Jason thought about a previous conversation about the possibility of Lilin reacting to the therapy along with Agnes. About Stuart and his accelerating attacks. Pushing Agnes. Opening the door for Lilin. Jason whispered a curse and pounded his forehead with his fist. “I should have seen it coming.”
His mind flew through various scenarios. If Agnes was in control, her actions would be predictable. She’d probably head back to Mendocino. She’d be caught. If Lilin was running the show, she’d probably know how todisappear. To stay invisible. She’d be able to get whatever she needed, but there’d be a trail of male corpses, one for each need. And a few just for fun. He shuddered.
April looked up. “What’s wrong?”
“Just thinking. How did she get out?”
April wiped wet tear tracks from her cheeks. “The security cameras show her in a long, white doctor’s coat, swiping a card in the locks. It looked like she wasn’t wearing any pants.”
“How’d she get all that?”
“I don’t know. One of the patients is supposedly a violent kleptomaniac, but I don’t know how he’d get such sensitive items.”
“Which one are you talking about?”
“Milo. Milo McGuinn.”
“No way. The hippie vegetarian? Bells on his shoes?”
“That’s him.”
“Violent? Sorry, but I can’t see it.”
April put her right hand to her left forearm and pushed an imaginary syringe plunger. “Almost all of the patients are medicated in there.”
Jason’s eyes widened. “Was Agnes?”
“Not all the time. Just when she got depressed.”
He shook his head. “So, this Milo character. Does he know anything?”
“I don’t know. When I talked to the people there, they said he wouldn’t answer any questions. He just satthere and smiled. And get this. They said he ate nothing but bacon for breakfast.” She bobbed her head. “He had to be in on it.”
Jason stood up and walked to the window. The morning light was too bright, but it raised a dawning clarity in his mind. “No. He wasn’t.”
“How do you know that?”
He turned to face her. “It was Lilin.”
April stood in front of the couch. “How do you get that?”
“What would it take to get pilfered goods from a kleptomaniac?”
She shrugged. “Either a serious threat or some persuasive individual with something to trade.”
“From what you described of his behavior, does it seem like Milo’s received a serious threat?”
“No. But what would Agnes have to trade?”
Jason spun back around to face the window. He squinted into the distance. “Nothing. But Lilin would.”
CHAPTER 17
Agnes blinked several times, each time forcing her eyes closed. She rubbed her eyes with her fists. The scene came back the same. No green walls, no Day Room, no grassy grounds with oak trees. No Imola. Instead, she stood next to a two-lane highway. Across the road was a marsh-like expanse with thigh-high weeds. A water-filled channel cut a serpentine path through the marsh and opened to a large body of water in the distance. On her side of the road, rectangular flooded fields, bounded by earthen levees, were partially full. On the banks where the water had receded, a white precipitate covered the dirt. It looked like sugar. No. Salt. She scanned her memory banks. Could it be the northern reaches of San Francisco Bay?
A car whizzed past and blew the tails of the whitecoat that hung loosely from her shoulders. She looked down. Baggy pants, several sizes too big, were cinched to her waist with a belt that was punched through well beyond the original buckle holes. The tail of the belt dangled to mid-thigh. The white coat, like the ones the doctors wore, covered the pants down to her knees.
She pulled out on the coat lapels and gazed downward. She didn’t have anything on underneath. No shirt. No bra. She released the lapels like they were hot. A badge caught her attention, pinned just above the left breast pocket. She pulled it out and twisted it. “Dr. Wilhelmina Smetzer.” She’d heard the name. She looked around again as a car blew past on the opposite side of the road.
How had she escaped from Imola, and how had she ended up here, so far from anything resembling civilization? And whose pants was she wearing? The gaps in her memory triggered a painful thought. Where was Lilin, and what had she done?
She looked back. A car appeared in the distance, getting larger.
Put out your thumb.
Agnes jumped. She’d never hitchhiked. Even during her college years.
Put it out. Now.
Her arm rose. Her thumb was limp, barely projecting from her fist.
The car slowed and went past. The brake lights flared against the low morning sun, and the car swiveled onto the shoulder, raising a cloud of dust. White lights went on next to the red ones, and the car shot backward toward her. It skidded to a stop just short of where she stood. She watched the driver lean over, the passenger door open.
Hurry. Get in.
Agnes walked up to the open door and bent over to peek in. She remembered she was braless as her coat fell away from her chest, and she pulled her arms up to press the fabric against her chest. The driver was young, maybe ten years her junior.
“Where you going?” he said.
“Santa Rosa,” she said without hesitation. She didn’t know why it had come out, but it had. There was no deliberation.
Good girl.
The man patted the seat. “I’m going to Cotati. I go to school at Sonoma State. I can take you that far.”
Agnes swiveled into the seat and clicked the seat belt. The driver’s jackrabbit take-off flung the door closed.
“Name’s Roger.” He held out a hand.
Agnes shook it. “Agnes.”
Don’t use your real name.
He pointed at the name tag. “Agnes?”
She looked down, and her next inhalation caughtin her throat. She felt like she was going to cry. The next breath came easier, and she held it. And exhaled. “Would you go by Wilhelmina?”
Roger laughed. “Are you a doctor?”
She looked down again.
Ph.D.
“Not really. I’m a psychologist.”
“A hitchhiking psychologist. That’s a good one. Out in the middle of Sears Point Road?”
Your car broke down.
“My car broke down.”
“Where? I didn’t see a car.”
“A ways back. I pulled if off the road a bit. I’ve been walking for almost an hour.”
“It would have been closer to go back the other way.”
Change the subject.
Agnes shifted in the seat. “What’s your major?”
He looked over and smiled. “I’m in the honors program. I get to design my own program of study. It’s called interdisciplinary studies. I’m combining biology with philosophy and ethics. With the new genetics and molecular techniques, legal and ethical problems are popping up by the bushel. I’ll probably go to graduate school after I finish. The University of Chicago has a great program. Either that or law school.”
Agnes didn’t want him to stop talking. She wanted time to speed up, the miles to fly by. She wanted out ofthe car. A trickle of sweat bubbled on her forehead. She felt dizzy, like she was going to throw up. She swallowed hard.
Not now. Get control.
Roger looked over. “Are you all right?”
“I’m not feeling too good.”
He pushed a button, and her window whirred down. “Maybe some air will help. Do you want me to pull over?”
The breeze caught her breath, and the nausea receded. “No. Thank you.”
“Let me know if you do. I just got the car.” He patted the steering wheel. It was one of the new Volkswagen Bugs, metallic silver. An artificial flower stuck up from the dashboard, nodding with each bump like a bobble-head doll.
Agnes smiled. “I’m all right now.” She pushed her window button and stopped it when the window was an
inch from the top.
They skirted the northern reaches of San Pablo Bay, crossed a small bridge, and lost sight of the water. Roger turned on a small, paved road and headed inland. “I use the back roads from here. It cuts about fifteen miles off the trip.” The road wandered between shacks, undeveloped hills, and a few scattered ranches. They picked up a slough for a short time and then left the water for good. Oak trees appeared again, with dense stands of eucalyptus. The smell of freshly cut grass came and went.
The road narrowed a little, and signs of habitationthinned. Roger guided the VW on the curvy road like he’d designed it.
Say you’re going to be sick. Now.
Agnes looked at Roger, then at the road. She swallowed hard.
Do it. Now. Have him pull off the road.
Agnes rolled down her window.
Hurry.
She mopped her forehead. “I’m sorry, but I think I’m getting ill. Could you pull over? I don’t want to mess up your new car.”
Roger accelerated. “There’s a small dirt road just ahead. Can you hold it?”
Agnes nodded and put her hand to her mouth.
He hit the brakes hard and nearly slid into a ditch that guarded the double-rutted road. He was ten yards off the main road before he pumped the VW to a stop.
Agnes unclipped her seat belt and threw open the door. She staggered from the car.
Farther away.
She walked into the thigh-high brush and crested a small rise.
Farther.
She walked a few steps and hunched over. The Volkswagen was no longer in view. She crouched. And waited.
Take off the coat.
Agnes hesitated. She didn’t have anything on underneath.
Take it off and kneel on it. Bend over like you’re sick.
Agnes slipped the coat off and spread it on the dry, grasslike weeds, pressing them to the ground. She put her knees on the coat and turned to look in the direction of the Volkswagen. No movement.
A voice startled her. “Are you all right?”
Say no.
She tried to speak, but nothing came out. She was feeling sick, for real this time.
“Agnes?”
Ask for help.
She suppressed a retch and burped. If she opened her mouth, she wasn’t sure what would come out.
Say it.
She took in a deep breath. “Can you help me?”
Now, bend over. Hands and knees.
Agnes fell forward, onto her hands. A light breeze gave her a chill.
She heard Roger’s footsteps crest the rise, then stop. “Are you all …”
Agnes held her position. Her breasts dangled in full view. “I need help.”
Roger walked over. His steps were slow.
Cautious?
“I have a blanket in the car.”
No.
“No. I’m feeling better now. Can you help me get up?”
Roger didn’t move.
Agnes peeked at him. “I’m sorry. This must look really strange. I’m really feeling weak.”
The right coat pocket. Get it.
Roger stepped forward.
Agnes’s hand slipped into a pocket of the splayed coat. It was empty.
The other one.
She fumbled with the fabric. Where was the other pocket?
Find it.
Roger’s foot crunched a twig, close by.
Agnes jumped as her hand found the other pocket.
Grab it.
She reached inside.
Roger leaned over, his voice close. “Here. Take my hand.”
She felt a knife—a folded pocketknife, larger than a Swiss Army knife. A single blade bulged from the handle.
Open it.
“Agnes?”
Agnes? No. Not now. Don’t go away on me.
Roger touched her shoulder. “Here. Take my hand.”
Don’t go away. We can do it together. I’ll help. You’ll learn. We need to do it.
She turned and grabbed his hand. When he pulled, she rose in one quick motion and threw her arms around his shoulders, pressing her breasts into his chest. Her hands met behind him and pulled on the knife blade.
His hands wrapped around her hips. He held the hug.
Take off his shirt.
Agnes shifted the knife to her right hand and grabbed the edge of his sweatshirt with her left and lifted. He leaned back and crossed his arms, grabbing the lower edges of the sweatshirt. He pulled it over his head and peeled it from his arms in a quick motion. Agnes kept the knife hand behind his back.
She grabbed the sweatshirt, tossed it to the ground, and pressed back into the hug. She felt his warmth against her breasts.
Agnes. We can do it. We’ll do it fast. You’ll like it. A quick slash. We have to go deep. In the neck.
She tightened her hug, and he responded by dropping his right hand around the curve of her left buttock.
It’s okay. We can do it together. Just stay with me. I want you to see it this time. How easy it is. You’ll love the feeling. The power.
She brought her left hand to his right cheek and stroked his jaw. He dropped his left hand onto her butt and pulled her abdomen tight against his.
She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head to the side. Hard. She hesitated. Her mind flashedon the doctor shows. The initial incision.
It’s okay. I’ll do it.
The knife blade flashed in the sun as it dug into Roger’s neck.
CHAPTER 18
Agnes turned her head right, then left. It was happening again—the time jumps, the immediate changes in scenery, like she was transported in some small-scale time machine. The missing memories weren’t the disturbing part. It was the unsettled feeling that something bad had just happened, a hollow sensation of missing time, like with her missing years. And there it was: the connection with the past, the common denominator. It all centered on Lilin.
Agnes looked down, past the steering wheel. She still wore the baggy pants and cinched belt, but on top she had a Sonoma State University sweatshirt. Roger’s sweatshirt. She remembered getting him to pull his car over. This car. She remembered pulling close to him, hugging him. And then there was Lilin.
Her eyes jumped to the road. It was familiar. She was on the way to Mendocino. In Roger’s car. In his sweatshirt. The road went blurry as the first tears fell on her cheeks. Roger seemed like a nice young man. His future was bright. Was? Was there any chance he was still alive, walking that country road, the back way to Cotati and his university?
He was a man. He proved it. He got what he deserved.
Agnes tried to shake the voice from her head, but it just made more tears fall. There was no way around it. She’d participated in the trap. Now she was driving a stolen car. Of a dead man. He was dead, wasn’t he?
Oh yeah. He’s dead. Look at your shoe.
Agnes bent her head over and looked around the steering wheel. On the toe of her right shoe was a starburst spatter of blood, halfway from crimson to brown. She stiffened in the seat and tried to stifle the hitches of sobs.
We did it. Together. We make a great team.
Agnes wiped her cheeks, but the tears didn’t let up. The familiarity of the road and the comfort of the destination—home—didn’t soothe as it should have. And home wasn’t even home anymore. Her house had been rented soon after she’d gone into Imola. Jason was taking care of it.
Jason. She wanted to see him. She needed him, now more than ever. He must be looking for her. Would he go to Mendocino?
She wanted to turn around and go back to Santa Rosa—to find him. He could straighten this all out. He had connections.
No. We go to Mendocino. We need money. The college boy only had twelve dollars. And the other man had forty.
The other man? What other man?
Your pants. Where did you think you got the pants? He was the right height, but way overweight. And he only had forty dollars.
The tires chattered on the shoulder of the h
ighway, and Agnes had to wrestle the steering wheel to correct the car’s course back to the center of the lane. The pants. The sweatshirt. The car. All from dead men. How many lay behind them? How many ahead?
Three. And it depends. Now keep driving. We know where Gert and Ella hid their money. We have to get it.
Someone lives in the house. And the police are probably watching it.
We need money. Keep driving.
The afternoon sun was setting the Pacific ablaze with reflective ripples when the Volkswagen turned away from the ocean and onto Reese Drive. Long shadows of the car drifted along the sidewalk as it inched past the old Victorian house. Lights were not yet on, no cars inthe driveway. And there were no cars anywhere along the street that would signal a stakeout.
Up ahead. Pull onto that road. Go up about a hundred yards and stop. We can watch from the vacant lot.
Agnes turned and parked. The tears started again, and she had trouble lifting her legs out of the driver’s seat. It felt like she wore ankle weights. She stumbled and nearly went over on the uneven ground.
Just short of the side fence, she went into a crouch, then to hands and knees. At the front corner of the house several large shrubs gave good shelter with a clear view of the street and driveway. She crawled under a huge hydrangea and pulled off a few low branches to hollow out an observation post.
There he goes.
Agnes craned her neck around the house corner and pulled a branch below her visual field. A white Ford cruised past. The familiar features of Officer Steven Wilson brought back memories of the days leading up to her arrest. She didn’t have a watch, but she could estimate the time by the angle of the sun. It was off the horizon by no more than the height of the trees across the road.
The Ford pulled over and stopped. A blue Nissan came up the street and slowed as it turned in to the driveway. Agnes counted two people in the car. The driver waved in the direction of the white Ford. The Nissan continued on the driveway and disappeared. After a minute or two, lights went on inside the house.
A couple. No kids. Kids are problems. We can’t hurt kids.
Agnes flinched at the shred of morality from someone who took both emotional and physical pleasure in killing then mutilating men. But the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. Kids wouldn’t hurt kids. Not like that anyway.
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