Deadly Design - Emarsan Page 0,75
as easily as you think.”
Jimmy looks at me with clear eyes. “How much time do you have left?”
“At most, maybe three and a half months.”
He nods. “You join the military, they send you to a place like Iraq or Afghanistan, and you don’t know how long you’re gonna live. You hope you’ll go home, hope you’ll see your family again, but the truth is, you could get shot waiting in the damn chow line. Nobody knows how much time they have, but your best chance to survive is to depend on your buddies.
2 2 3
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
We watch out for each other. We have each other’s backs. And you’re my buddy.”
Jimmy slaps me on the arm, then squeezes it, and my chest swells with emotion.
“Okay,” Jimmy says, opening the car door. “Time to get my crazy on.”
We go through the massive doors leading to massive hallways. The place is old. I don’t know how old, but I wouldn’t be surprised if some World War I veterans once hobbled down these halls on crutches or were pushed down them in wheelchairs after losing their sight to mustard gas. The place is cold and creepy.
I can almost see clean-cut World War II ghosts eyeing the bearded, tattooed Vietnam ghosts. I can see ghostly nurses mopping up ghostly blood and vomit and other bodily fluids from the tile floors. It’s eighty degrees outside, and while the air conditioner seems to be working quite well, I have to wonder if the numerous ghosts passing through the halls add to the frigid feel of the air.
And this is where Jimmy is willing to spend the next few days—if all goes well.
We walk down one hallway, turn left, and walk down another. Jimmy knows right where to go, and we end up in front of a brick wall where there is a door labeled RESTRICTED: PSYCHI-ATRIC WARD. The door is made of thick glass. Next to it, halfway up the wall, is a large window that slides open.
“You ready?” Jimmy whispers, and I’m not sure what I’m 2 2 4
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
supposed to be ready for. I’ve never seen someone having a psychotic breakdown, but Jimmy’s about to demonstrate.
“Can’t you hear them?” he asks me, his voice loud, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. “They’re coming to get me. They’re laughing, can’t you hear them?” His fingers are moving nervously against one another. His torso is rocking back and forth.
A bald man in blue scrubs slides the window open. “What’s the problem?”
“My uncle,” I say. “He’s been here before. PTSD and some other shit, I don’t know. I came home from school, and he was like this. He’s not making any sense. He’s really freaking me out.”
“What’s his name?” the man asks.
“Jimmy. Jimmy Williams.”
The man closes the window and comes around to the glass door. He punches a code into a keypad. A buzzer sounds, and the door opens. “Hey, Frank,” he hollers to a thin African American man behind him, “I’m gonna need your help with this one.” He approaches us with his palms up in a nonthreatening stance, but he’s a big man with a thick neck, and any stance he takes looks threatening.
“It’s okay, Jimmy,” he says.
“No it’s not!” Jimmy grabs hold of me, like he’s terrified, and I have to wonder just how familiar he is with insanity, because he’s doing a hell of a job. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me!”
“It’s okay, buddy,” Frank says. “You want your nephew to come with you?”
2 2 5
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
Jimmy nods.
“You okay?” Frank asks me.
“Yeah, sure,” I tell him. “It’s okay, Jimmy. These men are going to help you. But we have to go in here, all right?”
The two men back up as I lead Jimmy through the steel door.
“That’s great, Jimmy,” the bald one says. “You’re doing great.”
Once we’re inside, Jimmy looks around like he’s Frodo getting his first look at Mordor. “I don’t like it here,” he says.
“You’re bad guys! You’re bad guys!”
I half expect him to start lashing out, to grab a chair and throw it at them, but Jimmy knows what’s he’s doing. He wants to be evaluated, not harpooned with a sedative and strapped to a bed.
“Do we look like bad guys?” the bald one asks. “We’re the good guys. I did two tours over in Afghanistan. How many did you do? I bet