The Girl in the Attic

by Ed Gorman

  "I need to know what happened last night."

  The woman stared at him. "Where is she?"

  "She's here."

  "In the hospital?"

  "Yes."

  "Is she . . . all right?"

  "Physically, yes. . .

  "Oh, my God!"

  He let her cry.

  The nurse in the doorway moved to offer the woman some Kleenex, but Gonzalez raised his brown hand and shook his head no.

  To distance herself from shock, the woman needed to feel the pain from last night's events. It would help her to reestablish her hold on reality.

  Finally, when he thought she'd cried enough, Gonzalez got up, bent over the bed, and took her shoulders in his hands. He saw how tears had discolored the top of her white robe, how sleep had wrinkled a small section of her neck. Her long fingers looked so weak he doubted they could grip anything.

  Then she looked up at him, staring directly and deeply into his eyes. "They think she killed that man, don't they?"

  He nodded silently.

  "She didn't."

  "All right."

  "You don't believe me, do you?"

  "I need to talk to you, Mrs. Baines. We can discuss guilt or innocence later."

  She fixed him just then with her forlorn brown eyes. "You're too young to be a doctor."

  He smiled. "Twenty-eight."

  "Too young."

  He pointed to where his dark hair was flecked with silver. "I can't be that young."

  He had expected a smile. He got none. She put her eyes down; they were not quite closed.

  He looked around the room. It had the simplicity of a still life: a red vase filled with lilies: a dark mahogany cross where Christ's head was turned in pain forever; a gracefully wrought glass water pitcher the color of milk.

  "She didn't kill him."

  When he turned back he saw that the woman was sitting up now, and that the faraway look was gone.

  It had been replaced by something else—something that gave tension to the jawline and definition to the brown eyes—something that seemed to have brought her around: anger.

  "I won't let them persecute her like this."

  He looked at her. "Now we can talk."

  "Yes," she said, "now we can talk."

  6

  Grass had a way of making Bethel lazy. Certain kinds of grass did, anyway, especially when she swigged licorice brandy along with it.

  In the waterbed in her trailer she lay naked except for the tiny bikini panties that carried a spot or two from her last period and that she kept meaning to throw away; but given her type of clientele, who really gave a rat's ass, anyway? There was a robin on her windowsill singing his heart out and a sky so blue it looked like you could dive in it and swim down the coastline of eternity.

  She should feel like bounding out of bed and getting on with the day.

  Then she remembered about One Eye.

  Or Richard, as he'd asked to be called.

  He was supposed to have come back with the news—the good news, presumably.

  But she'd managed to put herself to sleep with grass and brandy before she'd found out what the answer was.

  She sat up in bed just far enough to get the remote for her TV set and click it on.

  The first few minutes was Dr. Phil. She liked it when he had hookers on. Man, didn't those little hausfraus get pissed when hookers talked about making it with husbands? But mostly Donahue's guests bored her. Transvestites were a snore. Politicians were all liars. And jocks—in her experience most jocks couldn't get it up unless they got to whump on you a while first.

  Today's guests were airline pilots demanding closer security at airports.

  BFD (big fucking deal).

  That was when the show cut to the local news break. And that was also when Bethel saw One Eye, a.k.a. Richard.

  "Was discovered brutally murdered. . ." the guy was saying.

  "Holy fucking shit," Bethel said. "Holy fucking shit."

  This was worse than the time that sailor came over here just after he stuck up the 7-11 down the street and blew away that fucking teenager.

  This was lots worse.

  CHAPTER NINE

  1

  When Hanratty dropped into the diner just off Haversham's town square, he realized how deeply last night's murder had disturbed the townspeople.

  Because of the hot July day, the lazy ceiling fan did little good. Because of the small seating area, body heat raised the temperature even higher. Because of the grease from the grill, Hanratty felt nauseated.

  "You're that reporter fella', ain't you?"

  The voice startled Hanratty. He turned around and stared into the shrewd eyes of Cletus Olsen. As usual, the man wore his bib overalls, straw hat, and suspicious gaze.

  "Yes."

  "You were the one who found the body, right?"

  Hanratty nodded, not really wanting this conversation. "Yes, I did."

  "I sorta liked the guy." He leaned forward, as if confiding a secret. "Most people didn't. They think he killed a waitress years back. He didn't."

  "I see."

  Olsen nodded to an empty booth in the rear. "You wanta go back and have a Pepsi? It's too hot for coffee."

  "Actually, I was thinking about going home, getting some rest. It's been a long night."

  Olsen said, abruptly, "He knew about her."

  "I guess I'm not following you."

  "Richard—I never called him 'One Eye,' myself—he knew about her."

  "Knew about who?"

  "The girl who killed him."

  For the first time, Hanratty was dimly interested. "What did he know about her?"

  "Oh, no, you ain't cheatin' me out of a Pepsi. You want me to talk, you put down your three bits and buy me a pop."

  Hanratty watched the man's face to make sure he wasn't smiling. Who would ask to be bribed for the price of a Pepsi? But the man was serious.

  Hanratty took in the diner—the chalkboard menu, the seats at the counter, the big bulletin board to which people had pinned all sorts of handwritten notes advertising everything from bake sales to lawn mowing services—and then he shrugged.

  "Why not?" he said.

  2

  "There was just something about the hotel."

  "What?"

  "I don't know."

  "Did she say something to you?"

  "Yes—and sort of pulled away. As if she were frightened."

  "How was she when you actually got into the hotel?"

  Sally Baines frowned. "That's the strange thing. She seemed perfectly fine then."

  They sat in Gonzalez's office. Sally wished it looked more officially medical. Dr. Gonzalez had all the requisite sheepskin on his walls, but he also had gaudy color photographs of salsa bands and pictures of himself with a variety of good-looking young women.

  The weather didn't buoy her spirits, either. A hot and muggy day had inexplicably become a chill and gray one. Thunderheads moved swiftly in the window behind Gonzalez's handsome head. "Tell me again about last night."

  Patiently, she went through it all once more for the doctor.

  Halfway through her account, the phone rang, and she started in her chair. The Police Chief was supposed to call them when it would be all right for Dr. Gonzalez to bring Sally to Jamie.

  Into the phone Gonzalez said, "Have Dr. Myser see him. I'm afraid I'm busy."

  He hung up.

  "Why don't you continue, Mrs. Baines?"

  "Sally."

  "Sally, then."

  For the first time since she'd met him, the young doctor seemed to have real poise and maturity. She wondered if she hadn't misjudged him.

  Of course, right now, none of her judgments about anything seemed too certain. There were the lingering memories of last night and the sluggish effects of the shot she'd been given.

  "I should have stayed with her."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I should have stayed with her all night."

  "You w
ent somewhere?"

  "I went down to—to have a few drinks with Carleton Edmonds. The hotel owner."

  "I see."

  She listened for some evidence of innuendo; there was none.

  "I'm afraid I don't see why you feel guilty."

  "Why do you assume I feel guilty?"

  "Everything you're saying—you're making it sound as if it was your fault, what happened."

  "Maybe if I'd stayed with her all night. . ."

  "But you did."

  "No, I didn't. I went down with Carleton and . . ."

  "But you were with her when she left the room." He smiled. "You were doing the proper thing, being the proper mother." The smile vanished. "And what happened, happened."

  Sally sighed. "I see what you mean."

  "No, you don't."

  She looked at him sharply.

  "You're going to go right on believing that somehow this is all your fault."

  She grimaced. "Yes, I suppose I am." She paused to look up at the thunderheads in the window. It was cold in here now. She wished she had a sweater. She thought of her red cardigan her husband had bought her for her twenty-ninth birthday; and the thought of the red sweater comforted her. "I'd like to see her."

  "Only when the Police Chief says so."

  "She didn't kill him."

  "All right."

  She saw it was pointless to try and persuade him.

  "You were going to finish telling me about last night."

  She nodded and proceeded.

  3

  Carlotta watched the men from the State Bureau of Investigation go up and down the attic stairs.

  You'd never guess these men were law officers. They looked like successful real estate salespeople. They wore wing tips and narrow ties and cuffed trousers. They had very white teeth and they smiled a lot, though quickly, not with any lingering sincerity, and each of the four of them nodded to her on the way up and on the way down. Polite is what they were.

  Carlotta had spent the last three hours cleaning and recleaning the rooms nearest the attic stairs. She wanted to be nearby in case the men found something. She also wanted to be nearby when they left. Carlotta planned to go upstairs afterward.

  The soaps did not hold her interest this morning.

  Carlotta went down the hall all the way to Room 209 and turned on the big 21-inch Philips and watched five minutes of "The Young and the Restless," but she could not get caught up in it; not with what she had to do.

  She sat in an armchair, reading The National Enquirer's article on a new grapefruit diet and, ironically, eating a Snickers bar.

  As she did this she heard a soft knock on the door. Probably it was one of the investigators, and it certainly wouldn't do to give them the impression that she was one of those women who snuck around watching soap operas and eating candy.

  She got up from the chair, stuffed the Snickers back into her pocket, straightened her apron and touched her iron gray curls, and then walked formally to the door.

  But it was not the investigator. It was Bobby, the high school boy who helped Carleton Edmonds with some of the heavier chores around the hotel. Bobby reminded her of a big bull, so stupid he didn't know enough to be mean. His yellow, mossy teeth and dull green eyes behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses, made him somewhat less than appealing.

  "You better come, Carlotta."

  "What's wrong?"

  "It's Mr. Edmonds."

  "What's wrong with him?" She sounded almost cross, accusing. If Bobby had been retarded, it would have been one thing. But to be just plain stupid—it was too much for her to deal with.

  "He's pouring gasoline on everything in the locked room."

  She glared at him as if she hadn't heard properly. "He's what?" She saw how scared he was now, almost as if he were going to cry.

  "He's pouring gasoline on everything. He's gonna set it on fire."

  He just stood there, starting to blubber. Carlotta jumped up and went out the door.

  CHAPTER TEN

  1

  There were three rooms with one-way mirrors in the hospital. Jamie had destroyed the one in her first room earlier today, so two men in whites had put her into a straightjacket and moved her down the hall to the second such room.

  Now Sally Baines and Gonzalez stood next to each other watching the young girl.

  "My God," Sally said, "it doesn't even look like her."

  Jamie lay in bed. The TV was on, but she paid it no attention. She stared straight ahead at the lime-green wall.

  "Shock. Withdrawal."

  "My God," Sally said again, tonelessly. Then, "I'd like to go see her."

  Gonzalez looked at her frankly. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

  "Aren't I her mother?"

  Gonzalez sighed. "I mean no disrespect, Sally." He paused, reconsidered. "All right . . . let's give it a shot."

  He nodded for the burly young man in whites to precede them and unlock the door beyond which Jamie sat.

  Just before they went in, Sally grabbed Gonzalez's arm. "I'm afraid," she whispered, on edge.

  Gonzalez touched her shoulder. "I'll be with you. Maybe that will help."

  She tried to smile. "I was afraid I wasn't going to like you. I've changed my mind."

  He laughed gently. "I was afraid I wasn't going to like you, either."

  They went inside.

  When she saw her daughter up close, without a sheet of glass between them, something terrible happened to Sally's stomach. She was afraid she was going to be sick. The being who had come from her womb, the girl who had been nursed and nurtured into her teen years, now lay on the bed as if comatose. The eyes looked bruised from sleeplessness, or nightmare sleep; the mouth looked pink and distorted, as if she were somehow retarded.

  Gonzalez slid his arm around her. "Come on." He led her over to the bed.

  Her strength and nerve returning slowly, Sally raised her face and looked at Jamie's eyes. "Hello, Jamie."

  There was not the slightest flicker of recognition.

  Sally leaned closer. "Jamie, can you hear me?" But Jamie stared straight at the wall.

  Sally reached out a tentative hand and softly touched it to Jamie's face.

  She was looking for some acknowledgment of her gesture in Jamie's eyes . . . any sign at all ... but there was none.

  "Jamie."

  "I don't think she can hear you, Sally."

  "My God."

  "Maybe we could come and see her a little bit later."

  For the first time during the past hour, Sally heard a patronizing tone in Gonzalez's voice.

  "You don't expect her to get any better, do you?" she asked hopelessly.

  He shook his head. "To be honest, I don't know what I expect. Medically, it's too early for any kind of prognosis."

  "But if you had to bet. . . "

  He forced a smile. "I had an uncle who bet. He bet on the horses and he bet on the Cubs and he bet on Ali and he lost every cent he ever had. So I don't bet."

  His deft manner calmed her enough to say, "She saw something."

  "Pardon?"

  Sally cleared her throat. "I said she saw something." She stared lovingly at her daughter's lifeless body on the bed.

  "Saw what?"

  "I'm not sure. But I'm going to find out." The maternal anger was back in her voice.

  Gonzalez said, "You mean, you don't believe she killed the man—but she saw who did?"

  "Exactly."

  Quite seriously, he said, "Do you know what happened in that hotel in 1996?"

  "The little girl?"

  "Yes."

  "She killed four people, wasn't it?"

  "Yes," Gonzalez said. "There are people this morning who are speculating that maybe your daughter became possessed by the other little girl."

  She expected to see the smile back on his face. Most people smiled when they used words such as "psychic" or "supernatural" or "possessed."

  But Gonzalez wasn't smiling.

  "Are you saying you th
ink something like that might be possible?"

  He shrugged. "I'm not ruling it out." His eyes rested on Jamie. Her right hand had twitched a few times. Then it stopped.

  "You're saying you believe in psychic phenomena?" Her tone was incredulous, accusing. There was a ring of hope in it.

  He turned and looked at her again. "The uncle I mentioned? The one who gambled? His wife, my aunt, was a great believer in the spirit world." Now there was just a hint of a smile on his lips. "I suppose some of her beliefs rubbed off on me." He nodded to her. "How about you? Do you believe in psychic phenomena?"

  "I don't know."

  "It would certainly explain why a young girl might pick up an ax and . . ."

  Anger flashed in her eyes. "You see you are assuming Jamie killed the man."

  "I wasn't thinking of Jamie any more than I was thinking of the little girl ten years ago."

  Sally let his words mollify her. "Oh."

  "Why don't we say goodbye to Jamie now?"

  "All right."

  She bent over and kissed her daughter on the cheek. She picked up a chalk-white hand and held it, her fingers testing the wrist. There was only the faintest pulse.

  "I'm going to get her back," Sally said.

  "I know."

  "Whatever it takes, I'm going to get her back."

  "And I admire you for that. Just—just don't hurt yourself in the process."

  An accusation narrowed her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means that you're in a delicate condition. You're suffering from shock, too. You can't afford to push yourself too hard."

  She looked back at Jamie. "Where my daughter's concerned, there's no such thing as pushing myself too hard."

  She carefully placed Jamie's hand back on her stomach, then she left the hospital room. She looked as if she had a clear sense of where she was going and what she was planning to do.

  2

  Carlotta screamed and lunged into the room.

  As Bobby had said, Carleton Edmonds now held a can of gasoline and was dousing every piece of furniture in the small bedroom.

  The predominant color of the room was pink: pink-flocked wallpaper, a pink comforter on the bed, pink stuffed animals—a cute giraffe, a somewhat gangly unicorn—and pink curtains.