I said I hadn't meant that at all, but she cut me off.
'This isn't a prison. Most of our wards are open - the typical stuff: acting-out adolescents, depressives past the high-risk period, anorexics, minor manics, Alzheimer's, cokeheads, and alkies on detox. C Ward is small - only ten beds, and they're rarely all full - but it creates most of our hassles. C patients are unpredictable - agitated schizos with impulse control problems; rich psychopaths with connections who weasled out of jail by checking in for a few months; speed freaks and cokers who've taken it too far and ended up paranoid. But with phenothiazines, even they don't act up much - better living through chemistry, right? We run a tight ship.'
Looking angry again, she stood, adjusted her cap, and dropped her cigarette into cold coffee.
'I'm gonna have to get back, see if they found him yet. Anything else I can do for you?'
'Nothing, thanks.'
'Have a nice drive back, then.'
'I'd like to stick around and talk to Dr. Mainwaring.'
'I wouldn't do that if I were you. I called him right after we discovered Jamey was missing, but he was in Redondo Beach - visitation with his kids. Even if he left right away, that's a long drive. You'll be stuck here.'
'I'll wait.'
She adjusted her cap and shrugged.
'Suit yourself.'
Once alone, I sank back down and tried to digest what
I'd learned. It didn't add up to much. I sat restlessly for a while, got up, found the men's room, and washed my face. The mirror bounced back a tired visage, but I felt full of energy. Probably running on reserves.
The clock in the reception room said 4:37. I thought of Jamey wandering in the darkness and grew taut with anxiety.
Trying to put him out of my mind, I sat back and read a copy of the hospital throwaway, The Canyon Oaks Quarterly. . The cover article was on the politics of mental health financing - lots of talk about HMOs, PPOs, PROs, and DRGs. The gist of it was to urge families of patients to lobby legislators and insurance carriers for more money. Briefer pieces dealt with anticholinergic syndrome in the elderly - old people misdiagnosed as senile because of drug-induced psychosis - the fine points of occupational therapy, the hospital pharmacy, and a new eating disorders programme. The entire back page was an essay by Guy Mainwaring, M.D., F.A.C.P., medical director, entitled 'The Changing Role of the Psychiatrist'. In it he asserted that psychotherapy was of relatively minor value in dealing with serious mental disorders and best left to non-medical therapists. Psychiatrists, he stressed, were physicians and needed to return to the medical mainstream as 'biochemical engineers'. The article ended with a paean to modern psychopharmacology.
I put the paper down and waited restlessly for half an hour before hearing the rumble of an engine and the sizzle of gravel under rubber. A pair of headlights beamed through the glass surrounding the front doors, and I had to shield my eyes from the glare.
The headlights went off. After my pupils had adjusted, I made out the waffled contours of a Mercedes grille. The doors swung open, and a man charged in.
He was fiftyish and lean, with a face that was all points and angles. His hair was grey-brown and thin and brushed straight back over a generous crown. A widow's peak marked the centre of a high, wide brow. His nose was long and sharp and slightly off-centre; his eyes were restless
brown marbles set deeply in shadowed sockets. He wore a heavy grey suit that had cost a lot of money a long time ago, a white shirt, and a grey tie. The suit hung loosely, trousers bagging over dull black oxfords. A man unconcerned with frills and niceties, a perfect match for the Bauhaus building.
'Who are you?' The accent was crisp and British.
I stood up and introduced myself.
'Ah, yes. The psychologist. Mrs. Vann told me about Jamey's call to you. I'm Dr. Mainwaring.'
He shook my hand vigorously but mechanically.
'It was good of you to drive all the way out here, but I'm afraid I can't talk with you at length. Have to put things in order.' Then, as if contradicting himself, he leaned closer. 'What did the boy have to say over the phone?'
'Not much that made sense. He was extremely anxious and seemed to be experiencing auditory hallucinations. Pretty much out of control.'
Mainwaring made a show of listening, but it was obvious that nothing I'd said surprised him.
'How long's he been this way?' I asked.
'Quite some time.' He looked at his watch. 'Sad case. Apparently he was extremely bright once.'
'He was a genius. Off the scale.'
He scratched his nose. 'Yes. One wouldn't know it now.'
'That bad?' I asked, hoping he'd say more.
'Quite.'
'He was moody,' I recalled, trying to get a dialogue going. 'Complex - which you'd expect, given his intellectual level. But there was no indication of psychosis. If I had predicted anything, it would have been depression. What precipitated the breakdown? Drugs?'
He shook his head.
'Sudden onset schizophrenia. If I understood the etiologic process' - he smiled, revealing an Englishman's tea-stained teeth - 'I'd be waiting for the call from Stockholm.'
The smile faded quickly.
'I'd best be off,' he said, as if talking to himself, 'to see if
he's turned up. I've avoided drawing the authorities into this - for the sake of the family. Bit if our people don't find him soon, I may have to call the police. It gets quite cold in the mountains, and we can't have him catching pneumonia.'
He turned to go.
'Would you mind if I waited around to see him?'
'I'm afraid that wouldn't be advisable, Dr. Delaware -confidentiality and all that. I appreciate your concern and regret your driving out here for nothing. But before anything else, the family needs to be notified - which may take some doing. They're in Mexico on holiday, and you know the phones down there.' His eyes darted distractedly. 'Perhaps we can chat at some later date - once the proper releases have been signed.'
He was correct. I had no right - legally or professionally - to a shred of information on Jamey. Even the moral prerogatives were vague. He'd called me for help, but what was that worth? He was crazy, incapable of making rational choices.
And yet he'd been rational enough to plot and carry out his escape, sufficiently intact to obtain my number.
I looked at Mainwaring and knew that I'd have to live with the questions. Even if he had the answers, he wouldn't be doling them out.
He took my hand again and pumped it, muttered something apologetic, and rushed off. He'd been cordial, collegial and had told me nothing.
I stood alone in the empty waiting room. The sound of shuffling feet made me turn. Edwards, the guard, had waddled in, somewhat unsteadily. He threw me a feeble imitation of a tough guy stare and fondled his billy club. From the look on his face it was clear he blamed me for all his troubles.
Before he could verbalise his feelings, I saw myself to the door.
I GOT home at five forty-five. Robin was sleeping, so I sat in the living room and watched the sun wipe the tarnish from a sterling silver sky. By six-fifteen she was up and humming, draped in a wine-coloured kimono. I went into the bedroom, and we embraced. She drew away and cupped my chin with her hand. Taking in my unshaven face and rumpled clothes, she looked at me, incredulous.
'You've been up all this time!'
'I got back a few minutes ago.'
'Oh, honey, you must be exhausted. What happened?'
'When I got there, he was gone. Escaped. I stayed for a while, hoping they'd find him.'
'Escaped? How?'
'He knocked out his nurse, tied her up, and split. Probably went up into the foothills.'
