by Brenda Novak
“If Lovett died the same day Bishop escaped, the autopsy findings wouldn’t be published this soon.”
“Except they have been. Maybe the reporter is sleeping with the coroner. Who knows?”
“How do you know all of this?” Amarok asked.
“I did a Google search,” he replied with a cocky shrug. “Beacon Point Mental Hospital. Look it up. I’m guessing it’s the only time something like this has happened since the hospital opened its doors. It’d be quite a coincidence if a convicted felon escaped from Beacon Point the same day a janitor from the same place was murdered, don’t you think?”
Amarok didn’t want to give him too much credit, not when he was acting so smug. “I think it’s worth looking into.”
“If you need any more help, you know where to find me!” Jasper called after him.
Ignoring that last salvo, Amarok had the guard let him out and nearly bumped into Dr. Ricardo, who was charging down the hall.
“I heard you’d arrived,” he said as the CO who’d been waiting to escort Jasper back to his cell ducked into the room behind them.
Amarok nodded by way of greeting. “Yes, but I’m already leaving.”
When Amarok circumvented Ricardo, the neurologist turned and started jogging to keep up. “Was it worth the trip, at least?”
“If what Jasper is telling me is true, yes. Thanks for the call.”
“You bet, but”—he stepped in front of Amarok—“before you leave…”
Amarok couldn’t wait to find out more about the janitor who’d been murdered in Minnesota. Maybe he’d left something behind that would indicate where Bishop was going, what he had planned. “What is it?”
“I think you should see something.”
Amarok didn’t want to be interrupted. Not now. “What? Does it have anything to do with Evelyn’s disappearance?”
“It might. Since you’re here, why don’t you take a look?”
15
Hilltop, AK—Saturday, 6:00 p.m. AKDT
“It’s very faint,” Dr. Ricardo said. “Can you see it?”
Amarok could see it, but he couldn’t believe anyone had noticed it. “Who found this?”
“Penny. After you told her that Dr. Talbot had to have been meeting someone for the day she went missing to play out as it did, she’s been going through everything. The mail Evelyn has received. Her files, in case she jotted something on the jacket of one. The bits of paper that we sometimes leave in the labs. The message pads we keep in the interview rooms. Whatever she can think of.”
“She thought to check the conference room?” he asked incredulously. At first glance, the room appeared as clean as it was empty, the pad next to the phone blank. He’d looked the day Evelyn had gone missing, and nothing had changed since.
“Not at first. Penny came in here to make sure it was set up for Monday’s staff meeting and remembered that Evelyn had been working in this room lately. This big table gives us space to spread out our files, which is why we all like it. Anyway, Penny noticed the pad, checked it and saw the imprint of the writing, at which point she hurried to get me. She thinks it might be something Evelyn jotted down.”
Amarok bent over to peer closely at what Penny had discovered. The lines were too faint to be able to make out the words or confirm that Evelyn had written them. But there was that possibility. “Do we know where the sheet on top of this one could have gone?”
“Sadly, I’m guessing whoever wrote on this pad last took it or threw it away. Penny’s down in Janitorial and Maintenance right now, asking where the garbage goes once it’s taken from here. I know a lot of it is eventually recycled or incinerated, but I’m hoping that hasn’t happened yet.”
Amarok straightened. “So am I. Stay here and don’t let anyone touch this,” he said, and ran down to his truck to get his forensics kit so he could use his high-res digital camera and oblique lighting to photograph the pad.
Once he’d taken multiple shots from different angles for future reference, he had Ricardo find him a soft lead pencil, which he rubbed gently over the indentations on the page.
Almost like magic, the writing appeared—a name and a number.
“No way,” Amarok murmured.
“That’s Evelyn’s writing!” Ricardo said. “I recognize it myself.” He bent closer. “But who’s Alistair?”
Amarok shoved a hand through his hair as he gaped at the name. “My mother.”
Anchorage, AK—Sunday 9:00 a.m. AKDT
Lyman Bishop was the opposite of the man Evelyn had killed. He wasn’t particularly young, he wasn’t fit or strong and instead of delivering her food in a no-nonsense manner, without even speaking to her or looking at her, if he could avoid it, he left the slot open and pulled up a chair to the other side of the door so he could talk to her. She could tell he’d been waiting for this moment and was now relishing the fact that he’d succeeded not only in surviving and escaping but also in kidnapping her.
“How have you been, anyway?” he asked as though they were good friends who hadn’t seen each other in some time, sitting out on a porch somewhere.
She’d never witnessed a greater disconnect in anyone else, never known anyone less self-aware, even Jasper.
Instead of trying to point out the obvious, she said nothing, just kept shoveling down her oatmeal. This time she hadn’t been provided with any fruit, which was something he’d apologized for when he handed her the tray. He’d said he needed to go out and get some groceries, that “Emmett” hadn’t done a very good job of stocking the cupboards, but “beggars couldn’t be choosers.” He’d had to work with who he had to work with, he’d said.
“You’re not going to talk to me?” he asked when the silence stretched out.
She took some small pleasure in his disappointment.
There was a brief silence before he said, “Of course. You’re hungry. Go ahead. I’ll do the talking. I’m sure you’re curious to hear about everything that’s happened to me since we last met.”
She swallowed another spoonful of oatmeal. “No, not really. I don’t care about you at all.” She knew she’d be smarter to bridle her tongue, but she didn’t have the emotional wherewithal. That the effort she’d put into getting away had failed, that going that far hadn’t improved her situation and she didn’t see any other avenue of escape, had devastated her, left her feeling miserable and defeated.
“Come on,” he said, as though he was making an honest effort to mollify her. “I understand why you’re mad, but there’s no need for all of this hostility. It’ll only make matters worse. The sooner you accept your new situation, the better off we’ll be.”
“You expect me to accept this?” She indicated the four walls of her prison.
“Why not? You kept me in a space about the same size—and with other men who would’ve torn me to pieces if they could get their hands on me.”
“You deserved your prison sentence. I don’t.”
Lyman tsked. “None of us are perfect. Besides, nothing’s going to change.”
“Go to hell.” Taking her food, she crossed over to sit against the same wall as the door so he couldn’t see her, which she knew would bother him.
“I never dreamed you’d be such a bad sport,” he said as if she’d hurt his feelings. “We’ll have to rectify that.”
“With an ice pick?” she asked bitterly.
This time he was the one who paused before answering. “If that’s what it takes.”
“I’ll never allow you to touch me. I’ll die first!”
“You’ll die eventually, yes. When I’m done with you. But not before you have the baby. And you’ll treat me with respect while I allow you to live, or I might decide to take certain risks I was hoping to avoid until later.”
The calmness with which he spoke contrasted sharply with the meaning of his words. That, as well as mention of the baby, made it impossible for her to continue eating. She had to keep up her strength for her child, had to take advantage of every meal. But
if she swallowed one more bite, she’d throw up.
Setting her bowl aside, she drew her knees into her stomach. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the rules. Should we go over them now? Or would you like to have a pleasant morning together as I’d planned?”
A pleasant morning? Was he completely out of touch with reality? Or was he purposely ignoring the fact that she wasn’t here because she wanted to be, that she was being held against her will? “What is it you want from me?” she asked.
“The only thing I’ve ever wanted from anybody. Love,” he replied simply.
“You think any woman could love you while you’re keeping her locked up like this?”
“I plan to let you out.”
“When?”
“After you have the baby.”
She swallowed against a dry throat. “You keep talking about the baby.…”
“Aren’t you glad I’m taking the child into account? I would think you’d be grateful.”
Evelyn drew a shaky breath. “I’ll do whatever you want, for however long you want, if only you’ll take my baby and leave her at a fire station with a note for Amarok.”
He sighed dramatically. “Please, don’t. This doesn’t become you, you know.”
She clenched her jaw. “What doesn’t become me?”
“Lying. No matter what you’ve been to me in the past, I always felt I could rely on you for the truth.”
Because she’d always stood by what she believed, even though, once the information about the planted evidence came to light, everyone else rushed to apologize to him for getting it wrong. But she wouldn’t have known he was guilty, either, had she not studied so many psychopaths. Especially because Bishop was a bit of an anomaly. Most psychopaths—the kind who committed violent crimes and were actually caught—weren’t highly educated, didn’t have illustrious careers.
“It is the truth!” She had to convince him. That was the only way her child would have a chance. Not only would she do anything to save her baby, she also felt she owed it to Amarok to be sure that much of what they had survived.
“You may feel that way now, but as soon as I complied, you’d change your mind. I’m more confident in my own plan.”
“Which is…”
“You’re not in the mood to hear it.” He sounded irritable. “So go ahead and feel sorry for yourself. I’m going to go shopping and do a few other things while I still have a rental car.”
“You’d better let me go,” she said.
“Or…”
She hated the cocky lilt to his voice. “Amarok will find you, and if you’ve hurt me or his baby, he’ll make you pay.”
“I’ve dreamed about this moment for so long. And now you’re ruining it. You’re obviously not a very nice person.”
“I’m supposed to be happy about what you’re doing to me?”
“If you’re smart, you’ll make the most of it. I don’t like the way you’re making me feel. I won’t allow it. You’ll see.”
With that ominous ending, the slot closed, the bolt slid home and she slumped against the wall, sickened at the sight of what remained of her oatmeal.
Hilltop, AK—Sunday, 11:30 a.m. AKDT
Sure enough, the phone number on that pad in the conference room at Hanover House wasn’t his mother’s. He’d spent all night trying to trace it. It belonged to a burner phone, which was now defunct. Amarok had guessed it would be. Although he never called his mom these days, she did occasionally call him, and that wasn’t the number she used. She could’ve been on someone else’s phone, of course—her husband’s or even a friend’s—but since they were estranged, that was unlikely. Difficult phone calls required more privacy, and their discussions were never easy.
As soon as Amarok had seen his mother’s name and that unfamiliar number written in Evelyn’s hand, he’d known: This was how Bishop had pulled it off. This was how he’d drawn Evelyn out of the prison in the middle of the day. This was the reason she hadn’t told Amarok what she was doing. And this was the reason she didn’t have the appointment on her calendar or scheduled with Penny. She’d thought she was meeting his mother for a private conversation about him or at least giving his mother an audience. Evelyn had asked him, on more than one occasion, if he felt he might regret his decision not to invite Alistair to their wedding, so he knew it was something she’d been concerned about. And because of the wedding, it was entirely believable that Alistair would try to go around him and connect with her.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
“Did you say something?” Phil sat up and so did Makita. Phil had been sleeping on the couch along the far wall since shortly after he came in to get the searchers started again today. Like Amarok, he was exhausted, but he wanted to be on hand to deal with the usual, like the poachers he’d intercepted last night, so that Amarok could focus strictly on finding Evelyn.
“It’s nothing,” Amarok said. “I’m sorry.” He’d been making calls right and left, trying to track down the widow of the murdered janitor—no luck there so far—as well as trace the number he’d discovered on that second sheet of paper in the conference room of HH. None of it had disturbed Phil, so he wasn’t thinking that a few words would suddenly jolt him out of his nap. “Go back to sleep.”
Phil got up and walked over. “It’s fine. I’ve got enough shut-eye for now. What is it? What have you found?”
“I know how Bishop got to Evelyn so cleanly and easily, without anyone being aware that something was up and without her feeling even a hint of suspicion or concern.”
“How? It’s not easy to pull one over on Evelyn! She was about the only person who didn’t believe Bishop was innocent back when all of that came out about the evidence used to convict him. She trusted the detective who planted those panties, remember? Everyone was saying he did it for the sake of his career, to solve a high-profile case and move up the ranks, but she was convinced he’d done it to get Bishop off the streets, because he was dangerous.”
“I remember.” Amarok had been hoping she’d play along, for a change. They were going to release Bishop regardless of her opinion. He hadn’t wanted her to risk her career, but as with everything else she felt passionately about, she hadn’t been willing to back off.
“So what is it? What have you found?” Phil asked.
Amarok held up the paper he’d carefully removed from the message pad at HH. “He must’ve had someone call her, posing as my mother.”
Phil blinked at what he was being shown. “Your mother?”
“Yeah.”
“But … you don’t have any contact with Alistair. Or has that changed?”
“It hasn’t changed. But I’m getting married, and it’d be entirely believable to Evelyn that my mother would want to be a part of it all—that she would use the wedding as an excuse to try to put the past behind us.”
Understanding began to dawn. “Got it. And Evelyn wouldn’t recognize your mother’s voice because she’s had so little contact with her.”
“I don’t want my mother in my life. She hasn’t had any contact with her.”
“So Evelyn gets a call from someone claiming she’s your mother and asking to talk.”
“Yes. At which point she arranges a meeting at the house, early in the afternoon when she knows I won’t be home.”
“And she doesn’t tell anyone about it because she’s not sure you’ll like what she’s doing. She just wants to hear your mother out, to see if there’s any way to patch things up between you, because she thinks that’s what will ultimately be best for you, too.”
“Sounds like a psychiatrist, doesn’t it?” Amarok asked wryly.
“I have to admit it does.” Phil rolled his shoulders as if sleeping on the couch had given him a crick in his neck. “But how would Bishop know enough about your situation to think of that approach to begin with?”
“He was incarcerated at Hanover House for a while. You know how people talk.”
The
way he pursed his lips showed skepticism. “Do the inmates know your background?”
“I’m sure some of the guards do.”
“How? Most of them are from Anchorage.”
Makita walked over and rested his muzzle in Amarok’s lap, and Amarok stroked him as he talked. “Quite a few hang out at the Moosehead after work, certainly enough to have heard people share just about anything. Bishop had to have come up with the information somehow.”
“No…” Phil shook his head.
“No, what?”
“It wasn’t at Hanover House or the Moosehead that he learned about the situation between you and your mother. It was that article.”
“What article?” Amarok’s mind had already shifted gears so he could launch into everything he had to do next.
“The one that uppity woman who came from New York City wrote for People magazine, remember?”
Amarok rocked back in his chair, which caused Makita to return to his bed. Of course! It had been big news when the man who’d tortured and nearly killed Evelyn Talbot was finally caught, which had thrust Amarok into the media circus, too, since he was the one to finally accomplish it. Everyone had been vying for the exclusive on the ending of the decades-long saga about the sixteen-year-old girl who turned into a psychiatrist driven to solve the mysteries of the psychopathic mind, thanks to the boy who’d once attacked her. Especially the big, national magazines.
Chloe Stokes, a top reporter for People, had stayed at The Shady Lady, the local motel, for over a week and had talked to just about everyone Amarok knew, including his father, once she went back to Anchorage to fly home. Amarok had thought she’d never leave Alaska. He’d tolerated her presence and her nosey questions, even played along to a degree, but only because Evelyn was so relieved to finally get some positive press for her work. To have people saying good things about her, that she got it right when everyone else missed the cues about Bishop, had been a welcome respite and stood in stark contrast to all the criticism she and her brainchild had endured since it opened—people saying that she was wasting government resources, that psychopaths could never be rehabilitated, that even if she was able to identify some differences in the brain between normal people and antisocial people, labeling someone as a psychopath and trying to extrapolate future behavior from that was a dangerous and touchy thing.
