“Now this is an interesting case,” said Dr. Ana deTarlo, tossing a thick manila file onto her wide fabricated desk. The man sitting across from her raised an eyebrow, then leaned forward to pick up the folder and open it. His Passer watched in the background.
Chester Williams was thirty-four and young for the influence he wielded as the leading voice in the country in Passerism, which along with Passerist, were terms he had coined for himself as an expert in the study of Passersby – or as they were commonly called, Passers. He did not take requests for medical consultations lightly, though he rarely reviewed them in person. That was what his assistants and affiliates were for. But the problem with a personal favor was that it had to be, well, personal.
He smacked his lips in mock patience as he read the information in the folder, his icy dark eyes skipping quickly through it. More than once, Williams had been referred to as a “punk” or “arrogant little twit” by his critics, and he had the looks and attitude to support their statements. He even seemed to embrace conflict.
“Why would you call this patient interesting?” he asked, his eyes still on the file. “I’m familiar with this name; I think St. Cross sent me information about this, but my people decided it was nothing and blew it off.”
DeTarlo exhaled sharply as if in amused fortitude.
“Keep reading,” she answered. She was at least fifteen years Williams’s senior and had played no small role in building support for his reputation in the psychological field; she never let him forget it.
“Patient has been coming to the hospital with a variety of injuries and accidents for twelve years,” Williams summarized aloud, looking up. “Each time claiming that a Passer was responsible and offering no other explanation. There have been dozens of cases like this since the Sentience began. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Dr. deTarlo stood up and bent over her desk, rudely snatching the file back out of his hand and plopping it open before her. The light from her lamp reflected off the clean white sheets and illuminated her face in the semi-gloom caused by the closed blinds on her window.
“What kind of an idiot do you think I am?” she snapped.
Williams smirked and sat back in his chair, tapping his fingertips on the end of the hard plastic armrest.
“You tell me. I didn’t come all the way from Denver because I think that Fort Wayne is beautiful this time of year.”
Ignoring his response, deTarlo explained, “Just days ago, this patient was admitted to the psych ward after a botched suicide attempt. Since then, he has suffered two more ‘attacks’; the first time a phlebotomist was harmed in the process, and the second time, another patient killed himself in the same room.”
Williams arched an eyebrow, but didn’t speak.
“Sounds like a typical dangerous psych patient, I know,” Ana continued. “But the phlebotomist was adamant that the patient was ‘being attacked.’ She claims to have received injuries from the Passer involved, the one the patient identifies as ‘Rubin,’ though no spirits were visible at the time.”
There was a flicker of recognition in Chester’s eyes, though he said nothing.
“During the second attack,” said deTarlo, “the patient began seizing and bleeding from the mouth, at one point asphyxiating. When the nurses and orderlies attempted to revive him, the defibrillator malfunctioned and has been examined and shows signs of electromagnetic radiation.”
That caught Chester’s notice and both eyebrows went up. He remained motionless in his chair but appeared to pay closer attention.
“Also strange is that no injuries were found to the patient’s chest, heart, lungs, stomach, anything. The bleeding eventually stopped, but a source wound couldn’t be found. A significant amount of hemorrhaging occurred, yet there was no internal bleeding. He was covered in bruises and scratches, but no actual incisions.”
She paused to let the information sink in, and Williams began to lose interest again.
He began derisively: “Unless you pulled some strings to get me a doctorate without me knowing it…”
“I want to know about similar cases,” deTarlo snapped.
“You could have just had one of my interns look it up for you.”
“I don’t want a list. I want to know about the attacks.”
Chester remained still and looked at her for several moments as if waiting for an incentive, though his eyes glazed in thought.
“Dozens of cases at the beginning,” he started finally. “Less through the years, mostly because they were false and general bad opinion did nothing for attention seekers. Two dozen cases in the last twenty years has dwindled to less than half that in the last decade. Last I was up to date on the information, there have been only two—well, three now—recorded cases of possible legitimate Passer harassment in the country in the past six months.”
“Only three?” DeTarlo looked incredulous.
“That’s the possible legit cases,” Williams repeated. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you that it’s down to one where we thought there were none.”
DeTarlo appeared confused, so Williams clarified. “Case one, a woman, killed herself in Detroit over a month ago. Case two just stabbed himself to death in your psych ward. This one, case three, is all that’s left.”
“You appear awfully nonchalant about putting these pieces together, Chet.”
Williams narrowed his inky eyes at the nickname.
“Coincidences like this happen so often they become the norm,” he said. “I get so much information about these things, it’s no surprise to me anymore. The Passers have called in all debts with fate, and the world has become more balanced and symmetrical. You’d be surprised how much the natural and spiritual worlds mirror one another when you really get into the facts and figures. Behavior aside, that is. Since when are you interested in Passer hunts?”
Ana tried to hide a smile and turned her eyes down to the file in front of her again.
“I haven’t treated anyone with claims to this extent,” she responded with a blasé shrug.
“Uh-huh.” Williams waited to hear more.
“You know my fondness for fringe research. I’ve never read any reports that supported this sort of circumstance definitively. It’s advantageous that Dr. St. Cross has kept such careful and detailed reports, even if he has been overly secretive.”
“Isn’t it patient confidentiality or whatever?”
“Oh, is it?” Ana lifted her eyebrow, shadows cast on her forehead by the reflection of light off the papers before her, exaggerating the dark line above her eye. “You just told me he sent you this report.”
Chester shrugged, adopting the casualness she had just abandoned.
“St. Cross is a slug, I guess,” he said. “If that’s what you want me to think. He has been annoying.”
“Oh, I’ve told you what I want you to think.” She smiled deeply. A glimmer of pride and interest twinkled in her eyes at the mention of something she was familiar with and expert in. She was no stranger to how Williams’s mind worked.
Chester ignored her gloating and said as a disclaimer: “I would check and double-check that my statement about case three being the last one is correct. There’s no way my sources and interns are one hundred percent accurate all the time. Just because these are the only recorded cases of believable Passer harassment doesn’t mean there aren’t other cases out there that either aren’t taken seriously or just aren’t reported.”
DeTarlo still appeared very proud of herself and began shuffling through paperwork on her desk.
“I want you to reread the file in detail, and the other two cases as well,” she said. “Write up a statement and sign it.”
A look of intense annoyance and disappointment contorted Williams’s face.
“Oh gimme a break!” he exclaimed. “I have a life and responsibilities. I’ve got the whole of A.S.M. to deal with, and the riots, and I’m in the middle of getting another book through a final draft. I don’t have the time to write out reports for you.”
“Then have your interns write it,” deTarlo answered, unflustered. “But make sure you sign and agree with it. If we play our cards right, this could be just what we need to finally get just the subject we need for your Kelly Road project.”
Chester glared at the psychologist murderously, and his watching Passer began to shift tensely in the shadow cast by the open office door in the evening light. Ana was not intimidated.
“Yes, I know about it,” she said. “Do you think I wouldn’t hear about something like that just because you try to keep it all hush-hush? I know that St. Cross tried to connect these dots too, but he got nowhere.”
She stepped around her desk and cupped her hand to Chester’s cheek patronizingly. He slapped her away and got to his feet, whirling toward the door to leave.
“You’ll have your stupid report,” he snarled. “But there’s no way in hell I’d let you have the reins at Kelly Road.”
“It’s not up to you,” she replied, vaguely gloating. “I control the subject, and public curiosity is on my side. Passerism is a fad that’s becoming stale and obsolete.”
“While we remain among you,” answered Williams’s Passer, Rod, “the study and worship of our kind shall never be obsolete.” Dressed in a light-colored dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the ghost was a sharp-eyed brunette that looked no older than Chester.
“Yes, and you’ll always be around, so long as people keep dying,” deTarlo said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Williams slammed her office door behind him as he left, and Rod passed through it to follow.
Aidriel tensely tapped his bare foot against the floor and rubbed at his eyes with his fingertips.
“I have no advocate, then,” he said grimly.
Dr. deTarlo crossed her legs at the knees, smoothing her pencil skirt. She leaned back in the plastic chair and rolled her eyes when it creaked.
“Why would you say that?” she smoothly asked, controlling her expression again.
Aidriel dropped his hands to his knees and eyed her before rising to pace in front of the window.
“Mr. Akimos,” the psychologist began when he didn’t answer. “You are under my supervision until I am satisfied you are no longer a danger to yourself or others. But you attacked a medical worker and are under investigation for a man’s death.”
She bobbed her head once in the direction of the orderly standing just inside the door, watching.
“Oh that’s bullshit!” Aidriel exclaimed. “I was strapped down for Pete’s sake. The man was tormented; he killed himself.”
“Are you implying his suicide was the result of mental illness?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Aidriel snapped. “I mean he’s dead because he couldn’t take having to suffer the same way I am. He just managed actually offing himself.”
“It’s under investigation,” deTarlo murmured.
Aidriel stared out the window at the horizon, shaking his head in disbelief, his hands on his hips.
“It’s your decision, ultimately.” Ana tried to keep her voice soothing. “You can either stay here or allow yourself to be transported to another, specialized facility.”
“Bullshit,” he said again. “If I say I want to stay locked in this prison cell, you’ll come up with some medical gibberish reason that I’m not in my right mind and transport me anyway. I don’t want any part of your stupid study.”
DeTarlo pretended to be preoccupied with taking notes and didn’t let his words register immediately.
“Why do you feel that way?” she asked without looking up.
Aidriel smiled bitterly and scratched at the back of his head. He knew the orderly was watching his every move like a hawk, and though the doctors had insisted he stay in bed, Aidriel just couldn’t. He was getting stir-crazy.
“I didn’t know this was about my feelings,” he commented snippily.
“It’s my job to evaluate your mental state.”
“Last time I checked, I was still pretty sane.”
“Then why did you attempt to take your own life?”
Aidriel exhaled deeply. For a brief moment he became very sad before pulling himself together.
“My mistake was botching something simple,” he stated impassively. “No one ever wonders how long I can put up with this. I’ve been trying to convince everyone for twelve years that I’m serious and this is real, but you just ignore it. You’re all wasting time trying to figure it out, but no one’s that unlucky.”
“Have you told Chester Williams?”
Aidriel snorted a laugh and shifted dangerously, watching the orderly out of the corner of his eye. It bothered him that he was being physically watched by the man while mentally monitored by the woman. St. Cross didn’t play these games with him.
“Oh sure, your average fool can get personal meetings with the likes of Williams any day,” he commented. Before deTarlo could make a patronizing reply, Aidriel walked over to the bed and sat on it with his back to her.
“There’s no point in delaying the inevitable,” he said grimly. “You’re going to move me to your ‘special facility’ sooner or later. I’ve had all I can take of this place anyhow.”
Dr. deTarlo got up and came to stand next to him, holding out her pen and clipboard.
“Sign these,” she ordered, and he wordlessly complied.
“I want Dreamer there,” he said, handing back the pen.
“Who?”
“The girl from the lab. I want her to be wherever I’m going.”
She’d been on his mind often since the attack, and though he’d asked, they wouldn’t let him see her. For her safety, they said. But he wanted to talk to her. If only to apologize, though he felt she could relate with him now. She’d be someone he could confide in with complete honesty, and she might even help him.
“Why?” DeTarlo didn’t bother to hide her incredulity.
Aidriel looked up at her darkly.
“’Cause she’ll believe me,” he answered.