“I have no idea why your paper is interested in digging up all this history,” he said. “But I said I’d tell you what I know, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
“And we appreciate it,” Carter said.
Sarah opened her notebook. “Before we get started, Mr.—”
“Owen.”
“Yes. I wanted to ask how your sister Colleen is doing.”
“Well as can be expected, I suppose. She’s, um, forgetful. That’s why I had to put her in the home. You know, for her own safety. She’s well taken care of, though.”
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said as she wrote in her notepad.
“Of course, she got worse after Morris died.”
“Her husband?”
“Yes.”
“He was Gerald’s younger brother?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you tell us how he died?”
The old man shook his head and took another swallow of coffee. He looked out the window for several seconds, and it occurred to Sarah that for this man, there was no such thing as an awkward silence.
“Damnedest thing,” he said at last. “Had a heart attack driving to the pharmacy to pick up Colleen’s prescription. Aricept, I think it was. Ended up drifting into a row of parked cars. He was dead before the paramedics could get to him. Nobody else was hurt, though.”
“I see,” Sarah said. “And is she…”
“Aware?”
The old man laughed unexpectedly, hard enough to squeeze out a few tears. The women exchanged confused glances. He wiped his eyes with a napkin and took a swallow of coffee.
“She knows, alright. Thing is, she’s concocted this wild story about Morris having run off with a waitress. Can you imagine? Thinks the two of ’em are living it up somewhere in Jefferson City.”
“That’s amazing,” Carter said, laughing.
“No, child, that’s grief. It’s what happens when you can’t face the truth and need to find a way to keep going.”
Blushing, Carter lowered her head and wrote something in her notebook.
Sarah pressed on. “So, did Colleen and Morris have any children?”
The old man’s face turned grim, and Sarah was worried she’d pushed the wrong button. Stiffly, he drained his cup, carefully set it down in front of him, and snapped the lid back on.
“A daughter. Nicole.”
“Oh? Does she live around here?”
“She ran away when she was fifteen.”
He nearly spit the words out, putting Sarah on the defensive, and it took her a moment to recover her composure. She had no idea Colleen and Morris Moody had had a child. And though the information was not directly related to the Peter Moody case, she couldn’t resist going on.
“Can I ask when you last saw Nicole?”
“Summer of 1990. Right before she and her parents left for California.”
“What?” Carter said.
“She was always a handful, Nicole was. Kept running away. So, Morris and Colleen thought it might be a good idea if she stayed with Gerald and Vivian out in California for a while. Help straighten her out, you know.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Sarah said. “Did she have a good relationship with her aunt and uncle?”
“It was the kids. Those three used to play together all the time when they were little. Peter, Hannah, and Nicole. They were inseparable.”
“So, wait,” Carter said. “You’re saying that after her parents dropped Nicole off in California, she disappeared?”
“Well, no. She spent the summer there. For some reason, she decided to take off. But she was always like that. Flighty. Despite the best efforts of the Moodys, Nicole ran away. And we never saw her again. Later, the parents were found murdered. It’s no wonder my sister is living in a world of her own.”
“I didn’t mean to get off on a tangent, Owen,” Sarah said. “I appreciate the information, though. By the way, can I get you a refill?”
“Doctor allows me one cup a day. Never much cared for doctors.”
Winking, he handed Sarah his cup, which she promptly took to the counter.
“You like reporting, Carter?”
“I like people, so.”
“Wittgenstein. That’s German, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Used to have a German auto mechanic. He was competent enough but, Lord, did he have a temper.”
Sarah returned with fresh coffee and took a seat.
“Okay, getting back to Peter Moody. Can you tell us what happened after his parents’ funeral? I understand he returned to Lawrence.”
“They both did.”
Sarah blanched. “Both?”
“Yes. Peter and Hannah. They came back to live with my sister and her husband.”
“But I thought Hannah was…”
Carter jumped in. “We weren’t able to uncover any information about her.”
“Oh. Well, things were okay for a while, I suppose,” Owen said. “But then, my sister and her husband noticed that Peter was acting strange. At first, they thought it was because his parents had died so horribly.”
“When you say ‘strange,’” Sarah said. “What exactly do you mean?”
“I wasn’t there, of course. I was living in Kansas City at the time. But I remember the telephone conversations with Colleen. She said Peter had gotten into Satanic rock. Had posters all over his bedroom walls. Refused to keep up his appearance. Things like that.
“She told me that sometimes the boy would be having conversations when no one else was in the room. She’d hear him when she passed his door. Sometimes, he’d be laughing like a crazy person. Then, it’d be like he knew Colleen was there, and he would stop and turn up his music.”
“Maybe he was on the phone,” Carter said.
“No. There was only one phone in the house, and that was in the kitchen. Things seemed to get worse with Peter. Hardly ate or slept. Did poorly in school. One day, Colleen was cleaning his room. And in the closet, she found…”
“What?” Sarah said.
“A knife with strange carvings on the handle. And a strange metal bowl. Also, there were these little statues that looked like the devil. I never saw these things myself, you understand.”
“His aunt and uncle must’ve been very upset,” Carter said.
“My sister and her husband were terrified. They confronted Peter and made him promise to see a therapist. Oh, he did. And after only one session, she recommended that he enter a psychiatric hospital for observation.”
“Which one?” Sarah said.
“The Lund Institute. It’s not far from Lawrence.”
“Isn’t that where Vivian Moody was confined for a time?”
Owen smiled. “Well, I believe I am impressed. Yes, she was. Nervous exhaustion, they said. She always was…sensitive.”
Carter cleared her throat. “Owen, do you think your sister and her husband might have been afraid of Peter?”
“Couldn’t say. But I know they were afraid for him. They were still sad about Nicole—not knowing where she was—and I guess they didn’t want to lose Peter, too.”
“Understandable.”
“What about Hannah?” Sarah said. “What was happening with her while all this was going on?”
Owen smiled. “Hannah was nothing like Peter. She was a model child. Always did well in school, never got into any trouble. Graduated high school with a 4.0 GPA.”
“Did she have a good relationship with her brother?”
“She loved Peter. It hurt her when he went away. She used to visit him over at the institute every week.”
“Wait,” Carter said. “Peter remained in the hospital?”
“Yes. Doctors said he was suffering from psychosis, maybe brought about by his parents’ death. They were afraid he might try and hurt himself. He’d already been cutting himself at home.”
They had been talking a long time, and Sarah was afraid Owen might be getting tired.
“Did yo
u want to take a break?” she said.
“Like to use the lavatory.”
“Sure.”
Sarah watched as the old man strode off and turned to her friend in astonishment.
“Hannah is alive?” she said.
“I know. All this time, we’ve been thinking Peter killed her. But wait, what about the mirror? Maybe the girl was Nicole all along.”
“Carter, I was convinced it’s Hannah. But now, I don’t know.”
“Well, let’s find out what we can about Peter. Clearly, he murdered somebody besides his parents. And all signs point to him being a Satan-worshipping nutjob.”
Sarah finished her coffee, which had turned cold. “Listen, since we know Hannah is alive—I still can’t believe it—we should find out where she’s living. She might know everything, including the identity of the girl who died.”
“I agree. Hey, do you think we should take a ride out to that hospital?”
“Sounds like something a real reporter would do, doesn’t it?”
Owen emerged from the restroom and started for their table. He stopped and removed his phone from his pocket. From his expression, Sarah and Carter could see it was not good news. After disconnecting, he continued toward them and picked up his coffee from the table.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this another time,” he said. “Apparently, Colleen fell.” Sarah started to say something, but he raised a hand. “She’s okay. Just a bump on the head. I’m going over there now.”
“Would you mind if we tagged along?” Sarah said.
“I think it’s best if I go alone. You can come by tomorrow morning. She’s usually more clear-headed during the day. Say, nine o’clock?”
“Okay, whatever you think is best.”
“Thanks for the coffee,” Owen Daniels said, and strode purposefully out of the store.
“What do you think?” Sarah said. “Road trip?”
Carter pulled up Google Maps on her phone and did a quick search for the Lund Institute.
It had taken Sarah and Carter only twenty minutes to reach the stately grounds of the Lund Institute, a psychiatric hospital founded in the early nineteen hundreds by a Dr. Carl Lund, a devout Jungian. The kindly doctor with a penchant for sweater vests and cigars believed in treating patients with compassion, no matter their illness. In his youth, his own mother had been confined in a more traditional facility after an attempted suicide and eventually died there, untreated and friendless. To honor his mother, Lund decided to dedicate his life’s work to the less fortunate.
“Glad you made up those IDs,” Sarah said.
She and Carter were approaching the stone steps of the massive Romanesque revival building of textured stone and brick. Barred windows embedded in molded semicircular arches looked out over the vast lawn covered in flaming red and gold leaves from the many surrounding trees in front of the building.
Sarah expected the inside to look like a museum. Instead, she found a modern interior. She and Carter crossed the tile floor, their footsteps echoing, and approached a guard station.
“May I help you?” the nondescript man in a dark green uniform said.
“Yes,” Sarah said. “We’re reporters from the Dos Santos Weekly.” They removed their IDs and handed them over.
“California, huh?”
“Yes,” Carter said, adjusting her glasses. “We’re investigating a story and wanted to ask some questions about a patient who was here in 1993.”
“Well, all records are confidential.”
“We understand,” Sarah said. “And we’re not interested in those. We were hoping to interview one of the doctors who was here at the time. Maybe ask some general questions?”
The guard handed back the IDs. “Not sure who might have been here then. I suppose I could ask Dr. Martin. She’s the chief physician.”
“That would be great.”
He gestured to an area with several leather couches and chairs. “Feel free to wait over there,” he said as he picked up the phone.
The women sat and watched the traffic. Doctors, medical students, and patients’ family members came and went. To Sarah, the place seemed more like a university than a hospital.
After a few minutes, a woman wearing a gray knit suit and chocolate brown crocodile pumps hurried through the front door and headed straight for a secure door, security badge in hand. Noticing her, the guard called out.
“Dr. Martin! Dr. Martin!”
The woman stopped mid-stride and made her way to the guard station. Sarah was hopeful the doctor would see them and watched as the guard spoke to her while gesturing at Sarah and Carter.
Sarah could tell the woman, though poised, was overworked and always in a hurry. She wore her brown shoulder-length hair in a side flip, and Sarah knew the woman liked to take pains with appearance. She was pleasantly surprised when Dr. Martin walked toward them wearing a professional smile. Sarah and Carter rose immediately.
“I’m Patricia Martin.”
“Sarah Greene. And this is Carter Wittgenstein.”
Everyone shook hands. As the doctor took Carter’s, she smiled. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Are you by chance related to Ludwig—”
Carter smiled. “A distant relative. I’m afraid I didn’t inherit any of his abilities, though.”
“I see,” the doctor said, noticing that both her guests were staring at her shoes. “I know. A bit much for this place, right? I couldn’t resist. I understand you wanted to chat about a former patient?”
“He was admitted in 1990,” Sarah said. “We were hoping that someone here would remember him. He’s buried with his family in our town, and we’re doing an investigative story, trying to solve a decades-old mystery.”
“Mm. Well, I started here in 1992, back when all I could afford were chunky loafers. What was the patient’s name?”
“Peter Moody.”
She hesitated. “Doesn’t ring a bell. How’d he die?”
“Suicide.”
“Young man?”
“Yes. I believe he was twenty-one at the time.”
The doctor looked intrigued. “Look. I was going to lock myself in my office and tackle a pile of overdue paperwork for the rest of the afternoon.” She smiled. “I think you two saved me from all that. Why don’t you come with me?”
In a few minutes, Sarah and Carter were sitting in Dr. Martin’s spacious office, drinking sparking water. The older woman had extraordinary taste, having decorated the room with leather-bound books and tasteful objets d’art from the Middle East and Africa.
“See anything you like?” the doctor said to Sarah.
“Yes, I— Sorry. I was an art major in college. And I guess I love the idea of being a collector.” Sarah glanced at Carter. “But on a reporter’s salary…”
“I understand.”
Dr. Martin got comfortable in her leather chair, slipped on a pair of black reading glasses, and leaned toward her computer monitor.
“Lucky for you all our files are online now. Let me look up the patient’s record. Ah, here we are. Peter Moody.” She squinted at the monitor. “My, my.”
Silently, Sarah and Carter rose and went behind the desk. They saw a color photograph of a hollow-eyed seventeen-year-old Peter Moody staring blankly into the camera, devoid of personality. He had a number of purplish zits, and his teeth looked as if they hadn’t been brushed in years. Without thinking, Sarah extended her hand to touch the screen. A fingered bolt of light threw her back, and it was several seconds before she realized she’d fallen against a bookcase.
“Are you okay?” she could hear Dr. Martin saying, her voice like a buzzing insect.
“Yes, I… I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize.”
Dr. Martin and Carter helped Sarah back to her chair on the other side of the desk. Carter handed her friend her water.
“Thanks,” Sarah said.
“Feeling better?” the doctor said.
“A bit. Really wish I hadn’t done
that.”
“Uh-huh. Okay. Do you want to tell me the real reason you’re here?”
“For the story,” Carter said, shooting a nervous glance at Sarah.
“My dear Ms. Wittgenstein—if that is your real name—give me some credit.”
As Carter blushed, Dr. Martin pursed her lips and crossed her arms on her chest, waiting patiently. Carter looked at Sarah desperately.
“Okay, you busted us,” Sarah said. “We did give you our real names, but we’re not reporters.”
“That much I figured out on my own.”
“We are, however, very interested in Peter Moody.”
“Intriguing,” Dr. Martin said, pouring herself a water. “Do go on.”
Sarah explained everything, hoping that when she was finished, Dr. Martin wouldn’t throw them out of the building.
“That’s the whole story,” Sarah said. “Are we under arrest?”
Dr. Martin laughed. “Hardly. It sounds to me as if you have a legitimate reason for being here. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a woman of science. But there are times when…well, when science can’t explain everything. Your reaction, for instance, when you touched the patient’s photo. You felt something, didn’t you?”
Sarah looked away uncomfortably. She had never told a medical professional about her abilities.
“Yes.”
“Well, I would love to delve into that some more, but we’ll save it for another time. Look, I can’t share Peter’s actual patient record with you, but I’ll tell you what I can. Then, you two can buy me dinner. I’ve been on a cleanse for the past week, and I am starving!”
Twenty-One
“So, how does it work,” Dr. Martin said as the three women drank mojitos at a trendy steakhouse in Lawrence. The place was practically standing room only, and Sarah wondered how a “woman of science” could be so refined. The restaurant had been the doctor’s choice.
“I haven’t had a mojito in ages,” Sarah said, savoring the sweetness and avoiding the question.
“You can’t imagine what this tastes like to me,” Dr. Martin said, “after a week of kale juice.” She arched her eyebrows. “Sarah? You haven’t answered my question.”
The Girl in the Mirror Page 19
