Mr Wicker Read online

  ...cold air blasting the room...

  ...a rush of black feathers...

  ...Dr. Sark tried to wrench himself around to fend off whatever was diving at his head. Something thicker than water spattered the blankets, Alicia’s hair, even her bandages as the smell of blood bloated in the air.

  ...click...

  ...whooooosh.

  A handful of security guards charged inside the room, feet crunching in broken glass from the ruptured window. Alicia relaxed her jaws in the bedlam of howls and handcuffs as they dragged Dr. Sark off her and hauled him away like one of his patients.

  “What the hell is that thing?”

  “How’d it get in here?”

  “Jesus Christ! What the—?”

  Alicia watched groggily as whatever it was swooped out of the room cawing so loudly that everyone scattered in its wake as it soared down the hallway. Her synapses were so soggy with the drugs that it took a moment for it to register that perhaps what she was seeing was a raven.

  Alicia spent the night in another part of the hospital with Rachelle holding her hand. Portly nurses with kind eyes visited her at intervals as she sweated and vomited from the drugs, reassuring her as they applied ice, antiseptics and bandages to her wounds. They changed her soaked sheets and cleaned her mouth several times before she finally passed out from exhaustion.

  She sensed at one point that someone else was holding her hand. She squeezed back best she could as she faded back out of consciousness.

  As she slept, the words of Tennyson’s poem drifted from the darkened porticoes of her subconscious into the brighter parlors where her dreams gathered.

  Come into the garden, Maud,

  I am here at the gate alone.

  And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,

  And the musk of the rose is blown...

  Chapter 36

  With her powerful beak, Huginn wrenched off the vent cover of an air conditioning duct and scurried deep into the bowels of the hospital ventilation system until she found a place she could huddle.

  As the dark ducts rumbled with blasts of warm air, she bore the winds and listened to her master’s furious, grieving voice:

  You should have been at the window!

  I am weakening here. I needed water.

  You should have never left that window. She has been harmed and it is your fault.

  Huginn did not respond, but instead pondered her predicament. She had to return to the Library. Soon. She was starting to feel things she had not felt in centuries—not since her first master snatched her from the nest and brought her to live at the top of the tree with the Aesir and Vanir.

  She’d wanted to dive out the broken window that she’d just shattered, but couldn’t avoid the humans. She did not wish to hurt anyone else and could not risk injury herself. That did not matter to her master. Alicia had been hurt.

  Huginn would have to atone for this terrible lapse in her watch and guardianship. But how?

  Chapter 37

  DAY 4—BAYFORD HOSPITAL

  Alicia awoke in a strange room to the brisk movements of a nurse, a tiny Filipino woman twisting a plastic cover over a fat electronic thermometer. She stuck the apparatus under Alicia’s tongue and began to take her blood pressure, grinning with crooked front teeth. “Ah! Seventy over one-ten, Ms. Baum,” she announced as she unwrapped the gauge. “How do you feel?”

  “Like a crunchy lump of toaster cheese,” Alicia replied behind a fat lip.

  The nurse snorted with laughter. “I’ll get you some breakfast. Toast? Tea? Or you feel like more?”

  “Toast and tea is great. Thanks.”

  The nurse brought in a light breakfast ten minutes later. How old was she? Thirty? Forty-five? Over fifty? Alicia couldn’t tell. Her cheer contrasted starkly with the gloom of the psych unit—except for maybe Arnie. He seemed happy. Alicia took the food, sipping hot tea for the first time in many days. She drank it black, leaving the sugar and cream packets unopened. The dry toast was good, too. Her appetite was greater than she’d anticipated from such a horrendous night.

  Then, a police officer came. He took a statement from her about what happened.

  “Will you press charges?” he asked.

  “Definitely,” she replied.

  As they wrapped up the statement, Dr. Dulac entered. “Well, if it isn’t the illustrious Ms. Baum,” he said with a newfound sparkle in his eye. “I’m Dr. Leonard Dulac, the Chairman of Mental Health Services.”

  Alicia beamed at him. He seemed less stiff than James had described. But then she wondered if he was being nice to her because he feared she’d sue the hospital. He shook hands with the officer, who excused himself. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, and he shook her hand, too. He seemed like the serious but caring grandfatherly type. He pulled up a visitor’s chair and sat with her.

  “The pleasure is mine, Ms. Baum. As deeply saddened as I am, I don’t think there is any way for us to adequately apologize for what happened. We are waving your bill and the next six months of prescribed outpatient treatment, if you agree to some kind of arbitration.”

  “Here’s my attorney’s number,” Alicia said, handing him a scribbled note. Malcom had put her in touch with a killer personal injury lawyer.

  Dr. Dulac took the card and sighed. “Dr. Sark’s been let go from the hospital,” Dr. Dulac said. “And we’ve given you twenty-four-seven security.”

  “Dr. Farron has been great. You should know that. He’s a great doctor. A real healer.”

  “I appreciate you saying that.” He smiled. “Good luck, Ms. Baum.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dr. Stemmle arrived next to check her wrists and other wounds. “Not bad. You avoided reopening the wounds,” he said. Earlier that morning, an orderly had taken her to x-ray, where they determined her rib was not in fact broken, but badly bruised. They x-rayed her shoulder, skull and ankle, as well. A possible rotator cuff strain, but nothing broken.

  Dr. Farron arrived just as Dr. Stemmle was leaving. “Hey Mike, how are ya?” Over his denim dress shirt, he wore a wide Justice League tie with Superman’s “S” bursting from the silk.

  “Nice tie, James.” Dr. Stemmle waved to Alicia. “See you at follow up.”

  As soon as they were alone, Dr. Farron proffered a paper bag. “Your things?”

  Alicia flashed him a jagged smile.

  She changed into a sleeveless, peach silk dress, but not the lavender sweater. It was sealed in a plastic bag, soiled with soot and badly in need of dry cleaning. She slipped on a pair of sandals she hadn’t noticed before that sat at the bottom of the bag under the dress. Entirely too sunny, but of course part of her grandmother’s crusade to change her wardrobe. Her grandmother had forgotten that the Bay Area isn’t nearly as warm as Los Angeles. As she left the room, Dr. Farron was waiting for her.

  He beamed. “You need a ride? ’Cause you know, Superman doesn’t have any citizens to save for a couple of hours.”

  “Sure,” she said, happy. “Can we say goodbye to Rachelle first? And I want to thank Arnie.”

  He shook his head. “We can’t go in the ward, but this is from her.” He reached in his pocket and withdrew a card.

  Alicia tore open the envelope and glanced over the Hallmark schlock to read Rachelle’s writing at the bottom. Good luck, Alicia. And be careful when you go home. Memories have a habit of walking around like they own the place.

  Turning the card to him, she showed off Rachelle’s turn of phrase.

  “That’s Rachelle. A budding Rimbaud,” Dr. Farron said.

  “She’s great,” Alicia said. “You think she’d adopt me? Or not so much?”

  “I think she would.” He grinned. “They’re talking about promoting her somewhere higher in the hospital administration, but she told me this morning she’s got bigger plans.”

  “Such as?”

  “She’s applied to Stanford’s psychology graduate program. I think she’s got a good shot at getting in.”


  “That’s amazing! She can do it. I know she’ll get in.”

  Dr. Farron shifted. “Alicia, there’s something I have to tell you before—”

  Raaa! Raaa! Raaa! Raaaaaaaa!

  A greasy cluster of feathers and claws plunged at Dr. Farron from nowhere. “Jesus!” He ducked, swiping at the attacker. A line of blood wept from his cheek.

  Alicia stared awe-stricken at the raven as it glided down the busy hallway toward the opening elevator. The river of hospital staff and patients parted as Alicia madly dodged people to keep on the raven’s tail.

  Raaa! Raaa! Raaa! Raaaaaaaa!

  “ALICIA!”

  The raven dive-bombed a nurse waddling alongside an elderly man with a walker. She screamed as her hands flew up to protect her face. Alicia slid past them, following the raven into the open elevator beyond. But as Dr. Farron charged toward them, the doors rolled closed on him. “Shit!” he yelled as he slammed the “Up” button repeatedly.

  Fluttering and cawing, the raven pecked the seventh floor button and Alicia shrank against the metallic back wall.

  The elevator groaned to a stop with dreadful finality and the doors opened to a draft that stank of sickness and antiseptic soap. The raven erupted into the hallway and silently careened down a dull white hall of hospital rooms. Televisions flickered and buzzed with talk shows as Alicia passed each room. Coughs. Rasps. Moans. Phone conversations.

  “Quiet, I say!”

  An elderly woman’s voice shouted from a room at the end of the hall. The raven sailed into that room and out of sight.

  Alicia knew that voice.

  Dr. Farron emerged from the stairwell at the other side of the ward. “Alicia!” He reached out to her. “This is what I was...trying...to tell you.”

  Alicia stopped at the doorway. The raven landed on the shoulder of an old woman who sat round-shouldered in a wheelchair as she gawked out the window at the deep green Berkeley Hills, blanketed by storm clouds. The window’s reflection told Alicia who the sentinel was.

  “Grandma.”

  Dr. Farron skidded to a stop at her side as she entered the room. He didn’t try to intervene but rather watched as Alicia approached her grandmother.

  The raven cawed loudly in the old woman’s ear. Her upper eyelid twitched and her withered lips parted, but nothing more came. Alicia looked to Dr. Farron. “You knew about this.”

  “I started to tell you downstairs, but this—bird—beat me to it.”

  The raven shrieked at him, the hackles of its throat bristling. A nurse entered the room. “What is going on here? Doctor?” Her eyes widened with alarm. “Oh, my god!”

  “Call animal control,” Dr. Farron said. He glared at the raven, more than delighted to see it put to sleep.

  The nurse nodded and reeled back out of the room, never taking her eyes off the pest. A muttering crowd of nurses and patients gathered outside the room in the hallway, peering inside to see what was afoot.

  Alicia wasn’t sure she believed him. “What happened?”

  “She’s had several strokes,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Alicia covered her mouth with one hand as she took her grandmother’s in the other. “Grandma?” She pressed her grandmother’s frail hand to her cheek. “Oh, poor Grandma.”

  Leery of another attack, Dr. Farron watched the preening raven as he approached Alicia and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “She’s in really good care here, Alicia. Dr. Gregg is the best. We can talk about it over lunch. Unless you want to stay here—and I totally understand if you do.”

  Chapter 38

  As the white Lexus wound into the Piedmont Hills, Alicia’s head lolled miserably against the car headrest, eyes burning with depression once again as she contemplated her future. The heater was on full blast to warm her bare arms and sandaled feet.

  “I wanted to tell you about your grandmother—in fact paternalism is a big no-no in the psych unit. But as a therapist I don’t give patients bad news unless they’re stable enough to hear it, and not right after a suicide attempt.”

  “Right after?”

  “Yeah. It happened the day after your admission to the psych unit.”

  “Just after we met.” Bastard, she thought.

  He shifted the direction of the conversation. “We wouldn’t have met at all if it weren’t for a certain 9-1-1 call. By the way, I know it was old barbeque butt.”

  “I couldn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think I was crazy. I just wanted to cooperate, to stop arguing with you so that we could be closer.” She paused. “I’m really pissed. I can’t believe you knew and didn’t tell me.”

  He said nothing for a moment. “I understand you’re angry. I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you. Honest.”

  Alicia’s head lolled his way as she inspected him. Despite her current anger and uncertainty, he was still the man she’d pounced the day before. She unfolded one of her arms and reached up to touch his cheek, letting her fingers brush his face until they met his lips. Her bandages lightly scratched his jaw. He grasped her hand and deposited it by his side.

  “I wonder how he made that call. He isn’t real—like a person. He’s more like a demi-god or something. Right?”

  Alicia raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s been a lot of years since I played Dungeons and Dragons. What would you call him?”

  “He doesn’t have a classification. But he does have a phone.”

  “Really? Like, a cell phone? A cordless phone? A box on the wall that he cranks to reach earth?”

  “More like a phone from the nineteen-forties that sits on his desk.”

  “Oh, right. I should have known. Well, at least he can’t text. Yet.”

  They drove on in silence until they pulled up in front of Alicia’s dying lawn. Leaves scattered the dead grass as storm clouds drifted heavy and dark across the sky. The “For Sale” sign swung on its hooks in the wind under the soulless eyes of the dark windows.

  Dr. Farron’s Lexus drew up to the curb. He peered past Alicia and out at the spooky house. “Here we are. 1313 Mockingbird Lane.” Slivers of raindrops began to streak the car windows. “Stay there a sec.”

  He climbed out of the car and went around to the trunk to retrieve an umbrella. They huddled together under the emerging downpour as they headed for the front door, the empty driveway a stinging reminder that her car—with her good credit—was gone forever. Or, at least, it felt that way.

  Dr. Farron retracted the umbrella as they passed the wilting violet ginger lilies crowding the walkway. He halted just short of the wide, flat steps leading up to the art deco door. It had a burnished nickel knob and deep blue, geometrically patterned, stained glass. Even the mail slot toward the bottom of the door was polished nickel. “Wow. This door says ‘Welcome!’, doesn’t it?” he said.

  “It’s my favorite part of the house.” Alicia paused as she realized she was going to be away from him now. The idea seemed to wrap around their ankles and hold them both there on the porch.

  “Don’t you have a friend or someone who can be with you?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to be with anyone for a while. I need to write. I’m pretty tired of reality. I want to create a bit of fantasy for a change. To sort of soothe myself.”

  “That’s great!” he said, a flicker of excitement in his eyes. “But—seriously—it’s not a good idea to be totally alone.”

  She just looked at him, too angry still to kiss him, the attraction stoking the fires of her rage. After a beat or two, the burn of passion turned back to depression in her chest and her stomach soured. She placed a hand onto his chest as if carefully pushing away and smiled wanly. “Doesn’t Superman have some citizens to save this afternoon?”

  “Yeah,” he said, sounding reluctant. He produced his wallet and fingered out a card. “I want you to call me later tonight. Tell me you’re okay.”

  “I will.” She played with his Justice League tie. “Just
be careful going back. One wrong turn and you’ll end up in a dangerous part of Oakland.”

  Alicia waited until the white Lexus was nowhere in sight. Then, and only then, she turned the nickel knob of the brilliant door—the door she had custom designed and installed so that, no matter what awaited her inside, she felt glad to be home. She never locked her front door. Never needed to. And her house had waited for her as houses do, patiently and vacantly. The mailman fed it mail every day, but no one loved it on the inside.

  Nothing affects you, you sullen, frigid bitch. Eric’s voice. She heard it as she entered the house and kicked aside new bills lying on the floor under the mail slot. Bills blackened by boots when trammeled by emergency crews as they rescued her. She closed the door and leaned back against it, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment.

  She headed for the living room where she bleakly surveyed the wreckage. A wingback leather chair had fallen beside a half-burnt heap of manuscripts in the fireplace. Hardback books littered the floor, pages bent as if someone were rubbing their prose into the ground. And melted candle wax hardened over the ruined surfaces of her furniture.

  Overwhelmed by the damage, she picked up the fallen chair and sunk into it before dropping her face into her hands. What a horrid, stupid, sickening display of violence. We are ultimately powerless against God. Not only is He apathetic to our losses, He lets us shit on the floor and generally make a mess of things without lending a hand to clean up after His spiritual neglect.

  Those Sunday mornings sitting on polished pews in a Baptist church with her grandparents summed up her snapshots of God. He made her miserable and uncomfortable, yet He was the great giver, responsible for everything good if not evil. Evil was our fault. Our fall. God was this shapeless fourth family member who hovered over the dinner table and pressed Himself against the walls, staying out of sight yet often referenced in conversation as if he were right there. Alicia could now begin to see that most of the losses she’d blamed on Him were the result of bad choices on her part. But how could she have known? And what about her grandfather? If God was in control, what was that about? Her life had been too synchronistic, too guided in so many ways to not believe that this, too, was the product of relentless divinity. Clearly something was at work. The events of the last week were undeniable. She could pronounce Salieri’s prayer, declare God her enemy, but she could not imagine what her weapon against Him would be. She’d tried to take her life, the last thing that could be used against her, but even that option was denied to her.