Snakes and ladders

Thirty-Eight

The moment the receptionist allowed them inside Dr Osterma

‘That was terrible,’ she said.

Striker just shrugged. ‘I know, and believe me I’m not proud of it, but we had no choice. We needed to get in here before Osterma

‘Eleven – and that’s if he doesn’t finish early.’

Striker frowned at that. Ten minutes wasn’t a lot of time. He looked around the room. To his surprise, the office was fairly barren. He’d expected to see medical diplomas hung on every wall. Plaques and certificates and awards. Maybe some pamphlets for the EvenHealth programme. A row of books, at the very least.

But there was none of that.

All that occupied the office was a large oak cabinet in the far corner, a big sturdy wooden desk, and a pair of comfortablelooking leather chairs sitting opposite the desk.

On the walls hung nothing but standard pictures. A sailor looking out over the sea; a little boy at the doctor’s office; and a Native Indian-style wolf head. Aside from this and a few plants decorating the room, there was nothing of interest. No shelves, no books at all.

Striker moved over to the desk. He tried to open the drawers but they were all locked. On it was nothing but an ink blotter, a computer and a keyboard with mouse. The computer screen was blank, and when Striker moved the mouse, the logon screen appeared.

‘Needs a password,’ Felicia said.

‘EvenHealth?’ he asked.

‘Lots of luck,’ she said.

He knew she was right, and didn’t even venture to guess. Instead, he moved over to the cabinet on the far side of the room and opened the doors. Inside was a small TV set with built-in DVD player. A Samsung. On the shelf below was a row of DVDs, each one with a name on the side. Striker searched for any with the names Larisa Logan or Mandy Gill, but found none. Instead, he found one labelled Billy Stephen Mercury. And in brackets were the words: Kuwait. Afghanistan. PTSD.

PTSD – Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.

He turned and looked at Felicia. ‘Our Billy?’

‘Write down the details. Hurry. Before Osterma

‘I’ll do more than that,’ he said. He flicked on the TV and grabbed the DVD case. He opened it, slid out the disc, and slipped it into the tray.

Felicia gave him a nervous look. ‘Jacob, what are you doing?’

‘Just watch the door.’

‘Watch the door? It’s five feet away from you.’

‘Then just stand by it and listen. Let me know if you hear him coming.’

‘Osterma

Striker smiled. ‘Then sit back and pull up a chair because there’s go

Seconds later, the screen came to life.

The video quality was surprisingly good, damn near high def, though the sound was slightly muffled. The camera was angled from the left side, with Dr Erich Osterma

A different room.

Striker took note of the walls – there was absolutely nothing on them – and then of the male being interviewed. He was Caucasian, and terribly thin, emaciated, yet he looked wiry, strong. He could have been in his late twenties or early thirties – it was hard to tell. His hair was dark brown, but greying, and the stubble on his face was almost entirely white.

‘He looks young, but old,’ Felicia noted.

Striker made no reply. He just studied the patient on the feed.

The skin of Billy Mercury’s face had few wrinkles, except around his eyes, where there were many. The man looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept well in years, and the paleness of his skin amplified this look. Perspiration dampened his skin, and when he breathed, his chest rose and fell heavily, unevenly, as if he were hyperventilating.

Dr Osterma

Last of all, he introduced his patient.

‘And this person opposite me is Billy Stephen Mercury,’ Dr Osterma

Striker studied everything on the screen. During the entire introduction, Billy Mercury had said nothing. He just sat there and barely moved, staring at nothing in the room. His body trembled. His skin sweated. His breath came in fast and uneven gulps of air.

‘So Billy,’ Dr Osterma

Dr Osterma

‘When we last left off, you were telling me how one of your company – a Colonel Dylan – was killed by a roadside attack and how you had been separated from your party in the back roads of the town. Would you care to continue the story?’

For a long moment, Billy Mercury said nothing. He just sat there, shaking and sweating, letting the silence envelop them. Then, with a start, he came to life. He began looking all around the room, his eyes shifting rapidly, as if seeing things in the room that no one else could see.

‘They were everywhere,’ he finally said. ‘In the streets of the village. In the doorways of the homes and in the open markets and in all the crevices . . . but in the shadows. Always in the shadows.’

‘And this was . . .’

‘The enemy.’

‘The resistance soldiers?’ Dr Osterma

‘Who?’ he asked, and suddenly he let out a high-pitched laugh that turned into a cry. ‘What is more important.’

Dr Osterma

‘I saw them over there. In Farah and Herat and Kandahar. I saw them many times. They were everywhere. Pretending to be soldiers. And citizens. Children, even. They lived in the darkness. Came out of the shadows. They’re born in the blackness, made from blackness. It seeps right out of their eyes, their mouths.’

‘Billy—’

‘Made of fucking hellfire!’

‘Billy, we’ve discussed this before. It’s psychosis, it’s delusions—’

‘NO! You don’t understand, Doctor. You weren’t there, so you can’t know. It’s not like here. It’s another world. Another place. They can live there, they can grow. And they’re getting stronger. They’ll be coming here soon. They’ll get inside the clinic. Come for me. Come for you! Come for everyone!’

Dr Osterma