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"Isolde?" I whispered.
"You know me?" A faint, sad smile. "I wish you didn't. I wish you'd never seen me, not like that. Not you and not her, poor little duckie."
"Pamela."
"They're wrong, you know. When they say you can control it. You can't. When it goes bad, it goes so bad, and there is no control. Only madness. You'll see that soon enough."
I tugged again, but she held me fast.
"There is a way out. One I could never find. Or perhaps they were right--I wasn't strong enough. But you are." She gestured at my gun.
"Wh-what?"
Her dark eyes met mine. "Set yourself free."
"Like hell."
A sad chuckle. "You sound like your mother." She lifted her gaze again. "Soon you'll be like her. That's your madness. The rage can go in or it can go out. Mine went in; hers went out. As will yours."
"I'm not like--"
Isolde's grip tightened. "You're exactly like her. Fierce in your passions, fierce in your loyalties. That will become rage, and it will explode." She lifted my hand, gun rising with it. "Fight back, child. Tell them you won't play their game. End it now. You'll save so many."
I dropped the gun. It hit the floor with a clang. I looked at her straight on and said, simply, "No."
"Then you are lost. The only question is, which will be your imprisonment? Here? Bound to a bed, screaming? Or like your mother, pacing her cell for a lifetime? One will come. You cannot fight it. Remember that I tried to help."
She thrust me away, and I stumbled. When I looked up, she was gone. I reached for my gun, and my fingers shook so badly I barely dared lift it.
I'm not like them. Not like either of them.
I staggered from the room. As I ran down the hall, words followed me, bloodred words on the wall, on either side of me.
There is no escape from the prison of the mind.
"Ricky!" I shouted. "Can you hear me?"
No answer. I caught the distant thump of footsteps, seemingly right below me. I ran down a hall, into the tub room and through to the room with the straitjacket rocking chair. Isolde was there, bound and moaning, blood dripping from her mouth and eye sockets. I ran right past her to the hatch in the floor, and when I reached it, I didn't bother with the ladder. I crouched, grabbed the sides, and swung through. My arm jerked, pain ripping through. I let go and hit the floor. My ankle twisted, but I forced myself up onto my feet, and as I did, I looked up to see . . .
A solid ceiling. The hatch was gone. I blinked and looked down and there, to my left, were the damned cribs again. Fingers poked out between the slats.
I tore from the room and stopped in the hallway. I stood there, eyes squeezed shut, struggling against panic.
There is no escape from the prison of the mind.
Oh hell, yes, there was. And if one way didn't work, I'd find another.
I took out my cell and speed-dialed. I'd meant to try Ricky again, but when I heard the line ringing, I knew that wasn't who I'd called.
"This is Gabriel Walsh. Please leave a message . . ."
I rocked on my toes as I waited for the beep.
"Gabriel? It's Olivia. I know you're pissed off with me, but listen. Please listen. I need you. You promised--" I sucked in breath. No, don't remind him of that. Don't whine and accuse. "I need you. Not to come here. Not to do anything but pick up the phone and talk to me. I'm at the psych hospital and I'm . . . I'm lost." A short laugh, laced with panic. "I'm lost in so many ways. Ricky's here, and I can't find him, and it's some kind of magic. I'm trapped with these visions, and if this keeps up, I . . . I feel like I'm going crazy, Gabriel. Maybe I am. You seemed to think so, and . . . Hell, tell me that. Just pick up the phone and tell me it's all in my head. Talk me through it or snap me out of it. I don't care. Just pick up or call back. Please." I paused, then shut my eyes and let the words out, not caring how desperate and sad they sounded. "I need you."
I hung up, and I waited. And Gabriel did not call back.
TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE
