Tate sat at the table, knees bouncing. Despite the sedatives he was on, he was nervous. He kept picking at his cuticles and looking around anxiously even though there wasn't anything to look at. Not until the door opened and his mother walked into the visiting room.

He suffered a moment of indecision then. He almost got up but then dropped back down in his seat and shrank into himself. He was about to get up again but by then she'd reached the table. She paused, then sat down on the small bench across from him.

"Hello, sweetheart," she said in the most subdued way he'd ever heard her speak. She looked ready to cry.

Tate noticed then how short her hair was and how wan her complexion. She hardly looked like herself. He fidgeted and put his hands on the table. "Hi."

She reached over and put one of her hands on one of his. He laced his fingers with hers but still didn't want to look at her face for long. Her hair bothered him. She didn't look like herself.

"I've missed you," said Constance.

He shifted in his seat. "Me too." He said it mostly because it seemed like what she wanted to hear. He had done a fine job of putting her and the rest of his former life as far from his addled mind as he could.

There was a lapse then and she smiled self-consciously. "We're not supposed to talk about the outside world," she said apologetically. "Doesn't leave a lot to make small talk about."

"Never liked small talk," said Tate with a twitchy little shrug. It was weird having her worry about small talk in a place like this. "It's fake talk about shit nobody really wants to hear."

Her smile tightened. "True enough," she conceded. "But it has its uses." She glanced over at the guard, who was cleaning his fingernails with a toothpick.

"Why'd you cut your hair?"

"Do you like it?" Constance said, self-consciously touching the bob. "It's en vogue."

He wrinkled his nose without meaning to. "It looks like boy hair."

She smiled faintly. "Please. Don't spare my feelings."

"You asked," he pointed out. "Do you want me to lie to you?"

"No," she said, patting his hand. "I don't." She pulled a deep breath then and released it in a short, sharp sigh. She leaned in closer so she could speak confidentially. "Tate, Mama needs you to do something."

A little wrinkle appeared between his brows at the shift in tone. "What?"

"Your former doctor. Oliver Thredson." She spat the name like it was poison. "He's an inmate at Briarcliff now."

"Yeah, but it's a mistake," he told her. "Somebody framed him."

"No, baby. He is the Bloody Face Killer," his mother said in a very low voice. "He did horrible things to at least five women and then he killed them."

Tate looked at her hand, the one holding his. Her nails were much shorter than she usually kept them. They were always long and tapered, something no maid or manual laborer could maintain. They were what she called 'active length' now—something she derided as being fit only for piano instructors and secretaries.

Her words finally penetrated through the medicinal fog he was under and the teen frowned in earnest. His doctor had killed five women? "Why? Why would he do that?"

"Who knows?" she dismissed incredulously. "Some people are just broken and he's one of them. That bastard—"

She had to stop for a moment. She looked away, checking the guard's position as she steeled her resolve. She needed to tell her son what had happened in order for him to understand what she needed him to do. She couldn't do that if she was crying. When she'd forced the lump down out of her throat she forced herself to look at him again. Her expression was intense.

"He hurt your Mama. And now I need you to kill him."

...

Dominique, nique, nique s'en allait tout simplement

Routier pauvre et chantant

En tous chemins, en tous lieux, il ne parle que do bon Dieu

Il ne parle que do bon Dieu

The record player in the common room ground through the same song as always, even though it was a week till Christmas. One could only tell it was the season because of the big fir tree staff had brought in and propped in the corner. Some of the patients had made simple ornaments for it but those had to be hung high up so the higher-risk inmates wouldn't get to them. Vita kept trying to put things on the tree that didn't belong there, like her socks. She understood the concept of decorating the tree but not the abstract ideas behind what was an acceptable ornament.

Billie Dean sat in one of the sour-smelling old chairs, discreetly writing in a palm-sized notebook.

"What are you writing?" Heather asked her.

The poor girl was looking strung out and too thin. Her experience with the exorcism had taken a toll on her health but she was more lively that day than she had been the past two days.

"I'm recording what life is like here," said Billie Dean, in a tone meant only for the girl who was sitting in the chair beside her. "I'm going to finish what John started. When I get out of here, I'm going to expose this place."

"How?"

The medium looked down at her notebook and golf pencil. "I know some publishers who will read anything I hand them. Someone will want to publish this."

Heather looked uncertain. "Won't that get you in trouble?"

"Not once I'm out of here," Billie Dean said confidently.

"But what if they catch you? Like they did John?"

The other woman hesitated and looked over at the man in question. He was sitting in front of the Christmas tree. Just sitting there. His hair was a mess and he hadn't changed his clothes in days. He never had a notebook with him anymore, which was like seeing a mustached man shaven. John didn't look like John anymore. John wasn't John anymore. Whoever he was now, he was unreachable. He would look at a person when he was spoken to, and he could follow basic commands, but he didn't talk or emote. He didn't do anything but sit there.

Billie Dean put on a fake smile that trembled at the edges. "I just won't get caught."

...

Tate wrestled with what his mother had told him about Dr. Thredson. He had spent too much time alone with the therapist, sharing his private thoughts and feelings, to be able to accept the truth easily. He just couldn't believe that the doctor he had spent all that time with had been faking who he was. And someone and calm and collected as Thredson couldn't also be someone who carved up women and tortured Tate's own mother.

He wanted it to be a lie but her visit ate at him. She wasn't above lying to him, but this was such a specific thing and there were so many little details he couldn't ignore, even in his sedated state. Her odd appearance stuck out to him, as did her asking Tate to do something she knew would get him in a lot of trouble. He struggled with the notion that someone—anyone—had hurt his mother. Trying to sew that concept to the idea that his doctor, one of the few people he'd ever trusted, was even more difficult.

He decided to confront Thredson after dinner, but the man came into their shared room while the teen was pacing and waiting for meal line-up. As soon as he saw Thredson, Tate knew he had to say something.

"I saw Constance today."

Oliver's bushy brows hiked up. "Oh?" There was a subtle shift in his expression that Tate would have missed if he wasn't looking for signs of guilt. "How did that go?"

Tate's fingers curled and uncurled as his body tensed up. He could see the nervousness in the man's dark eyes and knew everything his mother had told him was true. "How many times have you been to my house?" The words were casual. His expression was blank.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Thredson dismissed. "What did your mother say to you, Tate?"

"Did you hurt her?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I didn't. Now I'd advise you to settle down before I have to call for the orderlies."

The man's demeanor was flawless, but Tate didn't believe him. If anything, Thredson's calm only made him seem more guilty. When Constance had described what the man did to her, he could see the trauma in her barely-bridled rage. But while the dark-haired man wasn't a doctor any longer, if he hollered for the orderlies, there was a good chance someone would show up and make Tate's life hell. It would be much easier to get the man after light's out. So the teen turned on a fake smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm cool, doc," he said, raising his hands. "I figured she was just trying to mess with me so I'd fuck up. But I had to ask."

Thredson wasn't buying the sudden retreat though he pretended to. "I understand. It's a impressive that you still want to look out for her, considering everything she's put you through."

Tate blinked, pricked by the subtle barb. "Yeah. Pretty stupid, huh?"

The former doctor smiled tolerantly. "No. It's natural to care about one's family."

"Line up!" an orderly barked from the hall.

Thredson made sure Tate left the room first.

—

That night after lights out, Oliver lay tense on the mattress, his back to the wall. He didn't dare shut his eyes. He knew Tate's mentality too well. For the first time ever, he felt the boy was a danger to him.

The reality was that Tate had shot 42 people. One by one he'd picked them off, without remorse. While his actions could be blamed on the tumor he'd had, despite surgery to remove the growth, the teen hadn't shown a great deal of change in his behavioral patterns. Certainly no remorse or even ownership of the deaths he'd caused. In the months Thredson had been treating him, Tate was still having regular violent outbursts, and that was while medicated. Self-control for the young man seemed to be an act rather than a skill.

An hour crept by, then another. Then Thredson detected motion in the room. The cot creaked as Tate left it. He paused in the darkness. Oliver kept his eyes half-shut so as to appear asleep in the dim moonlight that filtered in through the narrow, high-set window. After a few silent seconds, Tate crept forward, toward Thredson. The man started to sit up but Tate leapt at him as soon as he moved.

There was an immediate struggle as Tate tried to get his hands around his former therapist's throat. The older man was ready for him, though, and brought a knee up into Tate's side. It was an awkward angle; it didn't hurt his attacker much, but it did keep Tate from getting a grip on him.

"HELP!" Thredson hollered. "I'm being attacked!"

The shout startled some of the other inmates. One started whooping down the hall. Another yelled "Shaddup!" but the man kept on whooping.

Tate tried to use his superior position to pin his adversary. Thredson expected staff to come running, but his shout went unanswered as he wrestled with the out-of-control youth. Anger at the lack of response provided him a burst of adrenaline that Oliver put to use, flipping Tate over onto his back. The younger man hit the floor with a soft whuff of lost breath. He tried to get up, but Oliver kicked him in the head. Tate sprawled on the floor, stunned by the blow.

"Tate!" Thredson said sharply as he got to his feet and off the mattress. He scrambled for the door. It was locked. He put his back to it. "Stop this at once! I know this situation has you very confused, but attacking me will only make things worse for you!"

The younger man rubbed his head and got to his feet as well. "You hurt my mother!"

"Orderlies!" Thredson yelled out the tiny window. More noise echoed back from the other inmates. They seemed to be the only ones paying attention to the drama unfolding. Addressing Tate once more, he said: "Think about it, Tate: I have no reason to hurt your mother. If she said I did, I can assure you it's because she doesn't want you released. Why do you think she hasn't tried to see you before now? She doesn't want you back in her life, Tate! I've tried to spare you that reality, but she's afraid of you!"

Tate closed the distance between them, but he held off further attack because the man was making too much sense. The man's explanation made more sense than the reality of the situation. His head started to feel pressurized and he rubbed the spot where Thredson had kicked him.

"My head hurts."

The cell door opened then, making Oliver stumble. He quickly ducked out into the hall where Jonas, a big bald orderly who was part of the prison work release program, shoved his way between the patients.

"I was his therapist," he told the orderly. "My being his roommate has caused him to have a psychotic break." He could see the way the man was looking at him and it irritated him but he kept his tone in check. "He just tried to strangle me. If you put us back in there together, one of us will be dead in the morning. Briarcliff doesn't need another body to dispose of right now."

Tate squinted at him and started forward. Jonas didn't know either patient's criminal history. He just knew what he'd experienced the past few months, dealing with Tate as a patient and Thredson as a boss. He opted to side with the former doctor and intercepted the younger man.

"Another body?" Tate asked as he was seized. He didn't resist, but Jonas manhandled him anyway, hustling him out into the hall. "What do you mean, Doctor Thredson?"

"Back to your room," Jonas told Oliver, who used the excuse to get out of sight.

Thredson thought about going back to the mattress on the floor, but he knew Tate would be in solitary for the rest of the night or at least in someone else's cell. He took the cot. It was the best night of sleep he had since entering Briarcliff as a patient.

...

Author's Note:

Merry Christmas!

Insanity doesn't take a holiday here. But I don't think Tate was too serious about killing Thredson or he would have succeeded. I think maybe he did just enough to convince himself (and his mother) that he tried. He had the doc convinced, anyway.

Next time: Dandy's calling the shots now. Brace yourself for the changes that are coming.