Katharine felt his eyes, hard as stone, boring through her. “Yes?”
“I have a confession to make.” His voice was flat.
“Really, Mr. McKeown?” Wondering what secret desire he was about to confess, she crossed the room to join him.
He snapped on the desk lamp, “I must confess to an incurably sweet tooth.” He held out a bowl of hard candies. “Care for a Butterscotch Bit?”
Startled, Katharine laughed and shook her head. Smiling, he popped a candy into his mouth. He motioned her to a chair. “Now, Mrs. Rowe, shall we get down to business?”
For two hours, they reviewed the evidence and the manner of presentation. At the end, Tony asked, “Shall I walk you to your car?”
Briefly, Katharine debated with herself. Should she risk exposing her vulnerability to him, or should she present a strong and confident front? She decided upon the latter. “No, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
His eyes lowered in hesitation. “It’s just that there’s a killer out there. The mad artist, committing horrific acts.” He shuddered as his voice trailed off. “Are you sure you’ll be safe?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said with a smile, and left.
The lawyer settled at his desk and turned to the organization of his notes of their interview.
CHAPTER 12
The Florist could not resist. Silently, he moved down the stairwell to the parking garage. He had to study Mrs. Rowe as much as possible. A photograph rarely captured the essence of a being.
The light between the rows of cars was dim. He could, without fear of detection, observe her from a distance as she hunted for her car.
There she was near the red-lit exit sign, pausing to search her purse for her keys. Foolish woman! Her keys should be in her hand. Now she was at her BMW.
Hidden in the shadows behind a concrete post, he sighed deeply. As she opened her car, her dark hair fell back, exposing her long and elegant neck. Such beautiful skin!
Memorizing the image, he turned away and swiftly mounted the stairs to the City Hall Square. If she were not more careful, he might have to follow her regularly, to save her for himself.
CHAPTER 13
The next morning, Katharine’s brother, Gerry, slipped up the back stairs of his dental clinic with a cup of black coffee. Struggling with his briefcase through the heavy fire door, he sloshed the scalding coffee on his hand and jacket.
Making vague excuses to his staff, he closeted himself in his office in order to make his lists. Gerry was good at making lists—all kinds of lists. He made lists of bills to pay, lists of problem patients, and lists of various coping strategies and of how to get from one hour to the next. At the end of his list-making, he would lapse into exhaustion and stare at the squiggles on the scraps of paper without comprehension. He needed an index of his lists.
Gerry was under a lot of pressure. Sometimes he couldn’t remember things. He was often terrified that he might be blacking out.
He could not bear to look at the financial statements for the clinic. One glance at his bookkeeper’s worried face was more powerful than any computer-generated graph. One word from the dreary accountant told him more than he ever wished to know about the bottom line.
“Am I insolvent?” Gerry recently asked his accountant, who looked uncomfortable and hastily prepared the check for his fees.
At first, Gerry loved his gleaming dental clinic, choosing to work long hours into the evening. Slowly, he would move from one examining room to another, each equipped with at least one hundred thousand dollars worth of equipment and fixtures—nothing but the best for Dr. Gerald Deighton. At first, his gentle touch had brought the patients in droves. He would tell them, “If it hurts, just take this mask and breathe deeply through your nose.” At the first whiff of nitrous oxide, most patients usually became agreeable.
But their satisfaction did not last. Only months after he had shouldered the sky-high rent and signed the equipment leases, the practice turned sour. Larger premises and more equipment added to his staggering debt load. His monthly costs had risen to over seventy thousand dollars—more than he had paid last year for his new Mercedes. Under pressure, Peter grew abrupt with his patients. Of course, they began to complain. The patients missed the personal touch. In such grand quarters, they felt reduced to computer entries. And. of course, the fees were too high.
Just too much financial pressure, he thought. It might be starting to make him crazy. He shuddered. Sometimes he forgot really important things, like where he had been or what he had been doing. Maybe he should see a doctor—get something to reduce the stress.
Gerry’s telephone rang. “Harold Jenkins on line one. Says it’s urgent, Dr. Deighton.”
“Who in Christ is he?” He snatched up the phone. “Yes, Mr. Jenkins?”
Although surprised at the abrupt tone, Harry strove for the right note of sympathy. “Dr. Deighton? I’m your aunt’s solicitor. Have the police been in touch with you?”
“What?” Gerry sounded as if he were being strangled. “The police?”
“I have unfortunate news.” Harry paused to clear his throat. “Your aunt Marjorie passed away yesterday afternoon.”
Gerry choked. Again the coffee spilled. “No! What happened?”
“I found her at home. The coroner thinks she died peacefully in her sleep.”
“Coroner?”
“Yes. I called the police. It is customary when someone is found dead.”
There was such a long pause that Harry thought they might have been disconnected.
“Oh, God! I’m sorry, Mr. Jenkins. It’s just hitting me now. I haven’t seen Marjorie since her birthday party two weeks ago, and now she’s gone.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Gerry,” said Harry carefully. “But I’m obligated to notify all the next of kin. Apparently, the coroner hasn’t decided whether there will be an autopsy.”
“An autopsy? Why?” Gerry demanded.
“It looked like a natural and peaceful passing, but they may perform one anyway. Just to be sure.”
“Yes, of course.” Gerry stopped, and then hurried on, “As I said, I haven’t seen her for some time. Yesterday I was at the clinic until after six.” Shit! Why did I say that? He chewed his lip. He was getting mixed up.
In surprise, Harry frowned and reached for his pen. He had called Gerry’s office yesterday at five, and he had been told that Gerry had left at noon and had not returned. What a strange conversation. Could it be the simple guilt of a neglectful nephew? Harry made a note and finished the conversation with a mention of the funeral arrangements. Poor Marjorie. Such strange reactions to the news of her death.
“By the way, do you know the name of Marjorie’s housekeeper, or her phone number?”
“Why?” Gerry demanded.
Taken aback, Harry continued mildly, “I understood she was coming back to Marjorie’s in the evening. I left my number, and I haven’t heard from her.”
“I know nothing about her.”
“Right. Thanks anyway.” Surprised, Harry said good-bye.
When Gerry put down the phone, he couldn’t stop his hand from shaking.
Fuck! Why did I say I hadn’t seen her?
But then, after some moments, he smiled. Undoubtedly, Marjorie had left him a third of the estate. At least for now, his money problems were solved. Auntie, your timing is perfect.
Yesterday, he had left the clinic on his lunch break, arriving at Marjorie’s within fifteen minutes. He had found her seated alone at the far end of the dining room table. Rosie was serving her lunch.
“What a pleasant surprise, Gerry.” Marjorie began graciously. “Have you had lunch?”
Gerry nodded.
“Some coffee, then?”
Gerry shook his head, but remained silent. He did not know where to begin.
“You’ve come for some purpose?” Marjorie prompted. Gerry looked at her blankly. Although he had rehearsed his pitch in the car, he was unable to find the words.
“Is it about Donnie? Your son, I fear, is a very troubled youngster.”
“No. Not Donnie.” Awkwardly, he pulled up a chair. She was not making it easy. Soon, she would be discussing Donnie, ad nauseam, if he didn’t come to the point. “No. It’s about the clinic.” He rubbed his hands nervously.
“It’s money, then?” Looking disappointed, Marjorie set down her cup.
“Yes. I’m experiencing some temporary cash flow problems. I’m sure you’ve helped Katie before.”
“No, Gerry. I haven’t. Katharine would never ask for money.” Marjorie said coldly.
Gerry’s shoulders slumped. His hands twisted underneath the tablecloth. After several silent moments, Gerry said bitterly, “Oh, of course not. My mistake, Auntie. Katie’s perfect. She’d never ask for money.”
“How much do you need?”
Gerry looked up hopefully at his aunt. “About two hundred,” he said softly.
“Thousand?”
“Yes. As an advance against any estate interest I might have.”
Carefully, Marjorie dabbed her lips with her napkin. She gazed at her nephew levelly. “I don’t have that kind of money, Gerry. How did you get into this mess?”
Anger flared in him. The old bitch was sitting on a pile of cash and she was turning him down flat. He struggled for control. “It’s not a mess. It’s a cash flow problem! All businesses experience that occasionally.”
“You needn’t get angry with me, Gerry. I can let you have a smaller amount—say twenty thousand, right away. And yes, it would come out of your share of my estate.”
Twenty thousand, thought Gerry. Twenty thousand wasn’t even a Band-Aid. Gerry stood up so violently that his chair nearly toppled over. “Never mind, Auntie. So sorry to disappoint you by asking. I’ll go now.”
“Gerry?” said Marjorie.
He turned in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Don’t forget the offer of twenty is still open.” She paused. “And we really should talk about Donnie soon.” Gerry nodded curtly and, brushing past Rosie, let himself out.
Donnie was trouble. Psychiatrists, special tutors, and therapists all cost ridiculous sums. What the kid needed was a good kick in the ass. He and his wife, Beth, had argued back and forth.
“Setting fires in the ravine is not normal behavior for a fifteen-year-old. Fuck, it’s not normal behavior for any age,” Gerry had raged.
“Dr. Hannah says he’s dealing with his pent-up aggression,” Beth insisted.
“He’s damn well going to feel some of my aggression soon.”
“Dr. Hannah says it’s healthy.” Beth stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. “Go ahead, Gerry. Destroy all the progress that’s been made. You think you can solve all problems by hitting people. Dr. Hannah says we have to be patient.”
Gerry’s lips twisted with bitterness. “Right! Be patient and keep paying through the nose.” He slumped into a chair. “Next time, he’s on his own. I’m not paying some high-priced lawyer to get him out of another scrape.”
He shoved Donnie from his mind. Fussing with the list in his office, he began doodling. Moments later, he stared at the page, now covered with a disgusting profusion of wildflowers and thorns. He examined his handiwork in bleak amazement. What the hell? I hate flowers.
Christ! Why didn’t he tell Jenkins he had seen her yesterday? There was nothing wrong with asking for a loan. But she had turned him down and now she was dead. They must suspect something if they wanted an autopsy. Now cops and the coroner were crawling all over the place. Several times, he reached for the phone to call Jenkins back. He ought to tell him, but what could he say?
His nurse came in. “Your first patient has been waiting for half an hour, Dr. Deighton.”
He hated the reproach in her voice. As he entered the examining room, fear clutched at the pit of his stomach. His imagination ran amok. In his nightmare last night, a patient had revealed row upon row of decaying teeth covering the entire roof of her mouth. His revulsion terrorized him.
He was losing his grip.
Only the promise of a whiff of nitrous oxide at the end of the day would see him through: so relaxing, after a tough day prying away at people’s jaws. He had first started the habit when the nitrous had eased a muscle spasm in his back, after a particularly difficult root canal job.
He remembered that day with crystal clarity. After the last had patient left, he checked the outer office doors twice. Turning out all the lights except those in the furthest examining room, he carefully set up the tank and mask. What if he couldn’t control the equipment? What if the cleaning staff barged in? He stretched out in the chair, holding the control in his hand. If he were discovered, what possible excuse would there be?
Gerry placed the mask over his nose. Everything would be all right. Nice and easy. He pressed the button.
Immediately, an almost imperceptible hissing began. Gerry breathed deeply and greedily, holding the gas in his lungs. He smiled, but did not laugh. He saw his body rising up, free and excruciatingly light, expanding to fill the room. Floating up through space and time, all in a soft white room, like a figure in a Marc Chagall painting. His breathing settled to a slow and rhythmic pattern. His mind began drifting back through the years.
Katie floated up from memory. Ever since Suzannah came, Katie picked on me. Always, sitting at the top of the stairs watching everybody else, as Mother and Aunt Marjorie took turns walking the baby behind a closed bedroom door. Gerry had felt abandoned. One day he watched her as she carefully cut the curtains until they hung in shreds.
“Whose baby is it?” she laughed, as she snipped first one curtain and then the next.
“It’s Mommy’s baby,” Gerry insisted.
“No it’s not, stupid. She never got big.”
Katie’s teasing, Gerry thought.
Mother made him tell on her about the shredded curtains. Gerry did not know if their father punished her, but anger raged in Katie’s eyes. He tried to keep away from her, but it was no use.
Just days later, his friend Peter came over to play in the backyard. Friends were allowed either in the kitchen or down in the cellar, but the dining room and parlor were strictly out of bounds.
Peter and Gerry had been playing with their trucks in the sand pit behind the garage. A shadow loomed above them. Squinting upward, they saw Katie standing above them, with one foot on either side of the trench they had dug.
“Gerry, bring your little friend inside. You’ve got to see something in the front hall.” Her tone made him wary, but he obeyed. Setting down his shovel, he motioned Peter to follow.
“We’re not supposed to go inside, Katie. What if we’re caught?”
Katie tossed her head back, laughing over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Gerry. You’re in enough trouble already.”
Gerry stood still on the veranda, before the open door. Looking from his sister to his friend, he said, “Me? What did I do?” He fought to keep the whine from his voice. They slipped through the kitchen.
Before them lay the tiled foyer. Gerry blinked as his eyes adjusted to the cool, dim light. A thousand shattered pieces of Mother’s vase lay strewn across the tile floor.
“I didn’t do it!” he stammered, afraid to look up at his sister.
Katie smiled wearily. “Gerry…Gerry. You know you did, running downstairs to see Peter.”
“But, no…I didn’t, Katie!” Gerry backed away. His voice rose in a childish wail. He knew it was no use. Shaking his head, he started to cry, “No Katie, don’t say I did. You know I didn’t.”
“Shut up, you little sniveler! Do you want the whole house to hear you?” Peter looked from Gerry to Katie, and then wiped the sand from his face.
“Be quiet and come into the dining room,” his sister commanded.
“But Katie, we’re not allowed in there,” Gerry protested as he trooped in after her with Peter. Carefully, she closed both sets of French doors. The dining room was dark and still in the mid-afternoon. A few rays of sunlight spi
lled onto the burnished dining room table, punctuating the gloom. Gerry always tried to hold his breath in this room.
Katie pulled out one of the sideboard chairs. “Peter,” she asked gently, “what do you think that is?” Peter peered in the gloom and then shrugged, wiping his hand on his pants. On the floor between the buffet and the sideboard stood a leather-tooled canister.
“I don’t know,” Peter began uncertainly, taking a step backward. “Looks like some kind of fancy garbage can.”
Katie smiled indulgently. “Yes,” she said slowly, “sort of.” She reached for Peter’s hand and drew him closer. “And what do you think is in it, Peter?”
“A stick?” Peter looked up furtively at Katie, then down at his shoes.
“Very good, Peter! But it’s a special stick. It’s a cane!” She released Peter’s hand and withdrew the cane. Looking only at Gerry, she continued, “It’s for punishing children, but only when they’re really bad.” Katie’s arm rose up and brought the cane down hard on the plush chair seat with a crack. Dust flew up. Peter lurched backward.
Katie was smiling. “Just like in the church, Gerry.”
All of them became aware of a puddle forming, and then spreading at an alarming rate, on the hardwood floor around Gerry’s sneakers.
Uncontrolled panic drove Gerry sobbing through the kitchen and out to the garden. Stumbling across the lawn, he reeled around the back of the garage and flung himself onto the sand pit. Deep shame flooded through his body. His wet pants were growing cold and prickly.
He stopped crying. Katie was above him, humming. “Look at me, Gerry,” she said in her singsong voice.
“Where’s Peter?” Gerry choked. If he kept crying, she’d only get madder.
“Gone home, of course.”
“Did you tell him about the church, Katie?”
“Your secret’s still safe. I collect and keep secrets, Gerry. I’m not a baby like you. I don’t blab!” Gerry knew she was really mad. “I saved you that time and just maybe, I’ll save you this time.”
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