Born, Madly_Darkly, Madly Duet [Book Two]

by Trisha Wolfe

  “Dr. Collins,” he corrects. Something like hope sparks. I feel an affinity with him not only as an American, but as a colleague. “And you are?”

  I extend my hand. “Dr. Noble.”

  What am I risking at this point? I need this doctor’s trust.

  Dr. Collins shakes my hand and nods toward the front doors. “Come on. We’ll discuss this further inside. It’s bloody brutal weather out here this morning.”

  A smile flits across my face. “Thank you.”

  He leads me through a stretch of corridors to his office, where I’m thankful for the heat. “Have a seat, Dr. Noble.”

  I do, laying my jacket across the back of a cushioned chair. I feel out of place in the clean starkness and sophisticated psychiatric ward. Glancing over my jeans and simple sweater, I wonder why Sadie—with all her education—chooses to work in police precincts. I’m also curious if she dresses the way she does on purpose; to throw others off.

  “Coffee?” the doctor asks, motioning toward a machine he has setup in his office.

  “Yes, please.”

  He busies himself with setting up the dispenser. “Where are you from?”

  “Maine. I’m a criminal psychologist with my own private practice in Bangor.”

  He nods slowly. “You’ve come a long way. This patient must be important. Although I can’t help but wonder what a criminal psychologist would need from any of our patients.” He sets a white mug in front of me. “Most of them have no more ties to the outside world.”

  I wrap my hands around the cup, warming myself further. “Rebecca Sullivan could hold potential knowledge of someone’s whereabouts, or possibly other information that could lead to this person’s arrest.” It’s a huge leap, but one that doesn’t sound so suspicious. Police officials are searching for anyone in connection to Grayson, although his whereabouts have been officially determined.

  A groove forms between the doctor’s eyes. “Follow me, please.”

  His rapid shift in demeanor and abrupt request startle me. I hesitate before I’m finally able to stand. “Sorry. I’m still a bit jetlagged.”

  Dr. Collins only offers a tight smile in response. Did the mention of Rebecca’s name trigger an alarm? I worry I’m being escorted out of the building until he turns down an opposite hallway, guiding me into another wing of the hospital.

  “I wish you would’ve called first,” he says as he pulls aside a curtain and gestures for me to go ahead of him. He then inserts a keycard next to a bank of doors, a beep granting us access.

  “Why is that?”

  “It would’ve saved you the long trip.” He motions for me to enter the first room.

  As I go inside, my gaze lands on a shriveled-looking woman curled into a chair. Her aimless gaze stares at the wall, her eyes unseeing.

  “Becky has been unresponsive for years,” he continues. “I suppose it’s now referred to as incomplete recovery, but you’ll have to excuse my old habits. I’m still partial to treatment-resistant.”

  I can’t tear my gaze away from the withered woman—the woman who, beneath her frailness and deep-set wrinkles, I can discern traces of Grayson’s features. “I’m sorry, but treatment-resistant…?”

  “Schizophrenia,” he says bluntly.

  The floor suddenly shifts, vanishes. I plummet as an intense free-fall overwhelms my senses, my stomach pitching, until I land back in the moment with a crash.

  Everything slams together all at once.

  I can feel the doctor watching me. I swallow and turn to face him. “Are you all right, Dr. Noble?” he asks, tilting his head curiously.

  “Yes, sorry. Again, must be jetlag.” As a doctor myself, here to speak with this patient, I should already be apprised of her condition. Clearly, Dr. Collins is surprised by my lack of knowledge. And I’m shocked that it wasn’t mentioned in any of the public records I searched.

  Floodwaters rush, answers coming at me too fast. The sinking feeling I always sensed near Grayson solved with a blistering clarity. This is what he’s kept hidden.

  Taking another chance on the kinship I feel with him, I say, “Dr. Collins, I know this is highly unorthodox, but since I have come all this way, is there any possibility I can have access to her patient files?”

  He studies me closely. “It is highly unorthodox, but I’m inclined to allow it.” He glances at Rebecca. “I feel there’s very little harm anyone can cause at this point.”

  “Thank you—”

  “On the grounds that you’re completely transparent with me,” he says.

  A moment of truth. “Her son is my patient.”

  Understanding settles in the lines of his face. “I wasn’t aware that she had a son.” He considers something for another long moment, then turns toward a the wall-mounted screen. He goes through a series of actions, where he mutters a curse at technology, then picks up the hand-held phone. “Emily, can you please bring a nurse station to Becky Sullivan’s room?”

  I hide my amusement. “Again, thank you, Dr. Collins.”

  He checks his watch. “I trust she’ll be in good hands during your visit,” he says, the question implied.

  I nod. “Of course.”

  “I’ll check back in once I’ve completed my rounds.”

  Then I’m alone with Grayson’s mother.

  I pull a chair up next to her, fold my hands in my lap. “Hello, Rebecca. Or you like to go by Becky, don’t you?” She remains catatonic. How long do the episodes last? How often?

  The door opens, and a woman—I assume Emily—wheels a cart into the room. She goes over the system with me, giving me access to only Rebecca’s files. “When you’re done, just exit out here.” She points to the program on the screen.

  I thank her, then get to work, starting with the earliest records. Wearing my psychologist hat, I review Becky’s medical history like a professional. Her behavior over the years, according to her charts, is similar in nature to many suffering from schizophrenia. It was discovered early on, in her adolescent years, as there was an established history of the mental illness. And like so many, Becky went on and off treatment. Finally refusing medication altogether by the age of nineteen.

  I evaluate her like a doctor. Understanding her behavior and even her decision to rebuke treatment. But when I set aside my professionalism, I loathe this woman.

  On a personal level—because I know and love her son—I want to shake her, demand an answer to why she refused medication, choosing instead to self-medicate. There are numerous ER reports for heroin overdose. The combination of her illness and drugs would make a toxic living environment for a child.

  This is proven with the other records, accounts of domestic abuse. Fractures, bruises, broken bones. The charts don’t list a name of a boyfriend, or spouse…there’s no way to determine whether or not Grayson’s biological father was involved. But I can assume, with a hollowed pang in my chest, that Grayson suffered this abuse as well.

  It’s not uncommon with most mental illnesses to self-medicate, and yet, for Becky, I hold her in a higher regard. I hold her to her actions more severely.

  I’m human.

  “I’ve treated your illness with a number of patients,” I say aloud, even though I know she won’t respond. “Had you been my patient, I would’ve seen to it that you got the treatment you needed. You might even be living a healthy life today, still in society, functional and contributing.”

  I change the screen over and open another file. This one dated at around the time when Grayson might’ve been living with her. “And because you were a mother, I would’ve made sure that your child wouldn’t have suffered. That, I suppose, I should lay at the doctors’ feet. Grayson should’ve had someone who cared to look out for him.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Becky blink.

  It’s the first movement she’s made since I entered her room. I swivel my chair to face her. “Grayson,” I say again.

  Blink.

  As inconspicuous as I can, I glance around the ro
om, noting the camera in the corner above the door. Most facilities have video to monitor patients, but not audio. I’m not sure if that’s true for this ward, but for me, right now, it’s worth the risk.

  I wheel the cart closer to Becky. She’s gripping the armrest, her fingers white.

  “You had a son, Becky. His name was Grayson.”

  A couple more frantic blinks let me know she’s listening.

  “You had a wretched family, didn’t you. A sister that cared nothing for you once the checks no longer came. A brother who abused and traded children. Who you sold your own son to…for what? Money? Drugs? Or just because the burden to care for Grayson became too much?”

  Her mouth twitches, her facial features tic in odd arrangements. Then: “Demon.”

  The word is barely a wisp of breath, but I heard it. I say his name again, just to be sure. “Grayson.”

  “Demon,” she whispers, her milky eyes latching on to mine.

  I nod once. Rebecca Sullivan, amid her delusional state, believed her own son to be an evil force. “What did you do to him?”

  But just as quickly as she broke through, Becky is gone. Her eyes glazed, gaze staring past me.

  I know enough to make the connections. Just like Grayson works each puzzle piece into place, I can see the beveled edges of the jigsaw tearing through the picture, ripping a life apart.

  I tap the keyboard, giving myself some action to do for the camera. Eyes trained on the screen, I talk to Becky. She’s still in there somewhere. “Was it all the illness, Becky? Or was it some selfish part of you that made it easy to torture your son? As I said, I’ve treated schizophrenic patients, most having never been violent. Ironic, considering I’ve devoted my career to criminal offenders. But it’s true. With the right medications and treatment plan, you could’ve led a good life.” I glance her way. “Unless the patient suffers violent tendencies. Then the addition of street drugs in the mix is like pouring fuel on a fire. Madness ravages the mind, an uncontrollable brushfire burning, burning…”

  A tremor tics at her lips. Just a small reaction, but it’s there.

  I lower my voice, more intimate. “I had a patient once who believed he had insects living under his skin. He would claw, nails tearing through flesh, until his arms were bloody. And that’s what it’s like, isn’t it, Becky? Being trapped in there, all the evil things you’ve seen and done crawling inside you like insects. Wiggling beneath your skin, spider legs tickling your flesh from the inside out…but you can’t get to them. You can’t move to even try.”

  One of her fingers jumps. Her nails dig into the arm of the chair, and I smile.

  “I don’t know which would be worse,” I say. “Raking nails over skin until you bleed, or being paralyzed by the fear. Feeling every insect bite into your flesh and not being able to stop it.”

  I reach out and, as lightly as I can, run my fingers over her arm. She flinches, and for a moment, I think a tear might leak free. But she buries her fear. Trapped down in the tormented depths with her. “Now that I know what he fears,” I whisper to her, “I’m going to free him.”

  I stand and clear the screen. I leave Grayson’s mother, giving Dr. Collins another grateful “thank you” as I pass by, and I reenter the world armed. I have just one last stop to make, just enough time before my scheduled departure, and I follow the directions to the house—the address I memorized from Becky’s medical file.

  I could’ve done just as Dr. Collins suggested; I could’ve called. I could’ve tracked down Becky through searches, hired an investigator if needed. I could’ve gotten access to her medical history. I would’ve come to the same conclusion miles from here, having never needed to fly across an ocean.

  That’s not why I’m here.

  As I drive up to the house, I know that I had to see it with my own eyes. I want to look at Grayson’s childhood home and envision the boy within, just as he touched the bars in my basement, reverently caressing the iron, connecting to me across time and space.

  The house is old—it was probably old when Grayson lived here. Now boarded up, condemned. Abandoned. The ocean breeze whips through the tall grass in the front yard, the gray wood chipped and salted, years of sea spitting against it. This small, winding stretch of oceanfront is called The Burrows.

  I tie my hair back and start toward the house. I recall the documents Calvin sent to me on Grayson’s ancestry. This address was also listed as the house that was raided—the child trafficking home of his uncle. At some point, Becky must’ve lived here with Grayson. I’m not sure which came first—the proposition to sell Grayson to her brother, or her brother’s insistence to take Grayson from her… But it doesn’t matter.

  The only truth that matters is that when his mother left, Grayson was left behind.

  I walk up to the house and search for a loose board. One finally gives and, when it comes away, there’s a strip of yellow police tape plastered against the door. I think about the horror that must have happened here, about how the authorities found the victims, and understand why the house was closed up, forgotten. Set apart from other residents along the street, it’s a ghost house.

  Once I manage to get the door open, using my body weight to push through, I stand in the center of the main room, allowing my senses to direct my path. Another one of my patients murdered women in his own home, right below his wife and family. Basements make ideal kill spots. Keeping the world and even those closest to the offender in the dark.

  This home is near the ocean, however. There’s no basement. No garage. I walk through the narrow hallway, peeking into cramped bedrooms, everything feeling too open. Exposed.

  Where?

  Through one of the cracked bedroom windows, I spot a greenhouse.

  I noticed them all over as I drove toward the coast. Just about every house has at least one tented greenhouse in the yard. Some have several rows of the clear-tarp units.

  Curious, I make my way out the back and shove open the greenhouse door. Vines and weeds have nearly enclosed the entrance, but once I step inside the unit, I get my answer.

  What remains of the rudimentary pendulum contraption is fitted in the back of the greenhouse. Rusted animal traps used to restrain Grayson’s victims were confiscated as evidence, as well as the machete. The rope and sand bags required to hoist the machete are still here, along with the large wooden table that held his captors while the weapon swung down to end their lives.

  The years gone by haven’t removed the blood staining the wood and ropes.

  I look away, and that’s when I notice it.

  In the middle of the ground is a giant hole.

  “Oh, my god.”

  A makeshift cover with locks has been discarded, leaned up against a row of planters. This was the door, and below…

  I stare down into the hole.

  From this angle, I can make out the boarded walls. They’ve been padded. Sound proofed. Rusted shackles line every wall.

  “Christ.”

  How long did Grayson suffer here?

  I kneel and pull out my phone, using the flashlight to get a better look. Chains dangle from the ceiling of the dark room. It’s not just a holding space intended to conceal children amid a trade—it’s a torture chamber.

  What’s left of the room shows clear signs of sadistic, pedophilic cruelty. The heady earthy scent mingles with something more metallic…blood. The noxious smell makes me gag, and it’s almost too much. I want to turn away, but something in the corner ices my body, freezing me in place.

  Next to a bin of dirty old toys is a stack of puzzle boxes.

  Completed puzzles line one of the walls, images of blue skies, oceans, cityscapes. And near the far end, carved wooden pieces with a child’s drawings. “Oh, Grayson.”

  Even as a child, I can imagine how intelligent Grayson must have been. He’s an autodidact, self-taught, clearly never having the opportunity for a formal education. Still, he was smarter than his oppressors. How many times did he pick those locks? How many t
imes did he try to run away? How many times was he dragged back here to suffer his punishment?

  I close my eyes against the memory of his scars. From his scalp to his chest to his arms. They cover him.

  I breathe in a searing breath, and release the pain. This room is another dimension into hell. Grayson was kept here, chained and bound, locked away from the world…

  Locks.

  A fiery ache clogs my throat. You’re the key, Grayson told me. I thought it was a metaphor about freeing him…but that’s not what he’s searching for. He doesn’t want to free something—he wants to lock it away.

  And who better to choose for that purpose than a psychologist that has mastered the art of forgetting.

  19

  Epiphany

  Grayson

  Every life follows a pattern.

  Just as a killer has a signature, there’s a clear design within each life that makes it inherently ours. Unique.

  History repeats itself.

  It’s a clichéd saying for a reason. And it didn’t take me long to understand that, even at a young age, I could see the framework. The structure. I could suss out the sequence in the puzzle and anticipate the next piece. I knew what was coming.

  From my earliest memory, I remember the fear. As I looked into my mother’s eyes, I saw my future, the inevitable trap. My trap. The finality of me…all in her deranged gaze.

  Of course, I tried to escape. I’ve been on a mission to escape that fear my whole life. Pick one lock only to be captured and locked in hell all over again. A never-ending cycle.

  Part of my pattern. My design.

  I inhale a deep breath, tasting the rain-covered asphalt amid the humid night. I stop walking when I hit the back entrance to the alley near the Refuge. I want to savor this moment.

  A person’s pattern is nearly impossible to break.

  Like I’ve said before, I was able to endure a couple years before the compulsions started to drive me mad. Then like winding a watch, I’d turn back the hands, resetting the countdown with every kill.