Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3)

by Derek Ciccone

  Allison felt empathy for her, but Will not so much, “You had all these years to come clean, yet you said nothing!”

  “I was trying to keep Archie safe. It was too late to help Bette.”

  “But you didn’t think about my father and Bette? They have lived in fear, and could never be free. This was about saving yourself.”

  Her defiance returned. “Your father did the same thing. I protected Archie, and he protected Bette—and that’s one of the reasons that they’re both still alive. I would do it again, and I would bet that he would too!”

  Will was starting to look conflicted, and Allison thought she had an opening, “You’re a really good son, and your father is going to be proud of you for how you’ve tried to help him, but Marty’s death taught me that revenge doesn’t solve anything.”

  Will’s emotions were starting to unravel. “I thought you of all people, Allison, would understand what it’s like to have the one you love ripped away from you. The Hastings family, and this stupid curse, ripped Bette from him … his great love. And the overhanging threat of retribution has held them hostage ever since. But I’m going to set them free!”

  “You blame Poca for using others to push her agenda, but you’re doing the same thing. You used me—and don’t tell me it was just some coincidence we discovered his car that day,” Allison came back at him.

  “I needed to bring the Thomas Archibald story back to life. So yes, I was the one who created the hoax, pretending to represent Ghost Town, USA, and I put the car in the river. It took me almost a year to find just the right model, and have it customized to match the car that Archibald drove, including the license plate.”

  “If those weren’t Archibald’s bones, then who was it?” Allison asked, and braced for the answer.

  “The body was a cadaver from the BU medical school—I still have a few connections up there.” He looked to Lewis. “I apologize for the break-in at the golf course, but it was the ideal place to dump the car into the river.”

  Allison thought back to their fishing trip when they’d “discovered” the car. She recalled Will’s words when he spoke about his father: You can’t change the sins of the past, you can only hope to atone for them. And that’s what this was all about. He was trying to make up for his broken family, and the lost years with his father. He blamed Woodrow Hastings for setting his unhappy childhood into motion.

  “Problem is, the police are going to get here first, so your plan is not going to work,” Allison reiterated.

  Will nodded. “I think you’re right. That’s why we need to move. And since the streets are flooded, I think we’ll be going by boat.”

  He looked at the rowboat in which Allison sat, but then the ringing of a phone diverted his attention.

  Chapter 77

  Will fumbled through his pocket and pulled out the ringing phone. It was Poca’s … and the call was from Chayton.

  He handed it to her with the warning, “You say a wrong word, and this will be your last conversation.”

  Poca spoke into the phone like nothing was wrong. “Hello, my son.” And then something was wrong. Her face filled with fear, and she exclaimed, “Oh my God, no!”

  Will grabbed the phone away from her, and found that it wasn’t Chayton on the line. It was a woman. “He’s barely breathing,” she wailed.

  He found his calm. “I’m a doctor, my name is Will, What is your name?”

  “It’s Maria—I work for Mr. Dohasan … I’m his house-cleaner. He’s usually at work at this time, but today he is in the bed. I thought he was dead.”

  “Okay, Maria, I need you to be calm, and we’ll get through this. Can you do that?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “First I need you take a couple of deep breaths, okay?”

  She followed his instruction—he could hear the extended breaths through the phone. Once she’d calmed, he had her describe the scene to him. It wasn’t a pretty picture—the syringes, the puke, and the clammy skin. He had her open his eyes to see that the pupils were pinpoint. The signs were obvious—Chayton had overdosed on heroin.

  “He’s barely breathing,” Maria’s calm didn’t last long. “It’s like his chest expands only like every ten seconds.”

  “Maria—what I need you to do is to go into the bathroom, and look in the medicine cabinet, or under the sink, and there should be a plastic kit with two syringes in it. I need you to find it, okay?”

  She gave play-by-play into the phone as she searched, and eventually found it hidden in a towel closet.

  “Now I need you to go to Mr. Dohasan, and inject it into the muscle in his leg.”

  She didn’t seem too keen on that part, but he had earned her trust. What she had was a hand-held auto injector, which would provide a single dose of Naloxone—to reverse the effects of the overdose.

  “Okay, I did it,” Maria said. They waited for a few moments, and she reported, “He’s breathing better now. You saved his life!”

  “It’s not a cure, Maria—I need you to call an ambulance right away and have him taken to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. I’ll call ahead and make sure they’re waiting for him.”

  He ended the call and released a deep breath. He looked at Poca. “That was a close call, but I think he’s going to be okay.”

  She looked relieved, but also confused. “Chayton doesn’t do drugs—someone must have done this to him.”

  “Your son has a heroin addiction, and he recently feared a relapse coming on. That’s why he came to my office last week, and I prescribed him the auto injector, just in case. It’s what saved his life.”

  “Why should I believe you? He wouldn’t even touch a sip of alcohol, because alcoholism runs in our family.”

  “It’s amazing how those we are closest to know us the least. His addiction began when we roomed together in Boston and he was struggling with the pressures of Harvard Law. He’s kept his fight private over the years, but I do agree with you that his addiction was used against him by those who want to keep the truth quiet.”

  “I need to be with him,” Poca said.

  He raised his gun. “That’s not possible, but we do need to get out of here. Allison is right—the police will be here soon.”

  “Where are you taking us?” Allison asked.

  “Poca has a good understanding of the tunnels underneath the old psychiatric hospital. And we can get there by boat.”

  But before they could move out, a loud banging on the exterior shutter doors of the basement stopped them in their tracks.

  “Hey, Doc—I’m here for my follow-up.”

  Allison recognized the voice. It wasn’t the police—it was Carter!

  He kept banging. “That’s what I hate about the doctor’s office—hurry up and wait. They stick you in the waiting room with some old magazines like you got all day.”

  Will finally spoke, “You need to make an appointment. I don’t do house calls.”

  “But luckily I do. So how about letting me in before I decide to come back with the police?”

  “That would be a bad mistake. People could get hurt.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say … so I brought someone who can talk some sense into you.”

  “Son—I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me … as does Bette. But this isn’t the way to go about it,” Doc Mac said.

  Chapter 78

  Gwen and I flew home on Ward Seifert’s private jet. Compared to the sheik’s plane it was practically a crop duster, but it sure beat being trapped on a commercial flight next to a screaming child. It was becoming obvious that I’d made the wrong career choice—the oil and grape industries seemed to pay in airplanes.

  The private plane also allowed us to avoid the airport, which was especially important since we were dead … at least in Woodrow Hastings’ eyes. And we wanted to keep it that way as long as possible.

  As far as the current tally of who’s alive, who’s dead, and who’s alive but thought to be dead—Joe Jr. suppo
sedly had been killed, along with Gwen and me, at the vineyard. Thomas Archibald remained dead, but his alter-ego Ward Seifert was very much alive. The same couldn’t be said for Nap and Louisa who were dead, but their father believed them to be alive.

  Back on the home front, Lewis, Allison, and Poca were all rescued from Will MacDougal’s basement. They were immediately put into protective custody, and no mention of a kidnapping or arrests were made at this time.

  The long flight east gave us time to study the documents that Allison had emailed to Gwen. I had thought to look for Bette’s diary in many places, but Gwen’s email was not one of them. The entries offered a firsthand account of what happened to Bette on the night of her accident. It also filled in what occurred when Archie went missing, based on conversations Bette had overheard. But her words weren’t what led us to Will as the “third party.”

  The hero was Allison, and without her quick thinking we could be looking at a completely different outcome. Whether it was her savvy or an accidental shot based on haste, one of the photos she sent was of the kitchen where she’d found the documents. Having grown up next door to the Alfords, Gwen had been inside their home on numerous occasions. She immediately recognized it, and I called Carter. This time he answered.

  He brought along a secret weapon in Doc Mac. The sound of a father’s voice is Kryptonite for all sons, and morphs us back into weak-kneed children—Will had no shot at that point. And after getting his son to peacefully surrender, it was time for Doc to finally tell his story. And he would do so at Bette’s residence, with her by his side. He also requested that Gwen and I be present, along with Rich Tolland. We came directly from the airport.

  He sat on the couch next to Bette, and they held hands. An old-fashioned typewriter was on the coffee table in front of them, and Doc Mac clutched a leather-bound book as if it were the Bible. The diary.

  He traded glances with Bette, as if to make sure she was ready for this, and then began, “It was our last tutoring session of the summer at the Hastings estate. Bette walked me out to the front porch, and I told her how proud I was of her, for how hard she had worked, and what she’d accomplished. Bette began to cry, and blubbered that she wouldn’t be able to make it in school without me. She begged me not to leave. This was obviously an impossibility, but the best I could do was try to comfort her, and assure her that she would be fine. When I attempted to do this, she … well … she kissed me.”

  I looked to Bette, and for the first time I saw an expressive look on her face—a mischievous smile.

  “So what did you do?” Gwen asked.

  “I pulled away, of course. I was in college, and she was just about to start high school. Not only would it be wrong, but it would be against the law. I tried to explain this to her.”

  “And how did that go?”

  “I guess that depends on your perspective—she kissed me again. When I tried to explain it once more—in more forceful language—she told me that age didn’t matter when it came to true love. This time I didn’t bother trying to explain—I just ran home as fast as I could.”

  Bette leaned over and methodically hit keys on the typewriter. We all stared, hanging on every slow peck. When she finished, Doc Mac smiled. “She said, I told you so.”

  We laughed, and Doc Mac looked to me, “The woman is always right—once you learn that, you’ll live a very happy life.”

  “I’m starting to understand how that works,” I said.

  Doc continued, “A few days later—the Saturday of the fair—she showed up at my house. She apologized for the kiss, and she gave me a gift.”

  I pointed to the leather-bound diary.

  He nodded, and handed it over to us like it were a piece of evidence. Gwen began to thumb through it.

  “It was a typical diary, full of her thoughts, teenage rants, emotion swings, and crushes. The final entry was a few days prior to when she kissed me. She reiterated her belief that we would be together one day, and wrote that we would fill in the rest of it with our memories when she was old enough. I accepted the gift, but didn’t put too much stock in it, figuring a week later I’d be long forgotten and she’d be on to her new crush. But that was the night …”

  Chapter 79

  “Of her accident,” Gwen said, as Doc grew emotional.

  “It was the night that changed everything,” he replied.

  “It was also a night you lied about, the last time I was here,” I said.

  “The only lies I’ve ever told in my life were to protect Bette, and I don’t regret a single one.”

  “But we can protect her now,” Rich Tolland interjected. “I respect the choices you’ve made, Doc, but from this point on I’m going to need your complete cooperation.”

  He nodded somberly, and moved closer to Bette. When I was here last, I thought he was the one giving her comfort, but now the roles had reversed.

  “I was packing, as I was to return to BU the next day. That’s when Woodrow Hastings showed up at my home. He told me that there had been an accident at the bridge, and he needed a doctor. I offered to help in any way I could, but wasn’t even in medical school yet, much less a doctor. This didn’t deter him, and him being a Hastings, I didn’t feel I had much of a choice in the matter.”

  “So you had no idea it was Bette?” Gwen said.

  The normally unflappable doctor started to look a bit unnerved. “She was the last person I expected to see. She was unconscious when I arrived, and soaked like a wet dog—I worried about her going into shock. I told Woodrow and his father that they had to get her to a hospital right away, but my request was denied. Then they demanded that I ‘fix her,’ but I had no idea where to even begin.”

  “And how did Woodrow respond to that?” I asked.

  “He threatened me, and said if I ever said anything about this night to anyone he would go to the police with the photos he had of me.”

  “Photos?”

  “When Bette had kissed me—he had been spying on us, and snapped photos. They were misleading, of course, making it look like I was the aggressor. But he said the police wouldn’t care, and they’d believe his family over me any day of the week, and twice on Sunday. That I would be locked up as a pedophile, and that they don’t like those types in prison.”

  “But all the threats in the world couldn’t have saved her that night, could they?” Gwen asked.

  “She had been in the water too long. There was no guarantee that taking her to the hospital would have, but there would have been a better chance.” He looked physically frustrated at this point, and Bette again took his hand, and she grunted her displeasure.

  “So you never went to the police?” Rich questioned.

  “No—I wasn’t so much worried about their threats, but I’d figured that there must be a reason why Woodrow was so desperate to avoid the hospital, and it might put Bette in danger if I made a public case out of it. I also didn’t know the full extent of her injuries at the time. On my fall break from college, I stopped by the Hastings estate to check on Bette, but I was told that she had been sent to boarding school in Minnesota. I found out about her condition like everyone else—from the newspaper article. There was nothing I could do at that point, so I went on with my life. I thought that would be best for everyone involved.”

  “Which included becoming a doctor,” I said.

  “Yes, in Boston. And that’s where I met my wife, and before I knew it Will was born. But there was always something drawing me back home. I would like to say it was Bette, but to be honest, I wasn’t even sure I could visit her—it would have killed me to see all the life knocked out of the young girl who had all that boundless energy and curiosity. Whatever the reason, I knew that Rockfield was where I needed to be, which became a wedge between my wife and me. She thought our stay would be temporary, and when it became clear that wouldn’t be the case, it was the beginning of the end.

  “She took Will back to Boston and filed for divorce. I stayed in Rockfield, started my practice, and
eventually I visited Bette. And what I saw horrified me. Not so much the brain damage—I was prepared for that—it was that she hadn’t received adequate care, and very little attempt had been made at therapy. I knew some of that old life and determination was in her, even if in a much more restricted state. I wanted to try to help her. Woodrow was happy to make me her physician—doctors had become a revolving door and I offered a more stable solution. I also think he liked the idea of keeping me close by, with what I knew about that night.”

  “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,” I said.

  Doc nodded. “It wasn’t easy working for the Hastings’ after I’d seen what they were capable of, but I’m glad I did, because it brought me to the person I was always supposed to be with.”

  “From what we read in those diary entries, Bette also benefited. She has made a lot of progress,” Gwen said, and pointed at the typewriter.

  “It has been a slow and tedious process at times, and included a lot of intensive therapy. Then about ten years ago, I began writing articles for a couple of medical journals as a side job. So I would bring my typewriter with me when I’d visit Bette each afternoon, with the hopes of getting some writing done while she was watching TV. Bette was drawn to it, and I’d let her punch the keys. But she wasn’t just punching them, she was creating words, and later sentences. She still couldn’t talk, and probably never would—each thought of hers remains a struggle. But something in her mind opened, which allowed her to communicate.”

  “I’m guessing you decided not to share this with Woodrow,” I said.

  “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a fluke before making our progress public. We continued to push on, and I even got her the typewriter you see there—with the large keys, as her motor skills are primitive at best. But when she began to reconstruct the night of her accident, I thought it was best to keep our discovery to ourselves.”