Truly, Madly Viking Page 7

  "I see," she said.

  The next day...

  "That's it till next Monday," Dr. Harry Seabold told the people assembled around the conference table, thus calling a halt to the weekly staff meeting. "We should have more definite word within the next two weeks on the status of Medic-All negotiations with the Rainbow owners. I hope to give you a progress report next week."

  "Two weeks! Well, whoopie-doo! My nurses are panicking now, Dr. Seabold. They need to know if they should be submitting job applications elsewhere," Gladys Hatcher insisted as she stood and gathered up her papers. "Some of them live from paycheck to paycheck. They can't afford to go even two weeks without work."

  Gladys was a big, brusque woman who took no guff from anyone, not even their boss, but she also had a heart of gold when it came to her "girls," the nurses working under her supervision.

  Earlier today, when Maggie had mentioned her daughters' report of the nurse's overheard remark, Gladys had clapped Maggie so hard on the back she almost fell over and exclaimed, "Well, he is a stud muffin, honey. Ya can't deny that."

  Maggie had decided not to make an issue of it, for now.

  "I know, I know." Harry was nodding in reply to Gladys's concerns. "But let's not overreact here, folks. Even if Medic-All buys out Rainbow, it doesn't mean the hospital will shut down, or that jobs will be eliminated."

  But what Harry wasn't saying, and they all knew, was that Rainbow was a unique operation, and many of them, Maggie included, might not want to work for the hospital if it changed its procedures. Maggie knew of only a few mental clinics in the country that were experimenting with a minimal-security setting with a combination of in- and out- patient therapy for serious mental disorders, combined with work-training experience. It was all based on individualized contracts, a relaxed atmosphere, and close supervision. Their success rate had been phenomenal, but it was too soon to try it on a wider scale. Would Medic-All be impressed with what they'd accomplished so far? After all, the Rainbow Psychiatric Hospital was a small facility of less than one hundred patients, and it was only five years old. Or would they bring their own people in and want a rubber stamp of the medical procedures followed in its other numerous facilities? Would the bottom line be dollars, or patient success?

  Maggie feared she already knew the answer. As the business manager, nursing director, activities coordinator, and other psychologists began to stream out of the room, Harry said, "Stay behind, Maggie. I have something I need to discuss with you."

  "Uh-oh. She sat back down in a chair close to the head of the table.

  "It's about your John Doe .... " Harry, still sitting in the head seat, gave her a weary glance that didn't bode well for said John Doe. Today Harry wore a white, short-sleeved dress shirt, a red striped power tie, and khaki slacks—every bit the head honcho, even with his hair comb-over, which he patted every so often, whether to make sure it was still in place or out of nervousness, Maggie couldn't tell for sure.

  "He's no longer a John Doe," Maggie reminded him. "Remember, he started talking yesterday. His name is Jorund Ericsson."

  Harry gave a short "whatever" wag of his hand. "We are walking on eggshells with the potential takeover, Maggie. I'm very concerned about our having a patient here at this time with no known medical insurance and—"

  "So that's what this is all about? Money?"

  "Damn straight it is," Harry shot right back, his face flushed with sudden anger. He was usually such a calm person, even in the face of traumatic events, which were not unusual in a hospital setting. The takeover talks must be taking a bigger toll on him than she'd imagined. "I've never refused to care for a patient who had no means to pay, but these are very sensitive times. I'll be damned if I'll jeopardize the interests of ninety-nine paying customers for the sake of one... one"—he stammered, at a loss for the least offensive words to describe Joe—"one nude exhibitionist who just happens to be wearing a hundred thousand dollars in jewelry."

  "Huh?" Maggie homed in on the most irrelevant part of Harry's tirade. "What jewelry? Oh, you mean those brass arm tings?"

  "Brass? Ha! Those are solid gold, if my guess is right, and probably antiques... maybe even tenth century—at least that's what Martie said when she was here yesterday."

  Martie, an antique dealer, was Harry's on again, off-again girlfriend. She operated a well respected auction house with international connections, similar to Sotheby's and Christie's, though on a smaller scale, and she served on several museum boards. She ought to know.

  "Martie says those arm bands are potentially important antiquities, whatever the hell that means. And besides that, have you looked at that sword the police department sent over? I did, before they locked it in the hospital safe. My God, Maggie, it weighs a ton, and the hilt is in the shape of a dragon, imbedded with what appear to be real emeralds. I didn't bring it out to show Martie, of course that would be unethical. But I'm telling you, this guy should be a paying customer... insurance or no insurance."

  Maggie's shoulders sagged with weariness. Harry was right. He'd gone out on a limb, giving in to her whim over bringing a stranger to their hospital. And how did she repay him? By giving him grief. "What do you want me to do?"

  "One week," he stipulated, wagging a forefinger at her with emphasis. "You have one week to show some real progress with this guy. That's when the advance team from Medic-All will arrive for the red-carpet treatment. I expect your assurance by then that he is no danger to anyone, including himself. That means no more ankle restraints or straitjackets. I want to see some interaction with other patients. Otherwise he is being sent to the state facility, whether it is in his best interests or not. Rainbows best interests are my main concern, especially now. I mean that, Maggie. I really do."

  Maggie put up both hands in surrender. "I get the picture, boss."

  The question, though, was how to translate that picture to her patient. Most important, would Joe the Viking cooperate?

  The next day...

  "I do not understand," Jorund said, pacing the room as he shook his head with incredulity. "What kind of prison is this?"

  "Why kind of prison do you think it is?"

  The wench was back in his chamber again, battering him with more pointless conversation, half of which he could not comprehend, when he needed to be on his journey back to his ship to rescue his brother Rolf. And—Thor's toenails!— he hated it when she never answered his questions, but instead tossed them back at him like a bloody parrot.

  If he asked, "Why am I being confined?" she countered with, "How do you feel about being confined?" Or a simple query like, "Where am I?" would garner, "Where do you think you are?" Never could he get a simple answer to a simple question.

  She wore another of those short-sleeved sherts, as she had worn at the orca place—crimson red this time, made of a stretchy material that highlighted the most perfect breasts, round globes that would fit nicely into a big male hand... one the size of... oh, say, his hand. Not that he was considering the handling of her breasts. It was just an observation, he told himself. Just as he'd noticed she was wearing men's black braies that clung to her rounded hips and flat belly in a beguiling way. Then, too, there were those enticing, open-toed shoes with flame painted toenails today. He had the most alarming compulsion to suck on those deliciously appealing appendages.

  He stopped dead in his tracks. Really, he had been isolated too long if he was developing a taste for toes. Magnus would love to hear of this. No doubt at the next All-Thing, the skalds would be writing praise-poems...but to ridicule, not praise him. Instead of his being known as Jorund the Warrior, people would refer to him forever after as Jorund the Toe-Taster.

  He'd best be on his guard. The wench might be out to seduce him with all these dock-whore wiles. And he might just be tempted if it weren't for her annoying nature. What do you think? What do you think? What do you think? he mocked her incessant refrain in his head. What he thought was that he was tired of thinking. It was long past the time for action.
>
  Oh, the wench had released his ankle restraints. A guardsman was still posted outside the door, though, and Jorund still wore the torture shert. That ankle-restraint concession had been made this morn when he'd promised not to make an effort to escape or engage in any violence. Even so, it rankled that she engaged him in useless chatter when he had important business elsewhere. Besides he might as well admit it he wanted to get back to the black box and see if Josh was able to rescue Reva from those dastardly villains on that far island. He had some suggestions he'd like to offer Josh for retrieving his wayward wife. And Odin's balls !—that Reva was a woman after a Viking's heart... or any other body organ.

  "What don't you understand, Joe?"

  I swear I am going to rip out your tongue if you don't stop calling me Joe. What kind of name is that? That was what he thought. What he said was, "You say this is a hospitium?"

  "A hospital... yes." She craned her neck to watch him as he resumed moving restlessly about the small chamber. "Actually, we prefer to call it a clinic."

  "Ne'er have I seen a hospitium—or clan-hick— like this afore," he declared with a grunt. "I should know. There is one of the finest in the world located in Jorvik, near the minster. The good monks perform the healing arts there. They've sewn up my wounds on a dozen occasions. One time I nigh lost an eye."

  Scanning him quickly, the wench took note of the white scar that ran from his right eye to his ear.

  A distressing idea occurred to him then. "Since this is a hospitium, are those men in white uniforms who come in here... are they perchance monks?"

  She smiled. "No, they're orderlies, or attendants."

  "And the women in white—and you—surely you are not nuns?"

  She laughed out loud at that. "The women in white are nurses, and I'm a doctor."

  He exhaled with a loud whoosh, in relief.

  The wench looked at him strangely. "You do understand that? No, I guess you don't." She paused. "This is a mental hospital, Joe."

  Men-tall? Men-tall? He rolled the word around on his tongue silently. Oh, she must mean mental, like having to do with the head. It took him a few moments to digest that news. "Your country has special hospitiums for mad people?"

  She nodded.

  "Well, I can see where that might be a good idea." I have ne'er heard of such a ludicrous idea in all my days. Next she will tell me there are separate hospitiums for battle veterans or breeding women. Not wanting to give offense, but needing to know if he faced additional dangers from a berserk society, he asked casually, "Dost have so very many mad people here?"

  She shrugged. "No more than any other country."

  "We lock them up in my country... in dungeons, if they are available." Actually he'd seen only a few dungeons in his time, though he supposed some folks did lock up their infamous family members. They were probably Saxons, who were known to have no heart, even for their own kin. Even then, it was more likely to be a root cellar or woodshed, rather than a dungeon. She gaped.

  "Or just kill them." His third cousin Halfdan had killed his half-witted brother, Helvid, many summers ago because he'd slobbered in Half dan's mead. "I have heard of some clans where less-than-perfect babes are left outdoors to die soon after birth. Life is harsh in the northlands, and sometimes 'tis merciful to spare the child with death when life would mean endless torture."

  She gulped.

  "In truth, I have heard of madhouses on occasion, but those were mostly in leper colonies."

  She gasped.

  But then, the implications of her words struck him on a personal level: he was being held captive in a madhouse. "You think I, Jorund the Warrior, am demented?"

  "Well, I wouldn't use the word demented," she answered, but the flush on her cheeks told another story.

  "What word would you use?" He narrowed his eyes at her and gritted his teeth.

  "Troubled."

  He released the breath he had not realized he was holding. "Of course I am troubled. I already told you I am lost and must needs get back to my ship in order to rescue my brother Rolf."

  "I mean troubled in a more serious, clinical way. Joe, you need help to correct your disorders before you can be released back into society."

  "If by disorders you mean mental ones, then you are sorely mistaken," he informed her haughtily. "I am as sane as the next person... as you, for example. Or that Dock-whore Hairy with the hair swag."

  He saw her lips twitch with suppressed mirth at his description of her colleague.

  "Tell me exactly what I am accused of so that I may convince you of my innocence, and leave this place."

  "No, no, no. You aren't being accused of any crime. This is a low-security mental facility. If police thought you were truly dangerous, or a criminal, you'd be in jail, not here."

  "Then why am I not free to leave?"

  "For starters, you showed up stark naked in a public place."

  "Pfff!" He blew air out in a dismissive manner. "I did not choose to arrive without garments, but I needed ease of movement when I dove into the waters off Iceland to disentangle my ship's anchor."

  "See, that's another thing," she said with excitement, as if she'd made some great discovery. "Surely you're aware of the frigid nature of waters in that region. Your body never could have withstood that temperature for more than a few minutes."

  He was trying his best to concentrate on her words and not notice that her nipples had pearled with her excitement and pressed outward from the stretchy material of her shert. He made a mental note to take a length or two of that fabric back to Vestfold with him. He knew a trader who could make a fortune selling it to the Eastern potentates. For a certainty, the nether portion of his body was developing a liking for all that the fabric disclosed on the dock whore. He forced himself to think of other things before he embarrassed himself.

  "Well, you may have a point there," he managed to get out finally. "Mayhap my boat did go off course a mite. Mayhap it was not really Iceland, but some other country. Mayhap I was a trifle... well, lost."

  "Oh, Joe"—she sighed—"that would be more than lost. From Galveston, Texas, to Iceland is more than two thousand miles, as the bird flies."

  It was his turn to gasp now. "As the bird flies, hmmm? And how many sea miles would that be by longship?"

  "I haven't a clue. Possibly four thousand miles." She laughed. "Why do you keep mentioning such archaic words as longship?"

  "Huh?" Then, "What is archaic about a long ship? 'Tis the way we Vikings travel."

  "There you go again, referring to yourself as a Viking. I've got to tell you that I've had patients in the past who thought they were aliens from another planet. One even believed he was the emperor Nero. Vikings, Romans, aliens... those are delusions, my friend."

  He stared at her, slack-jawed with incomprehension.

  "Vikings do not exist as a separate culture today," she explained slowly. "They were assimilated into the various countries where they raped and pillaged, or just plain settled."

  "Oh! There you go," he said, mimicking her expression. "Why do so many people accept as truth this portrayal of Vikings as bloodthirsty marauders? Do you not recognize the bias of those bloody Saxon clerics who call themselves historians? Rumormongers, they are, one and...

  She gazed softly at him, as if she were a parent, and he a simple child.

  For a brief moment, he entertained the possibility of slicing off her tongue afore he left this chamber. Once he regained his sword, that was.

  "Perhaps this is a starting point for us to begin therapy." She inhaled deeply, as if to fortify herself. "I believe that your name is Joe Rand, as you told me originally. And I think I know what your biggest problem is."

  "You do?" Now, why did I ask her that? It's just prolonging this ridiculous conversation.

  "Yes. You have a T-type personality... you're an extreme risk taker. That was evident at the orca park when you made a grand entrance riding atop a killer whale. I'm not judging you, but some people might equate that with
a death wish."

  "I was not riding Thora by choice," he pointed out.

  She waved a hand in the air as if his observation counted for naught. "Man is the only species that deliberately takes risks, did you know that, Joe? And I'm speaking of everything from finances to our very lives. Think about it. Stock speculation. Gambling. Skydiving. Car racing. Whatever. The safer our environment becomes, the more risks people intentionally take on."

  The woman is barmy as a bat.

  "You are a thrill-seeker," she concluded with a wide smile, as if inviting him to agree.

  Barmy as two bats. "Are you a... what did you call it... a type-tea, also?"

  "Oh, good heavens, no! I've got inhibitions coming out the wazoo." She squirmed on her chair, practically jumping with glee at the expectation of solving one of his so-called disorders.

  "Really?" he asked with more interest than her comment evoked. What he'd really like to know, though, was where her cause-oooh was? Could it be anywhere in the vicinity of those nicely rounded buttocks that perched on the edge of her chair?

  And he had to wonder, if she got this aroused at the prospect of his being a thrill seeker, how aroused would she get when it was her he targeted for his thrills?

  "But, more important, you must accept this fact, Joe: you are not a Viking."

  "I'm not?" For a moment there, she had him questioning himself. If he was not already mad, she would make him so. "What am I?"

  "Why don't you tell me?"

  "Why do you always throw my questions back at me?"

  She sighed, but then seemed to take his criticism to heart. "I suspect you are an ordinary man with an ordinary job, who took on this fantasy in order to bring excitement to his life. There's nothing wrong with that, except that it's an illusion. And overindulgence in fantasies can interfere with reality."

  If Jorund's arms weren't confined in the torture jacket, he would have pulled at his own hair with frustration. "I most certainly am a Viking... just as you are a dock whore. And I assure you, I am not, nor ever have been, ordinary."