carried the threat of real fury, ready to tip into violence.
Nurse Juneau shook her head. “I don’t know,” she pleaded. “I promise I’m telling the truth. I don’t know where Alix has gone. But don’t get upset—you know she always comes back. Always.”
Carver threw her away from him, across the room. She crashed into the door frame, crying out with the pain of the impact.
“Alix!” shouted Carver, standing beside his bed. “Al-i-i-i-x!”
He stumbled across the room, almost tripping on the nurse’s dazed body, and headed out into the hallway.
Stabbing bolts of pain cut through Carver’s skull. His heart was palpitating. Images from his dreams were flashing before his eyes. But now, in this waking nightmare, everything was different. He knew where and when he had fought in that desert: a mission deep into Iraq in the midst of the Desert Storm campaign in 1991. He knew that he and his men had blown the cables and returned safely to base. And the woman in the dream was Alix. She’d been there, in that chalet outside Gstaad. But what else had happened there?
The memory would not come. Just another stab behind his eyes.
He made his way down the hall in his T-shirt and pajama pants, crashing into a cart laden with patients’ medications, barging past the nurse who was pushing it from one room to the next, shoving a patient out of the way as he tried to get to the stairs that led to the exit and the outside world. The dream visions had gone now and he realized he was seeing everything around him with a new clarity, born of comprehension. It was as if there had been a thick glass wall between him and the world—a wall that had suddenly been shattered. He understood his surroundings, appreciated the function and significance of things and people that had been meaningless to him for months. Above all, he understood who and what Samuel Carver really was.
From behind, he heard hurried footsteps, scurrying down the hall. He turned and saw two of the clinic’s male orderlies, men chosen as much for their physical strength as their caring natures, charging toward him. He tried to fend them off, but they ignored his flailing fists and charged right into him, knocking him over and pinning him to the ground.
A few seconds later, Dr. Geisel was kneeling beside him, holding a syringe.
“This is for your own good,” he said, sticking the needle into Carver’s upper arm.
Before the sedative hit him, Carver looked Geisel right in the eye.
“I know,” he hissed. “I know.”
Then the drugs hit his system and oblivion overcame him.
A minute later, as the orderlies were dumping Carver’s inert body back onto his bed, Nurse Juneau approached Dr. Geisel. She was rubbing the back of her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed and welling with tears.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said, wincing. “It is Samuel I am worried about. He seemed so shocked to be alone. I have never known him this bad before.”
“You think so?” Geisel replied. “It seems as though the opposite is true, in fact. One shock has reversed another. The trauma may be his catharsis. Now, at last, he has started to get better.”
25
T he bierkeller ’s dressing room reeked of stale smoke, hairspray, and cheap perfume. Alix stubbed out a cigarette and steeled herself to go back to work. She tugged at her short white stockings, snapping the elastic just above her knees. The waitresses all wore tarted-up Heidi costumes: a short red skirt with a petticoat frill at the bottom; a lace-up black bodice, and a skimpy, low-cut white blouse. She pulled the laces tight, tying the ends in a bow beneath her breasts. Then she put her wig back on. It was bright blond, with pigtails, tied at the end with little red bows. She took a deep breath and stepped out into the bar.
Alix scanned the room, apparently greeting the customers with a smile or a flirtatiously blown kiss, but in actual fact examining each of them,
Nurse Juneau shook her head. “I don’t know,” she pleaded. “I promise I’m telling the truth. I don’t know where Alix has gone. But don’t get upset—you know she always comes back. Always.”
Carver threw her away from him, across the room. She crashed into the door frame, crying out with the pain of the impact.
“Alix!” shouted Carver, standing beside his bed. “Al-i-i-i-x!”
He stumbled across the room, almost tripping on the nurse’s dazed body, and headed out into the hallway.
Stabbing bolts of pain cut through Carver’s skull. His heart was palpitating. Images from his dreams were flashing before his eyes. But now, in this waking nightmare, everything was different. He knew where and when he had fought in that desert: a mission deep into Iraq in the midst of the Desert Storm campaign in 1991. He knew that he and his men had blown the cables and returned safely to base. And the woman in the dream was Alix. She’d been there, in that chalet outside Gstaad. But what else had happened there?
The memory would not come. Just another stab behind his eyes.
He made his way down the hall in his T-shirt and pajama pants, crashing into a cart laden with patients’ medications, barging past the nurse who was pushing it from one room to the next, shoving a patient out of the way as he tried to get to the stairs that led to the exit and the outside world. The dream visions had gone now and he realized he was seeing everything around him with a new clarity, born of comprehension. It was as if there had been a thick glass wall between him and the world—a wall that had suddenly been shattered. He understood his surroundings, appreciated the function and significance of things and people that had been meaningless to him for months. Above all, he understood who and what Samuel Carver really was.
From behind, he heard hurried footsteps, scurrying down the hall. He turned and saw two of the clinic’s male orderlies, men chosen as much for their physical strength as their caring natures, charging toward him. He tried to fend them off, but they ignored his flailing fists and charged right into him, knocking him over and pinning him to the ground.
A few seconds later, Dr. Geisel was kneeling beside him, holding a syringe.
“This is for your own good,” he said, sticking the needle into Carver’s upper arm.
Before the sedative hit him, Carver looked Geisel right in the eye.
“I know,” he hissed. “I know.”
Then the drugs hit his system and oblivion overcame him.
A minute later, as the orderlies were dumping Carver’s inert body back onto his bed, Nurse Juneau approached Dr. Geisel. She was rubbing the back of her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed and welling with tears.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said, wincing. “It is Samuel I am worried about. He seemed so shocked to be alone. I have never known him this bad before.”
“You think so?” Geisel replied. “It seems as though the opposite is true, in fact. One shock has reversed another. The trauma may be his catharsis. Now, at last, he has started to get better.”
25
T he bierkeller ’s dressing room reeked of stale smoke, hairspray, and cheap perfume. Alix stubbed out a cigarette and steeled herself to go back to work. She tugged at her short white stockings, snapping the elastic just above her knees. The waitresses all wore tarted-up Heidi costumes: a short red skirt with a petticoat frill at the bottom; a lace-up black bodice, and a skimpy, low-cut white blouse. She pulled the laces tight, tying the ends in a bow beneath her breasts. Then she put her wig back on. It was bright blond, with pigtails, tied at the end with little red bows. She took a deep breath and stepped out into the bar.
Alix scanned the room, apparently greeting the customers with a smile or a flirtatiously blown kiss, but in actual fact examining each of them,
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