She remembered Holland, a skinny, furtive little man who’d been one of the two men to stare through the small square window while he was hitting her and caressing her, humiliating her. Holland had thinning brown hair and the deadest eyes she’d ever seen. He rarely said anything, at least to her.
She said nothing more until he appeared at her side, a glass of water in his hand.
“Here you are, Doctor,” he said in that low, hoarse voice of his that lay like a covering of loose gravel in all those nightmares, making her want to be drugged so she wouldn’t realize he was around her.
He was standing behind Beadermeyer, looking down at her, his eyes dead and hungry. She wanted to vomit.
Dr. Beadermeyer raised her and let her drink her fill.
“Soon you’ll want to go to the bathroom. Holland will help you with that, won’t you, Holland?”
Holland nodded, and she wanted to die. She fell back against the pillow, a hard, institutional pillow, and closed her eyes. She knew deep down she couldn’t keep herself intact in this place again. She also realized that she would never escape again. This time it was over for her.
She kept her eyes closed, didn’t turn toward him, just said, “I’m not crazy. I was never crazy. Why are you doing this? He’s dead. What does it matter?”
“You still don’t know, do you? You still have no memory of any of it. I realized that almost immediately. Well, it isn’t my place to tell you, my dear.” She felt him pat her cheek. She flinched.
“Now, now, Sally, I’m not the one who tormented you, though I must admit that I enjoyed the one tape I saw. Except you weren’t even there, you were just flopping back, your eyes closed, letting him do what whatever he wanted.
“You didn’t have any fight in you. Why, you were so out of it, you barely flinched when he hit you. But even then you weren’t afraid. I could tell. The contrast, at least, made for fascinating viewing.”
She felt gooseflesh rise on her arms as remnants of memories flooded her-the movement of his hands over hers, the pushing and slapping, the caressing that turned to pain.
She heard the bed ease up and knew that Dr. Beader-meyer was standing beside her, looking down at her. She heard him say softly, “Holland, if she gets away again, I’ll have to hurt you badly. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Doctor Beadermeyer.”
“It won’t be like last time, Holland. I made a mistake on your punishment last time. You rather liked that little shock therapy, didn’t you?”
“It won’t happen again, Doctor Beadermeyer.” Was there disappointment in that frightening little man’s voice?
“Good. You know what happened to Nurse Krider when she let her hide those pills under her tongue. Yes, of course you do. Be mindful, Holland.
“I must go now, Sally, but I’ll be with you again this evening. We’ll have to get you away from the sanitarium, probably tomorrow morning. The decision about what to do with you hasn’t been made just yet. But you can’t stay here. The FBI, this Quinlan fellow, he’s got to know all about this place. I’m sure you did tell him some things about your past. And they’ll come. But that isn’t your problem.
“Now, let me give you a little shot of something that will make you drift and really feel quite good about things. Yes, Holland, hold her arm for me.”
Sally felt the chill of the needle, felt the brief sting. Within moments, she felt herself begin to drift out of her brain, to float in nothingness. She felt the part of her that was real, the part of her that wanted life-such a small flicker, really-struggling briefly before it succumbed. She sighed deeply and was gone from herself.
She felt hands on her, taking off her clothes. She knew it was Holland. Probably Dr. Beadermeyer was watching.
She didn’t struggle. There was nothing more to care about.
Quinlan woke up with a roaring headache that beat any hangover he’d ever had in college. He cursed, held his head in his hands, and cursed some more.