The Ashes (The Rebecca Underhill Trilogy Book 2)

by Vincent Zandri

  “My dear God,” Sam mumbles, now planting both his booted feet flat onto the floor.

  “At the same time,” Friedlander goes on, “Skinner undressed one of the dead assistants, then dressed himself in the clothing. Now in possession of the man’s face, he put it on like a rubber mask and simply walked away.”

  “No one tried to stop him,” Sam questions.

  “I wish I could tell you someone took notice of him. But they didn’t. He faded into the woodwork so to speak.”

  “But Skinner is a bloodthirsty murderer,” I say. “A cannibal. He should have been chained to a cell.”

  “I agree, Rebecca,” Friedlander says. “But the people who make policy in the federal government see it differently. People like Hanover are now treated as patients in a rehabilitative facility like Mid-Hudson, which is severely understaffed when it comes to actual corrections officers. No more guns, no more pepper spray, no more defensive tools for the staff. Such things are said to violate the rights of the patient.”

  “Rights,” Sam says under his breath. “What the hell is wrong with the system? You’re not going to rehabilitate these people. Why not just lock them up and toss away the key and get it over with already?”

  Friedlander locks his hands together at the knuckles.

  “In a facility like Mid-Hudson, Sam,” he says, “we get three types of patients. People who commit terrible crimes but who aren’t found guilty by reason of insanity. People who are currently undergoing court-appointed psychiatric evaluation to determine whether or not they are mentally fit to stand trial, which is ironic since this place will challenge the sanity of even the most well-adjusted person. The last group are inmates who are already incarcerated at other psychiatric centers or maximum security prisons, but who are determined far too dangerous to stay. Lawrence Frederick Hanover fit the bill for this last category as too dangerous to stay at Green Haven once Whalen, his bedrock, was released back into society.”

  “I need to ask you one more question, Dr. Friedlander,” I say. “And I hope you can answer it. Do you know if it’s possible, Hanover . . . Skinner could have made his way back upstate to a property that once belonged to the Whalen family?”

  He releases his knuckle-locked hands, sits up straight in his chair, presses his palms flat onto his desk.

  “As you might have already guessed,” he says, “I’m not at liberty, legally or ethically, to speak openly about another patient. Even if he has escaped or, in the case of Mid-Hudson, committed an unlawful checkout.” The doctor looks one way and then the other as if there’s a hidden closed circuit camera operating in one of the office’s corners. “But I can tell you this. Hanover . . . this man you and I both know as Skinner . . . was obsessed with Joseph Whalen. He was also obsessed with Whalen’s so-called adopted daughters. So yes, I think there is a decent, if not probable, chance that he might have headed that way and somehow, has managed to find a way to elude law enforcement officials in the process.”

  “I’ve spoken to the police on several occasions since Whalen’s death,” I say. “They never once warned me about Skinner.”

  Friedlander holds up his hands, cocks his head. “It’s not up to me to guess the motivations of the police. Why they would keep news of Hanover a secret. But if I had to guess, it’s so as not to alarm the public.”

  “Why haven’t we heard about any of this shit on the news, Doc?” Sam says.

  “Because one, the Office of Mental Health Services rarely makes public the escape of its patients. And trust me, there are many more breaches than one might think. This is in part a public relations decision and a matter of security since the office does not wish to panic the general public. They are well aware of how a hungry media can shape a story like Hanover’s into a public frenzy.”

  “But that can’t mean the police aren’t aware of Skinner’s escape,” I say.

  “Indeed, an APB along with a general notification was issued immediately. State and local police from New York City all the way up to Plattsburgh and points in between have their radar out. But thus far, no one has much of a clue where he is or if he’s even alive.”

  Outside the office, the screaming has stopped. But that doesn’t mean the horror has. The floor feels as if it’s about to drop right out from under my feet. I only managed to put down a cup of coffee and a piece of dry toast for breakfast, but it’s coming back up on me.

  I say, “You mentioned Whalen’s adopted daughters. An obsession with them. What exactly were the names of these adopted daughters?”

  “Rebecca, don’t,” Sam says, standing up. “This is all too much. Let’s just get the hell out of here and go to the police.”

  “I need to know, Sam,” I insist. My eyes focused on the doctor. “The names please.”

  “Molly and Rebecca,” he exhales. “Molly and Rebecca Underhill.”

  I’m going to be sick.

  It’s not necessary for me to tell Dr. Friedlander I need to find a bathroom urgently. He reads the distress on my face loud and clear. He senses the nausea as if I’m wearing it like a mask. He comes around his desk, takes hold of my arm. I’m escorted back out into the corridor where Jim takes over, leading me to the ladies’ room. As soon as I’m through the door, I sprint into a stall, bend over, and vomit everything in my system.

  Slowly, achingly, I stand upright inside the stall and breathe. Wiping tears from my eyes with the backs of my hands, I peer into the toilet. I’m alarmed to see spots of blood. My hand pressed against my stomach, I reach for the lever and flush.

  What the hell is happening to me? My insides?

  I step out of the stall, go to the sink, turn on the water, let it run for a moment. Cupping my hands under the flow, I splash the cool water onto my face. I open my eyes, stare into the mirror. I see her then, standing off to the side. Molly.

  My Molly.

  “Is this how it started with you, Mol?” I say.

  You mean like pains in the stomach? Nasty blood inside the porcelain God? We’re all full of disgusting goop, and it just wants to spill out. Well, here’s the deal. You know how important it is to stand by my sis, so it’s important that I level with you. Total fucking recall.

  Her long, sun-streaked brunette hair is braided. She’s wearing her Paul McCartney and Wings T-shirt, as usual, along with her cutoffs and Keds sneakers with the laces untied. Not because it’s comfortable to go around with untied shoes, but because it’s cool. When I look at her, it’s like looking into a mirror. Only, the face I see is decades younger.

  “So level with me,” I press, my face dripping. “I can take it.”

  Can you, Bec? You were always the sensitive one. The creative one who dressed her Barbies to the nines, did up their hair, and proudly displayed them on her bookshelf. I was the one who cut Barbie’s hair into a Mohawk and got my television privileges revoked.

  “I’m guessing I don’t have much of a choice.”

  Well, look at it this way. We share a lot of the same stuff. We’re like two cars that came off the same assembly line, same day, same hour, same minute, same color, same Corinthian leather interior even. One right behind the other. Mirrored reflections of the same body. It comes as no surprise that if my body broke down well before the fifty-thousand-mile, full body and engine warranty check-up, then yours would go soon also.

  The oxygen feels like it's seeping out of my lungs, never to return.

  A knock on the door. “Bec, you all right? Should I call for a doctor?”

  “I’m okay, Sam. I’ll be right out. Just washing up a little.”

  My eyes back on Molly. She’s messing with a wall-mounted hand dryer, trying to press the activation switch. But she’s a ghost, and her hand merely disappears into the block wall.

  “I’ll try and look on the bright side, Mol,” I say. “We’ll be hanging out soon.”

  Hey, don’t give up so easy. You got a little kid to raise. And he’s a good kid. He deserves you. You deserve him.

  “First, I have to get ri
d of this Skinner son of a bitch.”

  That would be wise. He might actually be worse than that freak, Whalen. If such a thing is possible. Amazing, isn’t it? That the cops never warned you about him after his escape last year? Maybe they never thought in a million years he’d approach you or the kids, even if he was Whalen’s lover. Maybe they didn’t want to alarm you unnecessarily. Or fuck, who knows. Maybe you should lawyer up and sue the shit out of the Albany Police Department and the Rensselaer County Sheriff and the State Police and the FBI and who the hell knows who else.

  Another knock on the door. I dip my face under the faucet, fill my mouth with the water, spit it back out into the sink. Turning the faucet off, I forego the hand dryer for the paper towel dispenser, dead trees be damned, dry my face. I toss the used towels into the bin and take one more look in the mirror. Molly is gone. So, what if she’s not real? So, what if her ghost is just a figment of my overstressed imagination? She’s still my twin sister, and I can’t help but feel more alone than ever before in my entire life.

  Opening the door, I step on out. Sam is standing over me. He gently places his hand on my shoulder.

  “Better?” he asks.

  “Can we get out of here, please?” I say. “Date’s over.”

  “Let’s go see the police,” he says.

  “Something we should have done yesterday,” I admit.

  SHTA Jim leads us out of the facility, the same way we entered. Through the lion’s den.

  She’s strapped to a wood chair with gray duct tape. She couldn’t move even if she wanted to. Even her head has been taped in a manner that prohibits all movement. Like the pigs his father would trap inside the homemade metal harness. Unlike the pigs, however, he can’t hear her squeals or screams. The tape that covers her mouth in the shape of an X cancels out all noise.

  Down inside the basement, with only the harsh white light from the single exposed light bulb illuminating her face, The Skinner lays out the tools of his trade onto a small, mobile, stainless steel surgical table. The leather pouch contains numerous instruments for manipulating biological tissue. Several scalpels, graspers, clamps, and retractors. Everything he needs for flaying the skin slowly and with precision. The tools are a far cry from the flaying knife which he utilizes only in situations where time is of the essence.

  She looks up at him with her big blue eyes, tears running down her cheeks. Her tears are enough to make his own eyes fill up. How he always wanted a daughter. How he hungered for a little girl. But in this case, he hungers for something far different. He hungers for skin and for the flesh under the skin. He desires her face. It’s his way of showing unconditional love.

  He gently lifts the first scalpel off the tray, looks up at the light, smiles.

  “Are you watching me, Joseph?” he says. “Are you getting all this?”

  She’s trembling in the chair. Shuddering. Quivering. Her body is undergoing a seismic event over what’s about to happen with that scalpel.

  “Shhhh,” he says, bringing the tip of the blade to the very top of her forehead, where the skin meets the hairline. “Be still. We don’t want to risk damaging such beautiful, supple skin.”

  Ring around the Rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down . . .

  The Skinner cuts.

  On the ride back to Albany, we stop at a roadside diner for what Sam describes as “a quick lunch.” The quick lunch is my idea since I need to catch a breath and get my thoughts together before facing the cops. Sam indulges in a cheeseburger and fries. The man’s appetite knows no bounds, yet somehow his six-pack abs maintain the appearance of having been photo-shopped. Men and their metabolism and my never-ending jealousy. That stuff the politicians and feminists say about the sexes being equal is bullshit.

  I sip on a cup of chicken soup, but even that makes me nauseous.

  Sam looks me in the eye. “I’m tempted to take you straight to the emergency room when we’re done with the cops,” he says. “Seems like you’re always in pain lately. That’s not normal, Bec.”

  In my head, I see the blood in the toilet bowl. I see my sister, Molly . . . Molly on her death bed, her beautiful face so swelled from the treatment, she looks like a total stranger. My identical twin already disappeared before her heart stopped beating.

  “It’s my nerves, Sam,” I say. “Trust me. Some people eat a lot when they’re nervous, or drink a lot. I get stomach aches.” Working up a smile. “Thank your lucky stars you weren’t around me back in art school during finals.”

  He eats some cheeseburger, dips a French fry in the dollop of ketchup he placed on the far edge of his white plate. He points at me with the red-tipped French fry.

  “You better be straight with me,” he says. “You don’t need to protect me from the truth. I’m falling for you no matter what.”

  He eats the French fry.

  “What does falling for me mean exactly, Sam?”

  He wipes his hands with the napkin set in his lap.

  “It means I love you, Rebecca Underhill,” he says. “It means, I . . . love . . . you. And that’s all.”

  ***

  We arrive at the Albany Police Department South Pearl Division headquarters at two-thirty in the afternoon. Since we’re going in totally unannounced, I need to explain myself and the situation to the Guard Sergeant who’s manning the front desk behind a glass window with a round hole in the center. A hole that’s filled with a fancy little device referred to as an electronic voice enhancer. Take it from someone who’s visited this place more times than she cares to admit.

  The middle-aged female officer takes a moment to comprehend the information about Skinner, his relationship to the now deceased Whalen, and the role my son and Molly are also playing in this ordeal.

  “Let me get this straight,” she says. “You believe your life is being threatened at present. That this Skinner, as you call him, is stalking you via the cornfield which is located behind your home.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell,” Sam interjects. “My property is right next door to the Underhill property. We share the rental rights and split the income to the cornfield.”

  “Do you also believe your life is being threatened by this Skinner, sir?”

  Sam cocks his head.

  “I’m not scared if that’s what you mean,” he says. “I’m more concerned with Rebecca and her family. Also, Robyn and her daughter. What happens to them, happens to me.”

  Guard Sergeant looks up from the information she’s plugging into her computer. She smiles wryly.

  “Willing to take the bullet, are we?” she says. “True love. You don’t see it enough these days.”

  Her eyes back on me.

  “Ms. Underhill,” she says. “Says here that for a time you were quite the frequent visitor to the APD. Always going on about someone following you, or stalking you.”

  “I’ve gotten over that,” I say, feeling the burn of embarrassment. “This situation couldn’t be more different.”

  A tall man steps into the window frame. He’s setting a pile of paperwork on the counter beside the Guard Sergeant. He’s in plain clothes with a service weapon attached to his belt. An older man. Older than me, anyway, and I’m not getting any younger. He’s also nosy because he can’t help himself by grabbing a sneak peek at Guard Sergeant’s computer screen.

  “Joseph William Whalen,” he says. “Haven’t heard that name in ages. And Lawrence Fredrick Hanover . . . The Skinner. That name, on the other hand, has come up more than I’d like to admit as of late.” He hesitates a moment. Then shifts his gaze to me through the looking glass. “Rebecca Underhill. I know you.”

  “Is David here?” I say. “Detective David Harris?”

  He shakes his head. “David passed away seven months ago, I’m afraid.”

  The news doesn’t hit me hard, but it saddens me. Detective Harris did his best to keep me safe back when Whalen was after me.

  “I know all about Hanover,” the man says. “I can see from th
is report you have some information you want to relay.”

  “That’s right,” Sam says. “More than just information.”

  “Come on back,” he says. “We’ll talk more in my office.”

  Guard Sergeant hits a buzzer, and the door to my right-hand side opens automatically. Sam and I step inside and follow the tall, thin gentlemen across the booking room floor to his office.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he says, going around his desk, taking a seat. “My name is Nick Miller. I’m a homicide detective. Lead homicide detective to be more precise, but I don’t wanna to seem too stuffy.”

  “You earned it,” Sam says. “That means you deserve it.”

  Miller is wiry. In shape for a man in his late fifties or maybe even sixty. He’s also got a full head of buzz cut hair. To be honest, he reminds me a little of a middle-aged Clint Eastwood. The office is small but big enough to contain an old brown leather couch that’s pushed up against the wall perpendicular to his desk. Sam and I are sitting beside one another on the couch.

  The wall directly across from us has an old-fashioned metal filing cabinet pushed up against it, and it supports a bulletin board with several full-color pictures of some pretty bad men and women tacked to it. There’s also a free-standing combination coat and hat rack positioned near the door. If this were the 1950s, Detective Miller’s Fedora would be resting on it.

  “Now, Rebecca,” he says. “Can you relay to me, but with more detail, why you decided to come here today?”

  I inhale a breath. Part of me knows that once I let this particular Pandora out of the box, there will be no putting it back. I suppose that’s a good thing. I don’t have any real proof positive that Skinner is, in fact, after me. But there’s enough evidence in my mind to make my story appear legit in the eyes of a veteran detective like Miller. At least, that’s what I’m banking on. Otherwise, he’ll just think of me as a paranoid nutcase who, after having survived the Whalen abduction, is now afraid of her own shadow.