Best Forgotten, a Fic for Brandy, Pt. 14
Getting this in just under the wire (meaning the end of the month.) I've actually written about 1,000 words more of this story, but that part isn't finished, so I decided just to incorporate it in the next (final? No, probably not) chapter. So, for now, here is part 14.
Feel free to provide the disclaimers yourself. I'm sure we all know them by heart.
Best Forgotten, Part 14
“Kirsten? What are you talking about?” Sandy demanded. “What about Ryan?”
Kirsten gave a strangled sob. She couldn’t breathe. Her head shaking convulsively, she stumbled backwards. If Sandy hadn’t caught her, she would have fallen.
“Sweetheart, tell me,” he begged. Instinctively, he cradled her close, a current of panic singing his voice. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”
Kirsten’s eyes darted up, glazed with horror. “My father,” she gasped. “I can’t . . . Oh my God, he is a monster. How could he . . .” With a low, anguished moan she clutched Sandy, clinging so frantically that her fingernails pierced the fabric of his shirt straight into his skin. The gesture made his heart twist. Once before, he recalled Kirsten clutching him the same way, tortured and heedless of any hurt she caused him. That time, though, all their pain had been laced with happy anticipation. Kirsten had been in labor, squeezing Sandy’s hand in the vise of her own, but she had managed a breathless smile after every contraction, and her eyes glowed with the promise of their son’s birth. Now her face was gray, drained and despairing. Sheer anguish choked her, cracking every word. “Dad . . . Oh God, Sandy, you were right. He’s been lying to us all along! He knows where Ryan is!”
Behind him, Sandy felt Seth lurch forward, and his own body vibrated with the same violent urgency. Still his embrace remained gentle, and he forced his voice to stay measured. “What makes you say that, honey?” he asked carefully. “You didn’t think so before. Why did you change your mind?”
“It was that note-talking about an operation. I thought it might be about my father’s friend, the one who needs brain surgery. Dad told me his name. Brandon McConnell. That’s what he said. Brandon McConnell,” Kirsten whispered. “But . . . it can’t be.” Shell-shocked, she shook her head, blind to Seth’s confusion, Sandy’s tense concern, the sudden, shrewd narrowing of Charlie’s eyes. “That name . . . it kept bothering me. It sounded so familiar and I couldn’t understand why until just now . . . I remembered-Sandy, Brandon McConnell is dead! When I was a little girl, I overheard my parents arguing-he committed suicide. And he was never my father’s friend. Dad hated him! He was glad that he died just like he was glad when Ryan. . . Sandy, we have to find out where Dad went!” Kirsten’s head jerked up, her voice suddenly sharp and clear. “Brandon McConnell doesn’t exist! That operation-You’re right! It has something to do with Ryan!”
A galvanizing shock ran through the room, and in an instant, everything changed. His face set into granite planes, Sandy hugged Kirsten closer even as he pulled out his phone. “Seth, call the airfield,” he ordered. “Find out what time your grandfather’s plane will take off. I’m going to check charter flights. Charlie, that Dr. Keller in Cozumel--”
“I’m already on it,” Charlie replied, flipping her laptop open as Seth dove for the desk phone. Her tone turning gentle, she added, “We’ll find him, Kirsten. We’ll find Ryan. I promise.”
Spinning around, Kirsten wrenched herself away from Sandy. Like his, her expression had become rigid, and when she spoke, her words clipped the air. Their tone made Seth shiver. He could hear The Kirsten, only magnified, her steely voice as indomitable as his grandfather’s. “Yes,” she declared. “We will.”
Abruptly leaning across the desk, she reached for the phone in Seth’s hand. He hesitated, surprised, his gaze jumping from his mother to Sandy and back again.
“Um, Mom?” he stammered. “Yeah, it’s okay, really. I got this.”
“Use your cell for your call. I need to speak to your grandfather . . . Phone, Seth. Now,” Kirsten demanded, when he continued to waver.
Seth jumped, nodding obediently. “Right, cell,” he babbled. “Forgot I had it.” He dropped the phone in his mother’s palm and backed away, his head still bobbing as he fumbled with his pocket. Admiration and respect shone in his eyes, but Sandy’s brows furrowed anxiously.
“Sweetheart, we can handle this,” he said. “I don’t think you should--”
“I have to, Sandy. I have to make him tell us the truth. My father . . . he . . . when I think that . . . ” For half a moment, Kirsten’s resolve faltered, allowing a glimpse of the shattered daughter inside. Almost instantly, though, she dispelled it again. Her spine stiffening, she lifted her chin. “No,” she said fiercely. “What matters right now is finding Ryan. I can do this.”
She raised the phone, but before she could dial, Sandy placed his hand over hers. “I know you can,” he said gently, as he stilled her fingers. “And I know you want to help--”
“Yes! I do. Sandy, please--”
“Kirsten, wait,” he urged. “What do you suppose will happen if you accuse Cal now? Do you think he’ll just admit what he’s done? He’s still in control of this whole situation. If he could make Ryan disappear once . . .” Sandy’s voice thickened with compassion and regret. “We’re not there,” he reminded her. “We can’t stop your father from doing the same thing again.”
“Oh!” Kirsten dropped the phone, recoiled as if it burned her. “Oh God, he could. I hadn’t thought . . . But we have to do something, Sandy! Maybe we can stop his plane! I could say that there’s an emergency here, that I need him to come back to the office. Then we can--”
“Mom?” Seth injected grimly. “Sorry. Too late.” He shoved his cell phone into his pocket, his whole body slumping in defeat. “I just reached the airfield. They told me Grandpa’s plane took off twenty minutes ago. So what do we do now?”
There was half an instant of silence, broken only by the click of Charlie’s cursor and the harsh tattoo of Seth’s toe kicking the side of the desk. Then Sandy raked back his hair, his eyes blazing. He looked the way he did in court, intent, determined, and indomitable. “We charter a plane and follow Cal,” he announced. Even as he spoke, he began scrolling through numbers on his phone. Pulling a notepad from Kirsten’s desk, he dialed swiftly, a pen poised to jot down information. “I’ll find out his flight plan, but I’m sure he’s going back to Cozumel. Whatever he has planned, Ryan must be there somewhere. The question is how we find them once we--” Abruptly, he started speaking into the phone. “This is Sandy Cohen. I need to charter a six-seater as soon as-Wait, what? No!” he snapped. “Don’t put me on-damn it!” He slammed down the handset, almost cutting it off. “I’m on hold!”
“Hold? Dad, what the hell? Hang up and call again. Tell them this is an emergency!”
“Sandy, what you said about when we get there-you’re right,” Kirsten injected. Her brow was knotted, her voice frayed with worry. “Even if you’re right about Cozumel, we still don’t know exactly where Ryan is, and we can’t just search the whole city. We need some clue where Dad’s going. Maybe if I contact Grady--”
“Kirsten?” Something in Charlie’s voice, a note of combined triumph and warning, silenced the Cohens. They wheeled around to face her. “I have an idea where we should start.”
She paused for a second, taking a breath before she looked up. Her face betrayed nothing, but instinctively Sandy slipped an arm around his wife’s waist and stepped closer to Seth. The phone, briefly forgotten, hung limp in his hand. “Just tell us,” he said grimly.
Charlie nodded, lips compressed. “I found information about the Dr. Keller in Cozumel,” she told them tightly. “He’s on staff at two mental health clinics there. Sandy, the man is a neurosurgeon. He’s famous-infamous really-for his experimental treatment of the criminally insane.”
Her last words lanced the air, scalpel-sharp.
Mental health clinic
Experimental treatment.
Criminally insane.
“But,” Seth stammered, “that doesn’t make any sense. A guy like that-he can’t have anything to do with Ryan. He can’t, can he Dad? I mean, Ryan’s not . . . he isn’t . . .” He sputtered, barely able to force out the words. “Criminally insane.”
Sandy shook his head. “No, son, he’s not,” he replied. His voice sounded strangely flat and detached, but his fists clenched, and his eyes glinted, dangerous as a lit fuse. “But there have been cases of people who were unjustly committed. Grady could have done something--”
“Not Grady,” Kirsten interjected. “Dad.” She breathed the word, whisper-soft, but it broke anyway, spilling a murky pool of love, loss and betrayal. When Sandy looked at his wife, he barely recognized her. All he saw was Caleb’s Kiki, stunned and bewildered, unable to comprehend how her hero-father had become a villain. The image broke Sandy’s heart. He understood her anguish, even ached for her, but he couldn’t let that little girl-weakness linger.
He and Seth needed Kirsten’s strength too much.
Ryan needed it even more.
His brows knotted anxiously, Sandy juggled his still toneless phone. He tried to summon some bolstering words, but before he could react Kirsten took a long, quavering breath. Then she lifted her chin, scrubbed a palm across her face and just like that, all trace of the tortured child vanished. “Dad did something to Ryan,” Kirsten declared fiercely. Grabbing her bag, she pulled a startled Seth to his feet. “And we’re wasting time, Sandy. Finish your call on the way to the airport. We have to go. Now. We have to find Ryan.”
She didn’t add, but they all heard the warning anyway.
“Before it’s too late.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ryan yanked at his restraints, twisting his wrists inside the soft straps, rubbing his skin raw.
It was no use. Already the room-a different room, he knew, but horribly, tauntingly the same-had begun to blur again. He blinked hard, shaking his head, but his vision wouldn’t clear. Thick, deceptively soft warmth spread through his body, and he could feel wadded-cotton sluggishness settle in his limbs.
Again.
Ryan recognized that feelings. He knew what it meant. Those drugs, whatever they gave him this time, had begun to claim him. There was no way to resist them. No matter he fought, he would lose-lose control, lose consciousness. Lose, in the end, even more of himself.
He shuddered, opening his fists, but he found nothing but air to grasp. Nothing solid anywhere. Nothing he could hold on to.
Lucy had warned him: Cooperate, she had urged. Do not defy the doctors. Give them no trouble, Ryan.
Ryan. He recalled the word, wondering, letting the sound of it sooth him.
Despite everything, Lucy had still called him Ryan. She still believed in him.
And he had tried so hard to follow her advice.
Even though it seemed he had said the same things a thousand times, he had answered all of Dr. Gall’s questions; he had gritted his teeth silently while a nurse-not Lucy; why wasn’t it Lucy?-drew more vials of blood; he had submitted without protest to still another CAT scan, another pointless EEG.
Gradually, though, an eerie sense of foreboding crept into Ryan, chilling him. The exam felt different than all the ones before, less painful but more ominous. Other people-doctors, nurses, psychiatrists; he wasn’t sure who they were-observed each procedure. Their razor-sharp eyes studied him, probing, but Ryan knew they never really saw him. They saw some kind of specimen. Without speaking, the people would peer at him, heads cocked, nodding sometimes, or frowning quizzically. Then they would cluster together and exchange notes, but always just out of earshot, one step too far away.
Ryan could see them talking, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. All he could do was imagine the worst.
Only he had no idea what the worst might be. His dread grew, threatening to suffocate him from within.
At last, an orderly wheeled him back to his room. Everyone left except Dr. Keller and Dr. Gall. Alone with them, abandoned on his bed, Ryan felt the last remnant of his self-control start to shred.
“Just tell me what’s going on,” he had begged. “Why did you do all these tests? There’s nothing wrong with me. You have to see that.”
Except for one glance in his direction, both men ignored him completely. Bent over some charts in the corner, they continued their own conversation, animated but hushed, pitching their voices too low for Ryan to follow.
Still, he caught a few isolated phrases.
“Six centimeter incision”
“Possible aphasia”
“Neural activity compromised”
“Physical condition optimal, but no guarantee”
“Lack of brain lesions still a concern”
“Medical records explain”
“Agree that we should proceed”
“Need to wait for Mr. Nichol”
The name triggered a fresh rush of fear in Ryan. Despite himself, his voice rose, at once fearful and menacing. “Tell me what you’re saying,” he ordered. “You’re talking about me! I have a right to know what you’re saying! Tell me!”
The sound of his frantic rage throbbed through the room, and he saw the doctors, brows arched, exchange a swift, knowing look. It stunned Ryan into silence. In his mind, he heard Lucy again, first her hushed admonitions, and then, all at once, her last, earnest words before she left his room:
“Trust me,” she had pleaded.
Something broke inside Ryan. He had to trust someone.
He knew that he could not trust himself.
Biting his tongue, drawing blood, Ryan pushed himself back on the bed until its headboard pressed into his spine. “Please,” he gritted, between harsh, shallow breaths. Under the blanket, he grabbed thick folds of the sheet, crushing the fabric within his fists. His fingers flexed, clenching and releasing, tighter and tighter. “What are you going to do? Whatever it is, I want to know.”
He forced himself to sit still, to wait for an answer.
Finally Dr. Keller turned around. The corners of his mouth curved into a bland, appeasing smile. “Now, now,” he reproved. “There’s no need for you to get so agitated. This is just a routine check-up, that’s all.”
“No it’s not.” Ryan gritted his teeth. With an effort, he kept his tone low, but he couldn’t quite suppress its accusing edge. “I heard you. You’re planning to do something when Mr. Nichol gets here. You were talking about it with him.” He jerked his head toward Dr. Gall and the men did it again: they traded another ominous glance, their lips twisting in a way that made Ryan tremble. “Why can’t you tell me what it is?” he demanded.
“There’s nothing to tell. Dr. Gall is your psychoanalyst. Naturally we discuss your condition.”
“I don’t have a condition. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
The words emerged in a whisper, barely audible, and Dr. Keller ignored them. Brisk and business-like, he typed a note into his computer, then crossed to the bed. “All right. Almost done. I just need to check your eyes one more time.” Putting a heavy hand on Ryan’s shoulder, the doctor leaned forward and pulled out his penlight. “We’ve done this before,” he said coolly. “Sit still and relax. It’s a simple test, Brandon.”
Brandon.
The penlight flicked on, white-hot, blinding him.
Ryan flinched.
“No!” he snapped. “I am not Brandon!”
Without thinking, without even realizing what he was doing, he wrenched himself out of Dr. Keller’s grasp. The sheet ripped as he pulled his clenched hands free.
That tearing sound was the last thing he remembered clearly. The next few moments whipped by in a blur.
His fists shot up, shocking Ryan, slapping the penlight aside, slamming loud and hard into the instrument tray.
Somehow they hit Dr. Keller’s face too.
Ryan never even felt the contact. He saw it happen, though, and for an instant, time froze.
Horrified, his knuckles throbbing, he watched Dr. Keller’s head snap back. A drop of blood oozed from the man’s split lip, a bright red accusation, and Ryan’s mind flooded with reproachful memories. He tried to will them away, but they only echoed louder, Lucy’s soft Jamaican lilt, and much more painful, Kirsten’s sad, distant voice.
“You must cooperate, Ryan.”
“I want my husband to be right about you.”
“Do not defy the doctors.”
“No more fighting, Ryan . . . Ryan, no more fighting.”
“I’m sorry,” he moaned to himself, to them. “I didn’t mean to hit him. I’m sorry!”
Then the room roared to life again. Before Ryan could move or explain, there were shouts, strong hands pinning him to the mattress, the sound of his own hectic breathing as he tried to twist away. Through a haze, he saw the door fly open. More men in white rushed into the room. They converged on him, grabbing his hands, strapping him down, muffling all of his wordless protests.
Something sharp and cold pierced his thigh.
His bed rocked underneath him. Ryan had a sudden sense of movement, of foreign forces propelling him through space. He lay still, eyes clenched shut, but the sensation didn’t stop. It felt as if he were floating on some inflated raft, the way he did in his nightmares, all those awful dreams when the infinity pool stretched forever and he could not reach the edge, when the Cohens ignored his cries and turned away, laughing-joking with some stranger-leaving him to drown.
Ryan’s panic mounted. He couldn’t wake up this time, couldn’t make it not real. Panting, gasping for air, he started to struggle again, straining against the belts that held him, until finally, exhausted, he felt himself begin to sink.
It was the stillness that woke him. Sometime, he wasn’t sure when, the floating sensation had stopped. Licking his dry lips, Ryan forced his eyes open. He blinked in the eerie silence, clearing his vision, slowly scanning the room.
Something was wrong.
He saw the same white walls, the same sterile metal cabinets, the same observation window in the door-everything he had grown used to, but now the whole space felt out of focus somehow.
Dizzy, disoriented, he looked around again.
It didn’t make sense.
Nothing in the room was where he remembered it. The IV stand used to be to his right, the door had been on his left, and the window, the window . . .
Ryan’s heart clenched.
His window had only been covered with a thin wire mesh. It had not been barred.
The room hadn’t changed at all. He had.
They had taken him somewhere, to a strange, new place. And they had left him there.
Why? he wondered frantically. Why had they moved him?
What was going on?
Where had they taken him?
Ryan couldn’t even be sure he was in the clinic anymore. He didn’t know how much time had passed while he had been submerged in darkness. It could have been minutes, or hours, or days.
Maybe Caleb had moved him to another hospital.
Somewhere more like a prison.
Somewhere farther away from the Cohens.
Somewhere even Lucy couldn’t find him.
Ryan struggled one last time, but even before he tried to move, he knew it was hopeless.
He was trapped in this room.
He was alone.
And he was so very, very tired.
His lashes fluttered for a few, lonely moments. Then slowly, reluctantly, they drifted closed.
“So boy,” Caleb drawled. “I knew it was just a matter of time. Sooner or later you were bound to show your true colors . . . Now, now, no need to exert yourself. I’m not staying. I just wanted to stop in to say good-bye.”
TBC
Yes, I know. But if I'm going to write melodrama, I might as well go all the way, yes? I'll have no chance if I ever try any Southland fic.
Feel free to provide the disclaimers yourself. I'm sure we all know them by heart.
Best Forgotten, Part 14
“Kirsten? What are you talking about?” Sandy demanded. “What about Ryan?”
Kirsten gave a strangled sob. She couldn’t breathe. Her head shaking convulsively, she stumbled backwards. If Sandy hadn’t caught her, she would have fallen.
“Sweetheart, tell me,” he begged. Instinctively, he cradled her close, a current of panic singing his voice. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”
Kirsten’s eyes darted up, glazed with horror. “My father,” she gasped. “I can’t . . . Oh my God, he is a monster. How could he . . .” With a low, anguished moan she clutched Sandy, clinging so frantically that her fingernails pierced the fabric of his shirt straight into his skin. The gesture made his heart twist. Once before, he recalled Kirsten clutching him the same way, tortured and heedless of any hurt she caused him. That time, though, all their pain had been laced with happy anticipation. Kirsten had been in labor, squeezing Sandy’s hand in the vise of her own, but she had managed a breathless smile after every contraction, and her eyes glowed with the promise of their son’s birth. Now her face was gray, drained and despairing. Sheer anguish choked her, cracking every word. “Dad . . . Oh God, Sandy, you were right. He’s been lying to us all along! He knows where Ryan is!”
Behind him, Sandy felt Seth lurch forward, and his own body vibrated with the same violent urgency. Still his embrace remained gentle, and he forced his voice to stay measured. “What makes you say that, honey?” he asked carefully. “You didn’t think so before. Why did you change your mind?”
“It was that note-talking about an operation. I thought it might be about my father’s friend, the one who needs brain surgery. Dad told me his name. Brandon McConnell. That’s what he said. Brandon McConnell,” Kirsten whispered. “But . . . it can’t be.” Shell-shocked, she shook her head, blind to Seth’s confusion, Sandy’s tense concern, the sudden, shrewd narrowing of Charlie’s eyes. “That name . . . it kept bothering me. It sounded so familiar and I couldn’t understand why until just now . . . I remembered-Sandy, Brandon McConnell is dead! When I was a little girl, I overheard my parents arguing-he committed suicide. And he was never my father’s friend. Dad hated him! He was glad that he died just like he was glad when Ryan. . . Sandy, we have to find out where Dad went!” Kirsten’s head jerked up, her voice suddenly sharp and clear. “Brandon McConnell doesn’t exist! That operation-You’re right! It has something to do with Ryan!”
A galvanizing shock ran through the room, and in an instant, everything changed. His face set into granite planes, Sandy hugged Kirsten closer even as he pulled out his phone. “Seth, call the airfield,” he ordered. “Find out what time your grandfather’s plane will take off. I’m going to check charter flights. Charlie, that Dr. Keller in Cozumel--”
“I’m already on it,” Charlie replied, flipping her laptop open as Seth dove for the desk phone. Her tone turning gentle, she added, “We’ll find him, Kirsten. We’ll find Ryan. I promise.”
Spinning around, Kirsten wrenched herself away from Sandy. Like his, her expression had become rigid, and when she spoke, her words clipped the air. Their tone made Seth shiver. He could hear The Kirsten, only magnified, her steely voice as indomitable as his grandfather’s. “Yes,” she declared. “We will.”
Abruptly leaning across the desk, she reached for the phone in Seth’s hand. He hesitated, surprised, his gaze jumping from his mother to Sandy and back again.
“Um, Mom?” he stammered. “Yeah, it’s okay, really. I got this.”
“Use your cell for your call. I need to speak to your grandfather . . . Phone, Seth. Now,” Kirsten demanded, when he continued to waver.
Seth jumped, nodding obediently. “Right, cell,” he babbled. “Forgot I had it.” He dropped the phone in his mother’s palm and backed away, his head still bobbing as he fumbled with his pocket. Admiration and respect shone in his eyes, but Sandy’s brows furrowed anxiously.
“Sweetheart, we can handle this,” he said. “I don’t think you should--”
“I have to, Sandy. I have to make him tell us the truth. My father . . . he . . . when I think that . . . ” For half a moment, Kirsten’s resolve faltered, allowing a glimpse of the shattered daughter inside. Almost instantly, though, she dispelled it again. Her spine stiffening, she lifted her chin. “No,” she said fiercely. “What matters right now is finding Ryan. I can do this.”
She raised the phone, but before she could dial, Sandy placed his hand over hers. “I know you can,” he said gently, as he stilled her fingers. “And I know you want to help--”
“Yes! I do. Sandy, please--”
“Kirsten, wait,” he urged. “What do you suppose will happen if you accuse Cal now? Do you think he’ll just admit what he’s done? He’s still in control of this whole situation. If he could make Ryan disappear once . . .” Sandy’s voice thickened with compassion and regret. “We’re not there,” he reminded her. “We can’t stop your father from doing the same thing again.”
“Oh!” Kirsten dropped the phone, recoiled as if it burned her. “Oh God, he could. I hadn’t thought . . . But we have to do something, Sandy! Maybe we can stop his plane! I could say that there’s an emergency here, that I need him to come back to the office. Then we can--”
“Mom?” Seth injected grimly. “Sorry. Too late.” He shoved his cell phone into his pocket, his whole body slumping in defeat. “I just reached the airfield. They told me Grandpa’s plane took off twenty minutes ago. So what do we do now?”
There was half an instant of silence, broken only by the click of Charlie’s cursor and the harsh tattoo of Seth’s toe kicking the side of the desk. Then Sandy raked back his hair, his eyes blazing. He looked the way he did in court, intent, determined, and indomitable. “We charter a plane and follow Cal,” he announced. Even as he spoke, he began scrolling through numbers on his phone. Pulling a notepad from Kirsten’s desk, he dialed swiftly, a pen poised to jot down information. “I’ll find out his flight plan, but I’m sure he’s going back to Cozumel. Whatever he has planned, Ryan must be there somewhere. The question is how we find them once we--” Abruptly, he started speaking into the phone. “This is Sandy Cohen. I need to charter a six-seater as soon as-Wait, what? No!” he snapped. “Don’t put me on-damn it!” He slammed down the handset, almost cutting it off. “I’m on hold!”
“Hold? Dad, what the hell? Hang up and call again. Tell them this is an emergency!”
“Sandy, what you said about when we get there-you’re right,” Kirsten injected. Her brow was knotted, her voice frayed with worry. “Even if you’re right about Cozumel, we still don’t know exactly where Ryan is, and we can’t just search the whole city. We need some clue where Dad’s going. Maybe if I contact Grady--”
“Kirsten?” Something in Charlie’s voice, a note of combined triumph and warning, silenced the Cohens. They wheeled around to face her. “I have an idea where we should start.”
She paused for a second, taking a breath before she looked up. Her face betrayed nothing, but instinctively Sandy slipped an arm around his wife’s waist and stepped closer to Seth. The phone, briefly forgotten, hung limp in his hand. “Just tell us,” he said grimly.
Charlie nodded, lips compressed. “I found information about the Dr. Keller in Cozumel,” she told them tightly. “He’s on staff at two mental health clinics there. Sandy, the man is a neurosurgeon. He’s famous-infamous really-for his experimental treatment of the criminally insane.”
Her last words lanced the air, scalpel-sharp.
Mental health clinic
Experimental treatment.
Criminally insane.
“But,” Seth stammered, “that doesn’t make any sense. A guy like that-he can’t have anything to do with Ryan. He can’t, can he Dad? I mean, Ryan’s not . . . he isn’t . . .” He sputtered, barely able to force out the words. “Criminally insane.”
Sandy shook his head. “No, son, he’s not,” he replied. His voice sounded strangely flat and detached, but his fists clenched, and his eyes glinted, dangerous as a lit fuse. “But there have been cases of people who were unjustly committed. Grady could have done something--”
“Not Grady,” Kirsten interjected. “Dad.” She breathed the word, whisper-soft, but it broke anyway, spilling a murky pool of love, loss and betrayal. When Sandy looked at his wife, he barely recognized her. All he saw was Caleb’s Kiki, stunned and bewildered, unable to comprehend how her hero-father had become a villain. The image broke Sandy’s heart. He understood her anguish, even ached for her, but he couldn’t let that little girl-weakness linger.
He and Seth needed Kirsten’s strength too much.
Ryan needed it even more.
His brows knotted anxiously, Sandy juggled his still toneless phone. He tried to summon some bolstering words, but before he could react Kirsten took a long, quavering breath. Then she lifted her chin, scrubbed a palm across her face and just like that, all trace of the tortured child vanished. “Dad did something to Ryan,” Kirsten declared fiercely. Grabbing her bag, she pulled a startled Seth to his feet. “And we’re wasting time, Sandy. Finish your call on the way to the airport. We have to go. Now. We have to find Ryan.”
She didn’t add, but they all heard the warning anyway.
“Before it’s too late.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ryan yanked at his restraints, twisting his wrists inside the soft straps, rubbing his skin raw.
It was no use. Already the room-a different room, he knew, but horribly, tauntingly the same-had begun to blur again. He blinked hard, shaking his head, but his vision wouldn’t clear. Thick, deceptively soft warmth spread through his body, and he could feel wadded-cotton sluggishness settle in his limbs.
Again.
Ryan recognized that feelings. He knew what it meant. Those drugs, whatever they gave him this time, had begun to claim him. There was no way to resist them. No matter he fought, he would lose-lose control, lose consciousness. Lose, in the end, even more of himself.
He shuddered, opening his fists, but he found nothing but air to grasp. Nothing solid anywhere. Nothing he could hold on to.
Lucy had warned him: Cooperate, she had urged. Do not defy the doctors. Give them no trouble, Ryan.
Ryan. He recalled the word, wondering, letting the sound of it sooth him.
Despite everything, Lucy had still called him Ryan. She still believed in him.
And he had tried so hard to follow her advice.
Even though it seemed he had said the same things a thousand times, he had answered all of Dr. Gall’s questions; he had gritted his teeth silently while a nurse-not Lucy; why wasn’t it Lucy?-drew more vials of blood; he had submitted without protest to still another CAT scan, another pointless EEG.
Gradually, though, an eerie sense of foreboding crept into Ryan, chilling him. The exam felt different than all the ones before, less painful but more ominous. Other people-doctors, nurses, psychiatrists; he wasn’t sure who they were-observed each procedure. Their razor-sharp eyes studied him, probing, but Ryan knew they never really saw him. They saw some kind of specimen. Without speaking, the people would peer at him, heads cocked, nodding sometimes, or frowning quizzically. Then they would cluster together and exchange notes, but always just out of earshot, one step too far away.
Ryan could see them talking, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. All he could do was imagine the worst.
Only he had no idea what the worst might be. His dread grew, threatening to suffocate him from within.
At last, an orderly wheeled him back to his room. Everyone left except Dr. Keller and Dr. Gall. Alone with them, abandoned on his bed, Ryan felt the last remnant of his self-control start to shred.
“Just tell me what’s going on,” he had begged. “Why did you do all these tests? There’s nothing wrong with me. You have to see that.”
Except for one glance in his direction, both men ignored him completely. Bent over some charts in the corner, they continued their own conversation, animated but hushed, pitching their voices too low for Ryan to follow.
Still, he caught a few isolated phrases.
“Six centimeter incision”
“Possible aphasia”
“Neural activity compromised”
“Physical condition optimal, but no guarantee”
“Lack of brain lesions still a concern”
“Medical records explain”
“Agree that we should proceed”
“Need to wait for Mr. Nichol”
The name triggered a fresh rush of fear in Ryan. Despite himself, his voice rose, at once fearful and menacing. “Tell me what you’re saying,” he ordered. “You’re talking about me! I have a right to know what you’re saying! Tell me!”
The sound of his frantic rage throbbed through the room, and he saw the doctors, brows arched, exchange a swift, knowing look. It stunned Ryan into silence. In his mind, he heard Lucy again, first her hushed admonitions, and then, all at once, her last, earnest words before she left his room:
“Trust me,” she had pleaded.
Something broke inside Ryan. He had to trust someone.
He knew that he could not trust himself.
Biting his tongue, drawing blood, Ryan pushed himself back on the bed until its headboard pressed into his spine. “Please,” he gritted, between harsh, shallow breaths. Under the blanket, he grabbed thick folds of the sheet, crushing the fabric within his fists. His fingers flexed, clenching and releasing, tighter and tighter. “What are you going to do? Whatever it is, I want to know.”
He forced himself to sit still, to wait for an answer.
Finally Dr. Keller turned around. The corners of his mouth curved into a bland, appeasing smile. “Now, now,” he reproved. “There’s no need for you to get so agitated. This is just a routine check-up, that’s all.”
“No it’s not.” Ryan gritted his teeth. With an effort, he kept his tone low, but he couldn’t quite suppress its accusing edge. “I heard you. You’re planning to do something when Mr. Nichol gets here. You were talking about it with him.” He jerked his head toward Dr. Gall and the men did it again: they traded another ominous glance, their lips twisting in a way that made Ryan tremble. “Why can’t you tell me what it is?” he demanded.
“There’s nothing to tell. Dr. Gall is your psychoanalyst. Naturally we discuss your condition.”
“I don’t have a condition. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
The words emerged in a whisper, barely audible, and Dr. Keller ignored them. Brisk and business-like, he typed a note into his computer, then crossed to the bed. “All right. Almost done. I just need to check your eyes one more time.” Putting a heavy hand on Ryan’s shoulder, the doctor leaned forward and pulled out his penlight. “We’ve done this before,” he said coolly. “Sit still and relax. It’s a simple test, Brandon.”
Brandon.
The penlight flicked on, white-hot, blinding him.
Ryan flinched.
“No!” he snapped. “I am not Brandon!”
Without thinking, without even realizing what he was doing, he wrenched himself out of Dr. Keller’s grasp. The sheet ripped as he pulled his clenched hands free.
That tearing sound was the last thing he remembered clearly. The next few moments whipped by in a blur.
His fists shot up, shocking Ryan, slapping the penlight aside, slamming loud and hard into the instrument tray.
Somehow they hit Dr. Keller’s face too.
Ryan never even felt the contact. He saw it happen, though, and for an instant, time froze.
Horrified, his knuckles throbbing, he watched Dr. Keller’s head snap back. A drop of blood oozed from the man’s split lip, a bright red accusation, and Ryan’s mind flooded with reproachful memories. He tried to will them away, but they only echoed louder, Lucy’s soft Jamaican lilt, and much more painful, Kirsten’s sad, distant voice.
“You must cooperate, Ryan.”
“I want my husband to be right about you.”
“Do not defy the doctors.”
“No more fighting, Ryan . . . Ryan, no more fighting.”
“I’m sorry,” he moaned to himself, to them. “I didn’t mean to hit him. I’m sorry!”
Then the room roared to life again. Before Ryan could move or explain, there were shouts, strong hands pinning him to the mattress, the sound of his own hectic breathing as he tried to twist away. Through a haze, he saw the door fly open. More men in white rushed into the room. They converged on him, grabbing his hands, strapping him down, muffling all of his wordless protests.
Something sharp and cold pierced his thigh.
His bed rocked underneath him. Ryan had a sudden sense of movement, of foreign forces propelling him through space. He lay still, eyes clenched shut, but the sensation didn’t stop. It felt as if he were floating on some inflated raft, the way he did in his nightmares, all those awful dreams when the infinity pool stretched forever and he could not reach the edge, when the Cohens ignored his cries and turned away, laughing-joking with some stranger-leaving him to drown.
Ryan’s panic mounted. He couldn’t wake up this time, couldn’t make it not real. Panting, gasping for air, he started to struggle again, straining against the belts that held him, until finally, exhausted, he felt himself begin to sink.
It was the stillness that woke him. Sometime, he wasn’t sure when, the floating sensation had stopped. Licking his dry lips, Ryan forced his eyes open. He blinked in the eerie silence, clearing his vision, slowly scanning the room.
Something was wrong.
He saw the same white walls, the same sterile metal cabinets, the same observation window in the door-everything he had grown used to, but now the whole space felt out of focus somehow.
Dizzy, disoriented, he looked around again.
It didn’t make sense.
Nothing in the room was where he remembered it. The IV stand used to be to his right, the door had been on his left, and the window, the window . . .
Ryan’s heart clenched.
His window had only been covered with a thin wire mesh. It had not been barred.
The room hadn’t changed at all. He had.
They had taken him somewhere, to a strange, new place. And they had left him there.
Why? he wondered frantically. Why had they moved him?
What was going on?
Where had they taken him?
Ryan couldn’t even be sure he was in the clinic anymore. He didn’t know how much time had passed while he had been submerged in darkness. It could have been minutes, or hours, or days.
Maybe Caleb had moved him to another hospital.
Somewhere more like a prison.
Somewhere farther away from the Cohens.
Somewhere even Lucy couldn’t find him.
Ryan struggled one last time, but even before he tried to move, he knew it was hopeless.
He was trapped in this room.
He was alone.
And he was so very, very tired.
His lashes fluttered for a few, lonely moments. Then slowly, reluctantly, they drifted closed.
“So boy,” Caleb drawled. “I knew it was just a matter of time. Sooner or later you were bound to show your true colors . . . Now, now, no need to exert yourself. I’m not staying. I just wanted to stop in to say good-bye.”
TBC
Yes, I know. But if I'm going to write melodrama, I might as well go all the way, yes? I'll have no chance if I ever try any Southland fic.