by Chelsea Cain
“My mother died when I was fourteen,” Gretchen said finally.
He wondered if it was even true. “Did you kill her?” Archie asked.
“No,” she said. She lifted herself up on her elbows and looked at him. She looked worried, her brow furrowed a little at the center. “Does it scare you?”
He knew what she meant. “Dying?” he said. “Not right now.”
“It’s always all right, at the end,” she said, taking his hand. “They always look peaceful.” She kissed his knuckles. “You did.”
“That might have had something to do with the torture ending,” Archie said. He withdrew his hand and sat up, putting his bare feet on the floor. “I’m getting up,” he said. “I have to go to the bathroom. And then I need to eat something.” It was a lie. But if his plan was going to work, he needed to get Gretchen into the living room.
CHAPTER
55
You’re going to what?” Susan asked. She was in an exam room at the Emanuel ER dressed in a snappy pair of borrowed green scrubs. She took her oxygen mask off and said it again. “You’re going to do what?”
“I’m going to realign your nose,” the doctor said. Susan was pretty sure he was eighty years old. When he’d first come in, she’d thought he was one of those old people hospitals used to staff the gift store.
“With your hands?” she asked, horrified.
“Yes.” He reached up, and before she could defend herself, he took hold of her nose with both hands. There was a flash of pain and she made a garbled noise and he lowered his hands and smiled.
“There,” he said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Susan lifted her hands to her face. “Ow,” she cried.
“The nurse will splint and bandage you and you’ll be ready to go.”
“Don’t I get pain meds?” Susan asked.
The doctor patted her on the hand. “Ice and Advil. You’ll be right as rain.” He turned to Henry, who had insisted on coming and was sitting in a chair next to the examining table. “This your husband?”
“No,” Henry and Susan both said quickly.
The doctor walked out of the examining room. “No one gets married anymore,” he said on his way into the hall.
The nurse smiled. She was tall with dark hair pulled back in barrettes and features that were all scrunched together at the center of her face. “He’s old-school,” she said. “He doesn’t even use anesthesia.”
Susan touched her nose. The slightest brush of her fingers made it throb. Her mother had been taken back to the Arlington by two patrol cops. Bliss didn’t have the stomach for emergency rooms anyway. Susan wasn’t sure if the patrol cops were supposed to protect Bliss or keep her in custody.
The nurse started dressing her nose with white gauze and tape.
Henry stood up. “I’m going to check on Bennett,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Is Dr. Fergus working today?” Susan asked the nurse as soon as Henry was gone.
“Yes,” the nurse said. “Do you know him?”
Susan smiled sweetly. It made her whole face ache. “I’m a family friend,” she said. “Can you ask him to stop by and see me?”
Susan was sitting cross-legged on the exam table wearing the oxygen mask and reading People magazine when Fergus came in. He looked the same as the last time she’d seen him, when she’d interviewed him for her profile on Archie Sheridan. Same white bristle cut. Same hulking figure. Same superior attitude. He’d agreed to participate reluctantly, and then only after Archie had signed a HIPAA waiver.
He squinted at her for a moment, not recognizing her with the turquoise hair and bandaged nose. Then he blanched, his upper lip lifting. “Oh, it’s you,” he said.
Susan didn’t give him time to leave. She knew Archie took a lot of pills. And she’d started thinking that he might need a refill. If he did, it might be a way to find him. She let the oxygen mask drop to her lap. “Archie’s medication,” she said. “Does he have enough, or would he need more?”
Fergus sighed and put his hands in the pockets of his white medical coat. “I can’t talk about my patient with you.”
“He’s in trouble,” Susan said.
“Detective Sobol has been in touch,” Fergus said. “If anyone tries to refill any of Archie’s meds, Sobol will be notified.”
“Oh,” Susan said. She probably should have known that Henry had already thought of it.
Fergus turned to leave.
“He’s sick, isn’t he?” Susan called out.
Fergus stopped. His shoulders lifted and fell. She thought he was going to tell her something. It was the way he set his shoulders back, like he wanted to get something off his chest. She leaned forward, ready to hear it.
“You’ll want to keep ice on that,” he said.
Henry found Claire in the ER waiting room. She’d found time at some point that day to go home and change and was wearing a T-shirt with a picture of a grizzly bear on it and jeans and red cowboy boots. He felt grimy and tired and his scalp itched. A simple explanation. That’s all he wanted. An accidental carbon monoxide leak. A misunderstanding. Bennett to get a few stitches and laugh it off. Anything that would allow Henry to go to bed for a few hours.
Claire was on her cell phone next to a big sign that read NO CELL PHONES. She got off the call when she saw him.
“What’s the word?” he asked her.
“He’s in surgery,” she said. “She drove a fragment of his skull into his brain.” She smirked. “That Buddha packed quite a wallop.”
So much for the nap. “He going to live?” Henry asked.
“Possibly,” Claire said. She put her hands on her hips and shook her head slowly. “He did it.”
Henry raised his eyebrows.
“Heil just called,” Claire said. “We got Bennett’s prints on the furnace. He loosened the thingy.”
“The thingy?” Henry said.
“There might have been a fancier word for it,” Claire said. “Anyway, house closed up like that, it filled right up with poison. A few hours later, she would have been dead three minutes after she came in the front door.”
No. It couldn’t be simple. Not with Susan Ward involved. Henry tried to sort this information out. Why would Bennett try to kill Susan? He rubbed his head. The lack of sleep had settled in his brain like a fog. “He was the first responder to the Molly Palmer crime scene,” Henry theorized. “Maybe he didn’t fall.”
“You think he was trying to destroy evidence?” Claire asked.
“Let’s say he killed Molly Palmer and tried to cover it up. That might give him a reason to go after Susan.”
“Why Susan?”
“She’s working on a story tying Molly Palmer to Castle.”
Claire’s eyes widened. “She was the kid you told me about, the kid he fucked?”
“I think I used a fancier word for it,” Henry said.
He had to protect Susan. He could do that. Archie would want him to. Henry would keep her safe.
If he could keep himself from killing her.
“Let me know if he wakes up,” he said. “We searching his house?”
“Just filed for warrants,” Claire said. Her phone rang and she checked the caller ID. “It’s Flannigan,” she said, lifting it to her ear. Flannigan was back at the task force offices, running the search for Archie. “Let me get this.” She reached up and touched Henry lightly on the shoulder. “It could be good news.”
CHAPTER
56
You’ll like this,” Gretchen said. “Draw a star.”
They were sitting on the sofa in the living room. Gretchen had put on a white silk blouse and a pair of slacks. Archie was dressed again in the blue shirt and corduroys. He had built a fire while she had made him a sandwich, and now he sat with the sandwich on a plate on his lap. Gretchen had found a pen and notebook in her purse and now handed Archie both.
He put the pen to the pad and tried to draw a star. It came out wrong, one side trailing off. I
t looked like a triangle. He tried again. The same thing happened.
“I can’t,” he said, examining the pen.
“You can track your neurological decline,” Gretchen said. She got up, leaving Archie to ponder the lopsided lumpy drawing. “It will get worse,” she said as she walked to the bar.
“I tried to make love to Debbie yesterday, and couldn’t get hard,” Archie said, putting the notebook on the floor with the sandwich. He couldn’t eat, and his urine was tinged with blood.
Gretchen was pouring them two drinks at the bar. She walked back to the couch and handed him a glass and stretched out on her back, putting her feet in his lap. “Did you try thinking of me?” she asked.
Archie examined the whiskey for a moment and then took a drink. “Yes.”
Gretchen smiled. “Did she know?” she asked.
“Yes,” Archie said.
“Good,” said Gretchen. She moved her foot, pressing it against his groin. “Maybe I’ll have our love child,” she said.
“You had your tubes tied,” Archie said. “I saw the prison medical reports.”
Something flashed in her eyes. Then it was gone. “Yes. Even at the tender age of seventeen I knew I shouldn’t reproduce.”
It was maybe the most responsible thing she’d ever done. And still, it was sad, Archie thought. To make that decision so young. “And you found a doctor who’d do the operation?” he asked.
“The same one who did the abortion a month earlier,” Gretchen said. She rolled on her side and faced the fire, the orange light reflecting off her smooth skin. “That was the first person I killed,” she said.
“The baby?” Archie asked.
“The doctor,” Gretchen said.
CHAPTER
57
Susan’s phone rang. It wasn’t supposed to be on and she scrambled to find it in her purse before the nurse came back and busted her. The Herald. She picked it up.
“Are you okay?” Derek asked. “It came through on the scanner.” He sounded breathless. “Your mom shot a cop?”
“I’m fine,” Susan said.
“Is something wrong with your nose?”
Susan could feel her face blush. Great. She sounded nasal. Perfect. “It’s sort of broken,” she said.
Derek paused. “Dude,” he said slowly.
The nurse would be back any minute. “So I’m supposed to keep this oxygen mask on,” Susan said, trying to get off the phone.
“There’s a Texaco in a town called Mills Crossing on 22,” Derek said. “It’s about an hour and a half off of 5. Sixty-five people. Guy I talked to said he pumped gas into a Jag last night at about eleven P.M. Didn’t remember the driver, but said the car had some sort of special wheels. Let me find it in my notes.”
Susan’s mouth went dry. “Sabre?” she said softly.
“Yeah,” Derek said. “What are those anyway?”
“I have no idea,” Susan said. “Listen, I’ve got to run.”
“Okay. Ian’s sending someone over. You know, to interview you and your mom.”
“Tell Ian to go fuck himself,” Susan said. She got her hairbrush out of her purse and started brushing her hair. The oxygen mask lay humming uselessly on the exam table.
“I’ll find a way to rephrase it,” Derek said. “Are you brushing your hair again?”
Henry walked in scratching his neck.
“I’ve got to go,” Susan said, hanging up.
“What’s going on?” Henry asked.
Susan started opening drawers in the exam room’s cabinets. “There’s a Texaco on 22—an attendant saw a silver Jag with Sabre wheels last night at eleven. Fits the time frame.”
“Mills Crossing?” Henry said.
Susan stopped, surprised. “Yeah.”
“We do police work, too. Flannigan just called Claire. We’ve had cops calling gas stations all over the state. A car like that? Sometimes people notice it.”
Susan opened another drawer and found what she was looking for—a cold pack. “What are you going to do?” Susan asked. She squeezed the pack until it cracked and started turning cold.
“Send a local cop over with a picture of Gretchen.” Susan zipped her purse up and slipped it over her shoulder. “Where are you going?” Henry asked.
Susan held the ice pack against her face. “I need to get some gas,” she said.
“You need to rest and take in oxygen,” Henry said. “There’s a fire up there. Mills Crossing will probably have been evacuated by the time you get there.”
Susan turned to Henry. Her face hurt. She felt like she was going to throw up. It was starting to affect her cheery disposition. “Bennett was trying to stop me from writing the Molly Palmer story,” she said.
Henry worked a finger along his upper lip. “Maybe.”
“He didn’t have to,” Susan said. “The Herald killed it. I’m going to find Archie. I’m going up the mountain, fire or not. You can stay here.” She walked through the doorway and turned back. “Or you can come.”
“Susan,” Henry said.
“Yeah,” she said, turning.
Henry smiled. “Did you want to stop by the Arlington and change?”
Susan looked down at the green scrubs she was wearing. “Right,” she said.
CHAPTER
58
Let’s go back into the bedroom,” Archie said. He stood up and held his jaundiced, swollen hand out to her. She looked vulnerable, lying there on the sofa, no makeup, her bruised clavicle visible at the neckline of the blouse. Maybe something or someone had turned her into a monster. Or maybe it was just who she was. Archie didn’t care anymore. It didn’t matter. The blackness was closing in. He had to act fast.
She took his hand and stood and he led her around the sofa.
“I try to be good,” Gretchen said. “You know that, right?”
“Yes,” Archie said gently.
They were near the banister now and Archie paused to tie his shoe. As he knelt, he retrieved the handcuffs he’d hidden in the bathroom and then stuffed in his sock. He’d counted on her hubris, believing she wouldn’t search him. It was her fatal flaw—she thought her control over him was absolute. But it wasn’t. Not quite.
In a swift motion he snapped one end of the cuffs on Gretchen’s slender right wrist, and snapped the other cuff around the wrought-iron banister. She reacted immediately, whipping her trapped arm in the air, pulling at the cuffs like someone staked to the bottom of the ocean, drowning. It was instinct. All animal. Archie took the moment to step away from her, out of reach. She snapped her head up at him. Her lips were wet, her eyes blazed. She swung at him, her fingertips almost brushing against his shirt. Her eyes darted back and forth, her mind working, looking for a way out. The red spots on her cheeks only made her look more beautiful.
She gathered herself, smoothing her hair with her free hand, lifting an eyebrow. “Darling,” she said slowly. “This. Is. A. Very. Bad. Idea.”
He didn’t say anything. It took all of his focus to concentrate on what he had to do. He left her and walked to the bathroom down the hall. It was a small bathroom, a toilet, vanity, and fiberglass shower all in close quarters. A watercolor print of a deer standing in snow hung over the toilet. The mirror above the vanity was surrounded with large round lights. He took a minute, hands gripping the counter, to steady himself through a wave of dizziness. His heart felt like it was beating too slowly. The pain in his side throbbed. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, knelt down, and opened the vanity drawer under the sink. Then he reached behind the extra rolls of toilet paper and found the small cell phone and folded piece of paper that he had hidden there that first night along with the cuffs.
He carried the phone and the folded piece of typing paper back into the living room, where Gretchen had twisted her body in an effort to get out of the handcuffs.
“They’re police issue,” he said. “They’re not going to give.”
She stopped moving and looked at him, her chest heaving.
H
e held up the phone so she could see it, and hit the ON button. The phone came to life with a series of chimes. Then he walked over to the bar and set it on the counter. They’d trace the signal. But it might take hours or days. He could have called Henry, but he didn’t want them to find him too soon, before the pills had had a chance to do their work.
He reached into his pants pocket and put the key to the cuffs next to the phone, where Henry could find it.
Then he poured the contents of one Vicodin bottle out onto the bar. The pills made a satisfying sound as they skidded across the granite and then stopped at his open hand. So here it was, finally. He’d thought about this so much over the past few years that it seemed almost anticlimactic. It felt familiar, natural. He’d been killing himself slowly ever since he’d been released from the hospital. Now he was just going to speed things up a little. The trick was to pace himself so that he kept enough of them down to kill him. He put one pill in his mouth and let it sit on his tongue, sucking on it until the bitterness filled his sinuses. He wanted to taste it. Eyes wide open. He wanted to experience every part of it. If he was going to die, he might as well know it. Gretchen had taught him that.
He scooped another couple of pills into his hand and put them in his mouth, licking the bitter chalky powder off his fingers.
“Archie,” he heard her say. “Don’t. There’s a forest fire. Can’t you smell it?”
He sniffed the air and smelled it then, like a campfire burning. He laughed. They were in the path of the forest fire. Fucking perfect.
“You can’t leave me here,” she said.
“They’ll find you,” he said. “And if they don’t, then we’ll both be dead.”
CHAPTER
59
You’re not going to vomit, are you?” Henry asked Susan. She had her window down and was leaning her head against the car door. They had wound an hour up Highway 22, through the woods and occasional one-gas-station towns, and Susan felt carsick. The air was dry and hot, and the wind blowing through the open window blew hair in her eyes and chapped her lips. Every bump in the road reminded her of her broken nose.
