“Doctor Soames, I need to ask you something. Please don’t take it personally, but I insist you be as honest as possible.”
“Of course.” Quick distraction in his gaze behind her again, then, “I’ll do my best.”
“Had Mister Cowles been informed of any details about my patient, any form of treatment he may be undergoing prior to my arrival?”
Soames leaned back, not as startled as she’d expected he would be by the question. The folder in his hand stopped its constant tapping against the desk. He looked down at it, shook his head, then looked her in the eyes when he spoke.
“Not that I know of. You only explained what you were doing with Corey Union yesterday. I’ve told no one else. I have not seen Mister Cowles since then, save a quick glimpse through the door as you entered.” He tapped the folder twice and smiled. “That was enough for me, thank you.”
“You’re not his attending?”
A raised eyebrow. “On the contrary, access to the patient is limited to Martin, the other orderlies in that wing, and myself.” He shrugged, gestured in her direction with the fingers of his free hand. “There are exceptions, always are, but I promise you, Doctor, I have not had a word with him since our conversation. To my knowledge, no one else who might be familiar with your… experiment.. has either.”
Experiment. It was as good a term as any. When she’d proposed the idea to Jim Chen last month, she’d referred to it as radical therapy. In the end, same thing.
“Could Martin have known?”
Soames shook his head. He leaned forward. “Cowles is a sharp cookie, Vanessa. Obvious signs of megalomania, delusions of grandeur. A strong sense of power.” He leaned back and opened a drawer in the desk. “All the same thing, really. With an added possibility of schizophrenia, localized as the delusion of his dog,” another quick glance behind her, then a blink, “but very, very clever.”
He slipped the folder—shoved it, actually—inside the drawer. “Very clever, and dangerous because of it.” The drawer slammed.
She watched him for a moment, unconvinced that anyone was clever enough to know so much from just a few words. He had to have inside information. She had one other theory, which troubled her simply because she hadn’t completely ruled it out. She touched two fingers to her temple. “He has a way of getting in here.”
When Soames glanced behind her again, she turned around. Closed office door, green-stained brass umbrella stand, currently empty, a few magazines stacked on the floor under a table. “What’s back there that’s so interesting, John?”
Soames didn’t answer. Vanessa turned around and settled back in her chair. Soames’ face was pale; he was licking his lips. Was he heading for a burn-out? Happened a lot in their profession. “Nothing. Just… just have a hard time keeping eye contact sometimes.” His smile was disarming, dishonest as it was. She let it slide, tried to bring the subject back on track by tapping her temple again. “About this. Talking with Cowles, he knew a lot about me and my work. Appeared to, at least. More than he should have without someone providing him with information.”
Soames was fighting the urge to look away again. He folded his hands against his stomach. “I’ll wager he said nothing specific. No names, no concrete details?”
She stared at her lap, tried to replay the conversation. “No. Nothing specific. It felt like he was phishing, I’ll grant you that much. Just…” She shrugged. What could she say without giving away what she really wanted to ask. That Cowles had been phishing for things he appeared to already know?
Soames nodded. “Phishing. An interesting new word, that. Fits with his pattern. The patient knows how to manipulate a conversation. No different than how professional psychics work. Feeding generalities to the customer, getting specifics in return only to spit these back into their astonished faces.”
Vanessa folded her own arms across her chest, tried to look skeptical.
“You don’t believe in psychics, I assume?”
He shook his head, laughed. “No. Absolutely, no.”
“People can’t read minds, then?”
“People can infer a great deal from one another, some better than others. A few of my patients and many successful psychiatrists exhibit a strong sense of empathy. It’s how you and I do our jobs, reading another’s feelings. But mind-reading in the popular sense? That’s a load of crap, if you’ll pardon the language.”
Vanessa smiled. He was a sweet man. She found herself looking at his folded hands. A dull gold band on one finger. Edge of a photo frame posing from behind the stack of folders.
“I’ve said worse,” she said. “But to keep on the topic for a moment longer. What about the opposite? A man like Cowles, he’d be good at putting thoughts into other people’s heads, wouldn’t he?”
Soames looked stunned for a moment, lost the struggle and turned his head directly at the umbrella stand, or whatever kept his attention so distracted. When he looked back, he said, “Thoughts? Are you serious?”
“Not thoughts, per se.” Yes, thoughts, per se. “I mean… suggestions. As terrible a person as Cowles might be, he’s loaded with charisma. He knows this, too, and uses it effectively.”
“Most successful serial killers do, Doctor Reilly.” Soames’ tone was now hard, professional. A wall had gone up. “And as distasteful as the statement may sound, in regards to using that charisma to commit his crimes, Hank Cowles was, unfortunately, very successful.”
She nodded. The statement was distasteful, but just as true. Over the course of seven months, the old man had lured four entire families into his unregistered taxi and carried them away from the world forever. There had been only one exception. Corey Union had escaped, by virtue of never actually climbing into the cab with the rest of his family.
Soames glanced casually at his watch. She’d overstayed her welcome. It was time to go, anyway. Her pager had vibrated on the walk to the office. Jim Chen’s number. She’d ignored it, wanting this opportunity to speak with Soames in private, but her boss did not like to be kept waiting. “I apologize for taking up so much of your time.” Vanessa stood, as did her host. He reached across the desk and they shook hands.
“Please,” he said, amiable again, “it’s no trouble at all.”
Rather than follow her to the door, he sat back down.
She held the door open but turned back to face him. “John, mind if I ask why you keep Hank Cowles’ folder in your desk?”
Soames pursed his lips, looked down. “Well,” he said, “I guess it just feels safer that way.”
“Safer?”
He shrugged. “The media buzz has died a little, but leaving medical records belonging to the,” he made his flaccid quotation marks again, “Destroyer of Worlds where the press might be able to get to it, seems a bit of a risk. Don’t you think?”
Her stomach tightened, hearing the term which had so long been echoing in her mind. Destroyer of Worlds—a name shouted in despair by the wailing sister of one of Hank Cowles’ first victims. Afterwards, every media outlet repeated it with gleeful solemnity.
“I suppose it’s the safest thing,” she said, then turned away, letting the office door close behind her. She needed to get out to the world of normalcy for a while. Maybe buy herself an ice cream before calling Chen.
Of course, she had no time for such a luxury. She knew the reason behind the page. A reminder. Tomorrow was the final day. Her last shot. What had Cowles called it? The Big Finish. He had no idea what was going on outside his boxed world, was in no rational way going after Corey Union to finish what he had started. In this regard, however, he was right. One way or another, tomorrow was the end of the road.
In his office, John Soames let out a long, hitching breath, then leaned back in his chair. He willed himself to relax, now that he was finally alone. The dog’s growling continued from the corner of the room. He tried to ignore it. It wasn’t real. What had Reilly said? Good at putting thoughts into other people’s heads… crazy statement, impossible.
He looked in the direction of the umbrella stand, squinted, as if looking too closely at the little white dog might blind him. It was there, teeth bared around a small menacing growl. Not real, he thought. Not real.
XII
Corey
The sky over the porch is dark gray, swirled in black. Night presents itself not as a sweeping blanket but a hundred black snakes insinuating themselves into the sky. In the distance, thunder rumbles like a panther’s hunger, giving up the hunt, wandering southward for its meal. No flashes of lightning, only frustration and anger drifting by, drifting away.
Samantha scowled, finding the metaphor forced, true as the sky’s description was. Time felt vague, slow in the gloom. The edge of the thunderstorm which had apparently decided to stay on its own side of Wachusett Mountain, drifted south towards better game. She leaned back in the wicker chair, glanced into the kitchen through the picture window but could not see the microwave. It was probably close to eight-thirty by now. Corey had read to Abby then tucked her in before coming onto the porch for a little while to sit with Sam. He could barely keep his eyes open, so she’d sent him to bed.
He’d noticed but never commented on the open spiral notebook on the table beside her. Just a quick glance before focusing only on her. She loved him for that. He’d gone to bed without argument, leaned over her and kissed her cheek, the connection an electric feather touch. He’d whispered that he loved her, would protect her forever.
At the time, Samantha only heard the tones, the deep affection in his words. She looked up at the sky, the delineation between gray and black blurring in the coming of true night. No stars.
I’ll protect you, he’d whispered, forever.
It was a nice sentiment. Recently, they were both trying to protect each other. But his pledge had an underlying urgency to it, some imminent danger close by, soon. Had he listened to the news, maybe caught a whiff of it accidentally during the day? On the drive back from the library a song had been interrupted for an important news brief - uncharacteristic for an Oldies station which normally abhorred living in the present. A state of emergency had been declared in a fifty-nine-mile radius around the nation’s capital and other major cities across the country—but she’d turned it off, not wanting any details which might be accidentally repeated by Abby when they got home. Abby hadn’t complained, only glanced at her mother with a quick, indifferent stare before looking out the passenger window at the town passing by.
Sam held the notebook with one hand, pen in the other, the only light spilling onto the porch from the kitchen. She crossed her legs and let the book flop lifeless into her lap. Her tea was over-steeped at this point and cooled. Not much of a tea drinker, she'd brewed some tonight, thinking of Vanessa. They’d gone an entire day without talking. The absence was noticeable in a week themed by their neighbor’s presence. Strange to miss someone other than Corey. She hadn’t had a close woman friend for a long time, maybe not since high school. That had been the attraction she’d felt the other day. Not physical, but a mental one.
She missed having a friend.
Now wasn’t exactly the best time to go looking for one. Corey was having a hard time. His phobia that the world was coming to an end was getting worse. Growing like a lone weed, inexorably overtaking the garden… These words, Sam was startled to see, had just been written in the notebook. She didn't remember doing it, but then writing was like that sometimes. Automatic, like breathing.
She flipped it closed again and tossed it onto the table, just missing the mug of tea. Maybe the world was coming to an end. Right or wrong, Corey needed her and she couldn’t spend her days writing dreamy lines which no one would ever read, when she should be focusing on her family.
Samantha got up, walked to the edge of the porch, pulled in a deep breath of green mixed with humid, distant electricity. Dark green, moist and rich like soil, a soft, beautiful smell. Trees swayed in the wind, slight tinge of rain somewhere far off. Behind these, the sky flashed. Ten seconds later (One one-thousand, two one-thousand…) a distant rumble, the panther stalking off.
Her eyes scanned the dark wall of woods. What was Vanessa doing now? Was she home? It occurred to Sam to invite her over tomorrow for lunch, a visit while Abby was on her play date. But, no. Corey might go to work, but he might not, in which case they could spend the time together, alone. Best not to have visitors. If he went into work, she could unpack more boxes, vacuum, get laundry going. Keep the house in order, occupy herself with the mundane until her husband came home.
They needed more stability, routine. The world might want their attention, wedge itself between them and shout, look at me! She wouldn’t look, wouldn’t let anything come between them. Even Vanessa. Their beautiful, free-spirited neighbor may not be doing it intentionally, but she was rising between her and Corey, if in no other way at least emotionally. Samantha couldn’t let that happen.
She went inside, notebook in hand. She’d tuck it back under the mattress and leave it there for a while. The clock on the microwave read four thirty-nine. Still early. She—
Sam looked back at the clock.
Nine thirty-nine.
Nine thirty-nine. That was better. A little later than she’d thought, but more realistic than four in the afternoon. She shook her head, drifted out of the kitchen and down the hall. She was falling into her own mind too much, wasn’t seeing the world clearly enough. After checking on Corey she might watch some television until she felt tired enough to sleep. Catch the news. Quietly, so as not to wake anyone. If the world was really going to end, she’d best learn how it was going to happen.
XIII
Vanessa
Pine Glen Mental Health and Rehabilitation Hospital sat prominently atop one of Worcester’s seven hills, a bulky, efficient hive dominating the Zawalich Square neighborhood. Ignored by most residents, it was the largest and oldest institution of its kind in central Massachusetts, desperately clinging to an affiliation with the Commonwealth’s jail system by way of the Venning Memorial Building, a high security prison for the criminally insane, hidden twenty miles west in the quiet town of Barre. Because of this association, Vanessa had been able to arrange today’s visit with Hank Cowles. Jim Chen pulled the necessary strings, as he’d done to arrange her current experiment with Corey Union.
It was well past four-thirty before Chen called her name through the open door of his office. Vanessa rose slowly from the plastic chair. This forced casualness was her only way of striking back for being made to wait nearly twenty minutes, ineffectual as the gesture might be.
Unlike Soames’ office, Chen’s was wide and spacious with a western view overlooking Worcester. The man behind the desk was stiff and short, a Korean-American who’d come with his family to this country as an infant. Thirty-nine years later, he was Chief Resident in the long-term care wing, and Vanessa’s director. She sat in a comfortable leather chair after Chen had risen from behind the desk and waved her into it, taking the one facing her. One sock sagged slightly under the cuff of his slacks. Jim Chen was known among the staff as a hard-ass, even a bully, but most of his employees begrudgingly admitted he never openly shoved his power in their faces. Never a conversation over a desk.
Most of them didn’t know Chen the way Vanessa had been forced to recently, the way his stare sometimes lingered a little too long after he spoke, glancing down her body while fiddling with his glasses. Subtle comments made which might imply nothing more than an interest in his employee’s well-being: how she was sleeping, was she getting out and having enough fun? Stupid remarks, never quite meshing with the professional air he so liked to carry about himself. They probably meant nothing, certainly meant nothing. She was being paranoid.
Chen did remove his glasses now, deliberately rubbing a small cloth across each lens. Two fingers doing a slow circle, one on each side.
“Did your jaunt to Venning produce any fruit, Doctor Reilly?”
Vanessa had worked out the answer on the drive here. Hesitation offered too mu
ch meaning to this man, most of it wrong. “Yes, in fact it was very helpful. Thank you.”
Chen stopped cleaning his glasses, fingers frozen mid-swirl. He stared at her long enough to make her worried—which was, of course, the intent.
“Why?” he asked.
She had an answer for him, but needed to be cautious. Like Cowles, Chen was good at extracting information you weren’t planning to give. “Excuse me?”
He returned the glasses to his face. “Why was your visit with Mister Cowles helpful?”
No hidden agenda, then, simply curious. For now. Nevertheless, behind the round lenses, Vanessa tried not to see a smoldering, expectant gaze. Her stomach tightened. She had to go to the bathroom. She was being foolish.
“I felt that in order to fully understand Corey Union’s mind, how to get around the obstacles he throws in the way during therapy, it would be good to meet, face to face, the man who murdered his family.”
Chen snorted. He wasn’t fooled. “Doctor Reilly, that was why you went. I heard this already. What I want to know is, in retrospect, why you feel the visit was beneficial to your treatment?” Before she could answer, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs and putting himself closer to her. She swallowed. He said, “After all, I’m not wrong in assuming Mister Union has never had any interaction with the old man, save a brief passing comment on that unfortunate day. The rest he has completely fabricated, or gleaned from the newspapers and news coverage?”
News coverage. Even those simple terms did not come close to the media circus surrounding Cowles’ arrest, the discovery of thirteen bodies in his basement and in the woods behind his house, including Corey’s family.
Destroyer of Worlds Page 14
