Power

By Brent Yamamoto

Look, Im not saying its right, but this is the way Rapunzel

thinks. Theres no passion in what he does any more. Just a

quick break of the neck. Like the person is nothing more than a

bug to be wiped away.

So whos he going after next, if he wants to destroy our

innocence? Martina asked. Whos his fi nal target?

Mangan downed the last of his cold coffee, tossed the cup in

the garbage; he said only two words, our children.

That is the heart of this harrowing new tale. A serial killer

is on the loose terrorizing a city. The only problem is there

something far worse on the loose, hunting, preying on the

innocent, it wants a family, and it will stop at nothing until it gets

what it desires most.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 27, 2010
• ISBN: 9781456714024

Brent Yamamoto

None

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 1

He got off her. He pulled up his trousers, tucked in a white dress shirt and buckled a black leather belt; he straightened his tie. He went to the single bed with metal frame and put on a long white coat, holding a metal clipboard as he smoothed dark brown hair. He looked at her lying on the floor, green eyes calm of any emotion. He had gotten what he came for.

She pulled a paper thin hospital gown down over her legs and crawled back into the corner of the small, square room, away from the bed covered with hospital sheets and a grey blanket. She held her legs underneath her chin, back against the grey wall, bare feet frozen on the cement floor. She shivered, thin body shaking in the bare, colourless room, mouth kissing her knees, hair a tangled mess around slender shoulders. She looked up at him, towering above, met his eyes with her own.

Why?

He looked at her for a moment, as though giving it some serious thought. He smiled tenderly. Why not?

Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment as she took in the information; then she lowered her eyes, nothing left to say.

He fished in his pant pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He unlocked the thick metal door from the inside. He walked out of the room into a long, grey hallway, the door automatically locking behind with a heavy click. He flipped open her medical chart, filled in the date in the space provided with a fountain pen; he checked the time on his watch, filled in the time of her scheduled check up, 9:50 p.m. to 10:00 p.m., ten minutes, though it didn’t take that long. As doctor on duty, he wrote his name, a match to the name tag on his coat, Dr. William Cleft.

He was in his late thirties, tall, trim, he jogged, swam, raped young women under his care. A black tag was screwed into the grey cement wall beside the door; engraved in white it read Patient #15, Wing C. He wrote down #15, Wing C in the space allocated for the patient’s identity.

In the section asking for the purpose of the visit he thought about writing, Because she’s one hell of a great lay, and she doesn’t scream when I fuck her. Instead he wrote, Routine check up, in tiny letters above the sea of black ink, flipping the page on the chart. The next section asked for his diagnosis. He lowered the chart and looked through the small plexiglass window into her room.

She remained huddled in the corner, head slumped forward in her chest, arms relaxed around her legs, she appeared unconscious. Perhaps the drugs were doing their job. He raised the metal clipboard and wrote that Patient 15 was experiencing the classic symptoms of severe depression, though he wasn’t sure precisely of the underlying cause as of yet. He was confident that with proper treatment he could help her. He was, as he wrote, Truly concerned for her care.

The details of her confinement were simple. Caught for physically assaulting a police officer, she was remanded over for psychiatric evaluation. Dr. Cleft took one look at her, realized the potential she represented for him, and quickly reported that she suffered from a severe mental break down. Having no money, no family who would come forward, and a court appointed lawyer, her sentence was dropped in favour of Dr. Cleft’s recommendation of intense patient care. Six months at the hospital, to be followed by a report describing her mental stability and ability to cope in the outside world. The first six month evaluation was due in a few days and depression seemed as good a reason as any to hold her over. Besides, she did seem a little down lately. When did he first notice? About two months ago, give or take. Her case, as he wrote, was quite perplexing.

In the section left for treatment recommendations, he wrote that intense one on one treatments should be maintained, that exposure to the outside world could be harmful, and at least six more months of hospital care was required; his diagnosis would be accepted. No one questioned his medical authority. He was an expert in dealing with mental disorders.

He signed his name at the bottom of the page, Dr. William Cleft, put his pen away inside his white coat and closed the chart. Then he walked away, down the long corridor, steps echoing away.

Chapter 2

Hey, Mike. How’s it going?

How do you think it’s going? I’m working the graveyard shift in a dead end job, surrounded by a bunch of crazy nut jobs, and I don’t just mean the doctors, that barely pays minimum wage. If it goes any better, I might end up as one of the patients.

Mike was sitting on the pukey green sofa in the staff lounge, a windowless room with a microwave and a refrigerator housing blood specimens, genetic brain cells, and a half empty bottle of honey mustard; the floor was covered with crumbs, broken potato chips, the odd empty needle. Mike rested his high tops on a coffee table covered with used coffee mugs, paper plates, napkins and a wide array of medical and sport’s magazines, along with a small basket of complimentary condoms.

Can you believe this mess? He kicked a paper plate onto the floor. It’s disgusting how people who claim to be health care professionals can be such slobs around here. When is someone going to clean up the mess they make already?

Brian continued to put tiny white pills into paper cups from a large plastic container.

I think that’s why they keep us around, Brian said.

No doubt. Bunch of educated doctors and nurses, too damn lazy to pick up after themselves. Assholes.

Mike watched Brian work, hands crossed behind his head. Mike Ramsay was thirty seven, a large black man and proud of it; he was six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds, a retired power lifter with bad knees.

At least it’s a job, Brian said.

So is giving people prostate exams.

So quit if it bothers you so much.

And give up the lavish lifestyle I’ve grown used to? Like eating and having a place to live?

Brian screwed the lid back on the plastic pill container and put it underneath the counter; he was twenty four, wearing the same white uniform. That was where the similarity ended. He was in the fourth year of his university medical program. He was a distance runner, not because he liked running, because it would look good on a future resume; it was the same reason he worked at a small, private institution for the mentally ill, rather than interning at a large hospital, why he gave time to helping disadvantaged children, why he voted conservative; he was going places. He filled a metal pitcher with water from the sink.

You sure want to become a doctor bad, don’t you?

Why not? Lots of money, healing good looking women, all the pills you want. What could be better than that?

At least you’re honest. Not like all the assholes around here talking about trying to help people. Don’t give a fuck about helping anyone but themselves.

Brian set the water pitcher on a tray filled with tiny paper cups, each containing two white pills.

We’re all in the same boat, Brian said.

Sure, until you become one of them; work nine till noon, golf on the weekends. I’ll still be working here with a bunch of crazy psychos. And now I really mean the doctors.

Brian brushed his hand through short brown hair, eyes brown, a small earring hanging from his left lobe, showed he had his own identity, important to have one of those nowadays.

I’m not doing nine to noon yet.

Sure, but in a couple more years, only time I’ll see you is when I’m washing your sport’s car at the Country Club on Sunday’s, when you and your wife Buffy take the kids, Ashley and Frederick, out for brunch. The Taylor’s, one all Canadian family.

The wife was a necessity, though he wasn’t seeing anyone seriously at the moment, kids would be a bonus; it was important for any political aspirations he might have in the future. The Country Club was probable, assuming he ever got past the windmill at the Putt-Putt Golf Course. The sport’s car was a definite, he already had colours picked out.

I’ll invite you to my mountain chateau one year.

Yeah. Go on, go give everyone their little pills. Send them off to la la land so you can go study.

They’re just mild sleeping pills. They won’t hurt anyone.

Sure, take two pills and don’t call me in the morning. Don’t bother looking at the cause of the problem. Don’t make people take responsibility for their lives. Just pop some pills to make them feel better, turn them into productive little citizens, and why? So you can feel better about them cleaning your mansion and looking after your kids, that’s why.

Brian took offense to that. He had to work hard for what he wanted. He wasn’t some rich kid’s son with a guaranteed spot in life. Everything he had gotten he had to bust his butt for and he wasn’t going to feel bad about that for a second.

They do one on one treatment here as well. It’s not just about giving pills. People talk.

Talking is the biggest bullshit pill of the bunch. It’s not your fault you do crack cocaine, it was an accident. It’s not your fault you abuse your kid, it must be your parents. It’s not your fault, that kid you blew away at the corner store shouldn’t have been there buying milk for his mom. Bunch of bullshit.

You better hurry up with those pills, Brian, Nurse Nancy Campbell said as she came into the room, twenty seven, blond, blue eyed, wearing a white uniform. Dr. Cleft ordered them for ten o’clock; you’re already late. Her hips swayed back and forth, just to let them know what they were missing; she opened the fridge, bent down, moved some brain tissue out of the way and grabbed a soda. I don’t want to have to report you.

The word report woke Brian up. I’m on my way.

Ten hut, Mike laughed. Don’t worry so much, Brian. Nancy thinks she’s got power because she’s a nurse. She’s just looking for an excuse to talk to her hero, Dr. Strangelove.

Dr. Cleft is a wonderful doctor, Nancy said.

I agree, Brian said. Dr. Cleft has one of the best reputations in the country in dealing with clinical mental health. He’s one of the main reasons I came here to work.

So fine, a threesome instead. Who’s on top? Look, Brian, you only have to kiss the doctor’s ass when he’s around. Kissing Nancy’s ass is only for fun.

Nancy glared at Mike. She didn’t like the reputation she got just because she happened to be young, blond and a nurse. She didn’t have a comeback, so she just glared really hard instead.

Dr. Cleft is an excellent professional, she said.

Really? You mean you pay him instead of him paying you?

Brian couldn’t help laughing at that one.

Go to hell, both of you.

Wait, Nancy. I’m sorry, Brian said.

Too late, she was already gone, hips swaying behind. Brian made a move to follow.

Let her go, Mike said.

She might report us.

Report us? Man, you better become a doctor soon, Brian. You’re already turning into a real asshole.

Brian grabbed his tray of pills and quickly left the room. One could only hope.

Chapter 3

The Clarke Mental Institution was two stories of brick and mortar somewhere on the outskirts of town and sanity, funded by a private endowment left by the late, Miss Emily Clarke.

In her early twenties, Emily thought she was going insane; when she sought help, everyone assured her that she was perfectly normal for this world. Her father was rich after all, what good was money if it couldn’t buy sanity? Her activities were seen as eccentric, such as the time she ate mashed potatoes and gravy at a restaurant with her bare hands; seemed fair, considering they were her potatoes, brought from home in her purse.

Emily died at the age of sixty seven from a stroke, sole heir to the family fortune. No one was quite sure where the money came from, but since it totalled over twenty million dollars, no one really cared. Having never married, no children of her own, the money was for Emily to do as she saw fit. Once it was learned she left twenty million dollars to build a mental institution in her honour, everyone realized Emily had been right the first time, she was nuts.

Still, no one was going to look a gift horse in the mouth. There had been a steady and constant withdrawal of public funds for the mentally ill. It was seen as much more cost effective to simply release the patients into the public at large, then incarcerate those who happened to go and commit crimes; as for the rest, hopefully family members would shoulder the load, and in those instances where families were unable or unavailable, well, homelessness was always a worthy option.

The institution was one of the few privately funded ones left; it housed sixty patients at any one time and there was always a long waiting list, which for some reason made those in the government think they had acted correctly in gutting the system. It was sometimes hard to tell who the insane really were in the world. There were three clinical doctors on duty full time, along with several nurses and support staff.

The building was separated into three wings on the ground floor, A, B and C, each doctor was in charge of twenty patients. Wing A, operated by Dr. Karen Yee, dealt with the least dangerous, there by their own admission. Mild depression, anxiety; patients could leave any time they wanted, average staying time three weeks. Wing B was operated by Dr. Stanley Kulski and involved people perceived as a possible threat to themselves, attempted suicides mainly, forcibly confined by a family member and court order; the staying time for these patients was three days maximum. Wing C was operated by Dr. William Cleft. His patients covered a wide range of emotional disorder, considered either a high risk danger to themselves, or others, having been arrested and convicted of crimes involving violence, labelled sick rather than criminals; they had no money, no family, here at Dr. Cleft’s complete discretion.

The Clarke Institution was nothing fancy, straight forward care, perfect for a young doctor like Karen Yee to practice her skill. And she was very skilled, twenty nine, graduated from the University of British Columbia, Masters and Ph.d. in clinical psychology.

The only thing she disliked about the job was her office on the second floor, it was a corner office, as each doctor had one, there were some benefits to working at a small clinic, but it was too big, she had trouble filling the space, time to shop and money to spend not being two of her strengths at the moment; what she did choose was classic and with a tasteful style. She went with dark colours, hoping to make the empty space seem smaller, dark blue carpeting, fake leather chairs; the center piece was a dark mahogany desk, bought at a garage sale and refurbished with some hints at the local home decorating store. The dark colours did little to fill the space, but at least it made everything appear gloomy.

Everything but Karen’s face. Even after a twelve hour shift, another four for research, she looked radiant in the dark room, the only light coming from a small reading lamp sitting on her desk; a wall length bookcase, filled with a few journals and papers, helped dispel the feeling that she was a tiny elf lost in a giant’s kingdom.

Karen removed her reading glasses, rubbed her tired eyes. She was third generation Chinese which meant she had as much knowledge of her culture as any third generation anything. She was Canadian, through and through, black hair with wavy bangs, pretty brown eyes, a big fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs -- no one ever said doctors couldn’t be crazy too. She was five foot two, a sexy dynamo in a wool sweater, blue jeans and a pair of sneakers -- being part of a three person unit meant looking like a slob was optional, and very often chosen.

The darkness was eerie, silence palpable. The emptiness of her office made her feel disconnected from the world, free floating. She could imagine this was how her patients felt, unable to connect with anything, sinking deeper into wherever they already were.

She wasn’t on call tonight. Being part of a three person support team meant that each doctor was responsible for his or her twenty patients, as well as to each other for overall patient care; this month it was Karen’s turn to correlate the patient data and make any recommendations on how care might be improved.

A small wrinkle formed on her otherwise smooth forehead, going over the charts for Dr. Cleft’s patients. She understood his patients were the most difficult, not only a threat to themselves, quite possibly a threat to others as well, but she didn’t like the overall progress report the patients were showing. Many seemed to be growing not only more despondent, but more violent as well.

It was no secret that she and Dr. Cleft disagreed on the best way to treat patients. Karen herself had adopted an open system of group support, patients working not only to help themselves, but to help each other as well; she tried to get the patients together as much as possible in order to discuss their problems. Though Karen didn’t like to brag, she knew her system had improved patient care incredibly over the three years she had been working here; she did more patient out care now than confinement in the hospital.

Dr. Cleft chose a drastically different approach, advocating little to no group work, intense isolation treatment, the patients locked up in private cells with hardly any outside communication.

Karen continued to look at the progress reports, the tiny wrinkle making new friends on her forehead. The results of Dr. Cleft’s approach were at best, mixed. While some patients had shown some initial improvement to the intense isolation treatment, most had shown increases in anxiety and depression over time.

Karen sat back at her desk, unsure how to proceed. She had a lot of respect for Dr. Cleft. Certainly more than Dr. Kulski, who was sixty one and saw patient care as little more than a chance for more research data; not that she could blame Dr. Kulski, totally. The rate of turnover in Wing B was amazing, the maximum patient stay three days; Dr. Kulski recorded information, hoping to build some sort of pattern to base his research on. Besides, his business was by far the most lucrative of the three. Volume.

Dr. Cleft was a master in his profession, only thirty seven, having already published over seventy articles on patient care. He was a kind, generous man, with quick intelligence and expertise. Plus, she knew how difficult his patients could be. None of them wanted to be here, all of them forcibly confined through the court system, declared dangerous, and most of them truly were dangerous, either to themselves or others. The only person they could count on was Dr. Cleft. Over the years, he had gained an excellent reputation for helping those with the greatest problems, not surprising that sometimes he would have to use radical methods in order to determine what was the best treatment available.

Karen rubbed her temples; still, she couldn’t discount the problem she was seeing. Maybe she could talk to Dr. Cleft before she wrote it up in a report, maybe he had some explanation; whatever the case, she would have to do something, and soon.

A man screamed.

Karen raised her head in the dull light, sound echoing in the empty space of her office. She stood up at her desk, body shaking. Everything returned to silence, more frightening than the noise. She could only think that if it had anything to do with one of Dr. Cleft’s patients, then she had acted too late. She opened the door and peered into the hallway. She was too late.

Chapter 4

Hello, Nancy.

Nancy breathed in deeply, fighting the urge to jump over the nurse’s station and take him on the floor. The station was located on the main floor across from the elevator. It was the main point from where three wings branched off down three separate corridors. Wings A and B, heading south and east respectively, were wide open hallways. Wing C, heading west, had a steel door closing it off from the rest of the building; only Dr. Cleft and the nurse on duty had a key, and only Dr. Cleft had authorized access. To the north was the main entrance, glass doors.

Dr. Cleft closed the door, leading into Wing C, locked it, and came over to the station; Nancy sighed, managing just barely to keep her seat, the only nurse on duty.

Hello, Dr. Cleft. I didn’t see you come in tonight.

Rather difficult when you’re not at your station.

Nancy’s heart broke. I’m sorry, Dr. Cleft, I...

Nevermind. What if someone had needed your assistance while you were away?

Nancy could hear the contempt in his voice, which only made her love him all the more.

What are you reading? Cleft asked.

He picked up a pamphlet sitting on the nurse’s counter. Plastic Surgery And You. He studied it for a moment. God, he was gorgeous. Tall, athletic, wearing a white lab coat. He looked the total professional; Nancy wouldn’t have minded getting personal with him on his couch if the chance arose.

It’s nothing, really, Nancy said. Just something I’ve been considering, that’s all. I’m sure I could use it.

Cleft nodded his head. It’s good when you can admit your own obvious imperfections.

Nancy blushed, not the response she was looking for, fishing for compliments; her hand went instinctively to the bridge of her nose, perfect, like the rest of her, but if Dr. Cleft thought there was something wrong with her, then there must be.

I’m sure you’re right, Dr. Cleft.

Cleft smiled at her obvious hurt. He could have told her she looked like a cow, and not only would she believe him, she would thank him for telling her.

I must warn you, Nancy, perfection isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. And I should know.

Cleft laughed, voice deep and rich. Nancy laughed too, though unfortunately it came across more as a giggle than anything. She wanted to be taken seriously by him. He was well educated -- a Ph.d. from McMaster, in clinical psychology, along with a full medical degree and license from Toronto. And of course gorgeous.

I don’t want to be perfect, Nancy said. Just normal.

I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that.

Nancy laughed again, more mature.

But I think you’re fine just the way you are, Nancy.

Nancy looked into his deep green eyes. And he was so caring. He really cared about people, their feelings. He was the perfect man, a perfect human being.

Ding! The elevator door opened and Brian came out carrying a tray of white pills and a pitcher of water. Nancy stared at him coldly. Talk about ruining a perfect moment.

Mr. Taylor, Cleft said.

Yes, Sir, Brian said.

Doctor Cleft will do.

Brian loved that smugness, hope he could be that smug someday. That, and make lots of money.

Yes, Doctor Cleft. They were almost on first name basis.

Well, that’s a change, Nancy said. From what you and Mike were calling him earlier. What was that again, Dr. Strangelove?

Brian blushed, the tray shaking in his hands. He wanted to strangle Nancy.

Is that right, Mr. Taylor? Cleft said.

Uh, no, I mean, we were just kidding; it was Mike....

Don’t worry, Mr. Taylor. You should have heard the things we used to call the doctors when I was in residency. Actually, I think Dr. Strangelove is rather funny. Cleft didn’t laugh.

Nancy giggled. I’m sure Brian will be called lots of things once he becomes a doctor. Did you know, Dr. Cleft, Brian wants to be a doctor?

Is that right, Mr. Taylor?

He still wanted to strangle her.

Uh, yes, I was thinking about it.

How nice. I’m sure you’ll do fine.

Brian nodded his head, hope he could be condescending like that too. It would come in handy when dealing with patients.

"Are those