Iron House

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Julian disliked drugs, in general, but when he needed them that changed. When he was scared and cold in the darkness of his mind, he liked everything about the drugs. He liked the intensity of the doctor’s face as the needle went into the little bottle, the way light shone through the glass. He liked the sound of a fingernail tapped against the syringe and the sight of the narrow stream shot out into the air. His eyes went very still when the needle came out.

The needle made the voice in his head go quiet.

The needle helped Julian hide.

It started as a burn where the needle slipped in, but the burn was brief and faded to warmth that spread from his arm into his chest, then down his legs and into the metal of his skull. Into the giant, dark space from which the voice descended when the world was too big or Julian too scared, when Julian knew he was being weak.

That’s the right word, isn’t it?

Julian shied from the sneer. He was frightened of so many things: of his life and of life’s expectations, of the threat of failure and how that failure would ripple into other parts of his soul. He was afraid people would see too deep, that twenty years of illusion would simply implode and everyone would know he was a shadow man. But that was a big fear-a lifelong terror-and those fears were not always the worst. There was the fear of minutes and seconds, the fear of a coward’s million tiny degradations. The voice saw all that fear. It was why Julian hated the voice, and why he needed it. The voice hurt, but kept him strong. And, Julian needed to be strong.

You need everything I have…

It was loud, in spite of the drugs, angry after so many months of absence. Julian tried to remember what had happened to bring the voice back, but his mind wasn’t working right.

Something bad…

He tried to remember. He imagined fingers squeezed on the gray coils of his brain.

Something bad…

He squeezed a little harder.

Worthless…

“Stop it.”

Palms pressed the sides of Julian’s head. When had the voice come back?

He didn’t know; it was too much.

We don’t need him…

The voice was a thin wire this time.

Say it with me…

“No.”

We don’t need Michael…

“No.”

Say it!

Julian rolled into a ball even as a faint noise stirred in the world outside his mind. It was a familiar noise, a murmur of words that had power of its own, because the voice turned away. It grew high and faint until Julian was alone in the dark. He huddled on an island in the blackness, watched as Michael and his mother came through the door and spoke with the doctor. He saw them stop by the bed, and he heard the questions they asked. He wanted to speak to them, but was unable. They heard what he heard, a voice that sounded like his own, but was not.

The voice was laughing at them.

And the sound was insane.

Michael stopped at the bedside, and felt Abigail slip into the hollow place beside his right arm. Beneath them, Julian lay on his side, his hair matted, his skin like wax. His arms were pale under a summer tan, his fingers curled beneath gauze dotted red at the knuckles. Michael leaned closer as a faint sound slipped past Julian’s lips.

“Julian?”

The sound welled into brittle, ugly laughter. Michael straightened. “Why is he laughing?”

“I have no idea,” the doctor said. “He’s been talking a bit. This is the first laugh I’ve heard.”

“What has he said?”

“The same thing, more or less. I suspect you’ll get a taste soon enough.”

Michael squatted next to the bed and put his hand on Julian’s forehead. “No fever.”

“No.”

“Then what?” Abigail’s voice showed a mother’s fear.

The doctor clasped his hands, and titled his head so that soft flesh rounded out beneath his jaw. “Perhaps you can tell me.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, the senator still won’t release his medical records. That makes my job difficult. Frankly, I’m becoming angry. Clearly, there is more I need to know.”

“My husband has worries most men do not.”

“Medical records are confidential. There is no conceivable way I would betray a patient’s trust. The very thought is insulting.”

“Yet, mistakes are often made.”

“Not in my practice.”

Abigail paled at his anger, but did not back down. “His medical records are sealed.”

“Sealed?”

“By the courts.” She cleared her throat. “As part of a juvenile matter.”

“I don’t understand.”

Abigail was torn, Michael saw. Her eyes flicked from Julian to the doctor, then found Michael’s face. Whatever she was afraid to discuss, it was serious; the doctor seemed to understand. “Let me phrase this a different way.” Cloverdale stepped closer, his voice calm. “Have you ever heard of chlorpromazine? It’s a drug.” He waited, eyebrows lifted, but Abigail was frozen, mouth half-open. The doctor nodded, sadly. “How about loxapine or haloperidol? Clozapine?” No reaction. “How about ziprasidone or olanzapine?”

Abigail looked away, and Michael said, “Those drugs are antipsychotics.”

“That’s right.”

“Why are you asking about antipsychotics?”

The doctor pointed at Julian as the laughter came again. “Look at him.”

They all looked, and Julian’s eyes went wide and black, the laughter suddenly frozen in the cavern of his mouth. “We don’t need…” Julian spoke in a reedy voice.

“He’s been saying this quite a bit,” the doctor said.

“Saying what, exactly?”

Julian lifted his chin, eyelids slipping down to half-mast as a wicked smile cut the planes of his face. “We don’t need Michael.”

Julian’s words sucked the air from the room, and just as quickly as the venom had arisen, slackness overcame his face. His eyes rolled white. His breathing deepened and slowed. The doctor shook his head, then found Michael’s troubled eyes. Sadness touched the doctor’s face as he spoke. “I think Julian may be schizophrenic.”

Michael glanced at Abigail, and the moment crystallized as she stared at a spot on the floor, her face so rigid a hard word might shatter it. “I need to talk to him,” Michael said. The doctor looked a question at Abigail, and when she hesitated, Michael hardened his voice. “Alone.”

The door opened, closed, and people left the room. Michael sat by the bed, and for Julian, it was as if a black cloud, after many years, had slipped from the face of the sun. His brother’s hands were strong, and even though lines creased the skin at his eyes, Julian felt the same connection, like they were boys, still, and Michael had the strength to see him through another night of hell. Relief welled so strongly that Julian thought he might cry, and maybe he did, because he heard Michael say, “It’s okay.”

One of his hands touched the back of Julian’s head.

Such worry in his eyes.

“Talk to me, brother. It’s just us. You and me. Whatever has happened, I can fix it. I can make it right.”

Julian was so happy, then. All the years he’d been alone. All the years he’d wondered about his brother; worried and missed him. Now, Michael was back, and there were so many things to say, so many words they built like a tide in his throat. Eyes bright, Julian nodded and opened his mouth.

“We don’t need you.”

No…

A steel door crashed in Julian’s mind, and from far off, he heard the sound of laughter.

His voice.

No!

But Michael was already standing. Julian tried to call out, but could not. He stood on the shore of a falling island, and laughter burned in the blackness that took him down.