4. THE LADY OF THE STARRY SKIRT
External conditions were deteriorating far more rapidly than David had imagined possible, and the problems this was causing forced him to put his effort to unravel the mysteries of this place aside for the moment. The blackened bodies of Aubrey Denman and her failed protector had been given a quick burial at the end of the estate’s formal garden.
He went to his windows, gazing out across the green lawn to the two rough mounds of earth. Close to them, an apple tree bloomed. It reminded him of something, but not something pleasant.
“The apple blossom is the color of…” What? It was blank, so he left it. But it was disquieting.
A little farther along, an oak spread spring leaves, their pale new green at once reassuring and heartbreaking.
If you did not raise your eyes, all appeared normal and settled and safe. Look up to the top of the perimeter wall, though, and you saw that razor wire. By reading the clinic’s activity logs, he’d discovered that Aubrey Denman had not been candid with him about much of anything, and certainly not the security situation, which was far worse than she had claimed—or, it would seem, known.
The razor wire was there because there had been an incursion from the town. People had tried to come over the wall. They’d been forced back and additional defensive measures had been taken, including the acquisition of some very powerful new guns, and thousands of rounds of ammunition.
Look past the wire, though, and a magnificent view of Raleigh County unfolded, the rolling hills brushed now with palest green. Only if you looked closely would you see a blackened house here or there.
The sky was now always that odd color, no longer the blue it had been. Really, not a color, more of an absence of color, a steely whiteness during the day, flickering auroras at night.
The lawn sprinklers came on, clicking smartly. It was a sound from childhood, which the child in him found reassuring, he supposed. But where did they get the water? he wondered. Hopefully, from a well on the grounds.
Katie Starnes’s voice came over the intercom. “The new intake’s in prep.”
“Bring in her chart, please.”
When he saw the name on her chart, he was stunned to frozen stillness. He kept his voice as calm as he could.
“What’s her state?”
“Agitated. But it’s a self-commit, so we’re expecting her to be cooperative.”
“Expect nothing.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Aubrey Denman had said that he would remember Caroline Light, and that she would bring some focus to this whole affair. But it was just a name on a sheet of paper. Seeing her, that must be what would do it.
“Schizoaffective disorder, previously controlled with lithium therapy,” Katie said.
He was careful to reveal nothing to her of what the name meant to him, or of his excitement that this was the daughter of their teacher.
He read on. She’d lived a wealthy easy life, it seemed, up until symptoms began to appear last year.
This sounded a troubling note. Aubrey Denman had induced psychosis in the class during their late teens, not last year, or so he’d assumed. So was this a real case of mental illness, some sort of odd coincidence? Or was she simply playacting? Because this report gave no indication that any symptom had been present before 2019.
Sudden onset of mental illness was commonplace now. The whole human species was under extraordinary stress. That was why Manhattan Central had literally been overflowing into the streets. So it was perfectly possible that the daughter of their teacher had, quite simply, gone mad.
But it was just as possible that something else was happening, so his only choice was to play it as it appeared.
The report said that her disorder had begun to break through the lithium, in the form of auditory hallucinations ordering the patient to do various things—paint a picture, take a journey to some irrelevant spot, arm herself with a pistol.
At what must have been astronomical expense, she had made the pilots of her family plane fly her to Guatemala, where she’d chartered a local plane to take her deep into the jungle. What she had done there was not clear, nor had she been willing to explain herself when she returned home.
Herbert Acton and Bartholomew Light had gone to Guatemala in the twenties, and brought back extensive journals, drawings, and maps that filled many shelves in this library.
“I want her housed initially on confinement, but give her full indoor privileges with observation. Outdoors accompanied only.”
“Awfully tight supervision,” Katie commented.
Caroline Light’s vulnerabilities were complex. Whether she was acting or genuinely troubled, with that last name, she was probably of as much interest to the opposition as Aubrey Denman. More, conceivably.
“In my opinion, it’s necessary. And keep her surname confidential, please.”
“We never use patient surnames in population.”
“Not even in her chart. Call her—I don’t know—Caroline Smith.”
“Of course, Doctor.”
Her tone was too neutral. He thought it concealing, but of what he could not be sure.
The door flew open and Caroline Light came striding in, a breathtaking beauty, her legs outlined by her blue silk dress, which fluttered behind her as she walked forward.
He felt a sensation of literal, physical shock pass through him as she got closer. Her eyes were jewels flashing light, her skin tanned but soft, her lips at once held in a tight, angry line and yet ready, almost, to laugh. The eyes, made brighter by the darkness of her full lashes, glared, stared, and mocked all at once.
Behind that complex, challenging expression, though, was a face of heartbreaking beauty, the forehead broad, the eyes shaped for nighttime, the nose tapering but not severe, the cheeks full but not so full that they concealed the suggestive curve of the cheekbones.
However, the memory he had hoped she would spark did not come. There was no sense of deja vu, no poignant quickening of the heart. She was, simply, a stranger.
As Katie discreetly withdrew, she sat down, crossed her knees, and regarded him with pale eyes. Was that anger in there? Amusement? Both?
“At last,” she said.
He thought it the most disconcerting comment she could possibly have made.
“Have we met?”
She flushed, then tossed her head like a young mare. He had the impression that she was both furious and hurt.
“Okay, let’s do our medical interview. See how good we are.” Long hands dipped into a purse made of what looked like some sort of cloud, white and soft. She drew out a cigarette.
“No smoking in the facility, I’m sorry.”
She lit it, took a long drag, then expelled two streams of smoke through her nose, an exquisite dragon. She glanced around.
“What is this dump, anyway?”
“The Acton Clinic. Do you often lose track of where you are?”
“I mean the room. Of course I know where I am.” She barked out a laugh. “David, are you still asleep?”
He wanted to open up to her, but he couldn’t, not without some inner signal, some echo of recognition, and there was none. He maintained his professional posture.
“What do you mean by sleep?”
“You can take your shrink questions, fold ’em up, and stuff ’em you know where.”
“Which would be?”
She flipped the cigarette at him. It hit his shoulder and bounced to the floor.
“That was useful.”
“David, you’re embarrassing yourself and—to be frank—hurting me.”
