The Inn - James Patterson Page 0,84

a robot. In a trance. I’ve never experienced that.”

I thought about the sleepy, dreamy state Nick went into after his episodes, the almost automatic way he moved and talked. Like someone who wasn’t fully present. I opened my mouth to say something and then closed it.

“She wanted to know about my delusions.” He shrugged. “That’s when you’re imagining rainbow elephants prancing around the fucking sky and lizards crawling on your skin and shit.”

“Well.” I cleared my throat. “Those might be hallucinations, which are different from delusions, I think.”

“Whatever.”

“I mean last night … ” I cleared my throat again, glanced at him. “You seemed to be sort of … reenacting a scene, maybe? Talking to people who weren’t there. Someone named Rickson?”

Nick turned away from me to look out his window.

“You said you did bad things over there while you were deployed. You said to Rickson that this guy wasn’t going to give you anything, and then you shot—”

“I don’t want to talk about this. It was my mind playing tricks. It means nothing.”

“Yes, but were they memories you were reliving, or was it just—”

“Cap, fuck!” Nick said. “Would you listen to yourself? You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about!”

“That’s the point!” I said. “Look, I know war is hard. But I’m starting to wonder whether there was … maybe there was more to it. Who was Rickson? Were you asked to do things that were …”

Nick didn’t answer.

“You can trust me, Nick,” I said.

“It was just the regular stuff,” he said slowly. “Just the fucked-up nature of war. I don’t know any guys named Rickson from back then. I didn’t do anything criminal.”

I didn’t say you did, I thought.

Silence fell between us, hot and heavy. He sniffed, then spoke again in a softer voice, trying to ease back into the conversation. “So maybe it is hallucinations.” He shrugged. “Whatever. Fine. But if I’m having hallucinations, how am I supposed to know they’re hallucinations? What are we saying here? Like, is Cline not real? Are we not following a dude who’s been messing with us, who killed Marni, who sent guys to our house? Are you even real?” He poked me in the shoulder, too hard to be a friendly jab.

“I’m real,” I said. “And we’ll figure it out together. Whether it’s PTSD or schizophrenia or whatever the hell it is.”

“Well, she thinks I’ve got both, which is just fantastic,” he said. “Whoo-hoo! What a catch I am. A crazy, messed-up freak who doesn’t even know what’s real and what isn’t.”

“You’re not crazy,” I said. When he didn’t answer I put my hand on his arm. “You’re not crazy.”

“She thinks the PTSD kicked it off.” He shrugged my hand away. “It can bring out symptoms of schizophrenia you might have had lying dormant under the surface. She said it was like the thunderclap that sets off the avalanche. She was full of stupid metaphors like that.” He snorted, clumped his big boots up onto the dashboard again. “See, these people at the veterans hospitals, they diagnose you with whatever condition because they need the funding. Putting me on a program of observation, feeding me pills, x-raying my brain—that all costs money. Someone has to pay for that, and they charge whatever they want. They’re as bad as Cline.” He gestured out the windshield. “It was all bullshit, Cap. I’m not going back.”

“Nick,” I said. “I just want to say that I—”

“I know, I know,” he snapped. “You’re here for me. Well, if you’re here for me, Cap, you better go get yourself a crowbar or a fucking metal file or something, because they’re going to lock me up. That’s how it works. They say you’re crazy, that you’re a danger to yourself and others. Then they commit you to an institution, and they keep you there and rake in the insurance money.”

“No one is going to commit you, Nick.”

“If they do, you’re going to break me out. You said it yourself. You’re here for me. Well, if you’re here for me, that’s what it’s going to take, man.” He snorted angrily. “How ironic. Just when we get Cline behind bars, they’ll stick me there too. Only it’ll be padded walls for me.”

I watched the road, tried to think of what to say. “I—”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Nick waved at the car in the distance. “Speed up. We’re losing him.”

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

NICK AND I had followed Cline to a quiet street in a neighborhood north of Boston