you in the kitchen, sweetheart. Charlie, thanks for everything.”
Charlie waved over her shoulder. “Thank me when Ryan is home,” she replied.
The two women had barely disappeared down the hallway before Seth burst out, “Okay, Dad, I so wouldn’t have believed that if I hadn’t heard it myself! Mom! Mom! Even she knows Grady is feeding us crap. Are you gonna tell her that--”
“No,” Sandy said curtly. He pushed his door closed again, shushing his son. “I am not telling her that I’ve asked Charlie to investigate her father. Not until we have more information. And neither are you.”
“But Dad-”
“But nothing, son. Did you listen to what she said?”
“Yeah. I did. She thinks Grady lied to us about Ryan.”
“That’s right, she does. But she believes that he did it on his own, not because your grandfather ordered him to derail the search.”
Seth’s mouth opened and then closed. His gaze slowly darkening, he mulled Sandy’s statement. “Oh,” he murmured. “Oh. So the way Mom sees it, Grady is like some rogue agent, but Grandpa himself thinks his whole search is legit. Only, she knows he hates Ryan, so why does she still trust him?”
“He’s her father,” Sandy replied tightly. “She loves him. That means she wants to trust him. I don’t want to take that away from her until we’re absolutely sure . . .” He rubbed his forehead, sighing heavily. Tell you what, son,” he suggested. Draping an arm around Seth’s shoulder, Sandy gave him a gentle squeeze. “Let’s just concentrate on finding Ryan. That’s what’s important right now. We’ll deal with everything else once we get him back home.”
Seth nodded into his father’s shoulder. “Okay,” he agreed. He peered upward. All of his fragile optimism had vanished, and his face looked very young and lost. “So, Dad . . . you think it’s going to be okay?” He hesitated, as if dreading the answer. “I mean, Ryan-we’re going to find him, right?”
Sandy looked out the window toward the pool house. His gaze clouded briefly, but he blinked any trace of doubt away before he faced his son again. “Yes, Seth,” he said firmly. “We will.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The instant the doorknob turned, Ryan went rigid. His fists clenched and every muscle in his body tensed. “She didn’t do anything wrong,” he declared before Dr. Keller even reached his bedside.
A shadow of surprise flitted across man’s face before it settled into an expression of clinical appraisal. “Who didn’t?” he asked.
Ryan caught himself just before he used Lucy’s name. Instinctively he sensed doing that would be a mistake. “The nurse,” he replied. “The one who was in here before. All she did was talk to me.”
“Ah, Nurse Forde′.” As he spoke, Dr. Keller checked Ryan’s vital signs, adjusted a monitor and typed a note into his computer. Then he turned around, his arms folded. “Why are you concerned about her?”
Something about the question seemed dangerous to Ryan. He paused, searching for an honest, innocent answer. “You threw her out,” he said. He tried to match the doctor’s cool tone, but despite his efforts a current of anger singed the simple words.
Dr. Keller’s eyes narrowed. Moving closer, he loomed over the bed, studying Ryan’s face, taking the time to examining each blink, every breath, while the silence stretched out, thin and taut, between them.
The inspection made Ryan’s skin crawl. He forced himself not to flinch, not to speak, not even to strain against his restraints. At last the doctor nodded. “Yes,” he said evenly, “I had her leave the room. Why does that bother you?”
There it was again, that awful feeling that he was skating on thin ice, that the wrong answer would shatter the surface beneath him and plunge him into the frigid water below. Shutting his eyes, Ryan willed away the image. Then he made himself look directly at the doctor. “I don’t want her to get in trouble, that’s all,” he said. “She was just doing her job. That’s what you mental health people are supposed to do, right? Talk to patients so that they’ll open up?”
Dr. Keller inclined his head. “And did Nurse Forde′ succeed with you, Brandon?”
Instantly, Ryan’s face shuttered. “I am not. Bran-that person,” he muttered.
“You are Brandon McConnell.”
“No. That’s just what Caleb Nichol wants you to believe. My name is Ryan Atwood.”
Dr. Keller made another notation his laptop. “Hmm,” he mused softly. “So you still insist on that.” The words sounded at once curious and oddly satisfied. “And you claim Mr. Nichol is lying about your real identity.”
“He is.”
Shaking his head in obvious dismissal, Dr. Keller typed a few more words. A surge of fury darkened Ryan’s face. His knuckles whitened, and a muscle pulsed ominously in his jaw. “How much money did Caleb Nichol donate to this clinic anyway?” he demanded.
The doctor peered up from his laptop, fingers frozen above the keyboard. “Mr. Nichol is paying for your treatment,” he said carefully.
“Yeah, but he’s giving you a lot more money too, isn’t he?”
“That is . . . a strange question.”
“Why? I mean, if you have nothing to hide.”
Dr. Keller took a step closer to the bed. Two sharp lines, like warning signs, appeared between his eyes. Unfazed, Ryan continued, “I figure it’s, what? A win-win situation? Your clinic gets a fat contribution and Mr. Nichol gets rid of me. Hell, maybe he even gets a tax write-off at the same time.”
For a moment the doctor’s cool detachment shattered. A flicker of emotion splintered his steady gaze and Ryan, watching closely, thought-he hoped-that he detected a hint of doubt. He couldn’t be sure, though. Instead of answering, the doctor turned abruptly. Pulling out a penlight out of a cabinet, he switched it on and spun back again. Before Ryan could react, a hand clamped around his chin, holding his head still, and the light probed into each of his eyes. Its laser-like intensity burned, blinding him. When he could see again, Dr. Keller had already stepped back, lips pursed judiciously, all trace of empathy gone.
“Well.” He nodded as if satisfied. “You appear to be alert now, young man. How are you feeling?”
Still squinting and breathing hard, Ryan pulled viciously on the straps that held him. He glared upward, his jaw clenched. “How the hell do you suppose I feel?” he growled. Contempt and challenge emanated from his eyes but, though he tried to hide it, so did a deep, wordless fear.
“Trapped?” Dr. Keller suggested blandly. “Helpless, perhaps?”
Ryan bit his lips to keep them from trembling. “That’s what he wants, isn’t it?” he mumbled, more to himself than to the other man, but the doctor heard anyway.
“Nobody wants that,” he claimed. “You know, I might be able to remove those restraints if you would cooperate. Nurse Forde′ insists that you can be trusted.” Hitching a chair close to the bed, Dr. Keller sat down. “Why don’t you show me?” he suggested. “Let’s start by talking. Tell me, what is your very first memory from your childhood?”
Sensing another trap, Ryan shook his head.
“I cannot help you if you refuse to communicate.”
Help? Would he, really?
No. This was just a trick of some kind, a way to lure him into saying something that they could use against him.
Still . . . what was he risking? What more did he have to lose?
“I . . .” he began hoarsely. His fingers scratched into the bed sheet, clutching folds of the fabric. They closed, tighter and tighter, until his nails cut through the cloth into his own palms. “No. I can’t,” he muttered. “You won’t believe me anyway.”
“Why not? If you are telling the truth--”
“I am.”
“Well then.” Dr. Keller inclined his head, waiting, one finger poised over the power switch on a tape recorder.
Desperately, Ryan scanned the room, although he already knew everything he would find: blank walls, the single wire-meshed window near the ceiling, the thick locked door that, he knew, he could never open. But even if he could, where would it lead except to a maze of hallways, each of them ending in another locked door?
Taking a deep breath, he swallowed his despair.
There was no escape from this place. He had to face that. He would never get out, not unless somehow he could prove that he was Ryan Atwood.
So he might as well take the chance.
He nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
“Very good.” Dr. Keller pressed the ‘record’ button. “Now. Take your time,” he urged. “Close your eyes and think back as far as you can. Let yourself be a child again. Can you see something? Hear something perhaps?”
Ryan did, instantly. The words slipped out, unbidden. “My dad, yelling,” he whispered.
“Can you hear what he’s saying? Is he yelling at you?”
“No, I don’t think so . . . No. At my mom.”
“And what is she doing?”
Ryan tensed with the effort of remembering. There were flashes-glass breaking, a TV blaring, a sudden splash of light as the door flew open into his dark bedroom. Then, Dawn, silhouetted in the doorway.
“She’s crying,” he said.
“And where are you? What are you doing?”
Ryan wasn’t sure how, but he could see himself clearly. “I’m in bed, sleeping,” he reported. “I mean, until all the noise. Trey’s there with me.”
Dr. Keller frowned. Unnoticed by Ryan, he studied the screen open on his laptop, clicked another link and then peered up sharply. “Trey?” he prompted.
“He’s my older brother.”
“I see.” The doctor made a quick notation. “So you share a room with Trey. And how old are you both?”
Ryan shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m . . . three maybe? Or four? So Trey would be about seven . . . He steals the covers,” he added, surprising himself.
“Go on. What else can you recall?”
His lashes fluttered down, shutting him in the dark with his memory.
It was hazy: those shouts that jolt him awake, Dawn ordering him and Trey to get up, get out of bed, screaming that they were leaving this fucking hell-hole, his father barging in, cursing, and barring the door . . .
“My mom picks me up,” Ryan said thickly. “And she’s dragging Trey by the hand, but Dad won’t let us get out. He . . . he hits her I think. And Trey too, because I hear him fall down. Then he grabs me away from Mom-she’s still holding me-and he throws me back on the bed. Only it’s not soft, and . . . and I don’t remember anymore.”
He turned away, aching to shield his damp eyes, but that wasn’t possible with his hands tied down. All he could do was squeeze them tight. A single tear trickled out anyway, falling slowly down his cheek until it stopped, trembling, just above his lip.
Ryan burrowed into his pillow to wipe it away. The doctor’s voice followed him.
“Can you tell me where you were living when this happened?”
His face still averted, Ryan choked back his pain. “I was little . . . I guess it had to be in Fresno.”
“Fresno,” Dr. Keller repeated dubiously. He checked his on-screen information again, scrolling through several pages before he spoke again. “All right. Now. I would like you to tell me about something that happened you lived in Bakersfield.”
Ryan blinked hard, silent.
“Remember? Your parents divorced and you went to middle school there--”
“No,” Ryan blurted, turning back to the doctor. “No, that’s wrong. It was Chino, not Bakersfield. And we moved there after my dad went to prison.”
“Chino? Hmm.” Once again, Dr. Keller added a note to Ryan’s file. “And you stayed there until--?”
“I wound up in Newport, with the Cohens.” Ryan’s voice trailed off. It hurt him to say their name.
Dr. Keller nudged the tape recorder closer to the bed. “So you’re saying you never lived in Bakersfield at all?”
“I didn’t,” Ryan protested, “I told you!” He tensed, pulling against the restraints and shaking his head helplessly. “Why are you asking me that?”
Crossing his legs, Dr. Keller leaned back in his chair to give himself a clearer view. He watched Ryan’s chest heave and a muscle convulse in his jaw, noted how his fists clenched over and over again, shredding even more of the sheets below. “You’re becoming agitated,” he observed finally. “Why? Is something about Bakersfield upsetting to you? Did something happen there that you regret?”
“No!” Ryan insisted. “I was never there--” He stopped abruptly, his eyes wide and steel-gray with suspicion. “But Brandon was, right? Mr. Nichol told you he lived there, so you’re trying to make me say that I did.”
“I’m not trying to make you say anything,” Dr. Keller claimed. Leaning forward, he patted Ryan’s arm. “There is no need to get upset.”
Instantly, Ryan recoiled, flinching. “Don’t touch me,” he spat, even though he knew the warning was futile.
Worse. It was a mistake. He saw the doctor’s eyebrows shoot up, detected the flash of gratification on his face, as if Ryan had just confirmed his worst suspicions, watched him swivel around to type a note on his laptop.
The screen faced away from Ryan, but he could imagine what it said.
Uncooperative.
Hostile.
Dangerous.
Violent.
Paranoid.
Some damning diagnosis that would condemn him to this place forever.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. The words almost choked him, but he managed to force them out. “I didn’t mean to say that . . . I’m sorry.”
Dr. Keller glanced over his shoulder and nodded briefly. Other than that, he ignored Ryan’s apology. “Perhaps we should try something else,” he said as he turned around again. “Some subject that makes you feel more comfortable. Tell me about something that happened in Newport.”
Ryan licked his dry lips. He had to answer; he couldn’t afford another error. “Like what?” he asked warily.
“Well, let’s see . . . what was the last thing you remember before you woke up here?”
The pool house, Ryan thought promptly. A rush of memories engulfed him: Huddling on his bed, hands pressed against his ears to block out noise from the party outside. Seth bursting in, his voice all capital letters as he announced the news that “Summer Kissed Me, Dude! On The Lips!” His door clicking shut when, after a small eternity, Seth left, still talking. The distant rumble of the caterers’ van as it pulled away. Finally, nothing but the still, dark night. Only Ryan, alone with his remorse, and the image of Marissa’s face, framed in his doorway, shocked and desolate, the hollow echo of her words, “You’re too late.”
He had tossed restively on his bed for hours, he knew that, until at last . . . What? What had happened then?
More details-hazy, confusing ones-slowly came into focus as he concentrated.
He recalled burrowing into his pillow, almost on the edge of sleep when a sharp, imperious knock shattered the silence. “Seth,” he had groaned. Rubbing his bleary eyes, he had padded across the room. “Dude. Go away. Now,” he growled, barely peering through the door when he cracked it open. Then he registered the figure who loomed in front of him, silhouetted by the pool lights.
Tall. Cold. Impeccably dressed. Forbidding.
Not Seth then. Not even Sandy
“Mr. Nichol,” he stammered, stumbling backward. Almost instantly, his shock drowned in a tidal wave of shame and guilt. Gabrielle. That had to be it. Somehow Caleb had found out that they had been together. “I’m sorry, sir. We-I mean I-didn’t mean to--”
“Didn’t mean to what, boy?” Striding inside, Caleb forced Ryan back toward a corner of the room. “Con your way into my family? Destroy my property? Endanger my grandson? Make me a laughingstock in front of my friends? Live off my money while you steal what’s mine, starting with Gabrielle?”
He had said much more- a tirade that scalded Ryan, blistering him with accusations about his past, his family, his precarious place in the Cohen household. Thief. Low-life. Parasite. Charity Case. Street thug. Welfare project.
“You are nothing,” he had sneered. “Nobody.” Then his eyes had gleamed, as if at some sick, private joke. “Nobody,” he had repeated, and his lips had stretched into an icy smile.
Even the memory made Ryan shiver. He wouldn’t share all of that, not with anyone. All he told Dr. Keller, in a reluctant monotone, was “I was almost asleep, and Mr. Nichol showed up. He was--” Ryan stopped, swallowing painfully. “He was really angry. I guess he had a right to be . . .”
“Why?” the doctor asked when Ryan hesitated again. A probing, incisive edge underscored the question, and he hitched his chair closer to the bed.
“Gabrielle,” Ryan murmured. Lost in a thicket of emotions, he didn’t notice Dr. Keller’s perplexed frown or the way he leaned back, shaking his head. “I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t have . . . but I tried to apologize, only he wouldn’t listen. And he wouldn’t leave. And then--”
“Then what?”
The words floated toward him from far away.
Then, Ryan thought, Caleb had gestured and somebody else had come into the pool house-or had he been there all along, hidden in the shadows? The man had grabbed Ryan roughly. Before he could react, he had been jerked half off his feet, a forearm clamped around his throat, and a hand-or something; something warm, sweet, suffocating-pressed over his mouth and nose. Frantic, unable to breathe, he had tried to claw it away, but a heavy darkness sucked him down, down, down . . .
Or maybe that hadn’t happened. The memory was so ragged; Ryan couldn’t be sure it was real.
“Then what?” Dr. Keller repeated, more sharply.
“I don’t know,” Ryan admitted. “I woke up here.”
“I see.” The doctor’s eyes narrowed and he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So the last thing you recall before you were admitted is this argument with Mr. Nichol,” he said at last. “And it was about somebody named Gabrielle?”
Ryan’s mouth twisted and he licked his chapped lips. “Yes. Well, not only her, but yeah.”
“Ah. So what else was involved?”
For a moment, Ryan considered not answering. His gaze slid sideways, away from the doctor, and fixed on a cabinet. It was metal, and in its mirror-like surface he could glimpse his own reflection. Broken, distorted, its eyes glazed with pain, it barely resembled the self he believed himself to be.
Maybe it wasn’t him at all.
Dr. Keller tapped the bedrail. “What else was involved?” he asked again. “Why was Mr. Nichol so angry with you?”
Reluctantly, Ryan forced himself to answer. “Lots of reasons,” he mumbled. “He just . . . he hates me, that’s all.”
That was it. Dr. Keller waited, but Ryan refused to say anymore. He returned to studying that face in the cabinet, searching for someone he could recognize.
The doctor’s voice, deep and grave, finally roused him. “So, this confrontation with Mr. Nichol,” he mused, “I assume it happened to Ryan?”
Unnerved-what the hell was the man implying with that question?-Ryan whipped around. “It happened to me!” he snapped. His fragile control snapped. Fiercely, heedlessly, he thrashed back and forth, struggling against the restraints until they bit into his skin. “I told you! I’m Ryan.”
“Still?” Dr. Keller drummed his fingers against his leg. “No breakthrough at all, then. Hmm . . . ” Picking up the recording device, he swiveled away from Ryan. “Despite near maximum allowable dosage of all approved drugs, patient’s delusions persist,” he murmured into the microphone. “He has constructed a detailed fantasy life, designed to shield him from reality. Unlike most documented cases of DDT, patient appears to have only a single alternate identity. Also unusual is the fact that the identity patient has assumed is--”
Ryan strained, but he couldn’t make out the last words. It didn’t matter, though. He had heard enough.
Setting down the recorder, Dr. Keller turned around again. His face was set in stern lines and when he spoke, all trace of gentle cajoling had vanished. “Ryan,” he ordered, his voice sharp and commanding. “I want to speak to Brandon. Get Brandon for me.”
Ryan gritted his teeth, breathing hard. “There is no Brandon,” he hissed. “Mr. Nichol made him up.”
“You need to let Brandon out. I want to speak to Brandon now.”
“You can’t! He doesn’t exist. He’s not hiding out in my subconscious somewhere. I am Ryan Atwood. And I am not. Crazy!” Fear and urgency flooded Ryan’s eyes, turning them an intense, storm-sky blue. He fixed his gaze on the doctor, willing the man to read the truth there. Please,” he begged. “You have to believe me.”
Dr. Keller didn’t. Ryan knew there was no chance even before the man stood up, sighing. “Well,” he said, as he unlocked a cabinet. “I suppose we should try one last time.” Opening a door, he pulled out a syringe and vial of some kind.
Instantly, Ryan’s mouth filled with bile. “No! Don’t!” he protested. Desperate, he twisted as far away as he could, but there was no escape, no way to avoid the cold swab inside his elbow, the sting of the needle when it entered a vein. “No,” he moaned, but the serum was already pulsing through his bloodstream. He could feel it burning away bits of him, feel all he knew of himself dying. “’s wrong,” he mumbled thickly. “Shouldn’t. I’m not . . .”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Brandon?” A cotton-wrapped voice, muffled yet oddly menacing, pushed into Ryan’s consciousness. “Brandon, open your eyes. I know you’re awake. Look at me. Now.”
Ryan struggled to shake his head. He wouldn’t look. He wouldn’t. There was something wrong with that summons. No. He would rather stay where he was, shut in a twilight world behind his eyelids. It was dark there, the stippled, shifting black of an ocean at night. Faceless shadows beckoned, but they felt soft somehow, safe and familiar, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear his own name.
Ryan
They were calling him. Ryan.
He turned his head longingly toward the sound.
Something icy-sharp slapped against his cheek. Despite himself, Ryan jerked awake. His eyes flew open, unfocused under the harsh light.
“There. That’s better. You can’t hide forever, Brandon.”
“Not . . . hiding,” Ryan slurred, even though that was all he wanted: a dark, safe place to hide. Instinctively, he tried to curl into himself. To his surprise-because hadn’t he been strapped down? Or had that been part of his persistent, clutching nightmare?-his body obeyed him. They moved limply, like the limbs of a sodden rag doll, but his knees bent and he rolled onto his side, wrapping his arms around his chest.
“No, no, none of that,” a voice chided. “You have to face us, Brandon.”
Hands-they were so cold-gripped his shoulders and forced him onto his back again. Ryan couldn’t find the strength to resist. He couldn’t do anything except shake his head and grunt a wordless objection. Whatever comfort he’d derived from those few moments of control swiftly ebbed away.
Weak. Why was he so weak?
And who were these people staring down at him?
“All right now, Brandon. Let’s begin. I am Dr. Keller, remember?”
Dr. Keller? Ryan blinked, concentrating. Then he nodded obediently. Yes, that sounded familiar . . . at least he sensed that it should. Only what had the man called him? Some name, but what was it? Not his, he knew that. His tongue probing his scorched mouth, he tried to form a polite correction, but the doctor didn’t wait. Gesturing to his right and then to his left he announced, “This is my colleague, Dr. Gall, and this is Nurse Cree. They’ll be with us during this session.”
Ryan’s forehead creased. “Lucy?” he whispered, peering up.
“No,” the woman said flatly. “Nurse Cree.” She bustled around the bed, adjusted a wire-there wires attached to his scalp? That was strange-and returned, busying herself with some equipment Ryan did not recognize.
A sense of vague disappointment, or maybe it was loss, slowly enshrouded him. His lower lip trembled slightly and he caught it in his teeth. Peering past the nurse, Ryan surveyed the small, sterile room. He was searching, he realized, although he wasn’t sure what he hoped to find.
Something was missing, or no, somebody, but who?
Dr. Keller snapped his fingers sharply, reclaiming Ryan’s attention, compelling him to respond. “Are you ready to talk to me now?” he asked.
At least the doctor seemed familiar, someone that Ryan should know. “Uh-uh,” he murmured. “I’ll talk.” The cadence of his own voice, thick and sluggish, surprised him. It sounded as if it belonged to another person. Even the words-had he decided to say them himself? They felt involuntary, squeezed out of him somehow, not really his choice at all.
Still, they made Dr. Keller smile. “Excellent,” he said, patting Ryan’s arm. “Now, think back to your childhood. I would like you to describe your earliest memory, something that happened when you were very young. Tell me, what do you remember?”
“My dad yelling,” Ryan answered instantly.
Above him, Dr. Gall glanced from a computer screen to Dr. Keller. His brows knotted quizzically and he mouthed a question, but Ryan, fumbling in the dark recesses of his mind, didn’t notice.
“I know,” Dr. Keller murmured. His grip tightened on Ryan’s wrist, summoning him again. “Is he yelling at you?”
Automatically, sluggishly, Ryan shook his head. “No, at my mom.” Tears beaded in the corners of his eyes. “She’s crying. Dad hits her-smack! He shouldn’t do that to her. He’s making her cry really hard. Trey too, even though Trey says that boys don’t cry--”
“Brandon!”
The name meant nothing to Ryan. Ignoring it, he pressed his hands hard against his ears. “Mom’s screaming right in my ear,” he moaned. “She’s squeezing me so tight I can’t breathe. It scares me. Now Dad . . . Dad--” His chest heaved, straining for air. “Dad grabs me. No! It hurts! Daddy don’t--!”
“Ryan! Ryan, stop!”
Ryan did. Immediately, his face cleared. “Okay,” he said, sinking into his pillow.
Nurse Cree moved behind him to reposition a wire he had knocked loose. Then she adjusted a knob on the monitor. It gave a bird-like tweet, teasing Ryan’s mouth into a quick, lopsided grin.
“Okay,” he said again.
Three sets of eyes stared down at him, and his smile faltered. They wanted something from him, but what?
“Ryan?” Dr. Gall prompted. “I’m speaking to Ryan Atwood, correct?”
Ryan nodded numbly. “Uh-huh,” he whispered. He watched, his gaze wary, as the doctors and Nurse Cree huddled together at the end of his bed. They glanced at him every now, conferring in low voices, muttering long, alien words that he didn’t know. Only a few clear phrases reached him:
“Prime candidate . . .”
“ . . . clearly justifies the risk”
“Have to notify Mr. Nichol . . .”
“ . . . vulnerable now”
“Shock of the truth may . . .”
At last Dr. Keller returned to Ryan’s bedside. His mouth folded into a grim line. “All right, Ryan. We’re done,” he announced. “This time I need to hear from Brandon. Get him for us now.”
“How?” Ryan asked, confused. “I don’t know Brandon.” A vise seemed to close across his chest as he spoke. There was something about that name, something sinister, maybe lethal. Just the sound of it scared him. “I can’t get him. I don’t know where he is. ”
Dr. Keller shook his head. “Yes you do,” he countered. His eyes bored through Ryan’s, as if seeking to reach his soul. “He’s inside you, Ryan. You know it, and you need to let him out now.”
“Can’t . . .” The vise tightened, blurring his vision, choking him. Blindly, desperately, Ryan pushed himself away from the doctors. He scooted up the bed until his back hit the wall behind it. Then he hunched there, trapped, in a tangle of crumpled sheets. “You’re wrong,” he insisted. “I’m just Ryan.”
The doctors and Nurse Cree studied him for what seemed like an eternity. For the first time Ryan felt the buzz of the wires attached to his scalp, the pinch of adhesive against skin where tape covered his inner arm, the slight sting of the needle held in his vein there.
That was all, though.
A searing current of panic surged through him.
He could feel those things, but no matter how hard he tried Ryan didn’t, couldn’t, feel like himself. He couldn’t find himself anywhere, and he didn’t understand why. Still, “I’m Ryan,” he repeated stubbornly.
Maybe saying the words would make them true.
“No, you’re not,” Dr. Keller replied. His voice was oddly gentle, almost sad. “That’s who you choose to be, but you know the truth. Admit it. You are Brandon McConnell, not Ryan Atwood. Say it. Brandon.”
It would be so easy. Just two simple syllables: “Brandon.”
Something inside Ryan urged him to say the word. It hovered, right there, at the back of his throat, ready to claim him, ready to make him . . . what?
“No,” Ryan said. “I can’t. I’m Ryan.”
Dr. Keller took three steps closer, his face cold again. With nowhere else to go, all Ryan could do was glare, helplessly defiant, and brace himself for whatever blow was coming.
“Lying to yourself won’t work, Brandon,” the doctor warned. “It’s time for you to face who you are. And what you did.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lucy sat hunched over a paper at the nurse’s station, staring at the numbers she had written on a scrap of paper and absently twisting one of her short black curls. Every few minutes she glanced down the hall toward the last of the locked doors on the right.
It hadn’t opened in more than four hours.
She wasn’t sure what that meant, maybe nothing at all, but she couldn’t shake a sickening premonition.
They had decided to do it.
“Just call Sandy Cohen. Please.”
Slowly, carefully, she traced the numbers. Then she touched her nametag and peered down the hallway again.
“He’ll tell you, I’m not Brandon McConnell. I’m Ryan. My name is Ryan Atwood.”
A digital clock on the wall flashed, its numbers red and alarming: nine o’clock. Getting late, later even than she’d thought.
How late was too late?
Abruptly Lucy stood up. Pulling out her phone with grim resolution, she scanned the area, waited while an orderly passed by, and then slipped into a storage closet. She listened, holding her breath, until she heard the lock click behind her. Only a thin thread of light seeped under the door. In the dark, she couldn’t see the paper crumpled in her fist, but it didn’t matter. Lucy had memorized the number.
Taking a deep breath, she fingered her own nametag again. Then she crossed herself, whispered a quick prayer, and dialed.
Somebody answered on the third ring. “Cohen residence,” said a weary male voice.
“May I speak to Mr. Sandy Cohen?”
“Speaking.”
For an instant Lucy stared blindly into the blackness, picturing Ryan’s face. She could see him retreat behind his lashes, head bowed, all of his features shuttered by despair. Then his eyes opened. Clear and beseeching, they fixed on her own, lacerating her with a look of ineffable loss and longing and a single, desperate plea.
Lucy gripped the phone tighter, remembering.
So much was riding on this conversation: a family’s peace of mind; the clinic’s reputation; her own career; but first of all, most of all, the boy’s freedom and sanity.
Maybe even his life.
Lucy took a long, sustaining breath. “Mr. Cohen,” she said, “You don’t know me, but my name is Lucy Vevine-Forde. I am a nurse at the Santa Clara Clinic in Cozumel, Mexico.” The words poured out, rushed, urgent and unstoppable. “I am calling about a patient in my care, a boy about fifteen who was admitted four days ago. There is some question about his identity, and he says you can clear the matter for us. It is extremely important. The boy claims that he is your foster son and that you--”
“Wait, what did you say? My foster son? Ryan?”
Lucy felt a flutter of elation when she heard the man’s response. His voice held so much choked emotion--exactly what a father would feel for his missing child. It must be true then, just as she suspected: the boy must really be Ryan. Smiling to herself, Lucy imagined Sandy Cohen’s sense of relief, the jubilation Ryan would feel when he was released, the sheer joy of the Cohens when their family was finally reunited.
“Yes, Mr. Cohen,” she affirmed. “Your foster son, Ryan Atwood. He's here.”
There was a pause, just a moment, and then the man spoke again. Lucy heard the words at the same time that Ryan, desperately clinging to some thin shreds of self, heard them from Dr. Keller:
“That's not possible. Ryan Atwood is dead. Brandon McConnell killed him.”
TBC