Face Behind the Mask Read online

  Dr. Hoffman grinned cautiously. “Well, Sam, after what happened, the hospital’s not comfortable keeping you here. We’re transferring you to a unit where you can get better attention.”

  She watched warily as the two orderlies finished making her bed mobile. “Can you at least unlatch me?”

  He patted her foot. “As soon as you get settled in your new room, the restraints will be removed. We’ll come get you once a day for your oxygen treatment, of course.”

  That didn’t make her feel particularly better. A minute later, they wheeled her through the hallways of the burn unit and then the intensive care unit. No one spoke to her.

  Finally, they reached a closed metal doorway. Dr. Hoffman clicked on a wall intercom. “This is Dr. Hoffman with Samantha Castille, here to see Dr. Kindley.”

  A loud buzzer rang, and then the metal doors opened.

  Huh? I’m in an area that’s locked down? What the… Then it hit her. She knew exactly where she was going.

  “Are you serious?” she said, trying to sit up. “You’re transferring me to the psych ward?”

  “Calm down, Miss Castille!”

  “Wait! Don’t I get a hearing or a lawyer or something?”

  “Dr. Kindley will explain everything. I promise.”

  On the other side of the door, they were met by a doctor in his mid-forties with short, oily, black hair and a smile like that of a salesman. On one side of his white jacket was the name tag, which read “Dr. I. Kindley,” and on the other side was a white button with “Would You Kindly?” written in red crayon. On his lapel, he wore an ornate golden pin with a crest on it—a red cross with a golden crown.

  Sam focused on the crest. She’d seen that before, but where?

  “Ah, here we have the newest member of our family,” Dr. Kindley said as he signed something on a medical clipboard and then handed it to Dr. Hoffman. “There. All done. Thank you for personally walking her down here.”

  Dr. Hoffman sighed with audible resignation. “Just take good care of her, OK? She’s had a very hard life. She’s a good girl, trust me.”

  With a forced laugh, Dr. Kindley patted him on the back. “Oh, she’ll be as happy as a lark here. Well, best let me see to my patient. Good day, Dr. Hoffman, and all that.”

  Glancing back at Sam, Dr. Hoffman offered an apologetic look.

  “No, don’t leave me here,” she pleaded.

  He quickly left without another word.

  Then Dr. Kindley leaned into her view. “I’m Dr. Kindley. Welcome to the Tulane Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit, Miss Castille. May I call you Miss Castille? Good. Thank you.”

  She glowered at him and then looked down the hallway. A dozen or so patients were shuffling from one room to the next or congregating in a large, open space at the end of the hall. They all wore white hospital gowns. Some mumbled to themselves. Some hummed. Some argued with people who weren’t there. One even stood along the wall, arms spread out as if on a cross, completely motionless. The whole area smelled like stale urine.

  I’m in the nuthouse. How could this happen?

  “Are you ready to meet your social worker?” asked Dr. Kindley. “She’ll explain everything to you. Come on, gentlemen, please bring Miss Castille along.”

  The two orderlies wheeled Sam away from the other patients and into a room with a single table and chair. They set her up in a corner.

  “What about my restraints? Can those come off?”

  “All in good time, Miss Castille.” Dr. Kindley continued acting as if the world was a picnic.

  Then they left her alone with only the sound of the air conditioning rattling in the ceiling above. She struggled a bit with the restraints before settling down, finally closing her eyes and drifting off. She awoke a little while later when a woman in her late fifties with pale skin and light-colored lips, wearing a business suit, holding a briefcase, and sporting a gray bun of hair, entered the room.

  “Samantha Castille? I’m Veronica Dumont, your social worker. I’ve been assigned to your case.” Veronica sat down at the table, opened up the briefcase, and took out a thick folder.

  Sam eyed it dubiously. “What’s that? My file?”

  “Yes,” Veronica said. “Can I be perfectly honest with you, Miss Castille?”

  “I’d appreciate that, since no one else has been,” Sam said.

  “All right. I was asked to be your social worker because no one else would. Your case came through our office, and suddenly everyone had a sick child or a doctor’s appointment. I won’t mince words with you, Miss Castille. We’re all pretty distrustful of you.”

  That made Sam’s jaw drop. “But what about Dixie? And Ouellette? And Dr. Hoffman? Don’t they trust me?”

  Sitting back, Veronica said, “Dr. Hoffman is terrified of you. That nurse you hit, Marty, suffered a broken sternum. You’re lucky you didn’t kill him. Both Ouellette and Dixie Olivier were sent here to give the judge’s order directly to Dr. Hoffman.”

  Sam felt her confusion and frustration rising. “What judge’s order? What’re you talking about?”

  “Your commitment, of course. You’ve been committed for six months to the PICU—the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit—for acute schizophrenic episodes and intermittent explosive disorder. Anger problems.”

  Sam laid back and gazed blankly at the ceiling. So this was what Dixie was trying to warn her about. The sick feeling grew in her stomach once more. Why didn’t she just come out and say it?

  She knocked her head back against the pillow. All those kind words. They were probably said out of guilt. She doesn’t really care!

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. As the moments passed, the tightness in her chest and the pain in her gut continued to rise. There was no one left for her to trust.

  Veronica cleared her throat. “I need to ask you a few questions, Miss Castille. Do you have any living relatives we can contact?”

  The pain of Dixie’s duplicity gnawed at Sam’s heart. She didn’t want to discuss her family. “No. I think I’m the last of the Castilles in New Orleans. I wouldn’t even know how to contact my cousins or whatever.”

  “Do you have any bank accounts we should keep an eye on for you? To make sure no one uses your money while you’re here?”

  “I have a checking and savings account at Whitney Bank. I know my lawyer, Kent, was overseeing my estate before he went psycho and tried to get me killed.”

  “Yes, about your estate,” Veronica said, opening the file. “You may want to get an attorney to help you sort that out. There is a clause that says that if you were to be committed, you’d forfeit your inheritance.”

  It was old news, and Sam was sick of discussing it. It was the entire reason Kent Bourgeois and his son Nick had helped Dallas: so they could get her money. Kent had even married Aunt Gladys, Vincent’s younger sister, so he could inherit it. The whole situation disgusted Sam to the point where she was ready to just give up that money, all five billion of it.

  “So who gets it now that I’m legally crazy?”

  Veronica shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. The whole thing is a mess, which is why I suggest legal counsel.”

  “I’ll think about it. But now I have a question for you, Miss Dumont. Why the hell am I committed without a hearing? Don’t I have rights? I’m pretty sure you can’t just declare someone legally insane on a whim.”

  Closing the file, Veronica spoke in a hushed voice. “Well, I was instructed not to tell you, but I feel that you deserve to know. Someone with a lot of political influence pushed your commitment through in less than a day. Likely greased some palms and such. He’ll be monitoring your progress with Dr. Kindley. If you don’t respond positively, I’m told he’s going to recommend a longer commitment with personal treatment from him.”

  Nausea started welling up in Sam’s stomach. There was only one person she knew who had gloated over his political connections in New Orleans. Sometimes, during sessions, he’d even boast that his benefactors were the people who actually r
an the city behind the scenes.

  “Oh, God,” she said, feeling weak. “Please tell me, tell me it’s not him.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s your old therapist, Dr. Klein.”

  Sam screamed until the orderlies rushed in and sedated her.

  Chapter 3

  You Want My Story?

  Date: Wednesday, October 7, 1992

  Time: 10:00 a.m.

  Location: Tulane Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit

  Downtown New Orleans

  “So then I came home from my African safari, and my wife was in bed with the repair guy,” the short man said to the ring of patients.

  Dr. Kindley nodded, an action that seemed more rehearsed than sympathetic. “And how did that make you feel, Mr. Lafont?”

  Sam closed her eyes and groaned. She tuned out the short man, whom she’d nicknamed Livingston, as he talked about how it had sent him into a downward spiral of problems.

  God, kill me now.

  She had been under Dr. Kindley’s care for several weeks, and while most of her physical injuries had healed—once more drawing surprise and unease from the doctors around her—her commitment continued to stand. Every appeal had been dismissed, and Veronica had finally advised her to wait until her formal hearing at the end of the six months. It was all Dr. Klein’s fault. She hated him so much.

  “Also, with Dr. Marcus Brody dying yesterday, I’m pretty bummed. He was a good friend. Very helpful on my expeditions.”

  She frowned as Dr. Kindley scribbled on a clipboard. While the other patients in her therapy group had welcomed her, even blindly accepting her quick healing, she had pushed them all away. She just couldn’t relate to their personality quirks, like Livingston’s belief that the characters of movies like Raiders of the Lost Ark were real.

  I’m so alone.

  “We’ve talked about that before, Mr. Lafont,” said Dr. Kindley. “The man’s name was Denholm Elliot. Dr. Brody was the character he played.”

  “Right, right. I still get the two confused.” Livingston waved it off.

  Dr. Kindley’s eyes skimmed the group before settling on her. “Would anyone like to comment on Mr. Lafont’s story? He really opened up today.”

  Sam stared back, her eyes narrowed. There wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in his body.

  Fortunately, another patient, a woman whom Sam had nicknamed Miss Prissy, started talking in a high-pitched whining voice. Again, Sam tuned everyone out, inspecting her burns. They had healed, but scars covered the entire left side of her body. The ones on her face were the least noticeable, while the ones on her arm were the worst. Her left leg was still in a cast, so she had to use a pair of crutches to walk.

  Sighing, she picked at a scar on her arm. Just call me the Bitch of Frankenstein.

  Sudden laughter drew her out of her thoughts. Miss Prissy’s shallow face was blushing furiously while everyone, even Dr. Kindley, was having a good bit of fun. For a moment, Sam felt outside of herself, the isolation almost overwhelming.

  She had given them all sarcastic and somewhat demeaning nicknames, which she had kept to herself. There was a tall, bald older man who always carried a bible, Preacher Man; a witless-looking sod who would randomly go catatonic, Gormless; a man who looked like he used a children’s playground as single’s bar, Stinky Palms; a woman who had a reputation for hitting on anyone with a pulse, Lay-Me; and a guy who looked just like James Woods. Everyone was sharing the bonding moment. Even Miss Prissy started to chortle.

  Everyone, that is, except Sam. I just don’t belong.

  “So, Miss Castille, what about you?” Dr. Kindley wiped away a tear that wasn’t actually there. “You’ve been here a month and still haven’t shared anything.”

  She suddenly felt all eyes in the room upon her. Scanning the faces of the other patients, some smiling pleasantly and others peering with suspicion, she shook her head. “Don’t have anything to say. Pass.”

  Miss Prissy reached over and patted her knee. “Oh, come now, Sam. As Martha Stewart says, ‘Without an open-minded mind, you can never be a great success.’”

  “Right,” Livingston said. “Besides, you listened to me prattle on about catching my wife cheating on me with Shaft. The least you can do is share something in return.”

  “’But to do good and to communicate forget not. For with such sacrifices, God is well pleased.’ Hebrews, chapter 13, verse 16,” Preacher Man said.

  Sam was sure she had walked onto a sitcom. Gathering her wits, she sat up and folded her arms underneath her chest. “Sorry, everyone. I’m just not comfortable telling my story. It’s just too… um, crazy.”

  Dr. Kindley hummed. “Come now, Miss Castille. No one’s story will be ridiculed. And what do we say here about ‘crazy,’ everyone?”

  He pointed to a string of multi-colored letters that decorated a side wall of the room, spelling out “Crazy is only in your mind.” Everyone except Sam read it aloud at the same time, like children in an elementary-school class.

  “So you see, Miss Castille, we all want to hear what you have to say. And I’m sure that your social worker, Miss Dumont, would love to hear that your therapy has been going well.”

  She tried to keep up the faux pleasant expression, but indignant feelings welled up inside. Who did he think he was to challenge her like this?

  Then he cleared his throat. “Well, everyone, we should move on. Miss Castille is obviously too preoccupied with how she’s going to convince the judge she’s making progress for her to share anything.”

  She caught a nasty glint in his eyes along with the threat. For just a second, her pulse quickened and her vision reddened. Sounds around her started to deepen and lengthen, and the world began slowing down. Then, just as quickly, she pulled back, feeling the color drain from her face. The last time that had happened, she had just made her pact with Bridgette. She couldn’t feel the Loa Queen inside her, yet she could feel those effects. What was going on?

  Dr. Kindley must have taken her reaction as submission. “Well, now, Miss Castille, why don’t you share with us the events that brought you here?”

  “Oh, good,” Lay-Me said as she wiggled forward. She brushed back her long, brunette hair, which revealed the rope-burn scar around her neck. “Sam’s finally going to tell us her story!”

  “Yes, tell us everything,” Stinky Palms added. “Every succulent little detail.”

  Sam heaved a heavy exhale. “OK, you want it? You’re gonna get it!”

  She sat up, stretched, cracked her knuckles, and began. “When I was five years old, my grandfather, Vincent Castille, put a loa named Marinette inside me because of the weak heart I inherited from my mother, a lounge singer at the Jean-Lafitte Theater. Vincent, who turned out to be my biological father, was so distraught over the idea of losing me that when I was ten, he became the Bourbon Street Ripper and tortured and murdered over a dozen people, including my aunt and his own son, the man who raised me as his daughter, before being arrested and executed.”

  She leaned back and rested one leg over the other. “Twenty years later, my nephew, who is also technically my cousin, becomes the New Bourbon Street Ripper, and besides continuing Vincent’s murder spree, he convinces my lawyer and my lawyer’s bastard son to frame me for it. He was able to hide from the police because he developed an alternate personality, a sweet guy I ended up falling for and having some righteously kinky sex with until such time as the killer’s personality took over and tried to torture me to death.”

  Everyone in the group gawked at her. She gestured dramatically. “Fortunately, I was saved by my surrogate uncle, the lead detective who also caught Vincent twenty years prior. Unfortunately, in the process of all this, my uncle and his partner, who was the smartest man I’d ever met, and my nephew… cousin… lover… all died. And after all of this, I find out that everything that had happened was by the design of Vincent’s ghost, who was actually performing a complex, twenty-year-long ritual to bind Baron Samedi to him so the Baron couldn’t dig my gra
ve. Good thing I made a pact with Baron Samedi’s wife, right?”

  She ended her “story” by standing up and holding out her arms. “So now I am possessed by the queen of the loa and basically immortal until I find a way to destroy Vincent and set Baron Samedi free. The end.”

  Then she sat down, folded her arms, smacked her lips, and then smiled in a ridiculous pursed-lipped manner.

  Everyone looked around in silence. You could have heard a mouse hiccup.

  Finally, James Woods said, “Sam, I know what you’re going through. Last night, the spirit of Ben Franklin came to me and said he needed to borrow my body to march on the Federal Government and push stronger gun control.” His expression was completely serious.

  “Right,” replied Livingston in an equally sincere tone. “Well, I’ve been communicating with the Ghost of Christmas Past, and he’s pissed about how the holiday is going all commercial.”

  Lay-Me snorted. “You are so full of shit, guys. I’ve got the spirit of Cleopatra inside of me, and she’s been telling me it’s time to make another Caesar!”

  Preacher Man stood up, pointed at Lay-Me, and blurted out, “Flee fornication! ‘Every sin that a man doeth is without the body. But he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body.’ 1 Corinthians, chapter 6, verse 18.”

  That pretty much ended any sense of civility in the room.

  Lay-Me got up and started yelling at Preacher Man to “take his bible and stick it where the gerbils are hiding.” Miss Prissy rocked back and forth, reminding herself exactly what Martha Stewart would do in this situation. James Woods got up and ripped down the “Crazy is only in your mind” letters while complaining that the music was unacceptable, even though there wasn’t any. Stinky Palms started to pleasure himself. Gormless fell over. And Livingston stood on his chair and started shouting at the top of his lungs for everyone to shut up or Hitler would hear them.

  Sam took in the mayhem and then glanced at Dr. Kindley. He was glaring at her.

  She smirked. Kiss off, asshole.