Err on the Side of Caution
For one year, he had been therapist to the famous and infamous Ruth Brimacombe, his most formidable patient to date.
Ruth squinted into the sunlight and considered the question. Barry noted the faint circles around her eyes, how they had diminished in the last year. Less stress?
He waited for her response.
“No pools of broken teeth, no hate-filled tempests put to the page, not a single monsoon of blood or excrement, has offered me a moment of redemption.” Her monotone made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Her words shocked. Intentional?
He noted the placid, almost bored expression, the beads of sweat that gathered at her hairline. Caution — experience — kept him alert. Never again. He recalled the speed at which her mood could change. He traced his finger over the raised tissue on his forearm, still numb. Err on the side of caution.
Barry nodded and waited for the rest. For six years, he had been therapist to the famous and infamous Ruth Brimacombe, his most formidable patient to date. Criminally insane or temporarily broken? He’d conducted his first assessment of the tiny redheaded author months after she chose to end the abuse. He had slowly warmed to her — admired her as one may admire an anaconda devouring a goat.
“I have killed him often enough,” she murmured, “but only the one time did I regain a lost piece of myself. I mean to find those other lost bits.”
Suddenly, his office was too cramped, too hot. He held his breath, afraid any movement may break the spell — halt the momentum.
Ruth stood and started pacing. He released a slow breath and watched her, the caged lioness. The pacing, her tell. There would be no more today. Press a little?
“How are you going to do that?”
Silent. She paced.
We’ve discussed this, Ruth. It’s not Markus you’re mad at.” He poked her closed file with one index finger. “Not anymore.” He kept his tone soft, comforting.
“I disagree.”
“And how’s that working for you?”
Her eyes pinned him with a glare before shifting to the painted cinderblock wall behind him.
“It has made me rich.” She pivoted on her heel and continued pacing. Her eyes pinned him on the return. He the butterfly; her the pin. When did the dynamic shift?
“I meant to point out, the extended vacations are doing you a world of good. You’re infinitely more relaxed.”
Ruth glared, her lips thinned. In two strides, she was at his desk. “Fuck you, Barry. It makes me sad to consider the myriad ways I screwed myself, but when I think of him, I feel rage, Barry. I feel — white. Fucking. Hot. Rage.”
She spat the words with the force of her entire body, her palms planted on the desk, a pause for punctuation. She resumed pacing.
He resumed breathing. He’d been warned.
Nobody could drive a point home like Ruth Brimacombe. An artist’s passion? Unlikely. He chalked it up to years of torture and emotional abuse that had made her what she was. But what was she exactly? A tragic tale? Homicidal sociopath?
“We need to discuss some sticking points.” Barry picked up his phone and glanced at the time. “Homework, Ruth; are you still journaling?” The bored glance suggested she was not. “Journal about how you feel having to trust me — a man.”
“Do I, though?”
“Are you still working out?”
Ruth rolled her eyes and turned to the door.
“Ruth, one more thing.” She paused with her hand on the doorknob, her back to him. “The parole hearing is next week. I’m sorry.” An almost imperceptible change in her posture. The lioness.
“I can’t recommend — ”
“Don’t,” she interrupted, not turning around.
Don’t, what?
He held his breath as the single command stood between them, alarming in its simplicity. If inspected thoroughly and the meaning brought to light, would findings confirm his deepest fears?
‘Don’t recommend me because we both know I will kill again.’ He knew better than to give a single word such power. He also knew better than to ignore his instincts.
He took Ruth as a patient because he believed she could be rehabilitated. Had she told him today he was wrong?
His assumptions hung in the air between them, along with the mercurial silence.
Her knuckles turned white on the doorknob before she stormed out. The pit of rage that was Ruth Brimacombe led straight to hell. If he failed to reach her, he was destined to follow her there.
Barry stood up to close the door just as Jason Blake appeared. Jason barged in and took a seat before Barry could object. The small man flopped onto the metal chair and propped one ankle on his knee. Always the little guy trying to take up more space in the world.
“This office is a fucking oven. Get a fan in here.” Jason picked a file off the desk and fanned himself with it. “Anyway, I see Ruthless just left. I’m here about her parole hearing next week.”
“Save it,” Barry said, bristling at the use of the nickname. He’d long been sure it was Jason who had saddled her with the moniker, although he’d heard others use it. Blake was a peevish little bully — an annoying misogynistic narcissist.
“Inmate 479 has been stuck for a period.” Barry made sure to use her number, taking the familiarity down a notch. “Now, there may be some backsliding, although that could signal a breakthrough.” He paused, wishing he believed his words. “I will be recommending we re-evaluate in six months.” He held Jason’s gaze across the desk. “Err on the side of caution.”
It was his call, and Jason knew it. It was also what Jason had been foretelling in his tiresome rampages. For reasons Barry had yet to pinpoint, Jason took a keen interest in Ruth Brimacombe from the moment the gates locked behind her.
“Diabolique,” Jason murmured. A smug smile curled his wet lips.
“She was tortured.” Barry looked across the desk at Jason’s reptilian stare.
“Unholy union, or not, for the last six months, he was an invalid — a recluse.” The matter-of-fact tone got on Barry’s last nerve.
“Spare me your armchair psychoanalysis.”
“No, those are facts right there.” He’d draped one arm over the back of the chair. False bravado. The giveaway was the jackhammer impression of one knee. “Ruthless could have walked.”
“Stockholm syndrome.” Barry itched for a cigarette, so he reached for the Nicorette and fumbled with the package. He popped one into his mouth and stored the packet in his breast pocket.
“How much control could she have been under when she had the wherewithal to shop for the magnets?”
“She didn’t, though. Regardless, we covered this. The magnets were already in the house, and receipts confirmed the date of purchase.”
“Weren’t they some weird kind of — “
“ — Rare earth magnets.” He pushed the foul Nicorette into his cheek. “They use them for gold panning.”
“What’s special about them?”
“They’re three times stronger — 1.5 tesla. Regular magnets are approximately .5 tesla.”
“Fuck me.” Jason issued a low whistle. “She is one diabolical bitch.”
“Not premeditated — the torture and emotional abuse resulted in a psychotic break.”
“Premeditated, or not, I read the coroner’s report.”
“Good for you.”
“She wasn’t in the room when it happened, so you want her on the street again?” Jason gave his head a slow shake. “You want some of that, just go get it. Lots are.” He made a harsh sound that mimicked a laugh. “But I mean it, that is one piece of pussy who needs to be behind bars.”
Barry took a calming breath and stared at the younger man. “Need I remind you, it’s not our job to retry the case? Why is Ruth Brimacombe such a thorn in your side?”
Jason turned away, but not before Barry caught the mingled fear and contempt — standard fare for bullies. “Thanks for reminding me what my job is, Ole Boy.” He stood, his hands on his hips in an attempt to look bigger than his 5' 6" frame would allow. “Now, I’ll remind you not to fall for her wide-eyed crap.”
He headed for the door, now the child running away before his target could say more words. He believed he was up one, and now it was time to vamoose.
He started to whistle once he cleared the door — his tell. But telling of what? Barry stepped from behind his desk and pushed the door shut.
Today was a breakthrough of sorts. More correctly, it would end in a breakthrough. He was sure of it. Yet, he was confident he’d missed something. He stood in the stifling office as disquiet set up headquarters in his gut. His hand rested on the doorknob Ruth had touched moments before. He’d missed something.
Ruth?
Jason Blake?
Something was not as it should be.
What the hell was it?
Did a jury of her peers get it wrong? Was it premeditated?
Jason, prat that he was, proved correct on one point. The office needed a damn fan.
“Diabolique,” he whispered to no one.
Ruth held two magnets in her palm — each the size of a tablet. With more than two inches between them, they succumbed to the force and tumbled toward each other. Exactly what they would be doing inside his body. Administered twice a day for six weeks, the magnets would have formed a massive lump in his gut. The stomach discomfort that dominated his endless complaints suggested she was correct.
Although the magnets were heavier and smoother than his prescribed tablets, the lack of proper meds made it beyond his capabilities to notice.
The final dose. At this point, not even necessary — just fun.
The MRI, scheduled months ago, was meant to determine if the medications were working, slowing the progression of the disease that ravaged his body.
“What’s the prognosis now, Doctor? What’s that you say? It’s difficult to tell while he’s bleeding out on the imaging room floor?” Ruth laughed at the voice of the other and curled her fingers over the magnets. Such deep peace when the others visited.
She moved down the long hall, her footsteps silenced by the thick rug. The magnets were nestled as rare and precious jewels beneath the mug of warm tea in her palm.
She threw the door wide and startled him awake. She stifled a bark of laughter when he cried out in alarm. Such fun.
The heavy drapes were closed. The only light to assuage total darkness was what managed to seep in from the wall sconces in the hall.
As the hallway lighting was more decorative than functional, long shadows forbid details.
He searched for his glasses amongst the magazines and books on the bedside table.
“What are you looking for?”
“My damn glasses, you fool.” He continued to grope around the table.
“Too bad, those were broken weeks back when they were accidentally trodden upon. Remember?”
“Of course, I bloody remember. You did that on purpose.”
She swept his brow with cool fingers. “Nonsense. Why would I?”
The fever began yesterday. With only magnets as medication for six weeks, the ALS had run rampant, his central nervous system on full attack.
“Not much longer.” One of them whispered to the others. Ruth thought the words eager. Too confident.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” His words startled her. “You and your fucking drama. Just give me the pills, goddamit.” His speech was slurred, his tongue thick.
He made it so easy.
She leaned into the dim light with a warm and cheerful smile. She alone was free to grant or deny access to her expressions as she wished.
Today she offered a full view of her joyfulness and vigor. If for no other reason than to savor the resentment. How it seared his mottled flesh whenever he must witness her continued health and vitality.
Life was a competition for Markus, one he had all but lost. It was her distinct pleasure to highlight how badly. That which he was denied glowed vibrantly within her and ignited his hatred. How her vitality ate at his sanity. Now stricken down, impotent, he was helpless, forced to watch her thrive.
Her smile broadened at the thought. Spite so ripe and jaundiced, to be tangible, weighted the air in the room. She could taste it, smell it sour upon his skin. So Ruth walked, danced and sang — flaunted and paraded — as his life force ebbed.
As fun as it was to inflict torment, she needed more.
His thin, coated lips curled into a sneer as he rested back on his pillow. His energy stores, all but depleted simply from holding his head up to glare and search for his glasses. He closed his eyes — a pathetic attempt at dismissal. They opened again when she giggled.
“What the fuck are you laughing at, you dumb bint?”
“I just imaged — ”
A high-pitched laugh broke loose, barring immediate response. The hysterical notes filled the room and the hall beyond. Ruth knew at once the laughter heralded a shift, yet, in what she couldn’t say.
The laughter continued, maniacal and brazen.
Once fear crept into his watery blue eyes, the laughter reached its crescendo.
She dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “Pardon me. I just imagined your death. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“You’re insane,” he whispered.
“Oh, Markus, do you really think so?” Another spoke in the tone of a femme fatale out of a 1940s classic. “Tell me it’s true, Darling. Say it is so, and you will color me content for the rest of my days.”
He stared, uncertainty clouding his expression for the first time since she’d met him. Any previous compunction fell away, and Ruth spoke.
“I don’t fear insanity, Markus. Don’t we all need something to which we can commit?” She set the tea on the bedside table and crossed her arms, her chin in one palm. “I made a pun. Ruth is pun-ny. Aren’t I pun-ny, Markus?”
She smiled and handed him the magnets. “Your pills. Careful now, the tea is hot.” She held the cup to his lips for him to sip.
She thought of the following day.
Once the 3 tesla MRI was turned on, the magnets would rip through his stomach and intestine. The resulting carnage, mainly Markus’ disembowelment, would be complete before they could slide him out of the chamber. The subsequent ruination of every bit of soft tissue that stood between the magnets and their inevitable meeting with the MRI chamber wall, thus complete.
She’d hang out to listen for the code red — have coffee and a lemon slice.
He swallowed and proved he had been a good patient by showing his tongue. The shit stain never questioned why six weeks previous she suddenly started taking such an interest in whether he swallowed his pills or not.
How arrogant to never doubt her loyalty. So convinced he was of his dominion over her, he never once thought to err on the side of caution.
