The Other: (A Psychological Thriller) Read online

  The Other (A Psychological Thriller Featuring the Extractor)

  Copyright © 2017 by L.J. Sellers

  All rights reserved. Except for text references by reviewers, the reproduction of this work in any form is forbidden without permission from the author.

  Cover art by David MacFarlane

  ISBN: 978-0-9987930-4-7

  Published in the USA by Spellbinder Press

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, locations, or events is coincidental or fictionalized.

  Contents

  Chapter 1 • Chapter 2

  Chapter 3 • Chapter 4

  Chapter 5 • Chapter 6

  Chapter 7 • Chapter 8

  Chapter 9 • Chapter 10

  Chapter 11 • Chapter 12

  Chapter 13 • Chapter 14

  Chapter 15 • Chapter 16

  Chapter 17 • Chapter 18

  Chapter 19 • Chapter 20

  Chapter 21 • Chapter 22

  Chapter 23 • Chapter 24

  Chapter 25 • Chapter 26

  Chapter 27 • Chapter 28

  Chapter 29 • Chapter 30

  Chapter 31 • Chapter 32

  Chapter 33 • Chapter 34

  Chapter 35 • Chapter 36

  Chapter 37 • Chapter 38

  Chapter 39 • Chapter 40

  Chapter 41 • Chapter 42

  Chapter 43 • Chapter 44

  Chapter 45 • Chapter 46

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Monday, October 8, 2:15 p.m., Mt. Angel Psychiatric Hospital

  Logan stared through the caged fence. Like a prison yard, the tall metal barrier curved inward at the top, discouraging anyone from leaving. Today, he had permission—and an escort, of course.

  His attendant Bruno unlocked the narrow iron door and held it open. “Let’s make this fast, okay? I’ve got an electrotherapy to escort soon.”

  Logan cringed. He’d had shock treatments, and they’d left him shaky, confused, and anxious. Instead of curing his depression, they made him doubt himself.

  He eased toward the opening, eager to see the oak-filled meadow and hear the birds clustered in the trees. Dread filled his stomach too, and he wished he’d worn his comfort hoodie. Beyond the wall, anything could happen. The world was a chaotic, dangerous place filled with selfish unpredictable people. Yet he longed to be free of the walls. Free of the medications. Free of the doctors who thought he was crazy.

  “Move it, Lowgie.” Bruno waved him on as though he were a recalcitrant pet. Recalcitrant. The sounds pleased him, and he repeated it a few times under his breath. Another great word he’d learned recently and hoped to use in his writing. Even though he hated Bruno’s nickname for him, he ignored it. He’d learned that bullies got bored with taunts if they didn’t seem to cause harm.

  Outside the fence, Logan blinked at the vastness of the sky and open space. What if he ran? Bruno would taser him, then he’d get moved to the high-security side of the institution and never see the outside world again. Logan started down the path toward the oak trees, inhaling the crisp fall air as though he’d been deprived of oxygen.

  Behind him, a cell phone rang and Bruno answered, his voice fading as he slowed to argue with the caller. Logan picked up his pace, delighted by his moment alone, surrounded by the lovely quiet of the park-like setting.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and spun toward it. For a moment, stillness. Then someone rushed between two trees. A boy, about thirteen. His face—glimpsed briefly—was hauntingly familiar. The intruder darted out again and Logan gasped. He was back! The boy with a face just like his own, only younger.

  The Other, as Logan had come to think of him, disappeared behind a big oak.

  A heavy silence pressed on his chest and he struggled to breathe. It was just another hallucination, he told himself. He’d had them before. But why now? And what did it mean? He couldn’t tell his counselor. She’d been alarmed the last time he mentioned the boy, and he didn’t want her to think he was insane.

  Logan laughed bitterly. Dr. Carlson already did. That’s why he was here. No, he was here because his mother wanted him locked away. Recently, he’d heard attendants complain about losing their jobs when the hospital closed. The thought terrified him. Where would he end up? Would it be even worse?

  Things could always get worse. His aunt’s expression echoed in his head. She’d tried to be a mother to him, but her negativity had shaded his perception of everything.

  Logan turned back, his nature walk ruined. Depression hit him hard. Who knew when he would get another outing? The medication they kept shoving down his throat was obviously making him worse. But if he complained, Dr. Carlson would chide him for not adapting. She might even increase his dose.

  How would he ever escape the vicious cycle and the walls that confined him?

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday, October 9, 1:17 p.m., Portland, Oregon

  Rox MacFarlane touched the left side of her forehead. “The pain is right here, and it’s so consistent I worry that I have a tumor.”

  Her neurologist, an older woman with a silver-haired bun, shook her head. “That’s unlikely. No one has ever developed cancer from these treatments.”

  The therapy, called transcranial magnetic stimulation, was over, thank goodness, but the side effects were getting worse. “My hearing loss isn’t improving either, and I think I had a mild seizure last week.”

  The doctor’s eyes widened. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  The episode had been weird, and she still had trouble describing it. “My head suddenly felt strange, kind of tight and loose at the same time. So I sat down, feeling sort of paralyzed for a moment. Then I was fine. Except my head was fuzzy, as though I might have lost some time.”

  “Oh boy.” Dr. Benton pulled her rolling computer over and began typing notes. “What were you doing at the time?”

  “Changing a light bulb.”

  “That sounds like a seizure. I’ll write you a prescription for medication that will prevent another one.” The neurologist squeezed her arm. “I’m sorry this is happening. Side effects from this treatment are rare. But I assure you, they’re temporary.”

  “What about the headache?”

  “Let’s give it another week and see if it goes away. If not, we’ll do a CT scan.”

  Not good enough. Rox’s jaw tensed, but she let it go and stood to leave. “You’ll call in the prescription?”

  “Of course.” The doctor looked as worried as Rox felt.

  Rox headed out, wishing she’d never heard of the damn treatment. What had made her think sending hundreds of magnetic pulses into her brain was a good idea? Oh right, she’d wanted to know what it felt like to be normal.

  She drove straight home, knowing the pharmacy would take hours to process her medication—which she might not even take. She hated new prescriptions, especially those that crossed the blood-brain barrier, because she never knew how her chemistry would react. As she pulled into the driveway of the duplex she shared with her stepdad, her work phone rang. Rox pulled it from her shoulder bag and glanced at it. An old landline prefix and not a number she’d seen before, so it was probably a new client. Good news. She was bored and ready to work again.

  “Karina Jones, how can I help you?” Rox shut off the engine and climbed from her car. She ran her investigations under an assumed name and paid cash for the anonymous burner phone she used to conduct business.

  “You’re the extractor?” The woman’s voice was pleasant, but a little timid.

  “Y
es.” Rox headed toward her door, and Marty rushed from his side of the house. “What did the doc say?” Shorter than her six-foot frame by several inches, her stepdad wore his gray hair buzzed and his eyebrows bushy.

  She gestured at Marty to be quiet, and he followed her inside. Rox put the new client on speaker and turned up the volume. “Who gave you my number?” Her work occasionally straddled the lines of legality, so she had to be careful.

  “A friend named Sam Fenton,” the woman said. “He’s a sergeant with the Portland police.” Most of their clients were referred by officers she and Marty used to work with. Law enforcement people understood that sometimes citizens needed specialized help that cops couldn’t provide.

  “What’s your name and situation?” Rox took the phone into the kitchen and set it on the table. Marty went to the fridge for a couple of microbrews.

  “Shay Wilmont.” The woman sounded steadier now. “I’m worried about my nephew. He’s in a mental institution, and I need you to get him out.”

  Rox glanced at Marty, who rolled his eyes.

  She didn’t blame him. The idea seemed wild, even for her. “I’m sorry, but that’s not in the scope of what I do.”

  “Why not?” A little defensive now. “I thought you rescued young people from oppressive or dangerous situations.”

  “I do. But a mental institution—” Rox stopped. Some facilities were fine, but others were horrible, depending on who was in charge. “If your nephew is being abused, then report it to state authorities. I don’t think I can help you with this.”

  “He shouldn’t be in there!” Shay Wilmont raised her voice, her timidity gone. “Logan’s not mentally ill, just autistic.”

  The label slammed into her gut. She hated the term, preferring to think of herself and others with the condition as having non-typical neurological responses. Her heart went out to the boy. If her own quirks had been worse as a child, she could have suffered the same fate. “How does his condition manifest?”

  “He gets stuck on certain words and repeats them, sometimes for minutes. And he’s obsessed with LED flashlights.”

  Both seemed harmless enough, so something didn’t add up. “How did he get committed?”

  A pause. “His mother claims he’s both violent and suicidal.”

  A few people with spectrum disorder needed antipsychotic meds to keep them under control, but those cases were rare. Rox started to decline again, but the woman cut her off.

  “I’ve never seen Logan hurt anyone, and until recently, I never heard him mention suicide. He’s spent way more time with me than with his mother, so I would know.”

  Marty handed Rox a bottle of dark beer, shook his head, and mouthed Say no.

  Rox was torn. A mental institution would be difficult, if not impossible, to extract someone from. But she wanted to help the poor boy. It was shameful to lock him up just because he made people uncomfortable. She’d made her own mother so jittery, Georgia had abandoned her family. The call of fame and fortune on Broadway had done its part too. “His mother has custody?”

  “Yes, but Logan has lived with me since he was three.”

  That was a little weird. “What age is Logan now?”

  “Fifteen.”

  Old enough to speak for himself about where and how he wanted to live. “His full name?”

  “Logan James Wilmont.”

  That didn’t ring any bells, so the kid’s behavior had not likely made the news. But she would check him out anyway. “Where is he institutionalized?” The word tasted bitter in her mouth.

  “The Mt. Angel campus of the state hospital.”

  The old facility was thirty miles south and had been controversial off and on since its inception. Why couldn’t the kid have been in a small private hospital instead of a concrete fortress? But at least Mt. Angel wasn’t a new building with modern security. Still, Rox knew she had to decline. Instead, she heard herself say, “I’ll consider your case, but first I’d like to meet with you in person to get more information.” She never took a case over the phone. She needed to visually assess who she was dealing with.

  Across from her, Marty shuddered and made aggressive hand gestures indicating she should backtrack. Rox ignored him. “Can you meet me today?”

  “I’ll be done with my art project in a little while.” The woman rushed her response, as though excited. “Where are you located?”

  An artist? Doubt crept back in, and Rox didn’t know why. Still, she gave the address of her small office. “I need you to keep my information confidential, as well as any work I do for you.”

  “I don’t know who I would tell.”

  Spoken like someone who had no friends or family. But as long as Shay had the money… “Are you aware of my fee?”

  “I know you’re expensive, but Sergeant Fenton said you might work with me on the price. I have chronic pain and limited resources.”

  Oh boy. A challenging extraction for very little money. Better and better.

  None of that mattered. They were doing more rescues than she’d originally counted on when she started the business a few years ago, and no one had stiffed them or needed a discount lately. She could afford to work another case for free… if it didn’t take too long. Jolene’s face flashed in her mind, reminding Rox that she wasn’t in this for the money. She honored her sister’s memory by rescuing people from circumstances they couldn’t escape on their own. “I’ll consider giving you a financial break, but let’s talk more in person. When can you be in my office?”

  “Give me an hour.” Shay made a small noise in her throat. “I live outside of Portland where housing is cheaper.”

  “Bring a large photo of the boy, and I’ll see you then.” Rox hung up and looked over at Marty.

  His brows came together in a scowl. “It’s a mistake to even meet with her!” He sounded more vehement than he ever had since leaving the force. “Psych patients are not what we do.”

  “The boy isn’t mentally ill,” she argued. “He has spectrum disorder, like me.”

  “He could be both.” Marty’s expression softened. “I know you empathize with him, especially now that you’ve finished the treatments, but Logan is locked up for a reason. His aunt isn’t telling you everything.”

  “We don’t know that. I’d like to find out more.” She met her stepdad’s eyes. “I think Jolene would approve.” Her younger half-sister had been murdered by the polygamous cult leader she’d fallen for. But before she’d married into the group, Jo had been a mentor for a young bipolar girl. Her sister had been a bleeding heart, wanting to help the whole world.

  “Damn! Don’t use my heartbreak against me.” Marty’s voice shook, clearly angry. “The old Rox wouldn’t have done that.”

  She was taken aback. “I wasn’t trying to manipulate you.” Had the treatments changed her that much? She’d thought the effect was already wearing off.

  Marty reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I know. I’m sorry. Jo’s been on my mind today.” He shook his head. “We just don’t know enough about this kid or why he’s locked up. What if Logan is dangerous? What if we get caught, arrested, and jailed?”

  Rox had doubts as well, but she couldn’t just turn her back and walk away from the boy. “What if Logan has been drugged and isolated just because he makes his mother uncomfortable? I can’t bear that thought.”

  Marty pulled in a long breath. “That’s a good reason to not get involved. Your emotions could cloud your judgment.”

  Before her magnet treatments, he would have never said that either. She wasn’t sure she liked his new perception of her. But she had recently been conned by a psychopath, so she couldn’t argue with him. “Come with me to the interview and see how you feel afterward.”

  “Sorry, but I have a golf game starting soon.” Marty finished his beer and stood. “Let this one go. We can’t save everyone.”

  Rox stood too. “I’m at least going to meet with his aunt like I agreed. Meanwhile, I’ll research the insti
tute.”

  “I won’t help you with this one.” Marty walked out.

  Worry gripped her. Did he really mean that? She knew she couldn’t pull off a challenging extraction without him.

  Chapter 3

  An hour later

  Rox unlocked the back door of her office in northeast Portland. Surrounded by industrial buildings, the neighborhood was marginal, but inexpensive. She spent so little time here she hated paying rent at all. But she needed a place to meet with clients, even briefly, and this minimalistic two-room setup was perfect.

  She tossed her shoulder bag on a filing cabinet, booted up her computer, and opened a document to take notes in. She’d emailed her preliminary research to herself before leaving the duplex, so she opened the message and pasted the background information into her new case file. What she’d learned was that the old state hospital sat on fifty secluded acres about halfway between Woodburn and Mt. Angel. The digital images had revealed a concrete two-story prison-like building with rows of tiny windows on the upper floor. But at least the patients had a nice view of rolling hills with oak savannas and lush green fields. She had tried to find a schematic of the building plans, but failed.

  Old news reports indicated people in the neighboring farms and subdivisions had fought the location when it was built decades ago. The attitude was still prevalent. Nobody wanted prisons, mental hospitals, or homeless camps nearby. Yet, according to more recent articles, the broader community now supported the facility because of the jobs it provided.

  A few minutes later, Rox heard a car engine and glanced at the parking-lot monitor. An old powder-blue Volvo had pulled in. The woman who climbed out looked about forty, the same age as her. But then she started toward the door. Shay Wilmont moved like someone in pain or afraid of falling. Her auburn hair hung limply at her shoulders, and her gray jersey clothes were loose on her lean frame.

  Rox turned to the lobby monitor. The woman came inside and hesitated next to the door, taking in the mostly empty room and shifting uncomfortably.

  Rox pressed the speaker button. “Hello, Shay. Have a seat please.”