“Jeanette,” Clint said.
“Bobby?” She blinked at him. “Oh . . . Dr. Norcross . . .” Her face seemed attenuated now, as if all muscles there had already gone to sleep and were only waiting for her stubborn brain to follow. It made Clint think of an old joke. Horse walks into a bar, and the bartender says, Hey, buddy, why the long face?
Clint wanted to explain to her why he’d ordered the officers to disable the payphones, and apologize for preventing her from calling her son to make sure the boy was all right. He wasn’t certain, however, that Jeanette would be able to comprehend him at this point, and if she did, if it would achieve anything, or only distress her further. The liberties that Clint had taken with the lives of the prison’s women, the lives of his patients, were grotesque. That he felt he had no alternative did not make it less grotesque or cruel. And that didn’t cover all of it, not by a long shot. It was because of Evie that he’d had to do all of it—and he realized, suddenly, insane or not, he hated her for that.
“Jeanette, whoever you—”
“Don’t bother me, Doc, I gotta do this.”
“I want you to go out to the exercise yard.”
“What? I can’t do that, at least not by myself, I can’t. This is a prison, you know.” She turned from him and peered into the shower. “Oh now look, the man’s gone. You scared him away.” She gave a single dry sob. “What’ll I do now?”
“None of the doors are locked, sweetheart.” Never in his life had Clint used such a term of intimacy when addressing an inmate, but now it came naturally, without thought.
“I’ll get on Bad Report if I do that!”
“She’s lost it, Doc,” Angel said without looking up.
“Go on, Jeanette,” Evie said. “Out to the furniture shop, across the exercise yard, into the garden. There are new peas there, as sweet as honey. Fill your pockets and come back. Dr. Norcross and I will be done by then, and we can have a picnic.”
“A pea-pea picnic,” Angel said through the screen of her hair, and snickered.
“Go on, now,” Evie said.
Jeanette eyed her uncertainly.
“The man may be out there,” Evie coaxed. “In fact, I’m sure he is.”
“Or possibly up your dirty ass,” Angel said through her hair. “He might be hiding there. Go find me a wrench and I’ll help you find him.”
“You got a bad mouth, Angel,” Jeanette said. “Bad.” She started up the short A Wing corridor, then stopped, staring fixedly down at a slanting oblong of sun on the floor as if hypnotized.
“I say you can’t not be bothered by a square of light,” Evie said quietly.
Jeanette laughed, and exclaimed, “That’s right, Ree! That’s right! It’s all Lying for Prizes, isn’t it?”
She went on, step by slow step, weaving left and correcting, weaving right and correcting.
“Angel?” Evie said.
She spoke in that same quiet, courteous voice, but Angel looked up at once, seemingly wide awake.
“Dr. Norcross and I are going to have a brief consultation. You may listen, but you need to keep your mouth closed. If you don’t, I’ll stop it up with a rat and it will eat the tongue right out of your head.”
Angel stared at her for several seconds, then lowered her face into her hands again.
Officer Hughes showed up just as Clint was unfolding his chair outside Evie’s cell. “Inmate just went outside,” he said. “Looked like she was headed for the garden. That okay?”
“It’s fine, Scott. But keep an eye on her, would you? If she falls asleep out there, get her into the shade before she starts to grow a cocoon. We’ll bring her in after she’s completely wrapped.”
“Okay, boss.” Hughes sketched a salute and left.
Boss, Clint thought. Jesus-God, boss. I wasn’t nominated, I didn’t campaign, but I got the job, anyway.
“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,” Evie said. “Henry IV, Part Two. Not one of his best, but not bad. You know they had boys play the women’s parts back then, right?”
She is not a mind-reader, Clint told himself. The men came, just as she predicted, but I could have predicted that. It’s simple logic. She’s got the skills of a good carnival fortune-teller, but she is not a mind-reader.
Yes, and he could go on believing that as long as he liked—it was a free country. Meanwhile, she was looking at him with curiosity and interest, eyes aware and totally awake. Probably the only woman alive who still looked like that.
“What shall we talk about, Clint? Shakespeare’s history plays? Baseball? The last season of Doctor Who? Too bad it ended on a cliffhanger, huh? I’m afraid it’s reruns from here on out. I have it on good authority that the doctor’s companion fell asleep a couple of days ago and now she’s riding in a TARDIS through her own innerspace. Maybe they can recast, though, go all male next season.”
“Sounds good,” said Clint, automatically falling into shrink mode.
“Or should we tackle something more germane to the current situation? I’d suggest the last, because time is getting short.”
“I’m interested in this idea you have about the two of us,” Clint said. “You being the Woman, and me being the Man. Symbolic figures. Archetypes. Yin and yang. The king on one side of the chessboard, the queen on the other.”
“Oh, no,” she said, smiling. “We’re on the same side, Clint. White king and white queen. On the other side, arrayed against us, is an entire army of black pieces. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men. Emphasis on men.”
“That’s interesting, that you see us on the same side. I didn’t get that before. And when, exactly, did you begin to realize that?”
The smile faded. “Don’t. Don’t you do it.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Fall back on DSM IV. To deal with this, you need to let go of certain rational assumptions and rely on intuition. Embrace your female side. Every man has one. Just think of all the male authors who have put on the dress. Mildred Pierce, by James Cain, for example. That’s a personal favorite.”
“There are a lot of female psychiatrists who would object to the idea that—”
“When we spoke on the phone, while your wife was still awake, you believed what I was telling you. I could hear it in your voice.”
“I was in . . . a strange place that night. Dealing with personal issues. Look, I’m not discounting your influence, your powers, however you want to characterize it. Let’s assume you’re in control. At least for today.”
“Yes, let’s assume that. But tomorrow they may come for me. If not then, the next day, or the one after that. It won’t be long. While in the other world, the one beyond the Tree, time is moving at a much faster pace—months are reeling by there. There are dangers, but with every one the women surmount, it becomes less likely that they will want to return to this world.”
“Let’s say I understand and believe even half of what you’re saying,” Clint said. “Who sent you?”