Page 243 of Deep Cover

32

Annie

It was an interrogation, of course. All the way to the airport. And from the airport as we drove off in the direction of the apartment I shared with Mark.

They asked me why I was there, how I'd found out about Cole, what he did to me, who else was there, what he'd given me, where I'd been during the time I was out of touch after having been in touch for a while.

I answered what I wanted to answer and didn't answer the rest. I told them that I had heard of Cole from someone on the force but that I wouldn't say who. Frankly I'd be happy as hell if they suspected the lieutenant and went after him. He didn't have anything to do with it and probably hadn't known until all this happened, but he'd still stuck my neck out further than I wanted it. Mine, my father's, Mark's. All our necks.

The dirty cop who had initially sold me out, who had known about my addiction in the first place, he was long gone off the force, with a pocketful of Cole's money I suspected, and in the wind. Or else he was dead. I actually owed Samuels a debt. Without him doing what he'd done, I might actually be dead by now. That didn't mean I felt indebted. He'd still done a shit thing, selling a human, and he'd have sold me whether Cole was legit or as crazy as Vincent. As it was, I was sure he'd sold me without knowing one way or the other.

If I ever ran into Samuels again – if there still was a Samuels to run into – maybe I did owe him a debt. Of sorts.

I told them I'd been out of the country when I was out of touch. I refused to say where, with whom or why.

I pointed out that Cole was the CEO of a pharmaceuticals company and probably could be trusted to know what he was giving me to help turn the tide of my addiction and to know all the side effects as well, and how to combat them.

My father and my fiancé, sounding eerily alike, found this absurd. Cole wasn't a doctor, insisted Mark, maybe feeling threatened. So therefore, even though anyone in pharma had to know all the effects of any drug on any person, they didn't think he was qualified to know this.

And then showing up at the apartment and all I could think was, Is this it? Had they really come to my "rescue," metaphorical guns blazing, only to bring me home?

No, they weren't.

Of course.

For the most part, even family members can't get someone involuntarily committed. They might be able to get someone to sign off on a 72-hour hold, but not commitment. That's something that happens in the movies when there's a need to get a character offscreen for a while, out of the way, or else to expose them to something ghastly.

Then again, if one of the people wanting the commitment is an incipient doctor and the other person a decorated police officer whose recent problems with IAD aren't known outside the law enforcement community? It's possible.

That was the plan. Mine was to run like hell the minute someone turned their back but no one did.

Mark continued to want to do a physical exam, which I was starting to think he was looking at as payback for whatever cheating he assumed I'd done. There I got lucky. The female psych ward doc thought I'd already been through enough trauma and an exam was unwarranted for now and would continue to be unwarranted where a goddamn family member was concerned, she continued when he pressed, so he should just back the hell off. Then she made him leave while she did a basic intake – blood pressure, heart rate, Q&A on drugs, suicidal ideation, desire to punch my boyfriend in the face.

I looked up blinking at that one and she grinned. "Just answer the question."

"Yes," I said. "And repeatedly."

"Good," she said. "You passed that one. I'd want to slug him too." She was tall and rangy and about mid-forties, with green eyes and a friendly manner.

Why did I have to get committed to find a doctor I liked?

"What happens now?" I asked.

She let out a breath like there wasn't much she could do to soften this one and said, "You get a two week vacation so sit back, relax, enjoy some movies, and look out for Mavis G."

I narrowed my eyes. "Who?"

She smiled, holding the stethoscope on both ends, the length of it wrapped around the back of her neck. "She's harmless. Mostly. But she thinks she's Mary Poppins. The old movie. The good one. With Julie Andrews. Only Mavis doesn't sing like that."

I went on squinting at her. "Are you kidding?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"Wonderful," I said, and we left it at that.

Mavis G. didn't sing like Mary Poppins. Or any other human.

I started looking for a way out.

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