Darkness Rising (The East Salem Trilogy)

by Lis Wiehl

  “I just can’t get warm today,” she said. “Did playing in cold weather ever bother you?”

  “I never noticed,” Tommy said. “If you keep your body temperature up on the sidelines by jumping around or riding a stationary bike, it cancels out the cold. It’s like jumping out of a sauna into a frozen lake.”

  “You’ve done that?”

  “Even better—I’m a member of the 300 Club.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a sauna at McMurdo Station, Antarctica, where the research scientists set the sauna 300 degrees higher than whatever it is outside. So if it’s 83 below, they set the sauna to 217, and then once you’re so hot you can’t stand it, you run out from the sauna around a flagpole fifty yards away and then back into the sauna. If you make it, you’re a member of the 300 Club.”

  “What if you don’t?”

  “You freeze to death.”

  “Who says scientists don’t have any fun?”

  “So far everybody’s made it. The cold is very motivating.”

  “When were you in Antarctica?”

  “A couple years ago.”

  She saw that her question had made Tommy uncomfortable.

  “Look—I went with Cassandra,” he said.

  Now Dani felt uncomfortable. She trusted Tommy’s affections completely, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed hearing about Cassandra.

  “Why did you go to Antarctica?”

  “I’d promised I’d take her someplace she’d never been before,” he said. “Which wasn’t easy. She’d already been to St. Tropez and Thailand and all the usual places celebrities go when they want to pretend they don’t want to be recognized.”

  “Is she a member of the 300 Club?”

  “Dani, I’m okay talking about this if you really want to, but I’m sorry if it makes you feel as weird as it makes me feel. The past has passed.”

  “Agreed,” she said, smiling and taking his hand. “In which case, you won’t mind me telling you that I’m driving down to Columbia tomorrow to see Quinn McKellen. He’s delivering a paper at a conference, and I think he might be able to help us figure some of this out.”

  Tommy squeezed her hand, then leaned back in his chair. A distancing gesture, Dani thought, something suspects did as a kind of unconscious admission of guilt. A sign that tells trained interrogators they’re on the right track.

  “He lives in the city now?”

  “I don’t know where he lives,” Dani said. “I just sent him a text that I’d be coming and hoped we could have coffee, and he texted back suggesting we have lunch.”

  “Why do you want to talk to him? I just mean, how do you think he can help us?”

  “He understands brain chemistry better than anyone I know,” Dani said.

  “Probably because his own brain is so gigantic,” Tommy said. He didn’t intend to sound defensive and hoped his comment would pass for humor, but Dani wasn’t laughing. To his relief, the waitress appeared then with their dinner.

  “Are you going to tell him the whole story?” Tommy said after the waitress had left them alone.

  “Oh no, no, no,” Dani said. “If you think I’m a skeptic, I’m nothing compared to Quinn. Sometimes I think that what makes him a brilliant scientist is the same thing that makes him a less-than-brilliant human being.”

  “You can be both, you know,” Tommy said. “You can have questions and be a believer too.”

  “I know. I just want Quinn to tell me what was going on in Amos Kasden’s skull.” Her phone chirped. She made a face that said, It’s always something and reached into her coat pocket.

  Tommy couldn’t resist peeking at her phone, trying to read the text upside down. Dani had never said much about her relationship with Quinn McKellen, other than that he was a nice guy who was very smart but . . . what was the word she used? Hopeless. The fact that she said so little about him made Tommy wonder if there was still something between them she wasn’t telling him.

  “This is interesting,” she said, showing Tommy the message.

  WERE YOU INVESTIGATING THE MURDER MY FRIEND AMOS COMMITTED?

  “Who do you think it is?” Tommy said.

  “Number’s blocked. What should I say?”

  “Say yes. Ask him who he is. Or who she is. I didn’t think Amos had any friends.”

  Tommy moved around to the other side of the table so that he could read the conversation. Dani typed quickly.

  YES. WHO R U?

  NOBODY.

  DO YOU HAVE A NAME?

  NO.

  HOW DID U KNOW AMOS?

  I’M A STUDENT AT ST. ADRIAN.

  “Wow,” Tommy said. “This is good. Ask him what he knows about Amos.”

  “If I push, he may bolt,” Dani said. “Trust me.”

  “I trust you.”

  DO U LIKE IT THERE?

  NO.

  Y NOT?

  STUFF.

  DID AMOS LIKE IT THERE?

  YES.

  HOW DID U KNOW HIM?

  STUDY GROUP.

  WHAT WERE U STUDYING?

  NO.

  NO WHAT?

  WE WEREN’T STUDYING ANYTHING. THEY WERE STUDYING US.

  WHO IS THEY?

  IT WAS A TEST.

  OF WHAT?

  4 PSYCH DEPT.

  WHAT WERE THEY TESTING?

  DRUGS.

  WHERE ARE U?

  STARBUCKS.

  STARBUCKS WHERE?

  Tommy was already handing the waitress a fistful of money as he pulled Dani’s chair out. He led her to the door as she kept an eye on her phone. They got in his car and he started it up, looking to her to tell him where to go.

  RIDGEFIELD.

  “Main Street. Across from Stop & Shop,” Dani said as Tommy backed out quickly and then punched the gas.

  WHAT KIND OF DRUGS?

  DON’T KNOW.

  WHAT WERE THEY SUPPOSED TO DO?

  MAKE U FEEL BETTER.

  DID THEY?

  DID THEY WHAT?

  MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER?

  DON’T KNOW. DIDN’T TAKE THEM.

  Y?

  I ALREADY FELT BETTER.

  THAT’S GOOD.

  I PRETENDED 2 TAKE THEM.

  “I think we may have a spy from the school,” Dani told Tommy.

  “What do you mean? What’s he saying?”

  “He was part of a test group. The psychology department was testing a drug on some students, but he refused to take it. He pretended to take it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Hang on.”

  Y?

  BECAUSE I WOULD GET IN TROUBLE IF THEY KNEW I DIDN’T TAKE THEM. WHAT KIND OF TROUBLE?

  BIG :(

  Tommy sped up to beat a yellow light, and the car bounced hard as it went over a speed bump.

  DID AMOS TAKE THE DRUG?

  YES.

  HOW MANY OF U?

  10.

  DID ANYBODY ELSE NOT TAKE THE DRUG?

  DOUBT IT.

  DID IT MAKE THEM FEEL BETTER?

  I GUESS.

  DID IT MAKE AMOS FEEL BETTER?

  APPARENTLY NOT.

  DO U KNOW Y HE KILLED JULIE?

  NO.

  DID HE TALK ABOUT IT?

  NOT WITH ME.

  WITH ANYBODY ELSE?

  DON’T THINK SO.

  CAN I BUY U A COFFEE?

  NO.

  PLEASE. I CAN HELP U.

  NO.

  OK.

  “He desperately wants to tell us something,” Dani told Tommy. “Why else would he contact me?”

  “I thought your number wasn’t listed.”

  “I gave it to Ghieri when we interviewed Amos,” Dani said. “Maybe Amos got it from Ghieri’s computer, and whoever this is got it from Amos.”

  “Maybe Ghieri is actually the person texting you,” Tommy said.

  “I don’t think so,” Dani said. “Don’t ask me why. This is real. This kid wants to blow the whistle.”

  DID U SAVE THE PI
LLS?

  YES.

  DO U STILL HAVE THEM? Then, “Oh, nuts!” Dani yelled as she slapped the dash of Tommy’s car.

  “What! What!”

  “No service. I hope he doesn’t think I cut him off.”

  “This area is always a dead zone,” Tommy said, still speeding through downtown Ridgefield. “Your texts will go through as soon as we get closer to town. Hang on. Almost there. And don’t hit my car.”

  At the bottom of the hill he turned right into the Starbucks lot and parked around the side, where customers wouldn’t see them.

  “Wait outside and keep texting him,” Tommy said. “I’ll see if I can spot him. He might recognize you.”

  “Recognize me?” Dani said. “Tommy—people recognize you everywhere you go around here. People recognize you in China.”

  “Tell you what—I’ll go in the back door and you stand out front. If he recognizes me, he’ll run toward you.”

  “Just order a cup of coffee and sit down,” Dani said. “Keep it simple. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  “Excellent,” Tommy said. “I’ll order a coffee and sit down, and you join me in a minute.”

  U STILL THERE? she texted. She waited for a response, then shook her phone, as if jarring it would summon a response.

  While Tommy waited in line for coffee, he discreetly scanned the crowd as he put his phone on vibrate. A poster on a bulletin board by the door listed a support group for families still dealing with the Julie Leonard murder. Next to it was a small photograph of Julie above the words WE MISS YOU!

  During the day the place was generally full of female real estate agents and retired bankers reading the Wall Street Journal and young moms having coffee while their kids ran amok. At night it was a teen hangout. Tommy had hoped to spot one sending text messages. That was simple. All of them were sending text messages, poking at their handheld phones with their thumbs without speaking or even looking at each other. A kid could spontaneously combust in the middle of the room and none of the others would look up from their smartphones.

  Dani stood in the dark outside the window looking in. There were a dozen boys and twice that many girls, middle schoolers and high schoolers. She knew the parents of three of the girls, including one whose mother would have been shocked to see the skimpy outfit her daughter was wearing. Some kids had their laptops out and were trying to study. Many more had their laptops out to make it look like they were trying to study as they played video games and updated their Facebook pages.

  Tommy’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

  “He stopped texting me,” Dani said. “I’ve got nothing.”

  “I haven’t spotted him. Maybe the kid in the black hoodie?”

  “I’ve seen him before somewhere,” Dani said. “I think he might be a bag boy at Stop & Shop. I’m still outside. Can you see me?”

  “Yes,” Tommy said. “And I don’t want you to freak out, but there’s someone behind you who looks like he wants to talk to you. Just pretend to hang up but don’t—let your screen time out and I can listen in. Say the word . . . elephant and I’ll come running.”

  10.

  The person behind Dani said, “Dr. Harris?”

  She spun around to see Julian Villanegre, the art historian, smiling.

  “So good to see you again,” the white-haired gentleman said warmly. “I know these Starbucks places make a fine cup of coffee, but I came tonight to see what they do to a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?”

  “That would be nice,” she said.

  Villanegre held the door open for her. On their way in they passed Tommy sitting on a stool at the front window counter, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Dani briefly made eye contact while Villanegre found two empty seats. Dani set her phone down on the table, screen side up.

  “This must be my treat. What would you like?”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Dani. “A venti vanilla soy latte.”

  As the Englishman stood in line, Dani again made momentary eye contact with Tommy, who nodded to tell her he could hear the conversation.

  Villanegre returned a few minutes later with their drinks. She thanked him as he took a sip of his tea.

  “Does it measure up?” she asked, thinking that the old man did not, tonight at least, seem as threatening as she’d first thought.

  “It will do just fine,” Villanegre said.

  “Do you have Starbucks in England?”

  “Oh yes. Not quite as ubiquitous as here, though.”

  “Where in England do you live?”

  “Morningside, Hinksey Hill. A little place south of Oxford. It’s been in the family awhile.”

  “I’m picturing a castle with a moat.”

  “Well, you’re right about the castle, but we had to fill in the moat when we started getting water in the basement. That’s the problem with moats.”

  “I’ll remember that the next time I buy a castle. What do you think of the McMansions of East Salem?”

  “Lovely little town. I like it very much. We’re having the painting scanned in a high-definition digital format, which is a slow, laborious process, so I’m here until that’s completed.” He took another sip of tea. “You said you’re a forensic psychiatrist—tell me more about that. What is it you do day to day?”

  “I work with the district attorney,” Dani said. “When there’s a suspect or a witness whose mental state may be called into question during a criminal proceeding, they need an expert who can evaluate that individual and speak with authority in court.”

  “So when someone declares innocence by reason of insanity, are you the one who determines if they’re insane?”

  “No. The jury or the judge decides that, but I testify on behalf of the prosecution. The defense calls their own expert witnesses.”

  “I have to wonder where one draws the line. Can a person who intentionally kills another human being ever be considered wholly sane? Are you insane if you chop the body up into little pieces, but sane if you don’t? What distinctions can possibly be made?”

  “There’s a lot of work being done on that,” Dani said. “But you’re right. I wonder all the time about where we draw the line.”

  “I find this fascinating,” Villanegre said. “I hope that doesn’t make me seem ghoulish. Though working with a painting like The Garden of Earthly Delights could make anybody a bit ghoulish, I suppose. Now tell me—as a forensic psychiatrist, suppose you had a man in jail, and your district attorney showed you The Garden of Earthly Delights and told you the man in jail painted it. Could you make a determination as to whether or not that man was insane?”

  “Well,” Dani said, considering again the very question she’d asked herself the night she and Tommy had attended the exhibition, “I would ask how the painting might express his interior landscape.”

  “And?”

  “I’d note that the artist pays considerable attention to detail in a way that suggests a mentality on the lookout for things it’s afraid of. Constantly searching or sweeping the spectrum of experience, like a police scanner or an early-warning system, hoping to spot the smallest clues or the hidden signs of things that threaten him. That suggests a paranoid or obsessivecompulsive personality, as opposed to the kind that doesn’t want to see and looks away, eyes closed, head in the sand, the way a hysterical personality might cope.”

  “Intriguing. What else?”

  “If I were a Freudian, I might want to look for divisions between id, ego, and superego,” she said. “The trios in the center panel where one figure has authority over the other two might be interpreted as the superego struggling for control over the more dangerous male id and the more vulnerable female ego.”

  “But you’re not a Freudian?”

  “I think his work was groundbreaking, but as a clinician I’m not sure I’d call myself a Freudian. There’s been a lot of excellent work done since then.”

  “I knew his grandson, Clement Freud,” Villanegre said. “Terribly quick wit. He was on a game sho
w in Britain, and when a fellow panelist asked him why he was so fat, he said, ‘It’s because every time I sleep with your wife, she gives me a biscuit.’ What do you think Clement’s grandfather would have said about Bosch’s hellish dreamscape in the right-hand panel?”

  “I think I’d be more interested in what Jung would have to say about the archetypal symbology and the integrated opposites. You called them ‘hybrids’ in your lecture.”

  “Indeed I did. So you think Jerry Bosch was a madman? Hieronymus is the Middle Dutch form of Jerome.”

  “You’re more the expert here than I am. Do you think he was?”

  “By today’s standards?”

  Dani nodded.

  “Oh, quite,” Villanegre said, chuckling. “Quite so. But I think he fell under someone’s sway. Someone truly evil. Like your infamous California madman, Charles Manson. Were his followers insane when they carried out his orders to commit murder? The man who gave the orders surely was. Can you be insane by proxy?”

  “Another good question,” Dani said. “You have a gift for asking them.”

  His questions reminded her that she and Tommy had concluded Amos Kasden acted alone, but at the behest or under the guidance of someone else. Who? was one of the central questions they were trying to answer. One of the girls who’d been at the “passage party” the night Julie was killed had asked Dani, “Would it be possible for someone to give you a posthypnotic suggestion that could make you kill someone?”

  Dani had said no, it wasn’t possible. The girl had been convinced, but Dani was not.

  “And you have a knack for dodging them,” Villanegre said. “I asked you if you thought someone could be insane by proxy.”

  “Not insane by proxy, but evil by proxy,” she said. “Evil can be taught. Insanity is more organic.”

  “Have you taught, Dr. Harris? If you haven’t, you should. I wasn’t very good at it at first. I’d ask my students a question, and when they didn’t answer, I’d answer it for them. But I learned to wait them out. That’s how I met Udo Bauer, you know. He was my pupil at Oxford. After he’d finished at St. Adrian’s.”

  “Was he a good student?”

  “He was. Surprising, considering his family had so much money that he didn’t have to apply himself. I think he concentrated on art history because of his family’s collection.”