Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3)

by Derek Ciccone

  He nodded, but the smile had left his face. “A word of advice as you enter the political arena—arrests tend to not go over well this close to an election. The candidate who would be in charge of upholding the laws, breaking them, you can see where I’m going with this, right?”

  While Marion Berry and countless others might disagree with such a sentiment, I decided to play along. As much as I wanted to inform him that politics weren’t for me, and even my girlfriend thinks I would suck at it, I didn’t believe such a revelation would help me get the information I sought.

  “Did this hurt my candidacy in your eyes … if I was going to run.”

  His smile returned. “Not a sliver—you’re proving to be Teflon in this town, JP. Our internal polling still has you ten percentage points ahead.”

  Polling for a candidate that doesn’t exist: welcome to politics 21st Century style.

  “I just hope you don’t think I owe you a favor for you dropping the charges.”

  “Who do I look like … Don Corleone?” he said with a laugh. “It was just a big misunderstanding, and I hope you’ll hold no ill will toward the guards—they were just doing their job.”

  “That’s some fighting force you’ve assembled. I’ve been to countries where their entire military is less armed.”

  “You can never be too safe. My family is often a target, and those wanting to hurt us might see Bette as the weak link. I vowed to keep her safe at any cost … we failed her once before.”

  He noticed the photo that Vivian had been looking at, which I’d purposely left on the table. He took the picture into his hands, and it was obvious that it affected him.

  He took a moment to steady his thoughts—rare to see him not prepared with words—and said, “The day that changed our family forever.”

  I nodded somberly—I couldn’t imagine that we had a lot in common, but this I understood.

  He looked up from the photo, his eyes steely. “Are you investigating my sister’s accident—is that what you were doing on her property?”

  “The incident on the bridge, Saturday night, intrigued me. I’ve lived here many years, but I’d never heard of Thomas Archibald, or about your sister’s accident, and I certainly was unaware of any curse. So yes, I’ve been looking into all of it.”

  Hastings slammed his hands down on the table, jingling the glasses, and startling me. But his expression wasn’t of anger—he looked enthused. “It’s about time someone got to the truth of the matter! And who better than JP Warner to expose the Samerauks and their underhanded tactics. What happened the other night was just another example of their organized terror, and this time they used some unsuspecting teenagers to deliver their message. A new low … even for them.”

  “Sounds like your family and the Samerauks won’t be breaking bread anytime soon.”

  “They’re always hiding behind this so-called curse. They used it to get that sweetheart deal in 1930 when my family agreed to give up land … and now they actually have the gall to complain about the deal they begged for, because it’s in the way of their precious casino.”

  He was on a roll—a reporter’s dream. My job was to let him keep talking.

  “But it didn’t work both ways. When we attempted to make a deal to sell a large area of Zycko Hill back in 1959, they feared the influence we might gain in the area, so they brought back their beloved ‘curse’ to try to make us look bad with the Thomas Archibald affair.”

  “I could see how that might paint your family in a bad light—a very lucrative deal was being held up by the Archibald’s refusal to sell you their land. And then their son ends up …”

  “They didn’t refuse—they were negotiating. And for us to kidnap, kill, or be behind whatever happened to their son, in the middle of negotiations, would be bad business. My family is a lot of things, but having bad business sense is not one of them.”

  I reached into the pocket of my jacket, and took out the copy I’d made of the police report from the night Thomas Archibald disappeared. I handed it to him.

  He put on a pair of reading glasses, and scanned the document. The more he read, the more amused he appeared to be. “They just don’t write fiction these days like they used to.”

  “Are you saying you didn’t hunt down Poca and Archibald? That you didn’t pull a knife on them?”

  “Of course I did. But I was just fulfilling Poca’s wishes. She knew I would chase her—I was under her control.”

  “The way I read her statement, is you cut off her dress and you were attempting to sexually assault her when Archibald intervened.”

  He shook his head with exasperation. “Sexual assault is about power, not sex, and Poca possessed all the power that night. She took us to where she wanted to take us. It played out just as she wanted it, and the only two victims, albeit willing ones, were myself and Thomas Archibald.”

  “That’s one way to look at it—another would be that you attacked the couple in a jealous rage, and shortly thereafter one of them ended up missing, never to be found. At the very least, it doesn’t look good.”

  “Poca was the one who was jealous. She could never handle the fact that I was unable to acknowledge our relationship publicly, due to the politics of the situation between our families. So she was lashing out at me.”

  “And by politics, you mean that your family saw the Samerauks as the enemy, and having a relationship with her would have been seen as traitorous.”

  “That stuff went back long before us. We didn’t make the rules, but we differed on how to deal with them. She believed in breaking the rules, while I thought it was best to find a way around them. We could never bridge that gap in philosophy.”

  “Do you blame her for what happened to your sister?”

  “I think she had sought my sister out to get back at me, and that she was a bad influence. And even in this modern hedonistic era, encouraging a fourteen-year-old to get involved in drugs would be considered unconscionable. But if we thought that Poca or her Samerauk brethren purposely drowned my sister, do you actually believe that we would have come together the next year to,” he made air quotes, “end the curse?”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in curses?”

  “I don’t, but the town did, and my family has always put Rockfield first. Whether that be our willingness to concede our land to make the 1930 agreement happen, or the Trust, which has helped to fund the town for the last half century. We knew the curse didn’t end that day in 1962—they would bring it back as soon as they needed to gain leverage in some future conflict. And for those who don’t connect it with the casino, and the incident last weekend, well, they just haven’t been paying attention.”

  He then took me through the details of that night, which paralleled Vivian’s story, right down to how scared they were as he searched the dark water for Bette. He got emotional at times, very different from the image of the cold businessman, which had been attributed to him within Rockfield.

  “If it was an accident, as you say, why not be more forthcoming about what happened to her? As far as I know, your family never made a public comment about Bette. We both know that silence always leads to suspicion.”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t in charge back in those days—my father was. He was always protective of Bette, and the family name, and I think he thought the fact that she was intoxicated at the time might have led to her good name being sullied. But make no mistake, what happened to Bette broke him. Not only did he not talk about it publicly, we never discussed it in our home. And it played a big role in the move to California. Some would say he was looking for a new start, but I think it was more along the lines of trying to forget what had become of his little girl.”

  “But you’ve been in charge for over thirty years—you’ve had plenty of time to set the story straight.”

  “When I took over the family business after my father got sick, I tried to make Bette more accessible, yet still protect her. I made sure she was at the parade every year, and she atte
nded most major family events. But quite frankly, the town had moved past Bette’s story, and it was no longer about setting stories straight, but focusing on her needs.”

  “Is it true that she wandered off at the tribute ceremony for your father?”

  He shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it. “I’m still mad at your buddy Murray for that headline, but perhaps I’m just overprotective of Bette.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “Talk to who?”

  “Your sister … Bette.”

  He looked confused by the request. “I see no reason why not, but you do know she can’t talk back to you?”

  “I’m aware of her limitations.”

  He looked skeptical, but handed me a card. “You can set up a meeting—any time this afternoon should be fine, as long as Dr. MacDougal is present. He’s been in charge of her care for years, and she’s most comfortable when he’s around.”

  I was surprised by Doc Mac’s involvement, but probably shouldn’t have been, since he’s treated every sick person in town since long before I was born.

  I thanked Woodrow, shook his hand, and then watched as he returned to Jill Leezy before her impatience boiled over.

  I looked at the card. Bette was unable to speak, but I was still convinced that we had a lot to talk about.

  Chapter 24

  Bette Hastings sat in a loveseat recliner and stared straight ahead. Her brother’s skepticism proved accurate, as Bette was immobile and unresponsive. The only sound in the room came from the television, where Judge Judy was berating some poor sap who thought her TV court would be the best way to resolve a small claims dispute.

  Doc Mac had informed me that Bette often got jumpy and rambunctious in the afternoons, much like a child in need of a nap, and for some reason Judge Judy proved to be a calming influence for her. That had to be a first.

  I double-checked the photo to confirm that it was truly her. She was now in her late sixties, and was double the size of the girl in the photo. Back then, her baby face was still full of the wonder, but the sophisticated look and dress she wore that day made you think the transformation from innocent girl to sophisticated woman was not far off. It was a coming-of-age story that never got a chance to play out.

  Her hair was still curly, but cut short in a mannish style, and was streaked with gray. She wore large glasses, and the placid eyeballs behind them told me that it was doubtful she remembered that night.

  She had little response to any of my questions, and I wasn’t even sure she heard me. Nor did she display any emotion when I showed her the photo from the fair. I really thought it might trigger something in her. But her only words, if you would call them that, were a sort of hissing grunt that had no connection to what I was saying. I don’t know why I thought I would be the one to be able to get through to her after all these years. Arrogance, I guess.

  Coming here was a mistake—that was clear. But that’s not to say she didn’t strike an emotional chord with me. I grew both saddened and angered that this bubbly girl with her whole life ahead of her was delivered such a harsh fate. I thought of all she missed out on—graduations, weddings, babies, grandchildren … and that’s just the big stuff. It didn’t include all those small but special moments—the ones we truly hold dear as the years whiz by.

  She grunted again, and Doc Mac seemed to understand. “You hungry, Bette?”

  Her face flashed the first sign of understanding, and a brief shot of enthusiasm. I noticed the chemistry between Doc and Bette, and I was impressed by the trust I sensed she had in him.

  “She loves her Hot Pockets this time of the afternoon—I’ll be just a few minutes,” he said, and made his way to the kitchen.

  I was finally alone with her, but no longer held any expectation. “Tell me what happened that night?” I asked, and knew I was more likely to get a response from Judge Judy.

  I followed up with more questions she wouldn’t comprehend—Did you know something you shouldn’t have? How did you end up in the river that night—did Poca push you over the rail? Did she tell you what happened to Archie? Vivian said you became close with Poca that summer, and girlfriends that age tell each other secrets. What secrets do you have locked away in that mind, Bette?

  Nothing.

  Doc Mac returned with a plate containing two Hot Pockets right out of the microwave. It was ham and cheddar flavor, and really had a stink to it.

  Bette eagerly took the plate and began blowing on the Hot Pockets like they were birthday candles. She kept it up until Doc indicated that it was okay to dig in.

  “I’m sorry,” Doc said to me, sounding like I wasn’t the first to try to break the Bette code.

  “How long have you been doing this?” I asked him.

  He entered into deep thought, and rubbed his mustache. It reminded me of the typical visit to the folksy doctor’s office, when he would speak in a slow, deliberate manner as he informed you of your diagnosis. But his real healing ability often came from the power of comfort. He fixed my skinned knee when I was five, and a concussion in my late thirties, so Doc Mac and I have had a long-term relationship going.

  “I’d say I started around 1974 or 75. I had recently returned from Boston, and Woodrow Hastings had asked if I could attend to Bette’s medical needs—there had been a revolving door of doctors and he’d hoped I might be here for the long haul.”

  “Sounds like he made a pretty good choice.”

  “I’ve spent two hours every afternoon, give or take, since then with her, so I guess you could say that. I come here right after seeing my final patient for the day at the office. But I only play a minor role—she has a talented nursing staff that’s with her the other twenty-two hours of the day. And the funny thing is, I don’t think she even needs my services anymore—I come more for me these days. Just seeing her puts everything in perspective for me.”

  “Did you know her … before the accident?”

  He glanced at her, eating her Hot Pocket with her hands as if it were a candy bar. She would occasionally laugh at something Judge Judy said, and Doc smiled. Bette was happy, and that seemed to make him happy.

  “Yes, I tutored her that summer. I guess she had informed her parents that she wanted to be an actress when she grew up, but they were set on her being a homemaker. So doctor became a compromise. To make a long story short, Woodrow knew I was pursuing pre-med at BU, so he asked me on behalf of his family if I could tutor her that summer—to see if medicine was really something she wanted to pursue.”

  “What was she like?”

  He perked up. “Sharp as a tack, and so inquisitive—had questions about her questions. Her mind was a little scattered, as is the case with most teenagers, but you could tell that once she achieved that focus in a couple of years she was really going to do something special in this world.” His voice trailed off as he said it, and we both grew sad at the potential that had been lost, even though she seemed happy as a lark, now working on her second Hot Pocket.

  “It was hard for me at first, being her doctor,” he continued. “Because I’d seen her so vibrant. It would be different if I hadn’t known her prior. But you adjust—in any long-term relationship, no matter if it’s a marriage or doctor/patient, both parties never resemble the ones that originally met. Those who adjust thrive, and those who don’t keep longing for the past. Bette and I have adjusted nicely.”

  I thought of Gwen and how different we are from the two kids who had met on Skyview Drive all those years ago.

  “Were you around the night it happened?”

  “I was home preparing for my return trip to BU the next morning. But I had seen her earlier that day at the Rockfield Fair, and she brought me a gift for helping her with her studies that summer. I’m glad I got to see her one more time before everything changed.”

  “How did the community deal with it? She was the youngest daughter of perhaps the most prominent family in town.”

  “The family kept it very private—most of the towns
folk were unaware of the accident. And it certainly didn’t get the type of press that the Thomas Archibald disappearance did.”

  He smiled at Bette, who had finished her food. “Good girl,” he said, and she smiled back at him.

  I could tell that Doc could use a subject change, so I obliged, “It must be great to get to work with your son.”

  He beamed with pride. “A dream come true. I missed so much of his childhood, with him in Boston, and me working around the clock. We didn’t have the best of relationships for a long time, but we’ve had a chance to connect these last few years.”

  I was learning a whole new side of Doc Mac, and turns out he had a much more interesting and complex life than I’d ever thought.

  My visit didn’t fill in any puzzle pieces, but I was still glad I came. Like Doc, I’d gained a certain perspective by visiting Bette. But it was time to let them be. So after promising Doc that I’d be in soon for my six-month checkup on my concussion, I stepped toward Bette to thank her for providing me an audience this afternoon. Just as I did, a surprise visitor entered the room, stealing her attention away. Lewis Hastings had come by to check on his aunt.

  We greeted each other with smiles—the bond of bad golfers—and I said, “Funny not meeting you in the woods.”

  Lewis laughed as he placed flowers on the table next to Bette. He kissed her on the cheek and she grew excited. I just thought she was happy to see her nephew, but then realized what she was really interested in—the plate of peach cobbler he had for her.

  Doc told me that Lewis came by every afternoon with fresh flowers and the leftovers from lunch at the Hastings Inn. Doc wasn’t the only one I was seeing another side of.

  I thought I better get in my goodbye before she engrossed herself in the cobbler. I leaned in close to her ear, and thanked her for taking my questions. And for a split second, I got the idea that she understood what I was saying.

  Chapter 25

  My interviews ended with mixed results. But I still had my most important meeting of the day on the docket—at least the one I looked most forward to.