"I must not be married, or have children." He paused, frowned slightly as a sudden wave of sadness washed over him, leaving behind a sense of loss that had nothing to do with memory. Now he felt pity for the stranger. "I must have lived alone, and had few, if any . . . friends."
"Not necessarily," Lightning said evenly. "You may have told your wife, children or friends that you were going someplace."
"For a year? Without contacting them?"
Lightning shrugged. "Maybe they think you're dead."
"What about prisons? Mental hospitals?"
Lightning shook his head, then put the tape recorder in the paper bag, which he picked up. Now he seemed distant, thoughtful, as if his mind were now on other things.
"Lieutenant?"
"What is it?"
"Help me."
"That's what I'm trying to do."
"Tell me something about myself."
"I already have."
"But you know more than you're telling me. And you could let me talk to the people you've talked to."
"For now, you just concentrate on what you can remember on your own."
"You've already said that you've given me the benefit of the doubt when I tell you I can't remember. Now give me the benefit of the doubt when I tell you I want to remember—even if it means I'll die, or be locked away in prison or a mental hospital for the rest of my life. If I did the things you believe I did, then, at the very least, I should be put away where I can't harm anyone else. There isn't a whole hell of a lot I can do for myself while you've got me locked up. Give me something that I can work on."
Lieutenant Perry Lightning's response was to turn and head toward the door; he nodded in the direction of the television camera, and the door opened with an accompanying buzzing sound. He started to leave the room, hesitated, then turned back to face Bone. His eyes now seemed strangely hooded, as if he might be trying to hide his true feelings. His voice, when he spoke, was flat.
"Wherever you got that femur you were toting around, it wasn't from one of your victims. People who know about these things tell me it's at least four hundred years old, undoubtedly American Indian. In fact, it's ossified—more stone than bone. I don't know where the hell you would have found something like that, unless you've been camping out in the basement of the Museum of Natural History. You think on that."
Chapter Three
He had not realized how much he'd missed the woman with the hazel eyes and gray-streaked, dark brown hair until now, when he saw Anne Winchell again clearly for the first time since the day when he'd awakened to her voice and touch in the park. Only now, looking at her, did it occur to him that, in large part, he had been operating from strength and confidence she had given him. He remembered well his terror at finding himself cold, lost and alone in a world that was totally alien to him. It had been her voice that had pierced the darkness and lighted his way out of whatever terrible place he had been in; it had been her touch that had reassured him and given him warmth, her willingness to stand close to him that had told him he was not in danger. Anne Winchell and her warmth—as opposed to the suspicion and vague hostility of Barry Prindle, and the detached, almost bemused curiosity of Dr. Hakim—had pulled him from the strange, black sea where he had been drowning. She had demonstrated her faith in the stranger—and Bone now realized the great extent to which that faith had allowed him to believe in the stranger, and to defend him.
Without her, he thought, he would almost surely be dead.
In the rain she had seemed a dream of life, her tear-misted eyes and rain-soaked features a kind of beacon beckoning to him. She had seemed beautiful to him then. She still seemed beautiful, although he knew other men might not agree. Anne wore jeans and sneakers, and a silk blouse of bright blue. Her long brown hair was combed out, and fell softly over her shoulders. She wore little makeup, and large-rimmed glasses with lenses that were slightly tinted. Barry Prindle, his bright green eyes once again clearly reflecting suspicion and caution, walked stiffly behind the woman as they entered the room, and the door clicked shut behind them. Both the man and woman carried packages. Barry reached out for Anne's arm as she started toward Bone, but she shrugged off his grip and approached the bed.
"Hi," she said brightly, putting her package down on the bed and extending her right hand.
"Hi," Bone replied as he pushed himself up in bed, then shook her hand. As in the park, he found the woman's touch warm and reassuring; as in the park, she seemed totally unafraid—although, surely, she knew of Lieutenant Perry Lightning's certainty that he was a mass killer, and was aware of the evidence against him. As in the park, she was giving the stranger even more than the benefit of the doubt; she was saying that she believed in him.
He found he was deeply touched, on the verge of tears, and he wondered how, when, he would find words to tell this woman how her simple trust had strengthened, filled, him.
"How are you feeling?"
"A whole hell of a lot better than I'd be feeling if you people hadn't come along." He paused, looked into the tense features of the broad-shouldered man standing at the foot of the bed. "I want to thank both of you for pulling me in out of the rain. I'd get out of bed to properly greet you both but the police took all my clothes, and this hospital gown leaves me a bit drafty in the rear."
Anne smiled, patted the package she had set down on the bed, then pointed to the one Barry still held in his hands. "Barry and I have brought you something to wear. I think they'll fit—I'm pretty good at guessing sizes."
"The clothes should fit," Barry said drily, relaxing just a bit as he leaned forward and placed his package on the bed. "Anne's been sizing you up for a long time, Bone."
Bone glanced from the man to the woman, saw Anne's face flush with embarrassment, then clench in anger. "I don't understand," he said quietly.
Barry ran a hand hack over his close-cropped hair. "Anne has always thought that you're quite a hunk," he said in the same dry tone.
"That's enough, Barry," Anne said in a low, husky voice, without looking at the other man. Her face was still red with embarrassment and anger, and Bone could feel her distancing herself from him. He found himself resenting the effect the man's words had had on her.
"I still don't understand," Bone said.
"My partner's trying to be cute," Anne said, looking up at him with a smile that now seemed forced. "Barry is saying that you've been a kind of special project of mine ever since we first spotted you on the street."
Bone frowned. "Why?"
The woman shrugged, then brushed a wisp of hair back from her eyes. "It's difficult to explain to somebody who doesn't remember anything about what he was doing out there, but there are lots of reasons why people end up homeless—and many different kinds of people out there. But they all share one thing in common: for one reason or another, they've reached the ends of their ropes—economically or emotionally, and usually both. Yet, you didn't seem to fit any pattern at all." She paused, smiled wryly. "That's not to say that there wasn't something obviously wrong with you."
Bone smiled, laughed softly. "No kidding?"
The woman's smile vanished. "You were totally mute. Yet, you never seemed helpless. Again, it's hard to explain, but even when you were obviously just wandering around, you never gave the impression that you were just wandering around. You always appeared to be alert. When we'd want to talk to you, to try and convince you that you should let us take you to a shelter, or help you in some other way, you'd always stop and listen—but you always gave the impression that you were doing it out of politeness, so as not to hurt our feelings. You'd take the food we offered you—but, again, you seemed to be doing it out of politeness, because you knew we were just trying to do our job."
"Then why did you keep at it?"
"Because," she said, flashing an angry glance at Barry, "you were so obviously in need of help, even if you didn't realize it. It just seemed to me that you had . . . hidden depths. You were an enigma. And, of course, the bone you c
arried intrigued us all. I became convinced that if I could somehow reach through to you, then you'd 'come back,' as it were, and be able to get on with your life."
Bone smiled thinly. "Well, I guess you were half right."
"Do you . . . remember anything?"
He shook his head. "Not before waking up in the park." He glanced at Barry Prindle, then at Anne. "You know, of course, that the police think I've been killing people."
Prindle remained silent, averting his gaze. Anne said quietly, "What do you think, Bone?"
"I don't know," he replied evenly. "It's very obvious that I'm possibly insane; nobody can say for sure what an insane person will do."
"Well, maybe I know you—at least the 'you' that was on the streets for a year—better than you do. You were always calm, and I don't believe you would have hurt anybody."
"But we don't know for sure—and until we do, I guess I'm just as happy I'm in here. Where did you see me?"
Anne looked at Barry, who simply shrugged his broad shoulders. "Like I told you, we first spotted you on Eighth Avenue, between Thirty-ninth and Fortieth. After that, we'd see you all over midtown and downtown Manhattan."
"Meaning south of Central Park?"
Anne nodded. "That's the area we patrol. But you liked to walk, and I'm sure you probably explored other parts of Manhattan, as well. If you'd like, I'll check with the other teams."
"Thank you. Do you have any idea where I slept? The detective who questioned me is sure I have what he calls a stash somewhere."
"You probably do, but I don't think anybody knows where it is. The teams in the other vans may not have paid much attention to you because, in their opinion, you didn't fit into the category of the kinds of people we're tasked to help."
"I can understand that," Bone said evenly.
"We have upwards of five thousand potential clients just in our sector of Manhattan alone."
"Forty thousand people, Bone, maybe more," Barry said in a low voice. His features had become more relaxed, and for the first time Bone was aware of the passion in the man, a deep caring that had been hidden before by the man's caution and protectiveness toward Anne. Bone could understand the man's attitude; if their positions had been reversed, Bone was sure he would have reacted in the same way—he would certainly not have trusted the wild-eyed stranger with the heavy bone in his hand. He would still not, and he would be anxious every time Anne Winchell approached too closely.
"That's the number of homeless people in New York City?" Bone asked quietly.
Barry nodded. "And the numbers are growing every day. What you might feel is a callous attitude toward you—on my part, at least—isn't anything personal. In this business, your nerves get stretched pretty thin at times."
"Especially if you care," Bone said to the man with the green eyes and sharp widow's peak, "and you obviously do." He paused, smiled wryly. "I can understand why you might be more than a bit reticent toward a man who might be a mass murderer."
Somewhat to Bone's surprise, the heavyset man suddenly grinned, came around to the side of the bed and extended his hand. "Well, they haven't proved you're a mass murderer yet; and until they do, you're still our client. You know I'm going to be keeping my eye on you when you're around Anne, but that's my job. That doesn't mean I don't feel for you. Okay?"
"Okay," Bone replied as he shook Barry's hand. "And thank you. Where's Dr. Hakim? I'd like to thank him, too."
"Ali—Dr. Hakim—is a professor of psychiatry and neurology at NYU Medical Center," Anne said. "That's where he is now. He works for Helping Hand on a volunteer basis; we need a psychiatrist to certify that someone is in imminent danger of hurting himself or others before we can bring that person in for help against his will. I'm certain he'll be around to see you. You intrigue him."
"Why?"
"Because he says your symptoms don't match any syndrome of amnesia he's familiar with—and Ali's an expert."
Bone sighed. "Meaning he doesn't believe me."
"On the contrary," Barry said. "I think he does believe you—although he didn't come right out and say so."
"Ali is a very good man, Bone," Anne said as she reached out and touched his shoulder. "Your 'waking up' in the Sheep
Meadow was just a first step. Although you're technically not his responsibility any longer, I'm sure he'll help you—or find you another doctor almost as good. You'll regain your memory; I'm sure of it."
Perhaps only to find out that he was a mass murderer, Bone thought. A maniac. Those were the memories he would have to live with, of killing people and then cutting off their heads. Frightened by that thought, embarrassed by the woman's touch and the deep feeling of vulnerability it caused in him, he looked away, touched the package by his side. He opened it, found two shirts, khaki slacks, underwear and toilet articles.
"There are shoes in this one," Barry said, handing him the other package. "Now, at least, you'll have something besides that hospital gown to wear."
"Thank you. I'll pay you back."
Barry smiled, shook his head. "It's not our money; it's the city's. We were able to set up an emergency service grant for you, and we drew on that. Depending on circumstances, there may be quite a lot we can do to help you, Bone. We'll have to wait and see what happens."
"Meaning we have to wait to see what the police decide to do with me."
Anne nodded. "You haven't been formally charged yet, Bone."
"Why not? The detective who questioned me seemed absolutely certain that I'm the murderer. He has physical evidence linking me to the murder scene and to one of the victims—Mary Kellogg."
"What evidence?" Anne asked in a small voice, obviously taken by surprise.
Bone swallowed, found that his mouth was dry. He wanted to look away from the woman's hazel eyes, found that he could not. "I was wearing a locket that belonged to her around my neck," he said evenly. "And I had her blood on my cuffs and sleeves."
"Oh," Anne breathed. She did not move back from the bed, but some color drained from her face, and the muscles in her jaw tensed. Shadows moved in her eyes, and suddenly Bone felt terribly alone.
"You didn't know that?"
Anne slowly shook her head. "No," she said in a voice that was just above a whisper.
"You almost sound as if you believe you did it," Barry said in a tone that seemed carefully controlled, flat.
Bone met the other man's gaze. "I'm just telling you what I was told."
"Then Lieutenant Lightning pulled a fast one on us, Bone," Anne said. Her voice was tense, and she sounded slightly out of breath. It meant, Bone thought, that for the first time she was considering the very real possibility that he was, indeed, the killer, and she was not sure how to handle the fear that stirred in her. He understood the feeling very well. "He had someone on the staff here inform him when you woke up, so that he'd be virtually the first person you spoke to. He had no right to come barging in here and asking questions without you having a lawyer present. If we'd known that you were a primary suspect in the killings, we'd have made sure that you had a lawyer. We have a number of good attorneys who work for us pro bono."
"He asked me if I wanted a lawyer; I told him no."
"That was a mistake, Bone," Barry said in the same flat tone.
"Why?" He paused, took a deep breath and shifted his gaze to the woman's face. "Anne, I just don't know if I did it. I don't remember a damn thing before waking up in the park. If I'm a killer, then I should be found out and put away—in prison, a mental hospital, whatever. Until I can be reasonably certain that I may not have killed those people, I don't want to be free. The most important thing to me is to remember who I am, and how I ended up on the streets of New York. A lawyer's not going to help me do that."
"You're missing the point, Bone," Barry said, moving closer to Anne. "The cops don't care whether or not you get your memory back; they do care about finding somebody they can lock up so they can say they've caught the killer. They've been taking a lot of heat over these murder
s. As far as they're concerned, the fact that there haven't been any more of the beheading murders since you've been in here is enough reason for them to want to keep you in here."
"I can see their point."
"So can I; so can Anne. But the fact that there haven't been any murders like that for a few days doesn't prove that you're a killer. There have been lapses before, some a lot longer than this, between beheading murders. A lawyer would try to make sure that you're not railroaded for something you may not have done. You want your memory back—and they want somebody they can label a killer. Don't for a moment think that their interests are the same as yours."
"Next time any detective talks to you, we'll make sure you have a lawyer present," Anne said. Her voice was still tense, her tone breathy.
Bone looked away from the two social workers, toward the wall with the mesh-covered windows. "Are you free to answer my questions?"
There was a pause, and Bone sensed that the man and woman were exchanging glances. Barry replied, "We haven't been told not to."
"I know there have been twenty-eight beheading murders," Bone said, struggling to keep his voice even, trying to think of himself as a kind of lawyer for the stranger. He had to find the stranger, find out the truth about him; but he also had to defend him. "Why didn't the police put undercover agents in among the homeless?"
"They did," Barry answered, "and they do. But the numbers of homeless people are just too great for any kind of effective long-range surveillance. Also, the killer is certainly a maniac, but he's no fool; he's always chosen his victims carefully—loners who were caught alone, at night."
"As far as I know, the last two killings are the only ones the police can link me to. Do you know anything about those two old people?"
Anne sobbed as tears formed in her hazel eyes, rolled down her cheeks. "They haven't been able to identify the man, but Mary Kellogg—we certainly knew her. She was a feisty old broad, Bone. We just couldn't keep her anyplace, although God knows that we all—social workers, psychiatrists, city and state officials—tried hard enough."
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