the fort pressed back behind the squall, gone fuzzy and indistinct like a charcoal sketch in a smoky room.
Teddy remembered what Dolores had said in the dream - Count the beds.
"How many they got up there, you think?"
"I don't know," Chuck said. "We'll have to ask the helpful doctor."
"Oh, yeah, he just screams 'helpful,' don't he?"
"Hey, boss."
"Yeah."
"In your life, have you ever come across this much wasted federal space?"
"How so?"
"Fifty patients in these two wards? What do you think these build ings could hold? A couple hundred more?"
"At least."
"And the staff-to-patient ratio. It's like two-to-one favoring staff.
You ever seen anything like that?"
"I gotta say no to that one."
They looked at the grounds sizzling underwater.
"What the fuck is this place?" Chuck said.
THEY HELD THE interviews in the cafeteria, Chuck and Teddy sitting at a table in the rear. Two 'orderlies sat within shouting distance, and Trey Washington was in charge of leading the patients to them and then taking them away when they were through.
The first guy was a stubbled wreck of tics and eye blinks. He sat hunched into himself like a horseshoe crab, scratching his arms, and refused to meet their eyes.
Teddy looked down at the top page in the file Cawley had provided--- just thumbnail sketches from Cawley's own memory, not the actual patient files. This guy was listed first and his name was Ken Gage and he was in here because he'd attacked a stranger in the aisle of a corner grocery store, beat the victim on the head with a can of peas, all the time say ing, in a very subdued voice, "Stop reading my mail." "So, Ken," Chuck said, "how you doing?"
"I got a cold. I got a cold in my feet."
"Sorry to hear that."
"It hurts to walk, yeah." Ken scratched around the edges of a scab
on his arm, delicately at first, as if tracing a moat for it.
"Were you in group therapy the night before last?"
"I got a cold in my feet and it hurts to walk."
"You want some socks?" Teddy tried. He noticed the two orderlies looking over at them, snickering.
"Yeah, I want some socks, I want some socks, I want some soks."
Whispering it, head down and bobbing a bit.
"Well, we'll get you some in a minute. We just need to know if you we re - " "It's just so cold. In my feet? It's cold and it hurts to walk." Teddy looked over at Chuck. Chuck smiled at the orderlies as the sound of their giggles floated to the table.
"Ken," Chuck said. "Ken, can you look at me?"
Ken kept his head down, bobbing a bit more. His fingernail ore open the scab and a small line of blood seeped into the hairs of his arm.
"Ken?"
"I can't walk. Not like this, not like this. It's so cold, cold, cold."
"Ken, come on, look at me."
Ken brought his fists down on the table.
Both orderlies stood and Ken said, "It shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't.
But they want it to. They fill the air with cold. They fill my kneecaps."
The orderlies crossed to their table, looked over Ken at Chuck. The white one said, "You guys about done, or you want to hear more about his feet?"
"My feet are cold."
The black orderly raised an eyebrow. "It's okay, Kenny. We'll take you to Hydro, warm you right up."
The white one said, "I been here five years. Topic don't change."
"Ever?" Teddy said.
"It hurts to walk."
"Ever," the orderly said.
"Hurts to walk 'cause they put cold in my feet..."
THE NEXT ONE, Peter Breene, was twenty-six, blond, and pudgy. A knuckle-cracker and a nail-biter.
"What are you here for, Peter?"
Peter looked across the table at Teddy and Chuck with eyes that seemed permanently damp. "I'm scared all the time."
"Of what?"
"Things."
"Okay."
Peter propped his left ankle up on his right knee, gripped the ankle, and leaned forward. '"It sounds stupid, but I'm afraid of watches. The ticking. It gets in your head. Rats terrify me." "Me too," Chuck said.
"Yeah?" Peter brightened.
"Hell, yeah. Squeaky bastards. I get the piss-shivers just looking at one."
"Don't go out past the wall at night, then," Peter said. "They're everywhere."
"Good to know. Thanks."
"Pencils," Peter said. "The lead, you know? The scratch-scratch on the paper. I'm afraid of you."
"Me ?"
"No," Peter said, pointing his chin at Teddy. "Him."
"Why?" Teddy asked.
He shrugged. "You're big. Mean-looking crew cut. You can handle yourself. Your knuckles are scarred. My father was like that. He didn't have the scars. His hands were smooth. But he was mean-looking. My brothers too. They used to beat me