A Question of Fate
Oliver Threadson had always been a rational man.
That might strike some as an odd statement, given that the man's greatest pleasure was to remove the still-living flesh from a woman and feel it against his own, but nevertheless it was true. He modeled his practice off of behaviorists like B.F. Skinner rather than the fanciful approaches of Freudian psychoanalysts. He silently (and not so silently) scoffed at Sister Jude and her ilk. If someone had asked him six months ago if he believed in fate, he would have laughed.
But six months ago, he hadn't met Lana Winters.
If that wasn't fate, than what else could it be? She was the one who approached him! He had volunteered to help prepare the common room for movie night, even though it had nothing to do with Kit Walker's case. It had all been for Lana; for the chance of seeing her in her new environment.
Imagine his surprise to find his adored Lana, the object of months of obsession, stuck with him at the pisshole that was Briarcliff. To be fair, he wasn't "stuck"; he was but a kindly young psychiatrist working with an infamous patient, free to go as he like. He had been following Lana through all of September and most of October, watching her as she made her way about town, to and from work. It was to his shocked dismay that he found their happy little routine disrupted, that Lana's alleged homosexuality led to her imprisonment.
He nearly dropped his cigarette when she approached him in the common room.
"Dr. Threadson?" she said timidly. "I've been watching you."
He stood there, gaping like an idiot. It was almost too perfect. This entire time, he'd been infatuated with her but she'd been none the wiser. Now he knew that she felt the same inexplicable pull.
She looked so different. Her hair was lank and unwashed, the auburn tangles falling sloppily around her face and neck. She was wearing the drab blue of Briarcliff rather than the fashionable dresses she normally loved. Even her demeanor was different. She had been passionate and unabashed when talking to her fellow reporter, but she was reserved, even shy, when she addressed him. He supposed it was understandable, after having been forced to undergo electroshock therapy (he wanted to throttle Sister Jude for that one).
But she was still beautiful. Yes, she certainly was.
He knew it was fate the night that they escaped together. Now, they were no longer doctor and patient, but coconspirators executing their plan.
"That was it?" Lana said as they shuffled over to the car, his overcoat draped over her thin frame.
"We're not out yet," he replied. His caution was justified as Frank appeared only a moment later.
His mind was racing through panicked scenarios, convinced that this was the end, but he kept a calm front as he spoke to Frank. Lana was sitting in the car. If Frank were to step forward, shift his position, or offer to help with the boxes, than he could easily spot her. He would lose his license, his practice, and his one last shot at experiencing true, maternal love.
But Frank hadn't seen. He took Oliver's rather cryptic words at face value and left.
That close call turned his thoughts back to this question of fate. Frank should have caught them, but he hadn't; surely that counted for something. He felt light with the reassurance that all of his past actions—murdering Wendy Peyser, taking Lana's furniture, and so on—were justified. Everything had been leading up to this moment.
"That was close," he said as he ducked into the car, closing the door behind him with more force than was perhaps necessary.
"God, I was convinced he'd see me," she said, giving a nervous little smile, her lips never parting. "Especially with my luck…"
He had to smile at that. "I think your luck's starting to change."
Both of theirs was.
He turned on the ignition and drove forward without checking to see if Frank had lingered near the entrance. There was still a chance that Frank could come over again, determined to persuade him further. The chance was slight, but even a slight risk had to be taken seriously. He took pride in his foresight, in his willingness to consider all risks and consequences. If he hadn't, why, he might be the one in the straitjacket instead of poor, gullible Mr. Walker.
Lana didn't say anything as they drove away. Her large brown eyes were focused on the window, staring out at the grand old building that had been her prison for the past month. Oliver doubted that she could actually see anything, but she stared out all the same.
"Would you like me to turn on the radio?" he asked.
"Hm?" Her eyes flickered towards him, but he could tell her mind wasn't fully there. "If you like."
"My house isn't far," he told her. "It should only take ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I have a spare bedroom set up for you, but I'm afraid I'm not used to having guests over. I hope you'll find it comfortable."
"I'm sure it's fine," she said politely.
"I know this is happening so fast," he said, feeling the inexplicable need to keep a friendly conversation going. "It's a lot to take in."
For the first time all night, she seemed fully apart of the conversation.
"It's still hard to believe this is real. I dreamed of escaping for so long, but after a while…would you mind if I rolled down the window? It's been a while since I felt a breeze."
"Of course." He pictured the dark corridors, the common room crowded with madness, the barred windows that kept out the rest of the world. It made him angry, every time, to remember Lana in that hellhole.
He felt a thrill of nervous excitement as they approached his house, and he could tell that Lana felt it too. Everything in his life had been leading up to this moment, and Lana's too, even if she didn't know it yet.
He had put a lot of thought into how he would reveal the truth to her. There was the trapdoor, if she should stumble upon his work room. He had it installed nearly a year ago, for purely practical reasons. Sometimes he had excess material in his workroom (blood, bits of bone, leathery skin that was no longer pliable) that needed a quick disposal, so the trapdoor sent them straight to the basement. Yes, the trapdoor could work…
But what were the chances that she would just happen to stand right over it? Better to use drugs. He could slip enough into her wine, making her feel warm and sleepy until she finally passed out.
Of course, there was the high probability that she would notice his décor. He had debated hiding it for Lana's visit, at least initially, but decided against it. He wanted to see if she'd noticed it, if she was really as good a journalist as both of them believed. But then, people had a habit of seeing what they wanted to see. Look at Kit Walker, and even Lana herself, who saw nothing but an idealistic young psychiatrist who was willing to risk his career for their sake. He would have to wait and see.
But he was soon to learn that even in his own home, there were still potential dangers.
His heart seized up when he saw her by the phone. His first, irrational thought was that she had betrayed him. His fingers slammed down on the phone, ending the call.
"No calls," he said, forcing calm into his voice.
But Lana had only wanted to call some friend or another. She hadn't wanted to betray him at all. He wanted to laugh—it was foolish, really, to jump to conclusions so quickly. He would have to calm down, before his nerves got the best of him, before he said something he would regret.
"I knew you were the person to tell my story," he said, holding out the glass of wine.
She looked curious. "Your story?"
There it was again. He wanted to smack himself for his carelessness. This time, he couldn't hide the expression on his face, couldn't put on his carefully crafted mask.
Lana, however, didn't linger on his slip. She smiled and toasted and played the part of the perfect guest.
That was, until he turned the lamp on. He saw the range of emotions come across her face: confusion, then horror, then fear. He was her make a noble effort to keep her composure, to hide her knewknowledge.
Something about it brought out a boyish, naughty giddiness in him. He couldn't let this go.
"Mint?" he asked, sliding over the skull-bowel. There it was again, the same fear and uncertainty lighting up her eyes. He wanted to laugh, to hug her, to caress that gorgeous skin of hers. Instead he stared at her, giving her an unwavering look.
She knew that he knew that she knew.
She made an excuse to use his bathroom, and he gladly gave her directions. All of the doors were locked except for the workroom. This was shaping up to be interesting.
He took off his glasses and let out a sigh.