Depth Perception

by Linda Castillo

  ''Tell me you didn't ... " All the oxygen left her lungs in a rush. "God, Travis, tell me you didn't hurt Ward and Kyle."

  His silence was all the answer she needed. Tears of rage and grief welled in her eyes. She choked back the sob that had climbed up her throat. She couldn't believe he could do something so vile. Travis, the gentle doctor. The healer. Her only ally in the Ratcliffe family. A psychopath . . .

  Uncle Travis Mad Danger.

  Suddenly she realized Kyle hadn't come to her to warn her that Travis was in danger but to warn her that Travis was a danger to her.

  "You killed them," she choked.

  He laughed, but it was a maniacal sound with the rain pounding the windows and roof. "He was just like me, Nat."

  ''Who?''

  "Kyle. Your bastard son. The sniveling little asthmatic. Do you think he ever would have Lived up to my father's expectations? Hardly. He would have disappointed all of us. And he would have suffered so much for it. You should be thanking me. I saved him from a life of pain and humiliation."

  The words struck her brain with the violence of a bullet. She couldn't believe he was talking about her son. Her sweet, innocent little boy. The fury and pain that had been festering inside her for so many months took control of her body. With an animalistic scream, she launched herself at him. Her lips peeled back in a snarl. Then her hands were on his face. Her fingernails digging into flesh. Her thumbs searching for eye sockets.

  "How could you?" she screamed. "You coldhearted son of a bitch! I'll kill you!"

  Travis raised his hands to protect himself. She saw the baton flash and tried to duck, but she wasn't fast enough. The wood connected solidly with her cheekbone, hard enough to crack hone. Pain exploded beneath her skin. She reeled backward, streamers of light shooting behind her eyes. Her back hit the closet door. She would have fallen, but she managed to grab the knob and brace herself against the door.

  Blinking back tears of rage, she looked at Travis, felt a hot rise of hatred. "How could you?" She was sobbing, her voice breaking. "A little boy ... Your own nephew'! God, Travis, why? Why?"

  "Because he was like me, Nat. Didn't you see it?"

  She stared at him, confusion and utter disbelief welling inside. "He was nothing like you."

  "He never would have measured up. He was a mirror image of me when I was his age. Chubby and shy. He wore those thick, stupid glasses. He even had asthma. Just like me. Do you know what all the kids say when you can't run and play like the rest of them?"

  "Travis, my God, do you know what you're saying? Do you know how crazy that sounds?"

  "I'm not crazy!" he shouted. "This hasn't been easy for me!"

  Nat stared at him her mind reeling.

  "I don't expect you to understand,” he said. "You have no concept of what it's like." His laugh was a hoarse, bitter sound. "I know it's a sin to kill. But what nobody seems to understand is that what I do is bigger than God. It's bigger than the laws of man."

  She was still leaning against the door. Her cheek throbbed, the pain radiating from her temple to her jaw. It felt like he'd shattered her cheekbone. She could feel her face swelling, the skin getting tight, her jaw stiffening. But watching Travis, she knew the injury to her cheek was

  the least of her worries. He meant to harm her. Kill her, if she let him. She didn't plan on giving him the chance.

  He yanked her bag from her shoulder. Snarling a profanity, he reached inside and withdrew her cell phone. "You won't be needing this." He dropped the phone to the floor and crushed it beneath his heel.

  She glanced from the ruined phone to the baton in his hand. He was holding it so tightly his knuckles were white. She knew it was only a matter of time before he used it again. Before he incapacitated her. Or worse.

  "Put the club down, Travis," she said. "We'll talk about this. Just you and me."

  "Don't play me for stupid, Nat. It's insulting."

  "I'm not--"

  "Shut up! I need to think!" He rapped his fist against his head. "I've worked too hard to let you ruin everything."

  "Travis, you don't want to do this." Realizing she might be able to use the umbrella in the closet as a weapon. she edged closer to the door and slowly twisted the knob. "You have to let me go.”

  "I wish it were that simple,” he said. "Unfortunately for you, it's not."

  Facing him, she eased open the door one centimeter at a time. "What are you going to do with me?"

  "I've got a special place for you, Nat. The same place I took the others."

  The others.

  She could barely absorb the meaning of the words. Sickened by the thought of what this man had done, she closed her eyes, fighting the images prying into her brain. "How many?" she whispered.

  "Counting the one when I was fifteen?" He shrugged. "Six. Spread out over seventeen years. I was very selective. It was a huge responsibility. And I took that responsibility very seriously.”

  Shock and disbelief took turns punching her. How could a man kill six children over a seventeen-year period and not get caught? Her mind voiced the question. but deep inside Nat already knew the answer. Travis Ratcliffe was not only a doctor--he was the parish coroner. He'd performed the autopsies himself.

  “Why? How could you hurt innocent children?"

  "I know it's hard for you to understand," he said. "But, Nat, they had to die. Don't you see? They were inferior. All of them. Eddie Flatter had a terrible speech impediment. Kyle and Brandon Bastille had asthma. Ricky Arnaud had rheumatoid arthritis. Ronnie Wiley was autistic. Do you know what happens to children like that? Do you know how much they suffer when the other kids make fun of them? Call them names? Hurt them? You should be thanking me."

  She thought about Kyle, her beautiful, smart, exuberant son, and a fresh flare of hatred erupted inside her. "You sick bastard."

  "That's me. Travis Ratcliffe, the sick bastard." His smile chilled her to the bone. "It was tough making each death look like an accident. I had to get damn creative to pull it off, you know?" Something she could only describe as evil glinted in his eyes. "I only wanted Kyle that night, Natalie. I lured him from his bedroom to the kitchen by telling him we were going to take a little drive. Children are so trusting. I was seconds away from having him in my car. But Ward carne downstairs with the gun and ruined everything."

  A sob tore from her throat at the thought of this man hurting her son, "I'd wanted to see Ward suffer the pain of losing his son. But it was surprisingly satisfying to put a bullet in him. Then you carne along and just about blew it. I almost killed you, too. Then I realized you'd be a hell of a lot more useful as a suspect. It was common knowledge you and Ward weren't getting along. I'm an expert in forensics. With a little ingenuity, I set up the crime scene." Tsking, he looked at her and shook his head. "If only you'd stayed in that coma."

  Nat stared at him, hatred and disbelief pounding through her. "You took my child from me," she choked. "You had no right."

  "My father gave me the right. Ward and Hunt gave me the right. And they never let me forget I wasn't good enough."

  "You're not making any sense."

  His lips twisted. "You didn't know I was adopted, did you, Nat? Not the sort of thing a man like Elliott Ratcliffe likes to broadcast, I guess."

  "There's nothing wrong with adoption." When the door was open enough for her hand to slip inside, she began to feel along the wall for the handle of the umbrella.

  "There is if you adopt a kid like me." His mouth stretched into an ugly, bitter smile. "But then you know the Ratcliffes, don't you, Nat? You have a pretty good idea what it's like to be an outsider in that family, don't you? Think about what that would have been like for a fat, stupid child like me."

  Nat heard the words, but her mind simply couldn't absorb what he was telling her. Her only thought was that six children had died at the hands of a man who'd taken an oath to heal. A man she'd cared for and respected.

  "Everyone in this town thinks the great Elliott Ratcliffe is a man of God,"
he said. "Some kind of goddamn saint spreading the gospel and protecting all the poor, helpless sheep from their sinful ways. You know what he really is, Nat? A fucking tyrant. A man who terrorized and demoralized. That's why mother left him. He made up the story about her having a lover. She didn't have a lover. She simply couldn't take the abuse anymore. And so she left. And my fate was sealed."

  Nat nearly sobbed with relief when her fingers made purchase with the wooden umbrella handle. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it might buy her some time. If she could get to the phone in the kitchen ... ''Travis, I know Elliott can be a hard man. But he would never hurt his children."

  "Not his children. Just me."

  "No, Ward would have told me."

  "Ward didn't tell you because he was every bit as guilty as his old man." Hatred burned in his eyes. "Let me tell you, they did a hell of a lot more than hurt me."

  "Travis, what are you talking about?"

  "I spent my entire life hearing, 'Why can't you be more like Ward?' Ward the football star. Ward the scholar. Ward the fucking prom king. Ward the minister."

  Nat didn't know whether to believe any of what he was telling her, but she didn't argue. There was no way to reason with someone who'd lost touch with reality. All she could do was try to keep him-talking and hope for an opportunity to escape.

  "What about Hunt?" she asked. "He wasn't as successful as you. He worked at the mill. He drank heavily. He certainly wasn't perfect."

  ''Ah, but Hunt was Father's most virile son. A man's man. Hunt the warrior. Hunt the ass kicker. Elliott would never admit it, but he was secretly pleased with that." His mouth curved. "And then there was me."

  “But you're successful;. A doctor--"

  "Do you think that mattered to him?" he shouted abruptly.

  "All Elliott Ratcliffe ever saw was the fat, stupid boy he'd adopted. I didn't even know I was adopted until I heard them arguing one night. Elliott actually wanted to nullify the adoption and send me back to the agency." He threw his head back and laughed. "Of course, that was after I'd started the fire in the church." His eyes blazed with insanity when he looked at her. "Do you know what he did to me for that?"

  Nat vaguely remembered the incident. She'd been in grade school at the time. There'd been a fire at the church. No one had been hurt, but there'd been some minor damage. She'd beard later that Travis Ratcliffe had been playing with matches. "It was an accident."

  "It was no accident, Nat. For God's sake get a clue. None of the fires were accidental." He raked his hand through his hair. "He put me in the storage room at the church to punish me. A tiny room with no windows. He beat me with this." Lips peeling back, he slapped the baton against his palm. "Then he shoved me inside and locked the door. He told me I needed time to think about what I'd done and ask God for forgiveness. I was only twelve years old. I begged him not to. I was afraid of the dark, and he knew it, so he unscrewed the bulb and took it with him. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

  She stared at him, keenly aware of the baton in his hand and that he had begun to shake. She sensed he was on some steep precipice and about to slide. "I'm sorry--"

  "It was pitch black in that room. I couldn't even see my hand in front of my face. r could hear things scurrying around, cockroaches and rats. I was so fucking terrified, I soiled my pants." He fell silent, his face twisted into a mask of pain, as if he were twelve years old and reliving that terrible moment all over again.

  "He left me in there for three hours. When he finally opened the door and realized what I'd done, he had Ward and Hunt drag me to the backyard, strip off my clothes, and hose me down like I was some kind of dirty animal.

  "Ward and Hunt were just as bad as Elliott. They never let me forget what happened that day. They laughed at me. Made fun of me because I'd soiled my pants. Do you have any idea

  what that does to a kid?" His eyes hardened, blazed. "My own father couldn't stand the sight of me. I'd embarrassed him."

  "You were just a kid ..."

  ''That didn't matter," he spat.

  She waited, her fingers wrapped around the wood base of the umbrella, and watched his eyes glaze.

  "After that, except for some teasing, Ward and Hunter left me alone. I had asthma and couldn't play with other kids, so I turned inward. I started reading a lot. Eating a lot. Gaining weight.

  "But I had friends, Nat." Smiling, he tapped on his head. "Only they were up here. And every time my old man put me in that room, my friends came out to play. After a while, I wasn't even scared anymore. I liked going into that room by myself."

  ''Travis, I can't imagine Ward not trying to help you."

  "You think that husband of yours was such a saint," he hissed. "Do you want me to tell you about Ward the Saint? Do you want me to tell you what he did?"

  Nat didn't want to hear more. All she wanted was to get away from him. Away from the terrible things he was saying. But he was blocking her way to the kitchen. She gripped the umbrella and waited for an opportunity to rush him.

  "I got put in that storage room a lot. You see, I'd realized I liked to set fires. I burned the shed in the backyard. The cabana by the pool. The gazebo in the garden. Every time I got put in the storage room. Every time my friends came out to play. When I was fourteen. I set the kitchen on fire. Elliott put me in the storage room, and I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew Hunt and Ward came in. They didn't turn on the light and started making fun of me. Ordering me around. Pushing me. Hitting me. Calling me names. Fatso. Queer. And then it was like someone flipped a switch. Something happened to them. They got really mean. Looking back, I know it has something to do with that primal, pack mentality." His voice broke, his words trailing. "They told me to take off my clothes. When I said no, they started punching me, mostly in the gut, because they never messed up my face.

  “When I couldn't take any more, I took off my clothes. Then things got really bad because they . . . they made me . . ." He made a choking sound, squeezed his eyes closed for an instant. ''They did unspeakable things. They made me do things to them. Vile, nasty things. They told me I was fat and stupid and I deserved it. They called me a fat, little sow."

  Nat stared at him, her heart pounding. She gripped the umbrella handle, but her palm was slick with sweat.

  ''There was a hand broom in the closet, and Ward the saint, the minister, your perfect fucking husband ... " His voice broke. "He sodomized me with that broom," he whispered. "He stuck it in me and made me want to die. Then they laughed at me. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

  "Travis," she said, struggling to keep her voice level, "It's not too late to stop this. I'll help you. Just let me go."

  "I don't want to go to prison, Nat,"

  "You were abused as a child. Psychologically. Physically. Your brothers sexually assaulted--"

  "Shut up about that!" Spittle flew from his lips as he snarled the words. "Don't say it! Don't ever bring that up!"

  She measured the distance between them, wondering if she could slam the umbrella into his temple and run past him before he hit her with the baton. ''Those are extenuating circumstances, Travis." Knowing this could very well be her only chance to talk him down, she laid it on thick. "You were just a boy. The police and the courts will take that into consideration. They'll make sure you get the help you need. Counseling. Medication. They'll see to it that Elliott Ratcliffe is punished."

  "No one will understand, Nat. If the police find out what I've done, I'll never see the light of day We both know that."

  "Travis, you have to let me go. Alcee is expecting me at the police station."

  ''The only person expecting you is Bastille, and nobody in this town gives a shit about him."

  "I care." She glanced at the baton, saw his fingers flex. ''And I care about you, too."

  He looked at her as if the words had startled him. "You're lying. You don't give a damn about me."

  "That's not true. Think about all the years we've known each other. You were kind t
o me. The brother I never had." She held his gaze, but it was difficult with her mind scrambling wildly for just the right thing to say. "It's not too late to fix things."

  He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, his eyes filling. "You'd help me even after everything I've done?"

  Seeing the opportunity she'd been waiting for, Nat jerked the umbrella from the closet. Swinging it like a bat, she slammed the handle against his forehead. His hands flew up to protect himself, but he was already reeling backward.

  The force of the impact knocked the umbrella from her hand. Knowing she only had an instant to escape, she bolted past him and tore around the stairway.

  "Bitch! I'm going to make you pay for that!"

  She hit the dining room at full speed, made a hard left, barely missing the table. Behind her, she heard his footfalls pounding the floor. She saw movement in her peripheral vision. Air whooshed as he swung the baton and missed. Too close, she thought, and dove for the phone on the counter.

  Before she could punch in the numbers, pain exploded the right side of her head. The violence of the blow snapped her head to the side. White light flashed in front of her eyes. The phone clattered to the floor. Then she was falling into space.

  The counter crashed into her chest as she went down. Her knees hit the floor. Then she was lying on her side, the tile cold against her cheek. This is what it feels like to die, she thought. She saw blood on the floor and realized her nose was bleeding. It was on her hands. Dark and sticky between her fingers. Dizziness assailed her. The room began to spin as if she were being sucked into a vortex. Not from the blow, she realized, but her son . . .

  Kyle?

  The words inside her head were disjointed and rushed. She sensed his fear, knew it was being augmented by her own. Vaguely, she was aware of her finger moving over the tile. Red letters written in blood on the floor.

  And then the world faded to black.