Authors: C.E. Lawrence
Silent Kills (25 page)
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
When it came, the blow landed like a sledgehammer. There was no outrunning it, stepping aside, or ducking out of the way. It would find him, Lee knew from experience. There was nothing to do but submit. At least by now it was familiar, he thought as the blackness descended upon him, like a great black bird wrapping its wings around his shoulders.
Familiar things became foreign. The cozy, inviting atmosphere of his apartment was suddenly stifling. The thought of going out was terrifying, but staying in was even worse, and everything made him anxious: other people, the news, food—especially food. The thought of eating was worse than abhorrent. It was unthinkable.
But most of all he was afraid of his answering machine.
Bad things came from it—news of his sister’s disappearance, the announcement of the attack on the World Trade Center, a call telling him of another death at the hands of the Van Cortlandt Vampire. And of course, the mysterious caller who somehow knew about the red dress. He stared down at it, but its evil red eye wasn’t blinking, thank God—there were no unplayed messages.
He thought about the piece of paper they had handed him when he left St. Vincent’s Hospital with his diagnosis.
Major Clinical Depression with Anxiety Disorder.
That made it worse, the hospital shrink said. The depression was bad enough, but you layer anxiety on top of it, and you have a perfect storm of pain. Odd as it seemed, there was some relief in those words on that piece of paper.
Major Clinical Depression with Anxiety Disorder.
That made it worse, the hospital shrink said. The depression was bad enough, but you layer anxiety on top of it, and you have a perfect storm of pain. Odd as it seemed, there was some relief in those words on that piece of paper.
No physical pain he had experienced even came close to it. The blackness was everywhere—inside him, surrounding him, sucking up the past and the future into its bleak maw, isolating him from any thought or memory of joy or pleasure. As a clinical psychologist he had studied depression, had patients who suffered from it, but none of that had prepared him for the reality of the crushing immobility and terror.
Lee lay frozen on his couch staring at the water stain in the shape of Texas on the ceiling. In an isolated corner of his tormented brain he contemplated the odd paradox of being filled with anxiety and yet paralyzed by leaden immobility. He had never needed to talk to someone more than he did right now. He had thought the worst was behind him and that he was on the mend, so it was discouraging to find that he was wrong. He forced himself to sit up and reach for the phone. His hand trembled as he dialed the familiar number. He was in luck—Dr. Williams was in her office, and able to see him later that day. He didn’t tell her why; he just felt fortunate she had an opening in an hour. There had been a last-minute cancellation.
On the way to her office, he saw a tattered photograph still clinging to the side of a green lamppost on St. Mark’s Place. Only the eyes were visible—a young woman, by the look of it, smiling out at him from a dusty scrap of Xeroxed paper. The rest of her face was gone, torn away along with the text underneath the photo. He knew what it had said, though: MISSING—
PLEASE HELP
. And there would have been a phone number, along with a name: Caroline, Mary, Barbara—or perhaps Anika, Indira, or Mussaret. Plenty of Muslims were killed in the bombing, and plenty of other nonChristian, nonwhite Americans, as well as foreign nationals. The terrorists were equal-opportunity killers. If you showed up at work that morning, you were a potential victim.
. And there would have been a phone number, along with a name: Caroline, Mary, Barbara—or perhaps Anika, Indira, or Mussaret. Plenty of Muslims were killed in the bombing, and plenty of other nonChristian, nonwhite Americans, as well as foreign nationals. The terrorists were equal-opportunity killers. If you showed up at work that morning, you were a potential victim.
When he arrived, Dr. Williams’s office door was ajar, so he knocked and went in. Judging by her expression, he must have looked pretty bad.
“Not so good, huh?” she said, taking her usual chair by the window. “Sit down and tell me what happened.”
“Jesus, what
didn’t
happen?” Lee said, sinking onto the sofa. On the good days he sat in the chair opposite her; on the bad ones he took the sofa. This was one of the bad days.
didn’t
happen?” Lee said, sinking onto the sofa. On the good days he sat in the chair opposite her; on the bad ones he took the sofa. This was one of the bad days.
When he finished telling her about his meeting with Kathy and his fight with Chuck, she shook her head. “When it rains it pours.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Do you think they’re related?”
“Not really. Kathy doesn’t know Susan, and hasn’t really been involved in this investigation. But I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t everything supposed to happen in threes?”
“In this case, I hope not. Speaking of cases, any developments there?”
“Nothing that might lead to an arrest anytime soon.”
Dr. Williams was the only person outside law enforcement he could talk to freely about a continuing investigation. Because of doctor/patient confidentiality, anything he told her was safe. It was a relief to talk about a case with people other than his colleagues. He could whine and moan and vent all he wanted, whereas in a professional setting he tried to be businesslike at all times. He needed to express his fears and frustrations in an environment where he didn’t have to worry about his professional image. If there was one thing cops didn’t like, it was anyone who appeared weak or indecisive. He was beginning to trust Leonard Butts, and genuinely liked the guy, but there was still always pressure to be professional. It was a rigid role, and playing it could be emotionally exhausting.
Dr. Williams took a sip of her ever-present iced tea.
“I have a question you might find useless. But humor me, if you will.”
His interest was piqued. “What is it?”
“Do you think there are parallels from the case to what’s happening in your own life?”
“You mean, links between me and the UNSUB?”
“Not necessarily. I mean anything at all, even tangential. That’s why I want you to think about it before answering.”
“We know what my issues are.”
“Okay.”
“And we know I’m not willing to face some of them.”
She smiled. “Let’s say ‘not ready’ rather than ‘not willing,’ shall we?”
It was his turn to smile. “If that works better for you.”
“Why do you think your anger is so threatening to you?”
“How should I know?”
“Take a guess.”
“I thought that was your job.” He was only partly kidding.
“All right, if you insist. I think you’re afraid to get angry because you knew all along there was no room in your family for negative emotions. And when your father abandoned you, it confirmed your worst fears—that if you did get angry, there would be a terrible price to pay.”
“But that’s not why he left.”
“You know that rationally, as an adult, but as a child that’s not how you experienced it. Even now you don’t fully believe it. Some part of you thinks—
feels
that you could have prevented him from deserting you.”
feels
that you could have prevented him from deserting you.”
“But how—” A memory came flooding back to him. It was the summer before his father walked out, and he had done something wrong—used a swear word, perhaps, or violated his mother’s strict behavioral code in some way. Whatever it was, it had caused her to ban him from coming to the annual Fourth of July fireworks over the Delaware. He loved everything about fireworks: the noise, the colorful explosions of light in the night sky, the oohs and aahs from the crowd—even the aroma of gunpowder, mixed with the swampy river smell floating up from the banks of the Delaware.
“I had a temper tantrum,” he said.
She leaned forward in her chair. “Really? When?” “Shortly before he left.”
“Tell me about it.”
He told her about having to stay home from the fireworks.
“I don’t remember what I had done. I don’t think it was anything that bad. Maybe my mother was trying to set an example. Maybe she didn’t realize how much I loved fireworks.”
“So then what happened?”
“I just ... lost it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I flipped out. Started screaming and throwing things and—howling. I just howled, like a wounded animal.” Even now, he remembered the feeling of boiling rage deep inside his body. It was like a living thing inside him, a demon trying to break free. He was helpless against its primal force. “I was completely out of control,” he said.
“How did it feel, to express that much anger?”
He thought about it. The answer, when it came, surprised him.
“It felt luxurious. Like I was diving into this deep, wet well of emotion and sort of wallowing in it.”
“And that felt good.”
“Yeah.”
“And how was that received?”
He smiled wryly. “Not very well.”
“What did they do?”
“I don’t remember.”
She looked puzzled. “You remember your tantrum about the fireworks but you don’t remember how your parents reacted?”
“Not really. I remember thinking how deeply I had disappointed them ... and then nothing.”
“Did you connect your father’s desertion to your tantrum—that it might have caused him to leave?”
“Not at the time—not consciously, anyway.”
“Do you think you would like to have another tantrum like that one?”
Oh, yes, I would like it very much.
“I guess.”
He looked out the window, where a pair of sparrows vied for scraps on the fire escape. The birds hopped and pecked at discarded bits of bread, their sharp little eyes bright with the drive to survive. But there was only so much to go around, he thought—so much food, affection, safety—you name it. Everything came in limited supply, even love. Or maybe especially love.
“He takes their blood to feel safe,” he said. “It’s not as much about sex as it is about safety.”
Dr. Williams frowned. “So he takes their blood to—”
“Because without it he feels he’ll die. He takes it to survive.”
And, he knew, people would do many terrible things in order to survive.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Lee looked out his apartment window. The sun was low in the sky, and with the dimming of daylight, his depression was subsiding—at least for now. He felt the welcome sensation of sweet relief flooding through his veins. But it was accompanied by guilt and remorse—guilt at having left his colleagues in the lurch, and remorse at missing the trip to the gardens. Not that there was anything in particular he could have done there, but when Butts called he heard the disappointment and concern in the detective’s voice.
This was a bad attack—the worst since the towers fell over a year ago. He cursed himself for not anticipating it, but then, how could he? He was getting better, or so he thought. Since meeting Kathy his life was looking up, and he was foolish enough to think the long downward slide was over. Dr. Williams had warned him that there could be bumps on his road to recovery, but he couldn’t bear to believe her. It was one thing to know it intellectually, but another to actually be in the middle of the crushing pain. He had forgotten how unbearable it was—the crippling anxiety, the sweating, the fire in his soul from which there was no escape.
He needed to get outside. On impulse, he climbed out to the fire escape to watch the sunset. The buttery light fell on his face as the dying sun lingered before sliding behind the buildings of the East Village. He thought about Butts and Quinlan up in the Bronx, and wondered what they would find. A crow perching on the balcony of the building opposite him spread its wings and flew toward the light of the setting sun, and he was reminded of a favorite poem by Coleridge. “This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison” was written when a foot injury forced Coleridge to stay behind while his friends went on a nature hike.
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost Beauties and feelings, such as would have been Most sweet to my remembrance even when age Had dimm’d mine eyes to blindness!
The poem goes on to link the stranded poet vicariously with the journey of his friends, as he imagines what they encounter along the way. The link is completed by the flight of a lone crow Coleridge sees from his house. He imagines that his friend Charles Lamb has seen the same bird:
While thou stood’st gazing; or, when all was still, Flew creeking o’er thy head, and had a charm For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.
Lee found the closing lines of the poem especially moving, embracing as they did life’s pain as well as its joys. Watching the crow take flight over the East Village, he wondered what Detective Butts was encountering on his own excursion. He thought about Melville and Hawthorne, and their famous hike through the Berkshires together, before their friendship ran aground for mysterious reasons. But what was the connection between them and the killer—and would it help them to catch him?
His cell phone rang and he answered. It was Butts.
“Bingo, Doc—you were right.”
“She was there?”
“Sure was. Toby—that’s the, uh, tracking dog—got a hit of her smell. Followed it all the way to the dump site where we found her.”
“Melville’s grave?”
“Yep. That’s where it stopped. It looks pretty conclusive to me. We’re sending in a crime scene team to look for trace evidence.”
“If her scent was that evident, do you think he dragged her?”
“Kalamka—that’s the K-9 guy—says it’s probable. Or at least if he carried her, he must have put her down from time to time. The dog only caught the scent at the northern edge of the garden, so we’re not sure how he got her up there.”
“A wheelbarrow, maybe? There must be plenty of them in the garden.”
“Could be. This place is big enough that it would be easy to find a hiding place at closing time, that’s for sure.”
“Doesn’t the staff check for it?”
“Yeah, but there’s plenty of places to hide if you know what you’re doin’.”
“But how did he get her into the garden without anyone seeing him?”
“Maybe he killed her there.”
“And drained her blood? How would he do that?”
“There’s a lot of weird stuff about this case, Doc. I got a lot more questions than I got answers, that’s for sure.”
“Thanks for keeping me posted.”
“Sure.” There was a little pause; then he said, “So how’re you doin’? Feeling any better?”
“Yeah, thanks. And thanks for understanding.”
“Sure. We all got somethin’, right, Doc?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Take it easy—see you tomorrow?
“I’ll be there.”
Lee hung up and left the roof and started down the staircase. He could hear pigeons roosting on the fire escape, cooing and chortling to each other.
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.
Wise words, perhaps, but were they true?
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.
Wise words, perhaps, but were they true?
Back in his apartment, his piano beckoned to him from the corner of the room. He longed to feel his fingers on the keys, the clean white ivory cool to the touch. He dug his tattered copy of
The Well-Tempered Clavier
from the piano bench and warmed up with the D minor prelude, following it with his current favorite, the prelude in F major. The sound washed over him, bringing the familiar tingle of sensuous pleasure mixed with the ineffable, mysterious
something
that only music gave him. More important, when he was on a case, the piano helped him think.
The Well-Tempered Clavier
from the piano bench and warmed up with the D minor prelude, following it with his current favorite, the prelude in F major. The sound washed over him, bringing the familiar tingle of sensuous pleasure mixed with the ineffable, mysterious
something
that only music gave him. More important, when he was on a case, the piano helped him think.
No sound is dissonant
... but of course, life was full of dissonant sounds—and sights. The whimpering cries of victims, the terror in their eyes ... Coleridge was indulging in some wishful thinking, which he projected onto his friend Charles Lamb.
Sweet, but naïve,
Lee thought, as he dug into the wickedly demanding C minor. The notes on the page twisted around each other, rising and falling as he released them from the page into the air around him. The patterns in Bach looked so geometrical at times, so even and orderly. What did they remind him of? Something in the back of his head he couldn’t quite grasp.
... but of course, life was full of dissonant sounds—and sights. The whimpering cries of victims, the terror in their eyes ... Coleridge was indulging in some wishful thinking, which he projected onto his friend Charles Lamb.
Sweet, but naïve,
Lee thought, as he dug into the wickedly demanding C minor. The notes on the page twisted around each other, rising and falling as he released them from the page into the air around him. The patterns in Bach looked so geometrical at times, so even and orderly. What did they remind him of? Something in the back of his head he couldn’t quite grasp.
It was only when he had finished playing that he realized what the notes had evoked in his unconscious brain. The intricate patterns were, for him, reminiscent of blood spatter.
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