by Sarah Lovett
Violet rose from her chair the same instant Leo Carreras moved toward the door of the observation cubicle. Spooked, Sylvia watched as Violet sprang forward and up and landed on the seat of her chair with both feet; even without the use of her hands, she maintained her balance. Violet launched herself toward the table, and again, she landed squarely; she was fueled by rage.
Leo said, "Stay here," and then he was out the door striding down the hall.
Sylvia waited to see what would happen when he entered the treatment room. If the orderly wasn't nearby, he would need her help, but she didn't want to let Mark Chism and Violet Miller out of her eyesight.
Violet threw herself at Chism and he stumbled backward. Like a whirling dervish, the crazed woman whipped her head around and smacked her skull into his chest before he fell to the floor. She was in motion to attack the doctor again when Leo burst through the door.
Before he could get his hands on the patient, Violet impelled both legs straight out, and the heels of her shoes struck his groin. Leo doubled over in pain but managed to activate the panic button anchored to his belt.
Sylvia had no intention of waiting for staff to arrive. She rushed from the observation cubicle to the hall and the closed door of the treatment room.
Adrenaline was speeding through her system when she pushed the door open and stepped inside the room. The door slammed shut behind her. The room was stuffy, uncomfortably warm, and it smelled of urine and disinfectant. She turned to find herself face-to-face with Violet Miller.
The woman was flushed, drenched with sweat, and her eyes were hyperbright. While Sylvia watched, Violet struggled to focus—eyes bulging, eyes squeezed shut until they finally settled on Sylvia.
Sylvia's blood cooled instantly. She was facing all the pent-up fury of a deranged, enraged woman. She felt as if she had been cornered by a rabid dog. In her fear, fragments of the scene got special attention: the blood on Violet's head, the odor of almonds on the air, the soft moans coming from behind the overturned table.
Sylvia held out both hands in a calming, placating gesture. She was amazed that her voice sounded composed, gentle, even. Her heart rate had to be pushing one eighty-five. She said, "Violet, I'm here to help you. Everything's going to be just fine."
Without turning her head, Sylvia knew that Leo was now standing somewhere behind her. Violet knew he was there, too. The woman gave a warning growl.
"Why don't you step back, Leo," Sylvia said soothingly. "We're going to be all right here. How's Mark doing?" She heard Carreras move away.
Without any real knowledge of the patient and her history, Sylvia had to tread carefully to avoid emotional flash points. She kept her energy centered on Violet Miller, but didn't approach or trespass on Violet's small territory, a space roughly four feet square. The woman had corrected her threatening stance just slightly when Leo withdrew. Now, her energy visibly dissipated. The change was dramatic: the blue eyes dulled, the breathing slowed, the muscles seemed to lengthen.
There was agony and terror in her tortured monologue: "I have, I need, I need, don't you see what they're doing to me? I feel, don't you, don't you need, they cut off my arms, cut off my arms, cut out my feelings, tear me apart, tear me down—" The litany went on for minutes without pause until, abruptly, Violet was silent. Her expression transformed, and lucidity realigned her features. She smiled at Sylvia and said, "I'm really okay. I remember you. . . ."
And then the Violet who was not psychotic disappeared again, like a woman who had stepped behind a door.
It was unnerving to observe the shift from close range.
Sylvia consciously regulated her own breathing so that it was somewhere between Violet's ragged inhalations and normal respiration. Her eyes never connected directly with the woman's pupils. She continued to recite soothing words, a verbal pabulum.
Violet's body telegraphed the arrival of hospital staff; her musculature stiffened when the door opened.
Without turning, Sylvia said, "We would appreciate a little space here."
A quiet male voice said, "We're not going to intrude."
"That's fine," Sylvia said.
"That's fine," Violet mimicked. She stared at Sylvia and laughed. "Dupont was my killer, he was my killer, he was my killer—" The phrase went on and on. Sylvia had a theory about what Violet meant: Dupont had been a carrier for Violet's darkness; he had acted out her murderous rage; in a sense he had contained it. But now that Violet believed Dupont was dead, her rage was her own, and it was wild, and it was consuming her from the inside out.
Sylvia murmured reassuringly, "He was your killer."
Abruptly, Violet stopped speaking, swallowed, and cocked her head toward Sylvia. "I know you—you're the killer's doctor."
It was an extraordinary moment—an instant out of time—when the world realigned itself. Sylvia said, "That's right, Violet. That's who I am."
"Did he send you?"
"Do you mean Dupont?"
Violet looked almost wistful. "He hates them—the government—hates doctors because you call him 'crazy killer.' He taught me to hate." She shook her head in bewilderment, opened her mouth, and whispered, "Help me." Her eyelids lowered, and she looked half asleep; she didn't speak again.
Leo managed to help Mark Chism from the treatment room. Five minutes later Violet allowed herself to be sedated. The nurse and one orderly escorted her back to her room. The other orderly attended to a shaken but stable Mark Chism. With Sylvia at his side, Leo limped out of the hospital.
ON THE DRIVE back to Santa Barbara, Leo put Eric Clapton in the CD player and kept the car straining at the bit. San Luis Obispo, Santa Maria, Goleta: familiar places disappeared in their eucalyptus and oleander wake. The setting sun dipped herself like a woman into silvery Pacific waters.
Sylvia felt conflicted after the encounter with Violet. She was relieved and still experiencing the total rush; she'd chalked up a victory. At the same time, she felt totally enervated.
I know you. You're the killer's doctor. Both Dupont and Violet had the same unique way of saying, "You work with bad guys." And today, Violet had asked for help.
Maybe—with his cryptic messages, his Polaroids, his manipulative phone call—just maybe, Dupont White was finally asking for help from the killer's doctor.
Leo turned down the music and said, "When we get to town, I'm buying you dinner. Where are you staying?"
"The Biltmore."
"Nice choice."
"Let me buy you dinner. I really appreciate that you set up the visit to Atascadero for me."
"I owe you one." He shifted uncomfortably in the soft leather seat.
She said, "Hell hath no fury like a woman—scorned or not."
Leo gingerly tested his groin with his fingers. "No shit."
THE SANTA BARBARA Biltmore rose up like a Spanish castle in the center of an oasis. Tinted flood lamps illuminated acacia, gum, avocado, hibiscus, and giant prickly pears. Magenta and white bougainvillea seemed to explode out of the earth. A hundred feet from the main hotel, Sylvia's secluded bungalow was surrounded by palm trees.
Leo and Sylvia relaxed over cocktails on the patio and dined in the restaurant. The dining room's subdued elegance was an extension of the rest of the Biltmore, which dated to the late 1920s. Conservative shades of rose, cream, and walnut accented the rich mahogany fixtures. The restaurant's only primary colors were provided by immense floral arrangements.
It was well after ten when they left the restaurant and strolled down the carefully tended stone path to the hotel's private beach.
Breakers hit the shore with a fierce finality intensified by darkness. Already mellow from food and drink, Sylvia lost herself in the thunder of the ocean. She slipped out of her sandals and let the edge of each wave grab her by the ankles and tug her deeper into wet sand.
Voices drifted up the beach. Somebody approaching. Time to move on. She began to walk north along the shore. Leo was following several paces behind. He caught up with her.
; He said, "When you came into the room with Violet, what did you experience?" She didn't respond immediately, and he continued. "I remember the first time I faced a violently aggressive patient, and the few times since then. It's always a moment of clarity; some jagged piece of myself rises to the surface."
Sylvia's voice wasn't loud, but it was clearly audible over the sound of the waves. She said, "I felt like I was witnessing the power of absolute destructive energy. It scared the shit out of me."
Sylvia felt Leo's eyes on her face. She said, "How is Mark Chism going to proceed with her treatment?"
"What would you recommend?"
Sylvia brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Next time, I'd have a woman conduct the interview."
"Maybe you should be the one to work with her." Leo paused and leaned over to pick up a long, slender stick that had washed up on shore. "Do you have dinner plans tomorrow night? I'd like you to meet some people."
"If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were trying to seduce me, Leo." She set her hands on her hips. "I should be free by late afternoon."
"Good. We'll go somewhere in town. Mark Chism will be there. And some other folks I'd like you to talk to."
"Fine." But Sylvia's mind had already shifted to her own plans for the next day: a visit to Dupont White's childhood home and his adoptive father's ranch.
Leo's next words brought her back to the present. "I'm making you a professional offer, Sylvia; I want you to come to work with me. I don't want to know your answer now. I'll call you in two weeks, and you can give me a yes, or a no."
With the stick he sketched numbers in the firm, damp sand. Sylvia gazed at the figure and sighed. It was more than twice what she made in Santa Fe.
Leo gazed at her face for a long moment. Finally, he said, "I'm not going to make it easy for you."
He walked her back to the door of her bungalow and kissed her circumspectly on one cheek.
"Good night, Leo. And thanks for a lovely evening."
His expression was dark and serious, and his eyes felt as though they penetrated deep beneath Sylvia's skin. Finally, he allowed himself a half smile.
She watched his thin shadow disappear between the trees and then she went inside and closed her door.
She lingered in a very hot shower until her muscles felt rubbery. She slathered on moisturizer and slipped naked between fresh sheets.
Fighting sleep, she picked up the phone and dialed her service in Santa Fe. Rosie Sanchez had called twice; there were no messages from Matt. She called his trailer. No answer. She dialed her home number. When her machine answered, she entered her remote message-playback code.
A digital voice announced that she had ninety-six new messages—only three short of capacity.
Dazed, she pressed a key to receive her messages: click and a dial tone. Then another hang-up call. And another.
With mounting horror, she listened to an endless chorus of clicks and dial tones. She lost count after only a few minutes. That's when she first heard the crying. Someone was weeping. A woman? A boy? Click
Another call, and another, until the crying had reached hysterical pitch. Click Click. Click.
When the messages finally played themselves out, Sylvia lay rigid on the bed. She was numb, and her fingers were clamped around the receiver.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SYLVIA WOKE AT six A.M. with a blinding sea-level headache and the lingering uneasiness caused by last night's phone messages. If Dupont White—or someone very close to him—had made the calls, they were an unpleasant reminder that Killer's domain extended beyond Santa Fe. She couldn't shake the feeling that he knew exactly where she was.
She rose stiffly from the bed. Sleep had eluded her most of the night. Instead, her mind had trailed stubbornly over familiar territory: Dupont vented his bloodlust, his need to torture and murder, in the guise of an omnipotent vigilante. The core of his obsession was the victimization of sex offenders—he offered up his own swift punishment when, in his eyes, the state failed to provide adequate justice. That type of obsession went well beyond the need for retribution; it was all-consuming, like a poison, like a fever that burned away the infected person's soul.
Sylvia sighed, pressed a wet washcloth to her forehead. Victims are always a mirror in some way for their killer. Follow that line of thought to its conclusion: Dupont White had himself been victimized. And he was channeling his urge to victimize others into killing sexual aggressors.
She opened the green-striped curtains that covered floor-to-ceiling windows and saw soft unsettled fog and the shadowy shapes of trees. This white mist—not sunshine—was the typical day stored among her memories of southern California. Fog always made her feel as if there was something lurking just beyond her view, something she couldn't quite see; it was so different from New Mexico's harsh sunshine—a sun that exposed everything under its burning glare.
She made the first of two phone calls, this one to Rosie at home where the sound of Ray Sanchez's voice on the outgoing message made her homesick. She left a brief message of her own: "Hey guys, I'm out of town, back tomorrow. Miss you."
And she did. She felt lonely and isolated, but a part of her was relieved to be free of her responsibilities, her relationships. And she still had work to do in California.
On the doorstep, under linen, Sylvia found a silverplate tray, a large pot of coffee, and assorted pastries. She poured herself a coffee, smeared jam on a warm raisin scone, and opened the file on Dupont White. On top of the reports was the envelope she had received from Dan Chaney. She unfolded the map of California and traced the one hundred twenty or so miles from Montecito to Devil's Den Ranch. When she was satisfied she knew the route, she picked up the phone and dialed Roxanne White's phone number in Montecito.
Sylvia knew the area from the time she'd spent in southern California with her mother, seventeen years earlier. Montecito was just southeast of Santa Barbara. Huge estates from a more luxurious era claimed acres of verdant, rolling hills. Ornate stone mansions with formal gardens elbowed up to horse paddocks and postmodern steel and glass habitats.
No answer after a dozen rings; she hung up the phone.
A globule of strawberry jam fell on the edge of the envelope, and Sylvia spooned it off and returned it to her last bite of scone. Roxanne White lived at 13 Camino Suerte. Lucky Lane.
THE GATEHOUSE WAS empty, the security phone looked new, and the pitched metal gates were open. Sylvia turned off Camino Suerte and followed a circular brick driveway that continued for a half mile before it reached the hand-carved double oak doors of Dupont White's former home. Sylvia parked her rented Taurus next to a black Lamborghini Diablo VT. The vanity plate read VIP-1. She didn't bother to lock the Taurus.
The house had three stories, a yellow-and-bluetinted Spanish hacienda; judging from its frontage, it looked as though it might cover five thousand square feet. A loggia ran the length of the second story, and palm trees brushed their sharp leaves against wide sandstone balconies. High windows on the top floor made Sylvia think of a stronghold. At the hacienda's eastern corner, a Spanish-style bell tower rose above eucalyptus and palm trees. Beyond the edge of the tower, green-and-white canvas awnings delineated private tennis courts. Although some of the fog had burned off, there was still enough mist to shroud the scene.
It was hard to place Dupont White in these surroundings. Montecito was the land of the privileged, those whose crimes tended to be calculated, sterile, bought and paid for—not the messy hands-on rage necessary to castrate someone and then burn him alive.
She climbed stone stairs to the red stuccoed front entrance and rapped on the massive doors. After a few seconds they opened a crack. Enough to give her a view of a narrow strip of the gleaming tile floor. Enough to see a female face.
The woman smiled expectantly, her face devoid of suspicion or challenge. In fact, she looked delighted to see Sylvia. "You've come after all." Her voice was low and musical. She let the doors swing wide.
At a loss,
Sylvia murmured a response. "Yes, I'm here." She guessed the woman was between forty and fifty years old; her body was small under blue overalls and a red sweater, her hair was tucked into a green turban. She was clutching an earth-dampened trowel in her gloved left hand.
"I'm Jilly."
Sylvia heard the anxious edge in the woman's voice, took in her vacant, glassy brown eyes, her placid face, and guessed that Jilly was suffering from depression, maybe some form of dementia. Psychological or organic? The result of Alzheimer's or Parkinson's or pathology?
She smiled and said, "I'm very pleased to meet you. My name is Sylvia."
Jilly cocked her head. "I'm just not myself anymore."
Sylvia nodded. Jilly repeated this bit of information like a parrot, and she had to compete with other voices. They were faint, muffled, emanating from a distant room, but Sylvia thought she could distinguish the rumbling bass of a male from the slightly higher contralto of a female.
Sylvia entered a high-ceilinged anteroom. Potted ginger plants with giant orange blooms graced each end of a tapestry-covered settee. The tiled floor was turquoise blue and polished so it gleamed.
Jilly's eyes widened with curiosity. "Are you a friend of Roxanne's? She's my sister."
"No, but I've come to speak with her about her son, Dupont White."
"Dupont died, and Roxanne's with her friend." With measured gestures, Jilly placed her trowel on the settee, clapped together gloved hands, and shook loose residual garden soil onto the tile. She said, "I'll be right back, okay?" She turned and passed out of Sylvia's sight beyond the largest of three Moorish arches, roughly thirty feet away. The smack of her rubber soles on tile echoed and then faded away.
To enter the vast living room, Sylvia had to pass through a portal created by a pair of giant elephant tusks. Each of the ivory horns had been planted in a heavy brass base that in turn was bolted to the floor. Between the tusks, a zebra skin had been laid down like a cape. Sylvia tiptoed across the striped animal hide.
