by Rita Herron
AN IMAGE OF her scarf choking another woman played on Claire’s mind. If the killer was someone she knew, she had to figure out who and why he was committing these crimes.
Her patient caseload was the most likely place to look. Joel Sanger? Richard Wheaton?
Wheaton entered her office, this time shrouded by a dark mood, his footsteps heavier than normal. Perhaps his adolescent side was emerging and trying to take dominance.
The teenager had protected the child Richard by destroying the cause of his abuse—his mother. Was he now transferring those feelings to other women and killing them?
“Richard?”
“It’s Richie.”
“Richie, have a seat and tell me what’s going on.”
“Don’t feel like sittin’.” He crossed the room in front of her, then stopped at the window, drumming his knuckles on the glass. “Life sucks.”
“Why is that, Richie?”
“’Cause that social worker keeps bugging us.”
“The social worker?” Claire mentally recalled the details from his file. When he was thirteen and his mother had died, the police had speculated that the woman’s death was a suicide, but there had been no suicide note, so they’d written her death up as an overdose. Apparently heroin addicts didn’t exactly garner sympathy or priority from police.
A social worker had attempted to place Richie in a foster home, but no one wanted the teenage son of an addict, so he’d been placed in a group home. From there, his history grew even shadier.
“You don’t like Ms. Gridley?”
“Hell, no, she wants to split us up, stick us in some hole.”
“Us?”
Silence met her question.
“How many of y there?”
“We don’t need anyone else. We take care of each other.”
Claire’s fingers tightened around her pen. “You take care of little Richie, don’t you?”
He grunted. “Yeah, and that crybaby, Regina.”
“Regina?”
He cursed again. “I shouldn’t have told you about her, but she’s a pain in the butt. Cries all the time. Makes Mama crazy mad.”
“Can I meet Regina, Richie?”
Richie’s shoes clicked on the floor as he walked toward her, then he sat down on the sofa. Seconds later, she heard a small childlike whine, then a tiny feminine voice.
“Tell me your name, sweetie,” Claire said.
“R…egina.”
“Hi, Regina. I’m Claire.”
She heard a sucking sound and realized he was sucking his thumb. Earlier she’d spoken to the five-year-old little boy who’d witnessed his father die at the hands of his mother. Where had Regina been?
“How old are you, Regina?”
“Free.”
“Three?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Tell me about your mother, sweetie.”
The sucking grew louder, then she started to cry. “She says I’m a bad girl, but I’m not.”
Claire clenched her notepad. “No?”
“N…o, but she don’t believe me.” Her sobs grew louder. “She says she gots to punish me….”
“Regina, were you there when your father died?”
She whimpered. “No, I hidded in the cwoset, so she couldn’t get me. Richie, he ’tects me.”
“Why did your mother want to get you?”
A big sniffle escaped her. “’Cause I’m bad, I’m always bad—”
Suddenly Richie’s voice broke in. “She can’t talk anymore.”
“Why not?” Claire reached out to comfort the child, but Richie pulled away, then stood and stomped back to the window.
“’Cause she went away.”
Claire froze. The little girl had become one of Richard’s alternate personalities? But had there been a real sister who had died?
Maybe, because she was a bad girl.
Chapter Eleven
Mark’s chest was so tight he could barely breathe. The realization that Claire mi have been on her way to see him the day he left for his mission changed everything.
While all the other soldiers had enjoyed a send-off with family surrounding them, their lovers and wives and children waving with tear-filled eyes, he’d stood to the side, waiting, praying, hoping Claire would arrive. He’d wanted to know that she would wait for him, but when she hadn’t shown, he’d taken it as a clear sign that she didn’t love him, that she’d declined his marriage proposal.
And then later she’d returned his ring via mail with a one-sentence typed declaration that she didn’t want to marry him. It had been the only piece of mail he’d received while he was overseas. The cold gesture had hardened his heart and ripped his soul in two.
But if she’d had the accident on the way to the airport, had she been coming to say goodbye or to accept his proposal?
His heart pounded as he stalked from Hall’s office toward the psychiatric wing. He had to know, and Claire would tell him the truth. She’d tell him every detail about that day, about her accident and her condition, and whether she really had loved him.
Another realization hit him—had Claire sent him that goodbye note because she was blind? Had she been afraid he couldn’t accept her disability?
That would certainly account for her sister’s attitude toward him. But hadn’t Claire loved him enough to trust him?
The hurt added to the sinking premonition that he should have at least tried to contact her. He should have forced a confrontation instead of accepting her dismissal so readily. He’d just assumed she was like his mother.
He wouldn’t accept a brush-off this time.
Determination made his stride brisk. He had fought a battle overseas for his country, now if he had to fight one at home to make her see that he loved her, he would. And he did love her.
He had never stopped loving her, even when he thought she’d refused to be his bride.
A renewed sense of calm washed over him as he entered her office. He smiled at her secretary. “I’m back to see Claire.”
“I believe her appointment is just leaving.”
He nodded and took a seat. Ten minutes later, a young man he guessed was in his early twenties walked out wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans and sunglasses. He ducked his head as he walked past, and Mark watched, wondering at his story. Claire’s secretary rose and knocked, then gestured for him to enter.
“Claire?” Although it had only been a couple of hours since he’d seen her, he was hungry for the sight of her. She’d pulled her loose curls back into a ribbon at the nape of her neck with a few loose tendrils dangling around her heart-shaped face, making her look young and delicate. His gaze dropped to the pale blue suit she wore and he had to smile. No suit could camouflage those feminine curves or hide the sensual woman beneath.
“Is something wrong, Mark?” She folded her hands and met him on the front side of her desk. “Do you have new information?”
“Yes, and no.”
“What is it? Have the police found the killer?”
“No, not yet.”
She sighed in disappointment.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had your car accident the day I left to go overseas?”
Her sharp intake of breath indicated he’d caught her off guard. Good. The truth had certainly shaken him.
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Of course it mattered, especially if you were driving to the airport.”
She bit down on her lip and started to turn away, but he caught her, held her arms in his grip. “You were coming to the airport, weren’t you?”
Her breath quivered out.
“Tell me, Claire. For God’s sake, I left that day believing you didn’t love me, that you didn’t care enough to even see me off to war.”
“No…” her voice broke. “Mark, don’t. Let it go.”
“I can’t let it go.” He shook her gently. “You owe me the truth. I put my heart on the line, offered to share my life with you, and I got a
damn note in the mail that was typed, not even handwritten. Do you have any idea how that made me feel?”
She dropped her head forward as if to look at her hands. “I couldn’t see to write,” Claire said, a trace of bitterness edging into her voice.
“What did the doctors say about your sight loss? Can you have surgery? A corneal transplant?”
She shook her head. It broke his heart. She had faced a major crisis all alone, had suffered without anyone to help her through the ordeal except her sister. Another reason Paulette hated him. Now that he knew the truth, he couldn’t blame her.
“So, that’s the reason you didn’t contact me? You thought I wouldn’t love you or want you because you’re blind?”
She shook her head, tears brimming over her eyes. “Mark…”
“Tell me the truth, dammit.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “You deserved better.”
He tried to calm his raging anger. On some level, he wondered what he would have done had he been in her shoes. On the other hand, she should have trusted him.
“But the report said you might regain your sight.”
“The report was wrong,” Claire said. “As you can see, my vision hasn’t returned.”
“Claire—”
“How did you find out about my accident?”
He hesitated, and her mood seemed to shift as she realized the obvious. “You read my medical files?” Anger tightened her mouth. “You had no right to pry into my personal life!”
“I wouldn’t have if you’d told me yourself. But there’s a chance you can see again. We’ll do whatever it takes to m that happen.”
“There is no we, Mark. And I’m perfectly satisfied with my life now. Except for this killer, I’m happy…”
He didn’t believe her. Or maybe he was simply disappointed. He wanted her to want him. To want to see again. Didn’t she want either? What had happened to the fighter in her?
“You won’t even try?”
“I…I’ve adjusted to my life. There’s no need.”
His breath sounded harsh in the silence that followed. “Tell me this, Claire. What had you planned to tell me that day at the airport? Were you going to wear my ring and be my wife?”
She squeezed her fingers together. “Please, don’t, Mark—”
“Tell me the truth. Were you going to say yes or no to my proposal?”
“Yes,” she said in a haunted voice. “I wanted to be your wife. But it’s too late for us now. We can’t go back.”
He’d thought she’d hurt him before, but other than losing his fellow soldiers that day, the pain that knifed through him now was sharper than anything he’d ever felt.
“What kind of man do you think I am?” He released her, then stood back and stared at her. “I can’t believe you intended to marry me, then decided your condition would make a difference so you didn’t even send me word you were hurt. You really thought that little of me?”
He started toward the door. “Never mind. You already answered that question.”
CLAIRE SAGGED into her office chair, drained from her encounter with Mark. The last thing she’d wanted to do was hurt him, but she obviously had. A year ago, when she hadn’t shown up at the airport, and then today.
But he’d still had no right to snoop into her personal files.
And what did she really have to offer him? She could never be the perfect wife…
She covered her hands with her face. Why had she been driving during that storm? Even though that car had flown up on her tail, its lights blinding her, she should have started for the airport earlier. She should have called Mark and informed him she was on her way, so she wouldn’t have felt the need to rush.
All the could-have-beens taunted her. The life they could have had if she hadn’t crashed and lost their child. The homecoming she might have given him when he’d returned from fighting. The baby she would have held in her arms and presented to its father.
An aching emptiness settled in her as Mark’s last hurt-filled accusations echoed in her ears. What kind of man do you think I am, Claire? You really thought that little of me?
“No, Mark,” Claire whispered. “I love you too much to saddle you with my weakness.” Worse, when he’d asked if her sight would return, she’d heard the hope in his voice. She couldn’t live with that hope, not and disappoint
Because, in truth, she had no idea why her vision hadn’t returned. She wasn’t a candidate for a corneal transplant. In fact, the doctors had predicted that her eyesight would return on its own, that once the tissue healed and the swelling went down, she would see again. But so far, she hadn’t, and she’d learned to deal with it.
Because your condition is psychosomatic.
She hated the word and what it implied, but deep down she feared it was true. She was causing her own blindness. What kind of woman did that make her? A shrink who couldn’t heal herself….
Mark deserved a whole woman, one who could give him the happiness and love and passion he needed. She was just an empty shell running on autopilot, using her days to help others and trying not to dwell on the mistakes of her past.
A knock sounded and her secretary opened the door slightly. “Dr. Kos, Joel Sanger’s probation officer just phoned. He’s in lockup at county.”
“What are the charges?”
“Drunk and disorderly. Seems he got mad at a waitress, lost his cool and created a scene.”
Claire nodded. “All right, thanks.” She checked her appointment calendar. She had a good two hours before her next patient. “Lindy, will you please call me a driver? I’m going to visit him at the jail.” She didn’t want to ask Mark to take her or ask questions about Sanger.
“Are you sure you want to do that, Dr. Kos?”
Claire nodded. “Yes. I’m his only hope. Maybe visiting him will tell me more about his condition.” And maybe she’d be able to discern if he was responsible for killing the other women.
Then again, Richard Wheaton’s visit had disturbed her. The personality of the little girl that had emerged had struck a chord of sympathy and familiarity within her. Regina’s mother had called her a bad girl, then ended up dead. Claire believed Richard was responsible.
Wheaton fit the profile of a serial killer.
She massaged her temple, a headache pounding. She hated to admit it, but she might have to talk to the police. Richard was beginning to look more and more like the Midnight Murderer.
Could she find a way to have Mark check him out without compromising her ethical obligations to her patient and endangering Wheaton’s treatment?
WHEN CLAIRE arrived at the jail, the officer in charge informed her Sanger was out of control. Bracing herself, she asked to be escorted to the cell where he’d been placed, determined to see if she could pry information from him.
The minute she made it to the cell, she heard footsteps pacing the cement floor like a caged animal.
“He’s been flinging his arms and pacing like a madman for over an hour,” the guard said.
Sanger screamed a string of obscenities and a nonsensical jumble of words.
“Mr. Sanger, it.”
He either ignored her or didn’t hear her, his rantings growing louder. “The angel comes, but he can’t save me! The big red light, it’s crashing on the earth now. There’s fire.”
“He’s on the floor now,” the guard said, “covering his head with his hands like he really believes that garbage. He also has a weird rash on his arms.”
A rash? Claire remembered the ointment she’d smelled and wondered if Sanger had used it. She hadn’t detected it on him during her sessions, but thought she did now.
“Hide, get away from it. It’s exploding!” Sanger shouted. “We’re all going to die!”
“Joel,” Claire said softly. “It’s Claire. You’re safe now. There is no explosion.” She paused, hoping she could break through, but he emitted a wailing, almost animal-like sound. “Look up at me, Joel. I’m here now, it’s all right.”
“No, you can’t get me. Go away or I’ll shoot!”
“He’s a nutcase,” the guard muttered.
Claire frowned. “He’s suffering from a psychotic breakdown. He must have stopped taking his medication.” She turned back to Sanger. “I’ll be back, Joel. I’m going to get permission to move you to the psychiatric center for treatment.” And she’d get them to check out the rash.
She allowed the guard to lead her back to the front office so she could follow through on her promise.
Had his mental instability triggered his violent tendencies to the point of murdering innocent women?
MARK PUT HIS EMOTIONS on hold as he drove back to the center. After he’d left Claire’s office, he’d driven to the police station to see if the locals had any new information on the case. Along with Claire’s help, the police had issued a general profile of the killer, but it was still vague, the factors that connected the victims even more so.
So far, each of the potential suspects, the relatives, boyfriends and husbands of the victims had been cleared. The nationwide database search hadn’t offered any viable possibilities, either. They had discovered one case of a killer who fit the profile. He’d strangled three women in Las Vegas five years ago, but he was still serving time.
Except for Claire, they still hadn’t discovered any connection between the victims. The M.E.’s report stated that each of the women had been injected with Percoset which had slowed her abilities prior to death, the reason there had been no visible signs of struggle. So far, none of the hospitals or other medical facilities had reported any significant quantities of the drug missing.
Lassiter, Ferguson and Hall all had easy access to pharmaceuticals at the center. Any one of them could have obtained what they’d need, although Hall’s party had given them alibis for the latest murder. He personally disliked Lassiter and would like to see him charged, but they didn’t have enough evidence to even bring him in.
The M.E. had pinpointed the odor Claire recognized as a new ointment sar to calamine lotion which was used to treat poison ivy, insect bites and other rashes. Scientists at CIRP had patented the cream and it was sold over the counter. Black and Fox were checking into that angle, but again, with tourist and mosquito season well underway, it would be virtually impossible to track down every person who’d purchased the ointment.
