Sparks of Light (Into the Dim #2)

Carson snorted and exchanged a knowing look with Nurse Hannah. “That’s very nice, Miss Randolph,” he said. “But I believe we’ll need for you to open your mouth, please.”

I tried to do it. To open my mouth without dribbling the noxious fluid. But the acrid taste had flooded my mouth with so much saliva I knew I’d be outed if I cracked the seal even a little.

Dr. Carson sighed. Before I could blink he was on me, smashing my head against the sofa’s firm back. One hand came down hard over my mouth while the other pinched my nostrils closed. I flailed, fighting for breath. My ragged nails raked down his wrists. He hissed, cursing under his breath.

I had no choice. I swallowed in reflex. Satisfied, the doctor abruptly released me. When I fell to my knees, coughing and gagging, the pills rolled out of my hand.

Watching the entire exchange closely, Lila Jamesson’s sharp eyes tracked the pills’ progress across the floral carpet. With a subtle twitch of her skirts, she concealed the wayward meds beneath the folds of amber silk.

Eyes still watering, I looked up at her. She gave an infinitesimal shake of her head, then glanced pointedly away.

“And now, ladies,” Carson said, straightening his lapels, “I believe it is time for you to retire. Nurse Hannah, if you will kindly show the ladies to their quarters.”

“Yes, Alexander.” The nurse’s eyes went wide as Carson wheeled on her, his irritation plain. “I—” Her cheeks blazed with color as she babbled. “That is to say—?of course, Doctor. Right away, sir.”

The nurse scurried off like a scalded cat. Like a clutch of automatons, the patients stood and began to follow her from the room in an orderly line. Lila’s needlepoint dropped from her hand. Carson glanced her way but said nothing as she bent down to scoop it up. When she passed I glanced down at the carpet. The pills were gone. Rising, I made to follow, but Carson held out an arm, blocking my path.

“Sit, Miss Randolph.”

When I refused to comply, he only shrugged and straightened his lapels again. “Do not think I enjoy manhandling my patients. I’m a doctor, not a monster. Everything I do is in the name of scientific advancement. But I expect full cooperation from those in my charge. Do you understand?”

When I wouldn’t even look at him, he sighed and ran his gaze over the raised welts my nails had left behind. “Please do not force me to modify my initial treatment plan for you,” he said. “Which I can assure you is quite mild.”

The doctor took two steps until his face was inches from mine. Jaw tight, I refused to flinch as he leaned in to whisper, “Of course, I’d prefer to treat most of my patients with a daily regime of Prozac and Zoloft, with a side of Xanax or Haldol. But when in Rome, eh?”

When he stepped back, a smarmy smile tugging at his lips, I couldn’t help it. I gaped at him, stunned to my core.

It can’t be. That’s . . . that’s impossible. He winked as if we shared some delicious secret.

The floor beneath my feet went spongy. Dots appeared at the corners of my sight.

Alexander, Hannah had called him. Until then, I hadn’t known his first name. Dr. Alexander Carson. A fairly common name. But he . . . he wasn’t common, was he?

For years, my mom had begged me to go with her on her world lecture tours. A renowned history professor, author, and speaker, my mom was in high demand. Every year, she begged, promising to show me the world. I—?coward that I was—?always refused, breaking her heart time and again.

At fourteen, I became obsessed with finding a way to manage the anxiety disorders and phobias that ruled my life. Our small town’s library was minuscule, but I scrounged the Internet for anything I could find about or relating to the study of psychiatry.

As I stared at Dr. Alexander Carson now, a single article, short and green-tinged, appeared before my eyes, half obscuring his face.



Bellevue Psychiatrist, Facing Indictment for Unethical Practices, Disappears

By TERENCE JONES

NY Times, May 13, 1983—?Dr. Alexander Carson, 43, of Manhattan, scheduled to appear in court last Monday to face indictment on 23 counts of unethical practice, has apparently disappeared from his Eighth Avenue home. When police arrived at Carson’s apartment yesterday to take him into custody, he was not in residence. After a thorough investigation, police report no signs of forced entry or foul play. Also, the presence of Carson’s passport and belongings make the possibility that he fled the country less likely. Anyone known to harbor or assist Carson can and will be charged as an accessory.

This morning, NYPD Detective Antony Donato issued the following statement: “We are investigating every avenue of Dr. Carson’s disappearance. An APB has been issued and I have no doubt he will be found and justice served for the heinous acts committed against the patients whose trust Dr. Carson has betrayed.”





There had been no picture, and I remember being only slightly intrigued, wondering what types of “heinous acts” the doctor had committed. The hospital had apparently closed ranks when a 1985 class-action lawsuit had been filed against it, citing inability to pursue further action against the absent Dr. Carson, himself.





Absent didn’t begin to describe it. The missing psychiatrist from 1983 was standing before me now, in the year 1895.

The drug must have begun to take effect about then, because my sight went bleary. My lips felt numb, and my knees wobbled, forcing me to sit. Or fall.

“I see you understand. That’s good,” Carson said. “As long as you cause no trouble here, I believe we will get along just fine.”





Chapter 29


I BARELY REMEMBER UNDRESSING AND CLIMBING BETWEEN crisp sheets. At breakfast the next morning, the drug’s aftereffects left me shaken and queasy. I couldn’t even look at the silver tureens of scrambled eggs and piping hot sausages laid out buffet-style on a sideboard in the dining room.

At least I was back in my own gown, brushed clean and pressed by the maid. Barely picking at the triangle of toast the server had placed on my plate, I forced myself to down a glass of apple juice and two steaming cups of creamed coffee.

I was standing by the only window in the sitting room, staring out at the deserted lawn, when I saw them. I noticed Collum first, in his workman’s clothes, sandy hair covered by the flat cap. Then Phoebe appeared in my field of view, followed by Mac and another man, tall and dressed in black. His face was shaded by a bowler hat, and I couldn’t make out his features. My three friends turned, hands raised to shield their eyes from the slant of morning sun as they scanned the windows.

My heart slammed into my throat as I waved frantically. Here! I’m here!

When they didn’t respond, I pounded on the thick panes. Phoebe turned to Mac. As her mouth moved, Mac shook his head. Collum’s fist banged down into his palm, obviously furious.

“What are you doing?” Lila hissed as she jerked at my arm, trying to tug me away from the glass. “Are you insane in earnest? You’ll bring every attendant in the place down upon us.”

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