Incarnate Page 2

  “Really, Kim?” Kyle chided, coming up behind her. “My testicles?”

  “What’s up with that one?” she asked, ignoring the question and pointing toward the waiting room. “Sounds like fun.”

  “I think we can handle it on our own,” Jennings said. “Guy came in with facial burns. Not really your area of expertise, is it?”

  “I don’t know, Arthur, I’m very good at a surprising range of things,” Kim shot back. Like her, Jennings was still a resident, but he was privy to the same hospital gossip as everyone else—and enough of a dick to taunt her with it.

  “Yeah, I bet.” Jennings leered, letting his gaze wander down to her cleavage, which Kim had failed to notice was on display in Ethan’s oversize shirt.

  “God, Arthur, grow up. Come on, I’m already here. Let me sit in, okay?”

  “I don’t know—not sure we can afford the liability.”

  “I heard Gyno kicked you out of their poker game,” Kim retorted. “Caught you drawing a full bush on the STD poster.”

  “Enough,” Kyle said, covering his ears. “Jennings, don’t make me pull rank here. If you aren’t man enough to handle Kim for twenty minutes, just say so, and I’ll tell Graver you clocked out early to go home and have a good cry.”

  “That’s—that’s just great,” Jennings sputtered as Kyle headed back down the hall. “Does he always let you push him around like that?”

  “He’s delicate.” Kim shrugged. “Probably stemming from psychogenic sexual dysfunction. Tell you what, let’s you and me be friends, okay? I feel like our love deserves a second chance.”

  Jennings ignored her as she followed him out into the waiting room, where one of the intake clerks was trying to coax the screaming man into a chair, with the help of a girl of around eighteen or nineteen. The girl was murmuring softly and trying to tug at his sleeves, but he kept flinging her hands away. His face was grotesquely burned on one side, a crisscross pattern of seared flesh bubbling and peeling, blackened bits stuck to red, weeping tissue.

  “It’s about time, Dr. Jennings,” the clerk snapped. “I’ve called for security, but they’re tied up with a fender bender in the garage.”

  “Thank you, Brenda. Sir, I understand that you are in pain, but we need to get some information before we can—”

  “Get her away from me!” the man hollered, shrinking away from the girl while trying ineffectually to kick her as she nimbly dodged out of the way. “Crazy bitch tried to kill me!”

  “He doesn’t mean it,” the girl said apologetically. “I think he’s just confused from the pain. Come on, Darren, they’re trying to help.”

  “They should lock you up!”

  The girl gave Kim an imploring look, holding back tears. “It’s just that there was an accident at the restaurant earlier. I don’t remember how it happened, but the— Ow!”

  One of the man’s boots had connected with the girl’s shin. “Okay, sir, listen,” Kim said. “We’ll keep her out here, okay? Those doors are locked. If you go inside with Brenda here and finish up your paperwork, there’s no way the crazy bitch will be able to follow you. Sound all right?”

  “Tie her up!” the man screamed. “Burn her face off; see how she likes that!”

  “Okay, yeah, sure, that sounds like a plan,” Kim said. “I’ll just run upstairs and fetch a few bungee cords and my ethylene torch. But in the meantime, I’d feel a lot better if you’d go in with them. You look like you’re in a lot of pain.”

  The man wavered, looking from the girl to Kim to the clerk. His burns were at full thickness and would require painful debridement followed by grafting. Eventually, reconstructive surgery might be an option, but even with the best possible outcome, he was going to end up with some very distinctive scars.

  “Don’t let her in there,” he implored.

  “We won’t,” Jennings said reassuringly. “Now go on ahead with Brenda, and I’ll meet you in the exam room in a few minutes.”

  After the doors shut behind them, Jennings turned to Kim. “Score another one for your famous bedside manner. I don’t know how you do it, Kim. Got the crazies eating out of your hand.”

  “Aw, you make me blush,” Kim retorted, already making her way to the sign-in desk to get the intake paperwork for the girl.

  “Okay, you had your fun, but now you can leave the real medicine to the real doctors,” Jennings said coldly, never one to miss a chance to share his disdain for the practice of psychiatric medicine.

  “Knock yourself out.” Kim thanked the attending nurse when she retrieved the clipboard for the girl. The somber teenager looked up from where she hunched on the edge of one of the waiting room chairs. Her hair had been obscuring her face and a dog-eared copy of Better Homes and Gardens lay upside down in her lap. “I’m going to shoot the shit with this menacing criminal over here.” She smiled at the girl but got only a blank look in return.

  Jennings huffed through the doors into the examining area to treat the burn patient, leaving Kim with the much more interesting mystery to solve: who this girl was and why she couldn’t remember what must have been an exceptional act of violence.

  TWO

  Once Kim started asking questions, the eerie blankness retreated from the girl’s face and she returned to fervent declarations of her own innocence. It took only a few minutes of gentle probing before the girl broke down in huge sobs that, at least to Kim’s discriminating eye, seemed absolutely genuine. The intake paperwork lay forgotten at the girl’s side, but Kim had managed to coax a few details from her: her name was Scarlett Hascall, she was nineteen, she lived at home, and she had been working at the Burger Barn since graduating from high school last year.

  Also, she couldn’t remember a single thing about the incident that had landed Darren Fenstrom in the emergency room. She swore that the last thing she remembered was clocking in for her shift and putting on her grease-stained white apron.

  “Tell you what,” Kim said, thinking the girl might be able to relax away from the chaotic waiting room. “How about we go up to my office, where we can have a little privacy. It’s nothing fancy, but I’ve got some soda in the mini fridge . . . and a whole box of Kleenex with your name on it, if you want it.”

  Catching sight of a police officer entering the ER waiting room, the girl nodded meekly and followed Kim up to the third floor. Unfortunately, Kyle was standing outside Kim’s office, reviewing a chart. Jennings must have tipped him off that she had gone AWOL. Kim resolved to devise a suitable revenge later.

  “Hi, Dr. Berman!” she chirped brightly, flashing him a fake grin. “Wish I had time to chat, but I need to take Ms. Hascall’s history now.”

  “Is that right?” Kyle said stonily. “Tell you what, I’ve got a few minutes—I’ll observe. Maybe I can help out.”

  Kim refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her dismay. “That’s great. I’m sure I’ll learn something super important from you, like I always do.”

  Holding the door open for Scarlett, she saw the girl glance uneasily at Kyle and wondered if he’d missed her obvious discomfort, or if he simply didn’t care.

  If Scarlett minded wedging into Kim’s closet-size office, she was too polite—or distracted—to say so. Instead, she folded her slender frame into the threadbare chair while Kyle took up a position in the corner, flattened against the emergency-evacuation poster.

  “Something I’m a little confused about,” Kim said cautiously, scooting her own chair close so that she was knee to knee with Scarlett. “You don’t seem too surprised by Darren’s accusations. Most people, they get accused of something like that, they’re likely to fly off the handle. Or at least make it clear that they weren’t involved.”

  Scarlett shrugged and averted her eyes. “I mean, I don’t remember doing anything. I don’t think I would do anything like that. But I guess if he said I did it . . . maybe I did.”

  “Don’t mind me,” Kim said, shining a light in Scarlett’s eyes to check her pupils. “So you really don’t remember
anything?”

  Scarlett blinked, ducking her chin nervously. “It happens. She . . . loses time.”

  She? Kim glanced at Kyle. He cleared his throat. “I’ve read her chart. She’s had some similar episodes in the past. Scarlett, I think we might need to adjust your medications.”

  He started flipping through the pages of the chart he’d been carrying.

  “It’s okay,” Kim murmured gently as she checked the other eye. “Just keep looking at me.” She wished Kyle would leave them alone for a few minutes so she could establish a rapport with the girl.

  Scarlett nodded unconvincingly. When Kim put down the light, the girl rubbed her eyes and looked around the room. Her gaze fell on the mirror above the small scrub sink. As Kim watched, her expression seemed to waver and shift, almost as though she was startled by her own appearance. She frowned and narrowed her eyes, staring intently. After a long moment, she turned back to Kim. “Did I really mess him up like that?” she asked.

  “Yeah, ’fraid it looks that way,” Kim said. “But he’s going to be fine. And, hey, I get it—we’ve all had an evil boss at some point, right?”

  She inclined her head subtly at Kyle, earning a faint smile from Scarlett. She seemed to relax fractionally, pushing her hair out of her face. The motion caused her sleeve to slide back on her wrist. Thin, pale scars crisscrossed the skin on the inside of her arm.

  “You know,” Kyle said, setting the chart down, “it’s a positive sign that you’re worried about the guy.”

  “ ’Cause it shows I’m not a psychopath?”

  “Hang on, we haven’t completely ruled that out yet,” Kim said with mock concern. This time Scarlett’s smile seemed genuine, to Kim’s relief. Without the girl’s trust, it was going to be a lot harder to dig more deeply into what was going on, and there were a number of red flags in Scarlett’s case. The scars, for one thing—and the fact that her high-tops had words scribbled on them in pen: Aneurysm. Dumb. Lithium. Then again . . . “So, Scarlett, did I ever tell you about the time I partied with Dave Grohl?”

  “I just met you,” Scarlett pointed out, as if Kim were an idiot. After a moment, she added, “But did you really? Party with him, I mean?”

  “Yeah. And he told me something I’ll never forget. He said . . . ‘The best way out is always through.’ ”

  As Scarlett seemed to consider her words, Kyle scowled. “That was Robert Frost, actually.”

  Kim winked at Scarlett. “Buzzkill,” she stage-whispered, standing up and moving toward the door. “But you get the point.”

  Kyle pointed at the clipboard where it sat next to Scarlett. “If you could update your personal information, please. Dr. Patterson and I are going to step out for a moment.”

  Kim paused at the door and turned around. “Hey.”

  Scarlett looked up, pen in her hand.

  “I mean it, though. We’re going to help you get through.”

  Scarlett nodded unconvincingly and bent over the clipboard.

  Kim closed the door gently behind her and caught up with Kyle, who was waiting for her with his arms folded. “So what’s your take?” he asked.

  “Actually, I’d like to hear what you think. Being a resident and all, I’m eager to learn from my superiors.”

  Kyle glowered at her but let the sarcasm pass. “You want to know what I think? I think we need to step very carefully here, given that girl’s record.” He passed Kim some files, which she tucked under her arm to read later. “Police Chief Plunkett paged so he could share his concerns. Scarlett Hascall has been in and out of treatment since she was six. Different doctors, different diagnoses. She was sent here eighteen months ago after she sucker-punched a classmate at school. I was supposed to get her in a six-month course of therapy, but she bailed after our second session. From what I’ve seen, I’d say she’s got a serious mood disorder, possibly bipolar. This latest assault—that’s type one mania. She’s a cutter . . . self-mutilation . . . probably depressed.”

  Kim took the chart from him and scanned the history.

  “Lithium, Klonopin, Zyprexa . . . Jeez, I mean, there must be, what, a dozen different meds on here? Let me ask you something—was she ever tested for DID?”

  “Dissociative identity disorder? Are you serious?” Kyle shook his head, keeping his voice down as if afraid passing hospital staff might hear Kim’s theory. “Split personality’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? There’s no history of abuse. No childhood trauma.”

  “That you know of,” Kim pointed out. “She displays some signs. She was surprised when she saw her own reflection, like she didn’t even recognize herself, and she referred to herself in the third person. And did you smell her?”

  Kyle’s lip curled in distaste. “I try not to sniff my patients.”

  “Aftershave. Men’s aftershave. The mirror, the smell, both suggesting a confusion of self. Add to that the blackouts . . . the lost time . . .”

  Kyle raised his eyebrows. “You’re being pretty selective about the details. How about what she wrote on her shoe? Lithium? A bipolar drug. How does that fit into your little theory?”

  “Lithium, aneurysm, dumb. I saw them. My theory is that she likes Nirvana songs.”

  Kyle reddened as he realized she was right.

  “Kyle . . . let me take a crack at her. In treatment, one-on-one. I mean, what have we got to lose here?”

  Kyle sighed and considered her for a long moment. “Did you really party with Dave Grohl?”

  “Nah.” Kim grinned, knowing she’d won this round. “Too busy reading Robert Frost.”

  “Okay, fine. She’s your patient. But keep me updated and try not to break any more rules. This can’t be like San Diego. Not again.”

  Kim shot him a look. “Hey, I’m not all terrible. If I didn’t break the rules now and then, I wouldn’t be having sex with you.”

  She blew him a kiss and turned back toward her office . . .

  . . . where the door stood wide open.

  The room was empty. The half-filled-out paperwork was sitting on the counter, the pen next to it, the plastic gnawed.

  She glanced frantically around the tiny office, as though Scarlett could be hiding in the file cabinet or the minuscule bookcase. The faint scent of aftershave was still detectable in the air—but the girl was gone.

  Kim cursed under her breath. Losing a patient would not do her any favors with Kyle, or the board.

  She raced back into the hallway and saw Scarlett moving quickly toward the staff elevators at the end of the hall, her feet making no noise in their rubber-soled tennis shoes.

  “Hey, Scarlett!” Kim called, waving. But Scarlett didn’t give any sign that she had heard. The doors opened and she stepped inside.

  Kim ran down the hall, but by the time she arrived, the doors were closed. The display above showed it descending: 2 . . . 1 . . . B.

  Kim stabbed at the DOWN button, debating whether to take the stairs, when the second set of doors opened. The elevator crept agonizingly slowly, and by the time she reached the basement and stepped out, the corridors were empty. Scarlett was nowhere in sight.

  The basement was home to the hospital’s mechanicals and a few storage areas and unused offices, as well as the morgue. An overhead light flickered and buzzed, casting the hall in gloom. A faint smell of engine oil and formaldehyde and other unidentifiable, unpleasant notes permeated her sinuses.

  “Scarlett?” Kim called, cautiously moving down the hall. “Scarlett, you’re not allowed down here. Please, talk to me.”

  There was a fleeting, small sound—like a footfall on the linoleum floor—and Kim followed it down the west corridor. As she drew closer to the doors at the end, she thought she saw a flash of movement and heard the click of a door closing. She raced toward the door and found herself face-to-face with an old sign stenciled in flaking paint: HOSPITAL MORGUE.

  Kim pushed the door open, heart racing. Nearly everyone used the new entrance, accessible from the other set of elevators and staffed b
y a clerk; she’d never taken this back entrance before. She let her eyes adjust to the interior of the storeroom: the exposed, dripping pipes; the crumpled body bags mounded on a table; the bone saws and fluid extractors and other equipment lining the shelves. Naked bulbs cast inadequate light and long shadows on the cracked and peeling linoleum floors.

  A shadow passed by the pane of frosted glass set into the door to the refrigeration room. “Scarlett? Is that you?”

  Kim put her hand on the doorknob and hesitated: if it wasn’t Scarlett on the other side of the door, she was going to have a heck of a time explaining what she was doing in the morgue. Kyle’s earlier warning played in her mind, though she hadn’t needed him to remind her that this job was her last chance to salvage her career.

  Then she thought of Scarlett, of the eerie, blank expression that had repeatedly replaced her bewilderment and fear, and pushed the door open.

  Inside the chilly room, lit by the fluorescent bulb overhead, Scarlett was pulling back the sheet covering a body. Her auburn hair fell in unruly waves around her shoulders as she bent closer, studying the face; then she moved to the next steel table and began to examine a second body.

  Kim opened her mouth and then closed it again, fascinated. Scarlett didn’t appear to notice her, frowning in concentration as she continued examining the bodies one by one. Her expression was inscrutable, sharpened by curiosity and purpose, with none of her earlier hesitation or resignation. Kim took a step backward, deciding it was more important to try to understand what the girl was doing than to interrupt her just yet.

  After all, the people on the tables weren’t going anywhere.

  As she backed up, Kim bumped against an instrument cart behind her. A tray slid off it and clattered to the ground, spilling metal tools everywhere. Startled, Scarlett snatched a scalpel off one of the nearby tables and spun around to face Kim.