“Working?”
“My mother was a prostitute.”
She said it without hesitation, as if she’d said something as innocuous as My mother was a grocery store clerk. But there was a faraway look in her eyes. A kind of sadness there that Tolan found both heartbreaking and alluring.
He got up on his elbows then. “And you made up that song about her?”
Abby nodded.
“How old were you?”
“Nine or ten, I guess. But there weren’t any secrets in our house. The details may have been a little vague, but I knew exactly what my mother did for a living.”
Tolan didn’t know what to say.
“By the time I was sixteen,” she continued, “I figured I’d be following in her footsteps. Then one of her Johns left his camera behind and I latched on to it and never let go.”
Tolan kept looking at her, wondering how to ask his next question. Wondering if he should ask it.
Then her faraway look abruptly disappeared. “Would it bother you if I said yes?”
“To what?”
“To the question you’re afraid to ask. Would it bother you?”
She looked so beautiful. So . . . fragile. His gut tightened at the thought of another man touching that flawless skin, kissing those full lips.
“It wouldn’t thrill me,” he said.
Then her eyes clouded and he immediately regretted the words. Although she was still a mystery to him, he felt privileged to be spending time with her. To have her in his bed. And it honestly didn’t matter to him what she might have done in the past. He loved her, unconditionally. Had loved her, he realized, since the moment he walked into her studio, looking only to get a photograph taken for his new book jacket.
“No,” he said quickly. “It wouldn’t bother me at all. Nothing about you could ever bother me.”
If only that had turned out to be true.
“Abby’s song?” Blackburn said. “What the hell are you talking about?”
But Tolan barely heard him. The floor was tilting beneath him and he had to grab on to the computer console to steady himself. This wasn’t happening.
Mama got trouble
Mama got sin
Mama got bills to pay again.
He was hearing things. Had to be. There was no possible way this woman could know that song.
“Doc, what the fuck is going on?”
Tolan glanced through the glass at her, then quickly moved to the seclusion-room door.
“Wait a minute,” Blackburn said.
Tolan ignored him. Punching in the security code, he threw open the door and stepped inside. Her voice was clearer now, no longer distorted by the intercom, and the sound of it knocked his equilibrium even further off-balance.
Daddy got money
Daddy got cars
Mama gonna take him on a trip to Mars.
That was Abby’s voice, all right. No mistake about it.
The room swayed. How was this possible? How?
Tolan staggered over to the bed, wanting to get a look at her again, to see that face, even though he was sure he was hallucinating.
He felt a hand grabbing his shoulder—Blackburn—but he shrugged it off and kept going, moving to the side of the bed.
Jane was hugging herself tightly, rocking gently as she continued to sing.
Mama got trouble
Mom got sin
He grabbed her now, the words dying on her lips as he forced her to turn in his direction. And as her wild hair fell away from her face, he saw those hazel eyes again, Abby’s eyes, staring up at him as they had before. But this time looking directly at him. Full of pain.
But it wasn’t just Abby’s eyes he saw. Those were her cheekbones, too, and maybe even her nose. It was a face that seemed to be at war with itself, as if she were some kind of shapeshifter in the middle of a transformation. The skin undulated, her bone structure subtly changing right there before him.
Oh, my fucking God . . .
Then she said, in a small, plaintive voice, “Why, Michael . . . Why . . . ?”
And the sound of it, the sound of his name, brought tears to his eyes. Filled him with an incongruous mix of joy and bewilderment and horror—
—a horror that deepened when his gaze dropped to the left side of her face.
And what he saw there—or didn’t see—sent him spiraling out of control, certain now that he had indeed lost his mind. He was as much a candidate for admission to this hospital as anyone the police had ever brought through those front doors.
The woman who had Abby’s eyes, Abby’s nose, Abby’s cheekbones, and what would surely soon be Abby’s chin . . .
. . . was missing her left ear.
28
IT WASN’T JUST the room that was swaying now, but the whole goddamn world. Tolan stumbled away from Jane or Abby or whoever the hell she was, and turned, only to find Blackburn staring at him with a quizzical look on his face, saying something to him.
But all Tolan saw was a moving mouth. Heard nothing but the beating of his own heart, an accelerating tha-thump reverberating inside his head.
He had to get out of here. Had to get away from this woman and this cop and this room and this hospital. Had to find some place to be alone for a while, to clear his mind.
He launched himself past Blackburn and through the open door into a corridor filled with staff and patients—a security guard crossing toward him; an orderly escorting an elderly man toward the shower room; a nurse pushing a medicine cart; Bobby Fremont, framed in his windowed doorway, shouting angrily at Tolan as he flew past.
Tolan ignored them all, continuing down the hallway and around the corner until he reached a private access door. Fumbling his key card from his pocket, he quickly beeped himself out.
Then he was outside, sucking in fresh air, taking in gulps of it as if he’d been holding his breath underwater for the last several minutes. But he couldn’t seem to get enough, couldn’t fill his lungs, and he didn’t slow down, kept moving around the side of the building to the main walkway and on toward the staff parking lot.
The thumping in his head had started to subside now, only to be replaced by the sound of the rustling pepper trees, which seemed to be watching him, whispering their disapproval.
Then he was in the lot, found his car, unlocked the door, threw it open. But he didn’t get inside, just stood there a moment, using the doorframe for support, still trying to breathe.
He was, he knew, smack in the middle of a full-born panic attack. He had to relax, talk himself down, to release the toxins that had invaded his mind. But he still couldn’t breathe.
Easy now, a voice said, and he realized it was Abby talking to him. You’re fine, Michael, you’re gonna be fine. Try to slow your breathing, take long deep breaths.
Tolan tried, but he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t seem to get enough air.
Talk, Abby said. Say something. If you can talk, you can breathe.
It was a common technique for dealing with patients suffering a panic attack. Get them talking. But Tolan had never thought it would be used on him.
He said the first thing that came to mind:
“A lie stands on one leg, the truth on two.”
He didn’t know why that phrase had suddenly popped into his head, but there it was.
“A lie stands on one leg, the truth on two.”
He thought about the significance of the words. Had he been living a lie this past year? Was that why he seemed to have lost his balance? Why he was suddenly plagued by these hallucinations?
“A lie stands on one leg, the truth on two.”
The irony, of course, was that Abby had given him the book that contained those words. Poor Richard’s Almanac.
Poor Richard, indeed. Poor Abby.
Poor Michael.
Putting his hands on his stomach, he said the words again, feeling the rhythm of his breathing, each new breath now slower than the last, his panic finally, thankfully, subsiding.
&n
bsp; Feeling foolish and ashamed, he climbed into his car, sank deep into the driver’s seat.
He half expected Lisa or Blackburn or someone with a butterfly net to show up, but several minutes went by and no one did. He was alone out here. Just as he’d wanted to be. Alone with his thoughts, his worries, his dread.
His madness?
He knew he should march right back into that hospital and tell them both what was going on. Tell Blackburn about his missing time, that they needed to look more closely at Abby’s murder, because he couldn’t make any guarantees about his own culpability.
This woman, this Jane Doe, had made him see that. Her resemblance to Abby had opened a Pandora’s box of emotions. Emotions he could no longer contain. And in trying to suppress them this past year, he had developed his own psychosis.
The psychosis of a guilty man?
But he didn’t get up. Didn’t march into the hospital. Didn’t tell anyone about the time he’d lost, or the delusions that plagued him.
Instead, he simply leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes.
But the moment he did, a whispery voice said:
“Hello, Dr. Tolan.”
And before he could react, the sting of a needle touched his neck and he was suddenly falling backward down a long, dark hole.
FOUR
The Man Who Wasn’t There
29
SOLOMON FELT IT the moment they started up the winding road toward Headcase Hotel. It was only a vague feeling at first, but the closer they got, the stronger it grew.
Trouble.
There was trouble here.
A definite break in The Rhythm.
The two cops were talking football in the front seat, the driver every once in a while glancing at Solomon in the rearview mirror, giving him the cop scowl. This was the one who had started to beat on him once they left County General. Told Solomon he’d blown it, the way he’d acted up with the intake lady, calling him a liar and whatnot. Said that once they got to Baycliff he was gonna tell the doctors that Solomon was a violent sex offender. See how that worked out for him.
Solomon didn’t really care.
Not about that, at least.
But this trouble he sensed, this break in The Rhythm—it was worrisome, to say the least.
On the one hand it told him what he’d needed to know. That the woman he called Myra was here.
But on the other hand, it also told him that what he’d most feared this morning might very well be true. That she wasn’t quite the Myra he knew. She might not even be Myra at all by now.
The car rounded a curve and Solomon saw the hospital up ahead, a cluster of drab old buildings that could just as easily have been a college or an old-town office complex. As they pulled into the parking lot, he noticed a small forest of pepper trees beyond the main walkway.
Solomon felt a strange vibe coming from those trees. Like there was something alive back there. Something dangerous.
Trouble.
It was bound to get worse before it got any better.
It always did.
30
TWO MELTDOWNS IN one morning.
That had to be a record.
Tolan was obviously a guy with some very serious psychological issues and Blackburn wished he’d never brought Psycho Bitch here in the first place.
After Tolan fled, Blackburn had turned to her, trying to figure out what it was about this woman that triggered such a strong reaction from the guy. But she had already resumed her previous position—knees up, head tucked to her chest, as she whispered the same mindless chant:
“Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie . . .”
Had she said Tolan’s name earlier?
She’d spoken to him, he knew that much. Said something soft and low, and Blackburn had thought he’d heard her say “Michael.” But he couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t be sure of anything at this point.
“Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie . . .”
Who was this woman?
Did Tolan know her?
What power did she have over him?
After locking her in the room, Blackburn had turned to an orderly crossing the hall.
“You see which way Doc Tolan went?”
The orderly pointed. “Around the corner.”
He was about to start in that direction when his phone bleeped. He dug it out, flipped it open.
De Mello.
He thumbed a button. “Hey, Fred, you get the name of that model yet?”
“Still waiting for a callback,” De Mello said. “But I’ve got the cell phone records you asked for. Where do you want me to fax them?”
Tolan had given them permission to pull his cell records in hopes they’d be able to trace Vincent’s calls. It was a long shot, but they had to try.
Blackburn remembered seeing one of those printer/fax combos in Tolan’s office when the techs were wiring it up. That was as good a place as any. Besides, maybe that was where Tolan had gone.
“Give me a couple minutes,” he said. “I’ll call you back with a number.”
Five minutes later he was standing in Tolan’s office—no sign of the doc in evidence—waiting for the fax machine to kick into gear. After a moment, it rang, picked up, then the printer started whirring, slowly pushing out the list of cell phone calls.
As Blackburn waited, something caught his eye.
Tolan’s bottom desk drawer. Hanging open.
Inside was a manila envelope labeled in black marker: ABBY.
Blackburn knew he should let it go, that it was none of his business, but curiosity got the better of him. Reaching into the drawer, he pulled out the envelope, then raised the flap and saw that it was filled with photographs. Dozens of them.
He took out a handful and sifted through them. Shots of Abby Tolan.
She’d been a beautiful woman. Stunning, in fact. He had only seen the autopsy photos and the single portrait in the murder book, but looking at these, he now understood why both Tolan and Nurse Lisa had reacted to the witness the way they had. The resemblance was close. Close enough to dredge up a lot of grief.
He was about to return them when he noticed something odd about some of the photos inside the envelope. Pulling out another stack, he laid them on the desktop and looked down at them in stunned surprise.
What the hell?
A slow chill ran through Blackburn as the fax machine behind him beeped, telling him his transmission was ready.
HE FOUND CARMODY in the communications van, micromanaging as usual, making sure the audio techs weren’t asleep at the wheel.
“We’ve got problems,” he said. “Major problems.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Tolan took off, for one.”
Carmody looked alarmed. “Why? What happened?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. The witness starts singing and he goes ballistic. One of the nurses saw him crossing toward the parking lot and now his car’s gone.”
“Damn it,” Carmody said, climbing out of the van. “We need to find him. If Vincent somehow—”
“Forget Vincent.” Blackburn gestured to the van. “This is a waste of time. All of it.”
“What are you talking about?”
Blackburn sighed. “You hungry?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well, I shouldn’t be either, but I am, and there’s something I gotta show you. Let’s go get lunch.”
THEY GOT TRAYS in the hospital cafeteria, Blackburn filling his plate with slop that looked barely edible. But he was used to barely edible, so he happily scooped it on and looked forward to hammering it down.
Carmody stuck to fresh greens. No dressing.
Typical.
He could see that she was about ready to burst. Agitated by his delaying tactics. To her credit, however, she kept her impatience in check for once, giving Blackburn some slack.
He knew it wouldn’t last long. But he’d needed a few moments to think about how he was goin
g to frame this. Tell her what he now suspected.
“So here’s the thing,” he said, once they’d settled at a table. “Ever since I brought Psycho Bitch here, I—”
“Who?”
He eyed her patiently. “The witness.”
Carmody gave him that look she was so good at. The one that said he was a politically incorrect, misogynistic idiot. “Psycho Bitch?”
He shrugged. “I call ’em like I see ’em.”
She shook her head, stabbed a bite of salad. “You’re a sad man, Frank. Got the sensitivity of a snail.”
“Yeah? You didn’t seem to mind so much when I spent the night at your apartment.”
Her expression froze. “Don’t even go there.”
Blackburn was about to do just that, and then some, but caught himself. It seemed that whenever he got around Carmody for any extended length of time, he let himself get sucked into some weird vortex where he actually gave a shit what she thought of him. Like he was some pimply-faced teenager trying to get the prom queen to take notice.
He looked at her a moment, noting that she was wearing less makeup these days, and that she still wore those tiny ruby earrings her father had given her when she was fifteen. Her birthstone. He wasn’t sure why he remembered that particular tidbit about her life, but it made him uncomfortable to know that he did.
He cleared his throat. “Right. Back to Tolan.”
“I’m losing my patience.”
As if she ever had any.
“The thing is,” Blackburn said, “once I get hold of something, it’s hard for me to let go. You know that. And I can’t stop thinking about what Psycho—Jane Doe keeps saying.”
“Which is?”
“Two times four is a lie.”
Carmody blinked at him. “What?”
“Two times four is a lie. She says it over and over. At first I thought it was just a buncha nut-case nonsense, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Okay,” Carmody said. “I’m curious. Tell me why I should care.”
Whisper in the Dark (A Thriller) Page 13
