Split Second (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 1)

King hadn’t been able to take his gaze off the wreck of a man who eight years ago had nearly pulled off one of the most impressive feats in American politics. Morse had lost some weight but was still chubby. His hair had been shaved off, although he had a short beard shot with gray. King had remembered his eyes being laser sharp, missing nothing. Now those eyes were clearly lifeless. It was Sidney Morse, but just barely, only the shell really.

He said, “So what’s the diagnosis?”

“That he ain’t never leaving here, that’s what,” said the attendant, who introduced himself as Carl. “His mind’s totally gone. Cracked out and ain’t coming back. Look, I’ll be down the hall. You can just come get me when you’re done.” Carl walked off.

Joan glanced at King. “I can’t believe it’s him,” she said. “I know his rep and career took a big hit after Ritter was killed, but you’d think it wouldn’t come to this.”

“Maybe it happened in stages. And I guess a lot can happen in eight years. I mean look at me. He was shattered after the Ritter debacle. Nobody wanted him. He grew depressed. And maybe his younger brother introduced a very vulnerable Sidney to some heavy drugs while they were living together. I recall during the campaign that Sidney said his brother’s drug habit had gotten him into a lot of trouble. He said his brother was pretty creative in coming up with ways to get the cash to support his habit. Quite the con man.”

King knelt in front of Morse. “Sidney, Sidney, do you remember me? I’m Sean King. Agent Sean King,” he added.

There was no reaction. A bit of spittle oozed out of the man’s mouth and clung to his lip. King glanced at Joan. “His father was a well-known lawyer,” he said, “and his mother was some kind of heiress. I wonder where all that money went?”

“Maybe it’s used to support him here.”

“No, this is a state institution. It’s not some fancy private place.”

“Well, maybe his brother has control of it. I guess they each inherited and now he has both shares. And who cares about the Morse brothers? I’m here to find John Bruno.”

King turned to look back at Morse. The man hadn’t moved. “God, look at those knife marks on his face.”

“Self-mutilation. Sometimes that goes with being unbalanced.”

King rose, shaking his head.

“Hey, have you played the game with him?” said a high-pitched voice.

They both turned and looked at the short, skinny man standing behind them holding a ragged stuffed rabbit. His features were so tiny he looked like a leprechaun. He wore a ratty bathrobe and apparently little else. Joan averted her gaze.

“The game,” said the man, who looked at them with a childlike expression. “Have you played it yet?”

“What, with him?” asked King, pointing to Morse.

“I’m Buddy,” said the man, “and this is Buddy too,” he said, holding up the ragged rabbit.

“Nice to meet you, Buddy,” said King. He looked at the rabbit. “And you too, Buddy. So you know Sid?”

Buddy nodded vigorously. “Play the game.”

“The game, right, why don’t you show me? Can you do that?”

Again Buddy nodded his head, and smiled. He ran to the corner of the room where there was a box of stuff. He pulled out a tennis ball and came back to them.

He stood in front of Morse and held up the ball. “Okay, I’m pitching the…”

Buddy’s focus seemed to wander, and he just stood there holding the ball and his rabbit with his mouth wide open and his eyes expressionless.

King prompted, “The ball. You’re pitching the ball, Buddy.”

Buddy came back to life. “Okay, I’m pitching the ball.” He made a great show of a major league windup that exposed far more of his anatomy than either King or Joan cared to see. As he let the ball go, however, it was in a slow, underhand style.

It was heading right for Morse’s head. A second before it hit him, Morse’s right hand shot up and caught the ball. Then the hand dropped, the ball still clenched there. Buddy hopped ’round and then took a bow. “The game,” he said.

He went over to Morse and tried to get the ball back, but Morse’s fingers remained clenched around it. Buddy turned to them with a pathetic expression. “He never gives it back. He’s mean! Mean, mean, mean!”

Carl popped his head in. “Everything cool? Oh, hey, Buddy.”

“He won’t give the ball back,” Buddy cried out.