by Sarah Lovett
"So?"
"So . . ." Sylvia said. She made a soft sound. The food, the drinks, his company had a tranquilizing effect. The sensation of relaxation after weeks of stress was intensely pleasant. "I think you might be dangerous for me."
He brushed his fingers along her cheek.
She stepped toward him, felt his thigh against her leg. His arm was around her shoulders and his fingers pressed her spine. The level of her desire carried her forward, but panic elbowed its way past her other emotions and sensations. She stepped back just as he pulled her to him. The warmth of their kiss contrasted sharply with the cold air.
His tongue filled her mouth, and she responded with her entire body. Her hips and breasts crushed against him; she opened her mouth to let his tongue probe deeper, then she was forced to break away, to breathe. She bit his lip, pushed him back against the adobe wall.
The hotel's glass doors swung open and hot air splashed against cold. Sylvia pulled away from Matt and brushed her hair from her face. A young couple walked by and the man smiled at the flustered lovers.
"Nice night," the man said.
Sylvia grinned, "I've got to go."
Matt said, "What are you doing tomorrow?"
"Moving out of my house. Temporarily."
"I'll meet you there. What time?"
"Four o'clock."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE SCISSORS WERE stiff in Billy's hands, and dark hairs lined the sink and the bathroom floor. He'd cut close to the skull, and he'd punctured himself once. A thin seam of blood had dried from forehead to crown. He set the scissors on the toilet tank and switched on the electric razor. His eyes narrowed in concentration, his tongue caught between teeth like a worm snake. Hairs stung his neck and face. In two weeks, he'd dropped eight pounds. His face was a series of hollows and shadows.
When Billy was finished with the razor, he brushed his scalp with a towel and read the directions on the box. Included in the package were plastic gloves and spoon. When he shook out white powder and mixed it with liquid, chemical fumes scorched his nostrils. The directions said he should do a test patch on his hair. Instead, he slathered white cream over his skull and stared at his face. In a few minutes, he would be blond. He tried a smile in the mirror, and the crown flashed. His gums were red and swollen around the base of the soft metal, but he didn't care. He grunted in satisfaction. The only thing left to change were the eyes—too dark, too big. But maybe that was right after all. He was the bearer of darkness now, and his eyes reflected his soul.
Billy studied the tattoo on his bare chest and ran his fingers over the Madonna's face. She felt rough, still scabbed from the needle, but her expression was angelic. Merciful.
He caught himself and reached out to touch the man in the mirror. That wasn't how Billy would think. No, the thought belonged to Luke.
He pulled back his fist and smashed it into the glass. It shattered into a thousand pieces, and Billy Watson's face was finally, and forever, obliterated.
DISINFECTANT, SWEAT, SUGARY urine—the smells in St. Claire's Rest Home assaulted Sylvia's senses. The house had been lovely once, with a glassed-in porch, sunroom, wooden floors, and generous dimensions. Time had worn away the paint, shine, and plain elegance, and replaced those with institutional fervor, religious penance, and the asceticism of old age.
Elderly people filled the living room. They played cards at a folding table, stared like robots at the cartoons on television, or peered vacantly into space. It took Sylvia a moment to pick out the sister bending over a man in a wheelchair. The woman approached with a smile. "I am Sister Genevieve."
Sylvia held out her hand and the other woman took it briefly. "I'm looking for Ramona Herman."
Sister Genevieve nodded and her large green eyes creased into triangles of concern. "Ah, yes. You're not a relative?"
"No. I'm a doctor. My name is Sylvia Strange."
"Ramona has suffered six strokes since she's been with us. She has almost lost her power of speech." The sister hesitated. "It's a painful effort."
"It's extremely important or I wouldn't ask."
After several moments, the sister nodded. "At the end of the ramp you'll find a hall and four rooms. Ramona is in number twelve. Please don't tire her."
The ramp had been built for wheelchairs and walkers. It was scuffed with rubber from tires, cane tips, and therapeutic soles. Sadness seemed to permeate the air of the rest home as thickly as the smell of chemical cleansers. The door to number twelve was shut. She knocked twice and then entered. It was so dim, it took fifteen seconds for her eyes to adjust. An old woman lay on the bed next to the window. A frayed lace curtain covered the glass and a small yard was barely visible behind the house.
"Mrs. Herman?" Sylvia moved slowly to the bedside. There was one straight-backed wooden chair in the room. She carried it to the bed and sat. "My name is Sylvia Strange. Your daughter told me you were here."
Sylvia had found Ramona Herman listed in the Bernalillo phone book. Although the woman had recently moved to St. Claire's, her daughter Lucille hadn't changed the listing in the directory. Lucille seemed pleased that somebody wanted to visit her mother.
Ramona Herman blinked.
Sylvia leaned closer and she could smell the sour odor of the old woman. "I like your room." Beside the bed, Jesus hung from the cross in eternal agony and seemed to be staring out the window. "It's so nice you have a view of the garden."
Sylvia waited for at least a minute. When she had given up hope of response, the old woman turned her head very slowly and moaned. It took another minute for her ancient brown eyes to focus on Sylvia's face. When she did, the eyes were lucid. Her hand lifted a half inch from the sheet and then collapsed.
Ramona Herman moaned again. Her hand fluttered and fell, fluttered and fell.
"Do you need something?" Sylvia stood and adjusted the bed covers gently. As she did so, she saw a child's magic writer. The plastic cover on the gray board was curled at the edges, but the pencil was sharp and attached to the writer by a piece of twine. "Ramona, can you write with this?"
Ramona Herman nodded and the effort twisted her face. Sylvia placed the board in the woman's gnarled fingers.
"I need to ask you about something that happened a long time ago. You knew the Watson family. You worked for them in Bernalillo. You were their housekeeper. Isn't that right?"
Ramona whimpered.
"You knew Duke Watson and his sons and his wife, Lily. You were working for the family the year that Lily killed herself." Sylvia was about to go on when Ramona Herman made a frantic gurgle.
Sylvia waited, then said, "The night of the suicide—why did the boys stay with you?"
The letter N followed by an ululation. "Oohhhuuuu."
The woman was in obvious pain but Sylvia had to continue. "The newspaper story said both boys weren't at home that night. They were with you?"
B-I-L.
"Just Billy?"
Ramona Herman hesitated and then etched a small Y on the board.
"Where was Lucas? Was he with his father?"
Mrs. Herman etched a tortuous question mark.
"You don't know? Was Duke out of town?"
"Noouuuuu." Mrs. Herman raised her pencil and her hand shook wildly.
Sylvia's pulse had risen, an artery throbbed in her throat. "Is there someone I can talk to? Did you tell anyone else?"
"Noouuuuu."
"Why not, Mrs. Herman?"
"Neevvver assskkked." Mrs. Herman lay still on the bed, her eyes closed. She was breathing rapidly, a shallow inhalation. Sylvia touched her palm to the woman's forehead and held it there; the skin was cool and damp. Ramona stirred and struggled to raise her hand without result.
Sylvia moved away from the bed and paced the tiny room in frustration. There was so much she wanted to ask about Luke's childhood and his family, but there wasn't time. She turned back to Ramona Herman and said, "Did Duke Watson kill his wife?"
Now Ramona Herman's breath came in painful
gasps, but she formed a second big question mark on the board.
Sylvia leaned over the bed to touch her cheek to Ramona Herman's withered skin. The old woman's fingers closed around her wrist. Her breath fanned Sylvia's hair. "Earl' morn af—ter Lily dead . . . Duke . . . came . . . my houzzzz."
Mrs. Herman's dark eyes flashed at the memory and then closed. "Brought Lucas . . . wuzzz sick . . . foun' blood on him." A tear rolled over her cheek. It coursed along the side of her nose and settled in the corner of her misshapen mouth. When she took a deep breath her chest rattled. She had gone to sleep, or into some twilight place.
"Thank you," Sylvia whispered. And although the words felt foreign, she added, "God bless you, Ramona."
Sylvia closed the door quietly and left St. Claire's without speaking to anybody. The home was tucked between Lead and Silver avenues on a shaded side street in Albuquerque. The neighborhood had seen better days and was also the location of missions, blood banks, and shabby rental units. The sidewalk was crusted with ice, and Sylvia's breath condensed into clouds. She pulled her coat around her throat.
Three scruffy winos who were huddled in a doorway called out to Sylvia, and she paused to pass the time of day. She left them with a five-dollar bill. Since they had little else, they might as well enjoy the fortified warmth of the bottle.
Sylvia had parked the Volvo around the corner in a lot. Rocko would be waiting patiently to settle in her lap for the drive home. As she walked the last hundred feet to her car, her thoughts latched on to the Turner case in Massachusetts. Twenty years after the fact, when Sue Turner was twenty-five, she claimed to have recovered repressed memories: she remembered witnessing her uncle murder her best friend. He was currently serving a life sentence, and the verdict had been based solely on the evidence of his niece's memories.
Repressed-memory therapy had triggered an intense debate among mental-health practitioners. Accusations of childhood sexual abuse and satanic ritual abuse stemming from "recovered" memories had unleashed counterclaims of false-memory syndrome. The debate had even triggered a change of statute of limitations in many states. Some therapists believed absolutely in Freud's definition of repression. Others believed that certain details of an experience can be lost through amnesia, but that trauma victims usually had trouble forgetting.
Sylvia's own experience was that the mysterious twists of memory affected each life in startling, often amazing ways.
It was possible that Lucas had witnessed the murder of his mother, repressed that memory only to begin the process of recovery seventeen years later. But Sylvia believed that it was much more likely that Lucas had not repressed the memory, per se; instead, fragments had been displaced. . . and he had reinvented the memory to suit his needs.
That might explain why, in their first interview, he had asked her about remembering something bad from the past.
If her theory was correct, it gave Duke a motive to silence his son. But it didn't help to explain why he would have killed his wife in the first place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE HOUSE WAS filled with shadows, and the faint smell of blood still lingered in the air. Sylvia locked the dead bolt on the front door and switched on the light. Rocko bounded through the living room, down the hall, back to the kitchen. Her terrier seemed satisfied that they were alone. She felt better, but she walked to the window and checked the road. There was no sign of Matt's Caprice. She noticed the wind had picked up and so had the snowfall.
She checked the back door, the windows. Everything was shut tight. Sleet tapped out a staccato rhythm against the windowpane.
She had to prepare herself before she could face the bedroom. In an effort to gain entrance, Rocko had left vertical scratches on the closed bedroom door. Perhaps he was attracted by the blood.
She turned the knob and pushed. It looked like it had on Sunday night except the bloody duvet had been stripped off the bed and some of the spatters had been scraped off the wall.
Quickly, she changed into jeans and a T-shirt and began the job of packing. She had two suitcases filled when a low rumble began in Rocko's throat. He cocked one ear toward the living room, then he barked, and skittered down the hall. Matt had arrived.
She lugged her suitcases to the living room, where Rocko was woofing excitedly. Through the sliding glass door that opened onto her patio, she saw that the snow had become a whirling mass. At four o'clock, night had already fallen.
"Quiet!" Sylvia snapped.
She took her hand off the cold glass of the door and switched on the outside light. A man was staring in at her.
For one instant, she saw the waxy features, the clouded eyes, the matted hair, and scabbed skin. His face was clearly visible, then just as suddenly it disappeared, completely obliterated by snow.
Rocko began to claw at the glass, and Sylvia ran to the hall closet where she kept a loaded shotgun. She hefted the gun, and snapped off the safety as she darted back into the living room. She pressed the stock against her shoulder and aimed squarely through the glass.
She screamed at her dog, "Rocko, get back!"
She heard a voice calling, "Sylvia!"
Again, the man materialized behind glass.
Rocko's tiny body bounced against the sliding door like a tennis ball, and Sylvia's finger tightened as she lowered the barrels and fired a warning shot. The blast tore a fist-sized hole in the adobe wall next to the door. The explosion made her ears ring.
"Shit! Sylvia, it's Matt!"
She recognized his voice and staggered to the door to release the lock. Sleet pelted her skin when Matt slammed it open. He knocked her backward as he entered the room.
He caught her and she dropped the shotgun. His leather jacket was cold and wet next to her skin, and she trembled violently. He shut the door with one arm and moved her toward the couch.
"It was Lucas." Her teeth chattered and she could hardly speak. She saw the disbelief on Matt's face.
He spoke deliberately as if she were a small child. "Someone was in your house?"
"No, outside. In the snow." She picked up the shotgun.
"Wait here, lock the door. I'm going out to check," Matt commanded. "Where was he?"
"There." Sylvia pointed toward the patio. "Didn't you see him?"
Matt shook his head and eyed her curiously. "That was me. I tried the front door, but you didn't answer." "No, before. Lucas was there."
Matt slid the door open and stepped out. Rocko darted between his legs. Sylvia locked the door after them. While she anxiously waited for Matt's return, she reloaded the shotgun.
A few minutes later, he was back. When he shook his head droplets of water sprayed off his hair. "Your back gate was open. That's all."
"You didn't see anyone? No footprints?"
"The wind's blowing so hard there's nothing on the ground. It's gathering in drifts." He pulled his coat collar from his neck.
"I'm telling you it was Lucas." Sylvia could see it written all over him, the worry, the embarrassment, the concern for her, and the uncertainty.
"Maybe it was Billy." Matt didn't sound convinced.
"You think I'm over the edge." Sylvia imagined what she looked like—a crazed, overwrought woman. A woman who had lost touch with reality. One of her own clients.
She was suddenly aware of the thin T-shirt she wore over mud-stained jeans. No doubt her face was as pale as paper. She tucked foot behind knee and balanced on her right leg.
England said, "How could it be Lucas?"
"Maybe he didn't die in the riot?"
"Then who did? A body was buried. And how did he escape from the pen? North was crawling with guards, the National Guard, our guys, the press. In spite of that, let's say he managed to get out alive. Where is he now?"
Sylvia bit back the anger and shook her head. "He could be hiding out in the Calidros' house. They're out of town until New Year's."
"Fine. I'm going to call a unit and have them search the area thoroughly." Matt ran his fingers through his h
air. "Are you ready to go?"
Sylvia stared out the sliding glass door.
"Don't open it," Matt said, but she had already unlocked and opened the door. She felt Matt's hand on her arm as Rocko ran inside and shook snow off his wiry fur.
Matt reached over her head and closed the door.
Sylvia dropped her chin to her chest.
Matt sighed. "If it was Lucas . . . if he rose from his grave . . . why would he be doing this?"
"Because he's delusional. He believes I love him." Rocko began to sniff around Matt's legs.
Sylvia snapped, "Rocko, stop!" The terrier sat and fixed her with his black eyes. His head moved with her; she was pacing now and she continued, "Letters, calls, spying, stalking—you're my destiny sort of stuff."
Rocko yawned, thumped his stub-tail against the floor.
"John Hinckley and Jodie Foster. Erotomania. Hinckley worshiped her. He fixated on her to the point he believed they belonged together, they were made for each other. Psychotic transference is a basic element of erotomania." She finally looked directly at Matt. "I think I was supposed to be his savior. I think he witnessed his mother's murder."
Matt frowned and said, "I want to make sure the house is locked up tight."
Sylvia followed him as he checked every window and every door. When they were in the hall and he was satisfied the house was secure, he said, "I can get someone to keep an eye on the property if you don't come back for a while."
Sylvia nodded mutely. She let her weight slump back against the wall, and Matt took her gently by both shoulders.
He whispered, "You're exhausted."
Her face belonged to a stranger. For an instant, he felt he couldn't breathe. The intensity of her gaze, the depth of the mahogany pupils seemed to pull him under.
He ran his fingers through her disheveled curls. His gaze dropped to her breasts, her nipples erect against the thin fabric of the silk T-shirt.
Sylvia lifted her mouth to his and tasted coffee. Her arms dropped to her side as if paralyzed by fatigue, fear, grief, and the intensity of her need.
