Two Graves

“Oh, my God,” Pizzetti blurted into the stu

Ziewicz gave a wry smile. “An excellent question, Doctor.”

A long silence developed in the room, and finally Pizzetti said: “I’ll order up a full analysis on this earlobe, microscopics, tox tests, DNA, the works.”

Her smile broadening, Dr. Ziewicz peeled off her gloves and pulled down her mask, tossing them in the waste. “Very good, Dr. Pizzetti. You have redeemed yourself. A good day to you all, ladies and gentlemen.”

And she left.

4

DR. JOHN FELDER WALKED UP THE FRONT STEPS OF THE rambling gothic mansion. It was a brilliant late-autumn morning, the air crisp, the sky a cloudless blue. The mansion’s exterior had recently been given a thorough cleaning, and the aged bricks fairly shone in the sunlight. Even the black bars on the ornate windows had been polished. The only thing, it seemed, that had not been cleaned was a bronze plaque, screwed into the front façade: MOUNT MERCY HOSPITAL FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE.

Felder buzzed the front door and waited while it was unlocked from within. The door was opened by Dr. Ostrom himself—director of Mount Mercy. Felder ignored the chilly frown that gathered on Ostrom’s face. The man was not happy to see him.

Ostrom took a step back, allowing Felder to slip inside the building. Then he nodded to a waiting guard, who immediately relocked the door.

“Dr. Ostrom,” Felder said. “Thank you for allowing this visitation.”

“I did try to reach Pendergast in order to secure his approval,” Ostrom told him. “However, I’ve been unable to contact the man, and I could think of no sound reason to deny your request any longer, given your position—technically, anyway—as court-appointed psychiatrist.” He led Felder to a far side of the waiting area and lowered his voice. “However, there are some ground rules you must agree to abide by.”

“Of course.”

“You must limit your visit, and any future visits, to ten minutes.”

Felder nodded.

“You must not unduly excite the patient.”

“No, certainly not.”

“And there is to be no further talk of any extracurricular—”

“Doctor, please,” Felder interrupted, as if even the mention of such a subject was painful.

At this, Ostrom looked satisfied. “In that case, come with me. You’ll find that she occupies the same room as before, although we have elevated the level of security.”

Felder and Ostrom followed an orderly down a long corridor, lined on both sides by unmarked doors. As he walked, Felder felt a shiver run down his spine. Barely two weeks had passed since this very building had witnessed the greatest shame and humiliation of his professional life. Because of him, a patient had been allowed to escape Mount Mercy. No, not to escape, he reminded himself: to be kidnapped, by a man posing as a fellow psychiatrist. At the thought, Felder’s cheeks flamed afresh. He himself had bought the whole deception, hook, line, and sinker. If it hadn’t been for the patient’s quick restoration to Mount Mercy, his career would have been jeopardized. As it was, he’d been given a one-month mandatory leave of absence. It had been a near miss, an extremely near miss. Yet here he was, back again. What drew him to this patient like a moth to a flame?

They waited while the orderly unlocked a heavy steel door, then they proceeded down another endless, echoing passage, stopping finally before a door identical to all the others, save that a guard stood before it. Ostrom turned to Felder.

“Do you wish me to be in attendance?” he asked.

“Thank you, that won’t be necessary.”

“Very well. Remember: ten minutes.” Ostrom unlocked the door from a key on a heavy chain, then opened it.

Felder stepped inside, then waited as the door was shut and locked behind him, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dim light. Slowly, the features of the room grew sharper: the bed, table, and chair, all bolted to the floor; the bookcase, now stuffed with old volumes, many leather-bound; the plastic flowerpot. And there, behind the table, sat Constance Greene. There was no book or notepaper before her; she was sitting up quite straight, composed and erect. Felder suspected she had perhaps been meditating. Whatever the case, there was no idle, daydreamy quality in the deep, cold eyes that met his gaze. Unconsciously, Felder caught his breath.

“Constance,” he said, standing before the table, hands clasped together like a schoolboy’s.

For a moment, the woman did not answer. Then she nodded slightly, her bobbed hair swaying. “Dr. Felder.”

Felder had been thinking about this moment for two weeks now. And yet just hearing that low, antique voice seemed to scatter his carefully prepared thoughts. “Listen, Constance. I just wanted to say… well, that I’m so very sorry. Sorry for everything.”

Constance looked at him with her disquieting eyes but did not reply.

“I know what pain and suffering—and mortification—I must have caused you, and I need you to understand something: that is the last thing, the very last, I would ever want to inflict on a patient.” Especially a patient as unique as yourself, he thought.

“Your apology is accepted,” she said.

“In my eagerness to help you, I let down my guard. I allowed myself to be deceived. As, in fact, we all allowed ourselves to be deceived.”

This last bit of face-saving elicited no response.

He added a solicitous note to his voice. “Are you feeling well, Constance?”

“As well as could be expected.”

Felder winced inwardly. For a moment, silence settled over the small room as he considered what to say next.

“I made a mistake,” he said at last. “But I’ve learned from that mistake. Remembered something, actually. It’s a maxim we were taught in medical school: there are no shortcuts to effective treatment.”

Constance shifted slightly in the chair, moved her hands. For the first time, Felder noticed the bandage on her right thumb.

“It’s no secret that I’ve taken a particular interest in your case,” he went on. “In fact, I think I can safely say that no one is more sympathetic to or understanding of your condition than I am.”

At this, a brief, cold smile appeared. “Condition,” she repeated.

“What I am asking you is whether we can pick up the treatment where we left off, start work again in the spirit of—”

“No,” Constance interrupted. Her voice was muted, but there was nevertheless such a ring of iron to it that Felder was immediately chilled.

He swallowed. “I’m sorry?”

She spoke quietly but firmly, without once taking her eyes from his. “How could you even think of continuing your so-called treatment? Because of your lack of judgment, I was abducted and assaulted. Because of your overwhelming eagerness to involve yourself professionally with a patient you perceived as exotic, I was held captive and nearly perished. Do not insult my intelligence by making me complicit in your failure. How could you expect me to ever trust you again—and isn’t trust the fundamental requirement for therapeutic treatment? That is, of course, assuming I need therapeutic treatment—an offensive presumption on your part.”

As quickly as the passion had come, it was gone. Felder opened his mouth, then closed it. There was nothing to be said.

Into the silence came a knock. “Dr. Felder?” Ostrom’s voice sounded from the other side of the door. “Your ten minutes is up.”

Felder tried to say good-bye but found he couldn’t even manage that. He inclined his head slightly, then turned toward the door.

“Dr. Felder,” came Constance’s quiet voice.

Felder turned back.

“It is possible I have spoken too harshly with you. You may visit me from time to time, if you wish. But you must come as an acquaintance only—not as a doctor.”