Mack (King #4)(3)

So in the meantime, I would take on a few patients of my own. It was very unorthodox, but it would show the troops I was willing to roll up my sleeves.

Interestingly enough, Dr. Wilson had twice as many patients as anyone else, which was why I had Shannon put me on his calendar late Friday afternoon.

“Dr. Valentine! Come in. Come in!”

I entered Dr. Wilson’s untidy office and introduced myself, thinking how he reminded me of my father. He had thinning gray hair, a round belly underneath his white coat, and large brown eyes. I liked him immediately.

“So,” I said, taking a seat in the black pleather chair facing his desk, “I’ve spent the week evaluating workloads and noticed you have more than your fair share of patients.”

He sat back down behind his desk—a cluttered mess of files and sports knickknacks. “Yes, well, I tend to get many of the patients the other doctors don’t want.”

“That is not acceptable. We don’t get to pick and choose who we help.”

“Not all of the doctors feel they’re equipped to handle every case,” he replied.

They all had general degrees in psychology—same as me. Okay, not the same as me. I had three specialties: neuropsychology, cognitive and neurolinguistics psychology, and psychometric and quantitative psychology. Basically, I was a thoroughbred psycho. (That would be me using my humor there. You see…psycho is short for psychologist, which insinuates that—oh, neverthehellmind.)

“I will correct this immediately,” I said. “In the meantime, I plan to handle a few of your cases. Simply let me know which ones you recommend I take.” I wouldn’t want to undermine any current treatments.

Dr. Wilson puckered his wrinkly lips in contemplation. Behind him sat a wall of medical books that hadn’t been touched in years—probably since the day he started working here. The inch of dust had to be a health code violation, but I would let it slide. Because I was a wild woman. (See. There’s my humor again. I wasn’t wild at all and—oh, forget it.)

“That’s very kind of you, Dr. Valentine. I’ll think it over and give you a list on Monday or Tuesday.”

“Great. Oh, and before I forget, I wanted to ask about the patient in room twenty-five.”

Dr. Wilson sipped from his chipped “#1 Dad” mug on his desk. It was probably filled with vodka. The man had to be under a considerable amount of pressure and seemed suspiciously happy. (That wasn’t a joke, in case you were wondering.)

“Ah, you mean our infamous Mr. John Doe,” he said, setting down his mug.

“But we’re a voluntary treatment facility. John Does—” i.e., people who suffered from amnesia or refused to give an identity “—go to County.”

Dr. Wilson smiled. “Yes, he checked himself in a week ago. Paid for three months of treatments and then asked to be put in a room and left alone until he was ready to talk.”

“That’s insane,” I said flatly.

Dr. Wilson laughed with a husky voice that reminded me of a rent-a-Santa. Ho, ho, ho… “Why, yes. I suppose it is. And what better place for him than here.”

“So the man doesn’t want to be treated, and we have no idea why he’s here?”

“Not a clue. But isn’t it interesting?” Dr. Wilson seemed genuinely excited by this very inefficient use of our facility’s space. I couldn’t understand why.

“He can’t stay. There are people who require our assistance and are being turned away.”

“He did pay for the space,” Dr. Wilson pointed out.

“It’s not a matter of money; it’s our obligation to help the community. But there’s a nice five-star hotel down the street that will gladly accept his money and offer him solitude.”

Dr. Wilson nodded. “Yes, well, I do see your point.”

I stood, extending my hand. “Good, then. It’s been very pleasurable speaking with you, Dr. Wilson.”

He rose from his seat, reaching out to shake my hand. “I look forward to working with you, Dr. Valentine.”

I thought that the interaction had gone extremely well; however, when I got to the door, Dr. Wilson threw at me, “I hope you don’t mind addressing the matter directly with our John Doe? The rest of my day is very full.”

I offered a cordial nod. “Of course, I’ll see to it immediately.” Not as though I cared about hurting John Doe’s feelings. We had a job to do here.

And, to be quite honest, I was now curious to meet this Mr. Room Twenty-Five.

~~~

Darkness was the one thing in this world I didn’t care for—probably because I felt most comfortable with facts. Seeing objects equated seeing facts. There is the floor. There is the couch. Facts.

Guessing where things were—I think the leg of this table is around here somewhere—ouch!—was inefficient, useless. It was why night-lights were invented.

So when I entered John Doe’s dark room, the first thing I wanted was to bring in some light.

“Mr. Doe?” I said to the dark figure seated in the corner of the small room, staring at me like an eerie scarecrow waiting to frighten the shit out of anything that crossed its path. “My name is Dr. Valentine. I’m the new director. May I turn on the lights so we can discuss the reason you are here?”

“I asked not to be disturbed.” The man’s deep, masculine voice felt like a cold, chilling slap. Yet strangely, it was also…Well, I didn’t know, really. Hypnotic, perhaps.