“Sit down, Dani, sit down,” said Maria in an excited, sing-songy voice. “Now, this is Darius.” She waved at the man at the far side of the table. “Vee,” she pointed at the pixie, “and Sylvia.”
“Drinks?” said Milo. I noticed the bottles on the table—champagne, vodka and gin nested in silver buckets of ice and meltwater.
“Champagne,” said Maria. “Dani?”
“I’ll have, um, gin. Is there tonic?” Milo nodded and poured me a drink. He handed it to me and Maria clinked her flute against my glass.
“So good you can be here, Dani.”
“Yes,” said Milo, “Maria has told us all about you.” He touched my arm.
“Oh, I’m—” I looked away from his green eyes and willed myself not to blush again. The bass from the dance floor made the liquid ripple in my glass. I tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound trite or stupid, but only came up with “happy to be here.”
Vee put her hand on my knee. “So, Maria tells us you’re a psychologist?”
“I’m still studying. I’m in the middle of my Ph.D.”
“So, do you get to talk to a lot of, you know, really crazy people? In institutions? Or is it more like people sit down in an office and tell you about their problems with their kids and husband and things like that?” She took a sip of her drink and looked at me expectantly with her dark brown eyes.
“It depends on where you end up working.” I wasn’t sure how much detail she wanted to hear, whether I should mention that we don’t usually use the word crazy to describe patients. People often think practising psychology is much more exciting than it actually is. They don’t want to hear about long research studies and paperwork. “What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m an actress. Well, working on being one, full-time, you know?” She put down her drink. “Anyway. You must get asked psychology questions all the time. It’s just that I’m always trying to collect information about people, what they do, why they do it—to help with different characters, audition strategies, you know.”
“Vee, she is very dedicated,” said Maria. She reached across me and brushed aside a wisp of pixie hair from Vee’s forehead. “Working on her craft, all of the time.” Vee leaned into Maria’s touch and smiled. “And of course you should ask Dani. She is brilliant.” Maria turned towards me. “At the conference reception, when I asked one of the delegates about you, he said your paper this morning was excellent.”
The conference reception seemed like a dull speck, even though we’d left it less than an hour ago. “What? Who were you talking to?” I asked.
“According to Maria, word is you’re very talented.” Milo said as he refilled my drink.
Did Maria fabricate this stuff? I hadn’t thought anyone noticed me or my paper at the conference. I usually felt like a permanent shadow of Carl’s.
“Dani, you look so surprised. Do not be so modest.” Maria curled her hand tighter around my waist.
“Didja see me out there, ladies?” A man with a physique like a boxer roared to the table from the dance floor. He leaned forward and kissed Vee and Sylvia on the cheek. “You’re both looking more beautiful than before, if that is possible.”
Despite his bulk, he lithely stepped over Sylvia and plopped himself between Darius and Milo on one of the white vinyl chairs. “I need some refreshment,” he said and downed a shot of vodka. The top few buttons of his dress shirt were undone and sweat beaded on his forehead. He slammed the glass on the silver table and almost leapt out of the chair when he saw Maria sitting across from him.
“When did you get here? I can’t believe I didn’t see you!” His voice was louder and faster than the music.
“Not so long ago,” said Maria.
“Oh, yeah? And your friend,” he got up and gave me a slight bow, took my hand and kissed it, “is this the young lady named Danica you told us about?”
“Um, yes?” I said. I looked at Maria.
“This is Kent,” she said. “He is always livening up our parties.”
“You can count on it,” he said. He turned back to me. “Love the red hair. You’ve got a glamorous wood sprite sorta thing going on.”
“Wood sprite?” Was he making fun of me?
“Totally. All ethereal, otherworldly. Gorgeous.” He poured himself another shot, then clinked my glass. “Milo, top up the ladies’ drinks.”
For the next couple of hours Kent kept everyone’s drinks filled. I danced with the girls and listened to Milo’s travel stories, but I kept an eye on Maria. She was my anchor in this surge of well-dressed people and hypnotic bass-beat thrum. Kent was trying to get the girls and me back on the dance floor when Maria linked her arm through mine and whispered in my ear.
“Let’s go outside.”
“Outside? It’s January.”
“That is not a problem.” She pushed me gently out of the booth. “You must excuse us,” she said to Kent, “Dani and I, we must get some air.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll get my coat.”
“No need.” We started to walk towards an exit. There was a girl behind a counter, doling out plush jackets to people going out the door, hanging them up for people coming in. She gave men grey, women white. I took a coat and stepped outside.
Maria’s heels clacked on the wooden boardwalk that led around the building. I followed the sound, pulling the white fluff of the coat around myself and peering down to find the end of the zipper. The clacking stopped and I walked smack into Maria’s shoulder.
“Careful, Dani,” she said. “Here.” She straightened the coat on my shoulders, led my hands to the slide of the zipper.
“Need some help, ladies?” A tall man, grey jacket on, beer in hand, approached us.
“I do not think you can be of assistance,” said Maria. She took my hand. “This way,” she said, leading me away from the man. When we had walked a few paces, she whispered in my ear, “Two redheads, I suppose we should expect such attention. We make a nice pair, yes?”
I smiled noncommittally, aware of her hand warm against mine. “To the bar,” she said, and we began walking across the immense deck.
The deck, surrounded by a tall wooden fence, had a rectangular raised pool in the centre. The pool was filled with pieces of glass that looked like ice cubes, and a streak of flames, fuelled by thin black pipes of natural gas, ran lengthwise down the middle. At each corner, there was a pillar heaped with cubes of polished glass and topped with a gas flame. We walked around the pool. Pulses of warmth from the fire hit us intermittently as we made our way towards the bar.
“Two lemon drops,” said Maria to the bartender. The bar was carved out of ice. Maria ran her finger along the smooth top of the bar and then pushed a sugar-rimmed shot glass of vodka, with a wedge of lemon perched on top, towards me. Neck arched, she drank her shot, sucked on the lemon. Maria watched as I copied her. “Now,” she said, “let us sit.”
I followed her to the far side of the flaming ice pool, to a row of queen-size beds, each draped with a fluffy polar bear blanket and surrounded by silver crystal bead curtains. A faux bear head hung over their feet. Maria motioned towards a bouncer, who came over and led us to an open bed.
Maria stretched herself over the fur and crooked one leg slightly over the other. Her head rested on her palm, her elbow sank into the bed. She twirled her nails through the fur in front of her. “Sit down, Dani.”
Through the sparkly beads, I could see a couple on the bed to my right. They were laughing, the woman trying not to spill her martini. Beyond her, through another set of beads, four or five women were strewn on a further bed, drinks in their hands. They didn’t pay us any attention. Even the bouncer had stepped back, blending into his post by the edge of the pool.
I sat. My feet were still on the ground, but my body swivelled towards the middle, towards Maria. Her coat slipped off one shoulder. She fanned her emerald skirt over her legs, deep green falling over the polar snow.
“So. You are glad I rescued y
ou from that reception? You have had fun?”
“Totally.” I could feel a brief wave of heat from the fire in the pool, and the bed buzzed, just slightly, with the bass from inside the club. I picked my feet off the ground, turned my hips to mirror Maria’s pose, and let my coat fall off my shoulders too.
“I am glad. I have made up for making you take the train to Čachtice alone?” Maria tousled her hair, dark red waves falling against her lightly freckled arm. Her wrists and earlobes glittered crystal and silver, almost as bright as the curtains, the white-white beds, the fire-lit ice. My body vibrated from dancing, from the lemon drop, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had as much fun as tonight.
“Distant memory.” I said.
She smiled. “Well. I am glad. And you liked my friends?”
“Yeah, they’re really nice. Interesting. How do you know them? Do they all live here?”
“Oh, I have many friends. You know, I travel frequently. We will all have to meet up again sometime.”
I took this last sentence as a throwaway, the polite “I’ll call you” that never happens. After tomorrow it was back to Halifax, the lab, my dissertation.
She sat up, leaned forward slightly. “Is Carl taking you to the conference in Prague in the summer?”
“The CEACPS conference? Why, are you going?” Maybe she really did mean for us to meet again.
“No, no. My archival work is not that interdisciplinary. I have some acquaintances that spoke about it, that is all.”
“Oh,” I said. “He hasn’t decided if he’s taking me or Shannon, his other grad student. But one of us will have to go, to make sure his PowerPoint works, and all that stuff.”
“Perhaps there are some benefits to having such a needy supervisor?” she said. “If he picks you, maybe you could arrange a few days afterwards to visit me in Budapest? It is a short plane ride, or you could even take the train, if you want some scenery.”
“Really?”
“Budapest is such a beautiful city, right on the Danube, you know. You would stay with me. There are many things to see. I would show you.”
A few days in Budapest, in Maria’s world, would make a week of running after Carl tolerable. “I’ll see if I can talk him into taking me,” I said.
She looked over my shoulder, then back towards the bar. “Dani, it looks like this place is closing soon.”
“What? It’s past two already?” I had to be up at six, to meet Carl at seven and make sure the computer and projector were set up to his exact specifications in the conference room for his eight o’clock presentation.
“You do not have an early morning?”
“I do. I have things to do for Carl. And if I want him to take me to Prague, I better be on top of things tomorrow morning.” I sat up.
“It is a pity,” said Maria, running her hand down my arm. “We have not had enough time together. We have not traded stories about our research. What are your plans when you finish at Halifax next year? You are still interested in Báthory, in the English murder?”
“Well, yes, but...” I didn’t want to tell her the dull truth that lately I’d only been working on my dissertation and trying to keep up with Carl’s demands. “It’s nice to take a break from thinking about research, actually.” I leaned towards her, touched the fur of her jacket sleeve.
“Of course. The girls, Milo, we will all be going to Milo’s loft. You cannot join us?”
I was pretty sure that Milo’s loft would be much more fun than going back to the Econolodge and getting up at the crack of dawn to attend to Carl. But I had seen Carl extremely angry once or twice, and even a glamorous after-party wasn’t worth it.
“Then it will keep until Budapest. But before you go, I must not forget—”
She put her arms around me, slid them up my back, under my hair, to the nape of my neck. She leaned in, and her halter grazed the black cotton of my tank top. I wasn’t sure what she was about to do, and I sat very still, barely breathing.
Her fingers found the clasp of the necklace. She kissed my cheek, warm, slowly, as she unfastened the silver catch. I felt the stones fall away from my throat; until then, I hadn’t been aware of their weight on my skin.
“My diamonds,” she said, pulling away. Light spun off the gems as she held them between us. “They looked stunning on you.”
Chapter Thirteen
It’s finally Friday, the day of my third interview with Foster. Kelly only slotted me in for a half-hour—I think Sloane denied me the hour because she wants the room at three—but I’ll work those thirty minutes, I’ll get him talking again. My desk is strewn with all of my notes from his file. I read over my report from the last interview, even though I know it by heart; I’ve gone over it dozens of times, before and after I filed a copy with Abbas. I spent days writing it, agonizing over everything: which words to use, how to come across as professional and detached for my audience of Sloane and Abbas, how at the same time to capture every detail Foster gave me.
I put the report down and turn to my other papers. I’ve made some charts. One is a timeline: I went through Foster’s entire file from the moment he was admitted into Stowmoor and noted when Báthory was mentioned in his therapy or assessment reports. I made a red star if the clinician brought her up, a blue star if he brought her up. Two years, eight blue stars, six red. Almost all of them within the first year and a half. Then nothing until now. One red star. Me.
I also have a pie chart that breaks down the themes of Foster’s therapies and assessments. Focus on understanding that his crime was antisocial: yellow. On the realization that he has caused harm to others: pink. On the importance of feelings of remorse: orange. On the reduction of violent tendencies: purple. On obsessive actions or tendencies: green. On level of positive engagement with staff and fellow patients: blue.
The pie is largely pink and orange and yellow. A bit of blue. Relatively small slivers of green and purple. He’s had the greatest exposure to therapies concerning his responsibility for and remorse for the crime. Granted, these are two major tenets of rehabilitation therapies. But it also means he’s had a great deal of opportunity to learn what the clinicians want to hear on this subject, what we interpret as “positive” answers that reflect progress. We’ve taught him how to lie to us.
I begin work on a bar chart to track Foster’s references to outside friends, support groups or influential individuals (besides his obsession with Báthory). Aside from my interview with him last week, he hasn’t made a single reference of this kind since he came to Stowmoor, but if I start from when he was arrested, and if I use newspaper and magazine articles as sources, I’ve got some material to work with. I can hear Sloane’s tirade about the dangers of hearsay and imagine her horror that I’d even consider those reports as sources. And she’s right. It’s complete speculation. I have a hunch, informed by my own fixation on Báthory and her diaries, largely unsubstantiated media reports and Foster’s ambiguous mention of people who share his interests. It’s poor clinical practice.
There are footsteps down the hall. I shuffle the charts under some paper just as Sloane walks within view of my fishbowl window. She’s smiling, the corners of her brown eyes tilted up, a bit crinkled. The smile looks genuine. A tall blond man in a suit walks beside her.
“Of course, we have things set up so you can see him straight away,” she says to the man.
“Excellent. I’m glad to see things run efficiently here. And with such discretion. Important with a client who has the potential to attract much public interest.”
I stare at my computer screen, pretend I’m reading email. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sloane glance towards my fishbowl, then turn her focus back to the man.
“Yes. Well,” she tucks a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “I can see we’re both committed to providing Mr. Foster with the very best psychological and legal care.”
It’s a struggle to keep my eyes on the screen. They’re just past my window when an email comes through fr
om Dr. Abbas. It’s to all staff working on Foster’s case. We’re advised that Foster has retained new legal counsel, a Mr. B. Lewison. In the coming weeks, Mr. Lewison may request to meet with personnel working with Foster. Abbas also reiterates Stowmoor’s confidentiality guidelines for clinicians and other hospital staff.
I fight the desire to follow Sloane, press my ear to her office door while she speaks to Lewison, while he meets with Foster.
I’ve got three hours before my interview with Foster. I pull out my charts, go over my notes repeatedly. I try to write up another assessment that’s late, but I can’t focus. I check my email every two minutes, hoping for a distraction. Hoping for a message from Maria. There’s nothing. I haven’t heard from her since the opening. No more diaries, no suggestion of lunch. My fingers twitch over the keyboard; I want to write her a message that hints at my interview; I want her to know I’ll soon be in the same room as him. Instead, I log out of my email and struggle with the late report.
I slide into the chair across from Foster, set my file and pens down on the stainless steel table between us. “Good afternoon, Mr. Foster,” I say, as I open my notepad.
“Dr. Win-ston,” he says slowly. “I’ve been expecting you.”
I ignore his attempt at a joke. “I trust you’ve been well. I have a few—”
“Questions for me?” He smiles. “Somehow I expected that. I hope they’re sufficiently interesting today. And yes, I’ve been well, thanks for asking. Very well.”
“Good to hear. I want to pick up on some themes that came up in our last interview.”
“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows. “Well, by all means.”
“You said that you still think about Báthory. Do you think about her often?”
“Define often.” He digs some dirt from under his fingernail, flicks the speck to the floor.
“I mean, do you currently have any thoughts about Báthory, or maybe about another person, event or idea, thoughts that take up a lot of your time.” My tone is calm, measured.
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