“Detective, you’ll look after her, won’t you?”
Harrison turned toward the old man. “I will. Why don’t you try to do the same?”
This time, Harrison left for good and joined Felicia in the freshly paved driveway.
“What’d he say?” Felicia asked.
“Not much of anything. But it seems like they’re still pursuing Josh Williams.”
“Yeah, I already knew that.”
“If you want, I could arrest Walton and the other people who were involved when they captured Williams the first time.”
“By other people, do you mean me?” She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes.
“No. You can be my cooperating witness.”
Felicia shook her head. “No. Nothing will come out of it and they’ll cover their tracks even more. At least now maybe we’ll catch them making a mistake.”
John nodded and followed Felicia to her car. They had driven separately, a very conscious decision John had made to preserve the emotional and physical space between himself and the reporter. In fact, before he departed on this errand with Felicia, he had made a quick call to Julia to get her blessing on accompanying the reporter. The extra communication proved to be an effective trust-building exercise and seemed to smooth over any misgivings Julia might have harbored about John and Felicia working together. Then again, maybe she’d punish him for his actions later.
“Why didn’t you show your uncle the sketch?” John asked as Felicia opened her car door.
“He would’ve looked at it as another case to figure out.” Felicia glanced back at her uncle’s house. “I think he might be delusional enough to look at a prophecy of his death as some kind of hypothesis he should test. And I didn’t want them to try to make contact with this girl, either. Sounds like that would the last thing she needs right now.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true. Well, I’m going to visit Williams’ mom and Jessie Walters. I have a sneaking suspicion that Stevenson Industries might have already talked to them. They did have a head start on us.”
“Can I come, too?” Felicia asked, her eyes and voice earnest.
John looked at the reporter, simultaneously looking for a reason to leave her behind and take her with him.
“Sure. From what Julia told me, Jessie Walters might trust you more than me. You guys really bonded the night I was shot, right?”
“We do have a certain shared experience,” Felicia said, her eyes uncertain.
“Okay, let’s go.”
If nothing else, going with Felicia allowed him to keep his eye on her. Once again, John assured himself there was no other reason he wanted her with him. He made another call to Julia, asking for permission to proceed. She granted his request. Julia trusted him; John hoped he continued to deserve it.
24
Grace Murphy walked into the new professional building that lay on the outskirts of Woodside. She checked the directory, located in a small atrium, and identified Julia Driscoll’s office number. Armed with this information, she headed to the second floor, searching for room 205. The other doors in the hallway were closed, except for Dr. Driscoll’s office. Grace stepped tentatively into the room. A woman a few years older than herself stood behind a desk, flipping through some papers. She looked up when the hardwood floors creaked beneath Grace.
“You must be Grace!” Dr. Driscoll said, giving her patient a smile that was both sweet and reassuring.
“Hi. Nice to meet you.” Grace swept her hair from her face and stepped closer toward Dr. Driscoll’s desk.
“Here, why don’t you make yourself comfortable and I’ll be with you in a moment,” Julia said, before turning her attention back to her desk. “There’s just something I need to find before I forget. And while you wait, could you please fill out this form?”
Dr. Driscoll handed Grace a clipboard with a questionnaire that covered the usual facts doctors requested upon meeting a patient. Grace scanned the room. Dr. Driscoll’s office was much larger and more open than Matt Harrison’s hole in the wall. The floors were done with dark hardwood, which contrasted the lightly painted walls well. Two overstuffed leather chairs sat on the wall that was perpendicular to Dr. Driscoll’s desk.
“No couch,” Grace said, noticing the quintessential symbol of a psychiatrist’s office was missing.
Dr. Driscoll looked up and smiled. “Nope. But you can have a seat in one of the chairs.” Grace began filling out the form, rifling through each question in quick succession. Just as she finished, the doctor grabbed a sheet of paper and shoved it into a folder inside one of her desk drawers. “There, got it.”
While Dr. Driscoll finished her unspoken task, Grace fixed her eyes on a picture of a man on the desk. The symmetry and structure of the face looked familiar, as did the eyes. “Is that your fiancé?” she asked.
Julia glanced at the picture. “Yes, that’s John.” She seized a notebook and pen and sat across from Grace. “Here, I’ll take that from you.” Grace handed the doctor the form and gave the doctor an opportunity to peruse its contents.
“I can see the resemblance,” Grace said, searching for topics that might take the edge off her growing anxiety.
Julia cocked her head. “Between who?”
“John and Matt. They kind of look alike.”
Dr. Driscoll looked back at the picture. “Yes, I suppose they do. Two very different people, though.”
“How are they different?” Grace asked.
Dr. Driscoll tapped her pen against her notepad before answering. “John is more quiet and serious, sweeter too. Matt can be a bit on the sarcastic side. He’s a good man, but I think he likes to hide that.”
Grace nodded. It was hard for her to evaluate the doctor’s assessment; she barely knew Matt and had never met John.
“I have to say, I’m a little surprised Matt referred you to me. He always seems resistant to the idea of therapy. Of course, maybe that’s just the stereotypical masculine defense mechanism against therapy manifesting itself.”
“He said you could help me,” Grace said. She meant this as a compliment, but it sounded more like a plea or preemptive accusation.
“I hope I can,” Julia replied. “So let’s get started. You said you’ve been having trouble sleeping? How many hours do you sleep a night?”
“Two, maybe three. Sometimes even less.”
“How long has that been going on?”
“I’m not sure. At least a month. But maybe longer. It’s hard for me to remember.”
Julia nodded and jotted down some information in her notebook. “Okay, Grace, I’m going to ask you a lot of questions so I can get a feel for where you’re at right now. Everything you say to me is completely confidential unless you present an immediate danger to yourself or others. But you can tell me as little or as much as you’re comfortable telling me.”
For the next thirty minutes, Dr. Driscoll lobbed a bevy of questions at Grace. They walked through some of the young woman’s basic relationships, her childhood, and current status in life. Then, the questions became more direct.
In the past two weeks, how often had Grace felt down, depressed or hopeless? At the very least, Grace felt this way when she had to go to bed. Or when she woke up in the morning. Or anytime she hit a project or situation that reminded her how little sleep she was getting and what happened when she did close her eyes. So the answer to the doctor’s question ended up being surprisingly high.
Had Grace had suicidal thoughts recently? Grace couldn’t remember any definitive thoughts of taking her own life. But she had thought of death. And not just the death of Thomas Wilson or the new man appearing in her dreams. She thought about her death. About closing her eyes for the last time, enclosed in black as the light faded around her. The thought had ceased to make her sad.
What was Grace’s energy level like? No one would have ever described Grace as energetic. She lacked Amy’s vivacity and the consistent, warm energy that Dr. Driscoll radiated. And how could Grace realistically have any e
nergy when she only slept a couple of hours a night?
Did Grace prefer to stay at home or go out and experience new things? Yes to the former question. But that was a lifelong condition for her that hardly seemed pertinent to the discussion at hand. Had Grace lost interest in things she usually brought her pleasure? She couldn’t remember anything that did bring her pleasure. Even her memories were stained in sepia tone. As the questions progressed, Grace suspected her answers fell on the wrong side of the dividing line, whatever that was.
Of course, the dreams came up, too. Grace intended to conceal their exact nature from her psychiatrist but failed. They seemed to lurk behind every negative condition she suffered from, inducing a pervasive hopelessness as they kept her awake, sapped her energy, and crowded out any meager interests she possessed. Dr. Driscoll didn’t even raise an eyebrow when Grace revealed the images of dying men that haunted her at night. She kept on scrawling in her notebook when Grace produced the sketch and obituary clippings of Thomas Wilson and the second unknown man. Though she looked at them with interest, Dr. Driscoll’s opinions remained inscrutable, emanating from an objectivity that enabled her to speak to people who heard voices or experienced delusions. Maybe that’s who she thought Grace was. Maybe that was who Grace was.
“Grace, have you suffered any losses lately?”
“What kind of losses?
“Could be any kind of loss. A broken relationship, someone you loved moving away or dying.” Julia delicately pronounced the last word.
“Yes. My father,” Grace said. She’d withheld that fact earlier in the interview though didn’t know why. Julia had asked about Grace’s family. Grace had narrated some of the strain she felt with her mother but had spoken about her father as though he was still alive.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Grace. Was it expected?” Julia asked.
“No. Car accident,” Grace replied.
Julia nodded. “How long ago?”
“Almost a year.”
“What’s the grieving process been like for you?” Julia asked before quickly amending her own question. “Do you feel like you’ve been able to find some sense of normalcy now?”
Grace shook her head slowly. “Ever since my dad died, I can’t seem to stop thinking about death. It’s like I see it everywhere now. I see it in people who are still alive. I see them aging. I see wrinkles and know that death is coming. Sometimes, I imagine my father’s body in the ground, rotting. I...I keep thinking about it, even though I don’t want to.” Grace shivered at the thought.
“Do you have dreams about your father?”
“No. My dreams are always about other people.”
After a bevy of additional questions, Dr. Driscoll finally placed the notebook down on the arm of her chair.
“Grace, I think you’re depressed,” the doctor said. “I think you’ve been depressed for awhile. And when I say depressed, I don’t mean sad or down. I think your depression is behind a lot of your symptoms right now: your trouble sleeping, the way you feel about yourself, and the way you look at the entire world.”
Grace swallowed hard as Dr. Driscoll dispensed the diagnosis. She shouldn’t have been surprised; Amy and Matt Harrison almost certainly wouldn’t have been. But the word ‘depressed’ descended upon her like a millstone that dragged her further into the depths.
“Do you think it’s because of my father?”
“It’s very possible. That would make a lot of sense.” Dr. Driscoll, her face aglow with compassion, placed her hand on Grace’s. “I’d like to treat you, Grace. You can get better.”
“How?” Grace asked, fearing the answer.
“I think you should come in for regular therapy sessions so we can understand why you’re feeling the way you are and how you can cope with your feelings. But I’d also like to prescribe an antidepressant for you.”
Grace cupped her hands over her mouth. Dr. Driscoll gave her another reassuring smile.
“I know medication can come with stigmas, but there’s nothing wrong with taking them. Depression is a complex condition that affects your mind, emotions, and even your body. I’ll put you on an SSRI. It will help regulate the serotonin levels in your brain, which should help stabilize your feelings. Essentially, they help the neurotransmitters in your brain start firing correctly again.”
“Will they help me sleep?”
Dr. Driscoll’s expression turned thoughtful. “That’s a hard question to answer. People have different reactions to SSRIs. Some people do end up sleeping better while others suffer from insomnia. Medication in itself can be a little tricky because it can be hard to get the levels right. But I can start you off on a more regular dosage and we can see how it works and adjust it as need be.”
“Are there side-effects?”
“Yes, there are some. Nausea, dry-mouth, drowsiness, insomnia, sexual problems, nervousness, diarrhea, headaches, blurred vision. Now that doesn’t mean you’ll suffer from all or any of those things. Everyone reacts a little differently. But SSRIs are really effective at handling the physical side of depression.”
“What about the dreams? How will the medication affect my dreams?”
Dr. Driscoll pursed her lips. “I don’t know. How would you like it to affect your dreams?”
“I don’t know. I’m scared of having more dreams but I’m scared of losing them.”
“There might be a link between your father’s death and your dreams, Grace. It makes sense that you’re having these dreams about death, given how your father’s death has affected you. But that’s something we can explore more in therapy if you’d like to. Getting better from depression is a long-term process. It doesn’t happen overnight. But I believe you can feel much better than you do right now.”
Dr. Driscoll rose and walked over to her desk. She opened her drawer and pulled a pad of paper, wrote a quick note on it, and handed it to Grace.
“Would you like to get better?” Julia asked, her eyes earnest and caring.
“Yes,” Grace replied, her voice so soft it could have faded into the ether without being heard.
“So let me help you, okay?”
Grace nodded. She looked at the piece of paper. Prozac. She knew the name well. The small piece of paper was added to her purse, creating an eclectic cocktail of prescriptions, obituaries, and the drawings of dead men.
25
Shortly after Josh Williams had dispensed with Jessie Walters’ abusive boyfriend, she fled to her parents’ house in New Jersey. That was where John and Felicia found her, an hour after they left Jack Walton’s house. The wispy-haired blonde opened the door of the small cape cod style house. Her face seemed whole again as the discolorations that stained her cheeks had faded into her skin’s normal pigment and texture. But she still couldn’t manufacture much of a smile when she saw John and Felicia. If anything, the duo seemed to represent a memory she was trying but failing to forget.
“Hi, Jessie, how have you been?” John asked.
“I’ve been okay.” She folded her arms across her chest and looked up and down the street.
“We’d like to talk to you for a moment; may we come in?” John asked.
“Yeah, sure.” Jessie led them inside the tidy and tastefully decorated house and into a cozy living room, furnished by two chairs and a couch that faced a large flat screen TV hung on the wall. The wall on the right of the TV contained a fireplace. Above the mantle hung two pictures of small girls, probably no more than ten. One of them had blonde hair and blue eyes that matched Jessie’s, while the face in the other portrait possessed similar eyes, but had darker hair.
“That’s me and my sister, Solana,” Jessie said, catching the detective’s gaze.
“Is she older or younger?” Felicia asked, examining the photos.
“Older. She’s married and lives down south. She’s expecting her first child this spring.” A certain sadness entered her voice when she said these words.
“So you’re going to be an aunt?” Felicia asked.
“What are you up to these days?” John asked.
“I got a job in the mall, working retail,” she replied, looking down at her hands.
“Have you been seeing anyone about what you went through? Like a counselor or something?” John asked.
“No. There’s this support group for domestic abuse survivors I go to when I can.”
“Does it help?”
Jessie shrugged. “Kind of. But it also makes me kind of depressed to go there.”
“Do your parents know what you went through?” Felicia asked.
“More or less. They try to be supportive. But sometimes they act like this is all my fault, that I brought this on myself because I made a bad decision.”
“You know it’s not your fault, right?” John asked. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched Felicia’s reaction to his last statement; her face remained impassive.
“Yeah, I guess.” Jessie looked down at her hands, again.
John was about to launch into a passionate speech about how it wasn’t her fault but stopped. Convincing Jessie of this truth would require more than a dissertation from a relative stranger. And he didn’t want to make her feel guilty for feeling guilty, either.
“We’re here because we’re looking for Josh Williams,” John said. Jessie’s body tensed at the name. “Has he tried to contact you?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since everything happened.”
“So he hasn’t tried to call you or contact you in any way?” John repeated, seizing on Jessie’s choice of verbs.
“No. Why? Do you think he will?”
“I don’t know. But I suspect you’re a person he might try to reach out to,” John said. “He’s dangerous, Jessie. If he calls you, shows up here, or reaches out to you in any way, will you contact me?” John handed her his business card.
Jessie took it and nodded, though she didn’t make eye contact with John. The detective rose and Felicia joined him.
“You take care, Jessie. And if you need anything, please let me know. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”
Death Prophets (Strange Gravities Book 3) Page 11
