The Masked Truth(30)
Most were probably schizophrenic.
He remembers not only the words but the way she said them as if it were simply a statement of fact. Why, of course they were schizophrenic. What else would one expect?
The point …
Ah, yes, you have a point, Max, buried deep in there somewhere.
The point is that when one is mad, one is incapable of smelling the smoke, of seeing the flames, of feeling the heat. Afterward, the memory of that brain fever is clear, and the shame …
Shall we talk about the shame? No, let’s not today. Perhaps tomorrow, over tea and crumpets.
The point is that a madman doesn’t know he’s mad at the time of madness. Which is, let’s be quite blunt, the time when one really ought to know. When one needs to know, lest one attempt to expel demons without proper training. Or attempt to “take down” a supposed kidnapper who might really be—
Cantina’s head jerks up. Max freezes. He’s made a noise, he must have—breathing too hard or socks swishing against the floor. Cantina turns his way, twisting in his chair, and then—
And then he stops short, because his gaze falls on Riley, in the doorway, about to launch her distraction.
“You little …” Cantina begins. Then he shouts, “Hey, guys! She’s—” and that’s all he says before Max is on him, grabbing his hair and slamming his face into the desk before he can get another word out. No forethought. No time for indecision. No time for timidity. Only time to react. Which he does admirably, if he might say so himself.
It’s a perfect strike, hard enough to break Cantina’s nose and daze him, and then to enrage him, rearing up, like a bull spotting red—which is a myth, actually, Max notes, because he has to note it, the thought pinging through his head, but if there is an advantage to those endlessly whizzing thoughts, it is speed. The trivia zooms through his mind and does nothing to impede the signals that shoot from his brain to his fists as Cantina lumbers to his feet. Which is, if Max may humbly note, a mistake, given the fact that the man has been shot in the chest.
Max barely needs to put any power behind his swing. Cantina lunges, his brain on fire—a different sort of fire, though no less detrimental in the short run—and the man’s mind might be willing, but his body says, “Bloody hell, no.” Cantina doesn’t even manage to lift his fist before he starts to topple, and at that point one might say Max’s powerhouse uppercut is a wee mite of overkill, but he doesn’t regret it.
Cantina flies off his feet in a way Max had always presumed was simply cinematic magic. Apparently not. He thuds down flat on his back, and that’s when Max notices Riley running toward them. Running to his rescue. She stops mid-step, sliding in her socks, then she stares at Cantina, and Max braces for the look of horror, of “what have you done?”
Remember that look, Max? On Ilsa Morton’s face as she came around the corner and saw you trying to cast the demons from Justin?
Only it’s not the same look. Not at all. Riley stares in surprise, and when she looks up at him she’s grinning like he is indeed in a film, the screw-up kid who knocked the bully flying. That grin is like a straight hit of oxygen, and it blasts straight to his head.
Tell me how you don’t want to save her, Max. Don’t want to be her white knight.
He did. Yes, he did. He’d made a mess of things, not helping Brienne and Aaron get Riley out when she had the chance, when the other girl—what was her name?—was released instead. He’d ballsed it up, and now he needs to make amends. To do one thing right before …
Before what, Max?
Cantina starts to rise, dazed and that snaps Max out of it. With Riley at his side, he races to subdue him.
CHAPTER 13
Max knocks Cantina flying. Literally knocks him flying, and I can say it was just a lucky blow, but it’s obvious he’s had some training. Given the way he flinched when we discussed taking down Cantina, I figure it was theoretical training, his father telling him how to defend himself, Max never putting that into practice because of an inner taboo against hitting another person.
Right now, the important thing is that he can fight. Which is a relief. I’d be able to defend myself better with a saber in hand, but even without that, I think I have enough basic training to manage. I just couldn’t do it for both of us.
When Cantina starts to rise, we’re both on him so fast that I have to laugh a little, as we practically knock heads. Max holds him still. I pull off the guy’s sock and stuff it in his mouth. Then I use Max’s belt to secure his hands. Cantina’s own belt works for his feet.
We search him. There’s nothing to find. Brienne or Aaron has his gun, and his partners have taken anything else—radio, cell phone, wallet. We leave him on the floor and start hunting for the counselors’ phones and the meds.
The room is big—at least twenty by thirty—but most is open space. There are a dozen chairs on one side, where we’d sat in our therapy semicircle. A dozen more are stacked in a corner. The only place to stash stuff is in the two desks. Max stands guard while I hunt. There’s not much to pick through. Half the drawers are empty and the other half contain random assortments of office supplies. Paper, envelopes, tape …
The meds should be right on top. When they aren’t, I shuffle through the supplies as quietly as I can, and when I still don’t find anything, I take everything out and stack it on the desk. Max keeps looking over, his frown growing, eyes darkening with worry. I empty every drawer and find nothing.