South of Hell (Louis Kincaid Mysteries)

by P J Parrish

  Joe had been looking at all the lawn ornaments—gnomes in the barren flower beds, a blue gazing ball on a stone pedestal, a pair of plastic fairies, and a flock of pink plastic flamingos—and at first she didn’t think she heard Amy right.

  “Wah-wahs?” she asked.

  Amy nodded. “That’s what Aunt Geneva called them, the things people put in their yards. She said they were stupid, but I like them. They make a house look happy, like it has toys to play with.”

  Joe let it go. “Come on, Amy, let’s go in.”

  She led the girl up onto the porch, which was strung with a dozen wind chimes. Amy waited patiently while Joe rang the bell, her gaze traveling over the chimes dancing to a discordant symphony of tinkles and clicks. Joe hadn’t told Amy where they were going or why. And when they had pulled up in front of Mary Sher’s bungalow, Joe was glad to see there was no sign announcing it as a doctor’s office. There had been no repeat of Amy’s strange behavior since last night, and Joe was hoping this visit wouldn’t bring on another.

  Joe rang the bell again.

  A shrink…

  Her own experience with psychiatrists was limited to the one trip mandated by a state police captain after the ambush that had left two of her fellow Echo Bay officers dead. She hated sitting in that office with that doctor’s eyes locked on her, like he knew secrets about her that he would never tell. It made her feel…invaded and exposed. And she didn’t want Amy to feel that way any more than she already did.

  The door opened. A small woman of about sixty, with a pink face surrounded by a corona of red curly hair, smiled up at her.

  “Hello, you must be Joe Frye,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Mary Sher.”

  Joe shook the woman’s small, warm hand. She felt Amy hovering behind and stepped aside.

  “And you’re Amy,” Dr. Sher said.

  Amy just stared at the woman, then nodded, her face disappearing behind the curtain of her hair.

  “Please come in. It’s nice and warm inside.”

  Dr. Sher led them through French doors and into a living room of old plush furniture, dark paneling, and bookshelves. A red brick fireplace took up one end of the room, and an old baby grand piano dominated the other, its top draped with a fringed shawl. Every inch of wall space was given over to paintings, French ballet prints, Victorian plates, African masks; every surface was filled with knickknacks, books, doilies, figurines, and even a tarnished Russian samovar. And lamps—there had to be at least ten in the room—everything from a glowing faux Tiffany to a two-foot-tall hula girl topped with a gaudy fifties-era flowered shade.

  Dr. Sher saw Amy staring at the hula-girl lamp and went over and touched a switch. The light came on, and a second later, the figurine’s plaster hips began to sway.

  Amy let out a gasp of delight.

  Dr. Sher looked at Joe. “My late husband and I found that in the Paris flea market.” She gestured to a sinuous red velvet Victorian settee. “Please, make yourself at home.”

  Joe took a seat and looked to Amy, who now seemed to be examining the spines of the books. Dr. Sher touched Joe’s hand. “Let her be for a moment so we can talk.”

  Dr. Sher pulled a carved chair closer. “Jake said you found Amy at her old home,” Dr. Sher said, keeping her voice low.

  “Yes,” Joe said. “She seemed to have a need to get there, but she can’t really tell me why. She said something about waiting for her mother—”

  “Jake said her mother was dead,” Dr. Sher interrupted.

  Joe nodded. “Yes, and when we found Amy, she said she was waiting for her.”

  Joe went on to fill the doctor in on all that had happened with Amy so far, including the fact that other than one bad asthma attack and almost comalike sleep, she seemed otherwise healthy. Mary Sher listened intently, nodding, hands clasped in her lap.

  “What is it you need from me exactly, Sheriff Frye?” Dr. Sher asked.

  “Call me Joe, please.” Joe glanced at Amy, but she was still lost in the bookshelves. “We need you to evaluate her level of emotional and mental stability. We’ll need this for the courts.”

  Dr. Sher nodded. “Jake said her mother might have been murdered by her husband,” she whispered.

  Joe let out a small sigh. “We don’t know that for sure. And Amy’s memories are too vague. I’m not even sure they are real.”

  “Do you think she was abused?” Dr. Sher asked.

  “She said once her father hurt her.” Joe hesitated. “She seems to be afraid of men.”

  But even as Joe said that, she had a new thought. Amy didn’t seem to be afraid of Jake Shockey. This morning, when Shockey had come to the hotel to check up on her, Amy had been calm. She had even shaken Shockey’s hand when Joe introduced him.

  But Amy still didn’t seem to want to be around Louis. Every time he was near, Amy’s eyes would grow wary. It struck Joe suddenly: Was Amy responding to Louis this way because he was black? The school in Hell…that playground was filled with only white kids. Any school Amy went to in Hudson was probably the same, and she had left school early to take care of her aunt. Before that, she had been isolated on the Brandt farm. Was it possible the girl had never seen a black man before?

  She heard the plink of the piano and looked over at Amy. She was running her fingers lightly over the old ivory keys.

  “Amy? Could you come over here, dear?” Dr. Sher said.

  Joe looked back at Dr. Sher. “You want to start now?”

  Dr. Sher gave her a gentle smile. “No reason to delay. Why don’t you take a seat over by the piano, Joe?”

  Amy came forward. Joe rose, and Dr. Sher motioned for Amy to sit down on the settee. Joe retreated to the piano bench.

  “I like your piano,” Amy said.

  “Can you play the piano?” Dr. Sher asked.

  Amy nodded, smiling. “With my feet.”

  “Your feet?”

  Amy began pumping her feet up and down.

  “There is a player piano in the farmhouse,” Joe said from her corner.

  “Ah,” Dr. Sher said.

  “My legs were too little to reach, but I saw Momma do it,” Amy said.

  Dr. Sher leaned forward. “Do you remember much about living on the farm, Amy?

  Amy’s feet stopped moving. “Sometimes.”

  “Only sometimes?”

  “My memory isn’t very good,” Amy said softly. “I can’t always tell the real stuff from the dream stuff.” Her eyes seemed to be searching the doctor’s face. “Do you know what I mean?”

  Dr. Sher nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  “And sometimes…” Amy’s voice drifted off.

  “Go on, dear.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if I am crazy.”

  She had been speaking so quietly Joe had to lean forward.

  “Are you a doctor?” Amy asked suddenly.

  Dr. Sher glanced at Joe, then looked at Amy. “Yes, I am.”

  “Can you help me get better?” Amy asked.

  “I think so,” Dr. Sher said.

  Amy sat back in the settee with a sigh. For a second, Joe wondered if she were going into one of her sleep episodes. But Amy just seemed to be deep in thought.

  “Can we talk about the dream you had last night?” Dr. Sher asked. “The one about the barn?”

  Amy looked up. Then she nodded slowly.

  “Did that feel more like a dream or a real memory?” Dr. Sher asked.

  “It was the first time I had that one,” Amy said. She suddenly sat up straighter, again searching the doctor’s face. “But I don’t think it was a dream. I think it was real, and I want to remember it better.”

  “It might be hard. You were probably very young.”

  “I want to remember,” Amy said, her voice growing agitated. “I need to remember so I can help her.”

  Joe was waiting for Dr. Sher to say “Your mother,” but the doctor was quiet, studying Amy. Maybe confronting the memory of her mother’s murder was too much to put the girl through right
now. Joe was about to suggest that they bring the session to an end when Dr. Sher rose, came over to Joe, and bent low.

  “Jake told me that Amy trusts you,” the doctor said quietly.

  Joe nodded.

  “I might be able to access her memories under hypnosis,” Dr. Sher said. “How do you feel about that?”

  Joe was impressed with how Dr. Sher had handled things so far. “I’m okay with it, if Amy is,” she said.

  Dr. Sher nodded and went back to sit down next to Amy.

  She reached over and took her hand. Amy didn’t resist, didn’t even jump at the contact.

  “Would you like me to help you remember things better?” Dr. Sher asked.

  Amy nodded quickly.

  “Do you know what hypnosis is?”

  Amy shook her head.

  “It’s like going to sleep but being awake enough to tell me what you are dreaming about.”

  Amy looked to Joe and then back at the doctor. “Okay,” she said softly.

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  “I know,” Amy said.

  It took only minutes for Dr. Sher to hypnotize Amy. Joe had thought there would be swinging pendulums and hokey words, but the doctor had used only her voice to coax Amy into a sleep state. Joe had read that certain people were more susceptible to hypnosis than others. And she knew that doctors themselves didn’t even agree on its validity. For every doctor who claimed it was a true altered state of consciousness, there was another to discount it as just heightened focus.

  Watching Amy now, lying on the red settee, Joe wasn’t sure what to believe. At least, the girl looked peaceful.

  “Amy?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like you to go back to when you were little. Can you remember that?”

  “Yes.”

  Joe could see the deep and even rise of Amy’s chest through the thin fabric of her T-shirt.

  “Where are you?” Dr. Sher asked.

  “Farm…in my room. It’s pink.”

  Joe remembered Louis describing a bedroom with pink wallpaper.

  “Can you see anything else?”

  “A kitten. I have a kitten.”

  Suddenly, Amy gave out a small cry.

  “What is it, Amy?” Dr. Sher asked.

  “He killed it.”

  “Killed what?”

  “My kitten. I found it in the barn, and I wanted to keep it, but when I brought it into the house, he…he…”

  “It’s all right, dear. It’s all right.”

  For a moment, there was no sound in the room except Amy’s breathing. Gradually, it returned to normal.

  “Can you tell me about the barn?” Dr. Sher asked gently.

  “The barn,” Amy whispered.

  “Can you go into the barn?” Dr. Sher asked. “Can you go there and tell me what you see there?”

  The girl’s brows knitted slightly.

  “Are you in the barn, Amy?” Dr. Sher prodded.

  “I don’t want to go in the barn.”

  Joe sat back and stifled a sigh.

  “That’s all right,” Dr. Sher said. She glanced over at Joe and gave a subtle shake of her head.

  “Ohhhh…”

  Joe’s eyes shot to Amy. She had her hands over her face and was moaning.

  Dr. Sher leaned closer. “Amy, what is it?”

  “No, don’t…no, don’t…” Amy said.

  Joe rose from her seat.

  “Amy?”

  “Momma! Momma! Oh, no…don’t hurt Momma! Stop! Stop!”

  “Amy, it’s all right.”

  “No! No! I don’t wanna go! I don’t wanna go in the hole!”

  Joe came forward quickly. “Get her out of this,” she said.

  Dr. Sher looked up. “She needs to go through this.”

  Joe turned away.

  “Where is he putting you, Amy? What’s the hole?”

  “Outside, outside…it smells so bad…dark. And if I cry again, he’ll throw me down the hole. I have to be quiet until Momma comes to let me out. Be quiet…”

  And suddenly, Amy fell quiet. Joe looked back. She had brought up her knees and was lying on her side, curled into a ball. Dr. Sher had her hand on Amy’s forehead. She looked up at Joe with questions in her pale blue eyes.

  “Doctor?” Joe said quietly.

  Dr. Sher turned.

  “Can you ask her about the barn again?”

  Dr. Sher turned back to Amy. “Amy? Amy, can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to you go into the barn. Can you go in there?”

  Joe had moved closer, and she watched Amy’s face. Her eyelids were fluttering, like she was trying hard to see something.

  “What do you see in the barn, Amy?” Dr. Sher asked.

  “Horse. Brown horse.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Cow…just a cow.”

  Amy fell quiet. Joe was watching her face for any sign of distress, but there was nothing.

  Then a soft sound. Amy was humming. Joe came up to stand behind Dr. Sher’s chair.

  Amy was hugging herself and singing. She was singing the same nonsensical song that she had sung last night before falling asleep.

  Amy sang the song over and over, until her voice finally tapered off into soft, even breathing.

  Dr. Sher sat riveted, a stunned look on her face. She switched off the small tape recorder she had set on the table by Amy’s head. Finally, she leaned forward and took Amy’s hand.

  “Amy, I want you to wake up now,” she said evenly. “We’re going to count back from ten together, and when we get to one, you’ll wake up, okay?”

  “Yes.”

  At one, Amy opened her eyes. She looked first at Dr. Sher and then at Joe. She smiled shyly.

  “Did I do okay?” she asked.

  Dr. Sher smiled back. “Yes, dear.”

  “I sang the song,” Amy said.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “But this time, I sang the whole thing. I never did that before. I can remember it now.”

  Her smile widened. She swung her legs to floor and sat up, suddenly very alert. She focused on Joe.

  “I’m hungry. Can we get a pizza?”

  That morning, back at the hotel, Joe finally had persuaded Amy to try a slice of the leftover pizza, telling her that while it may not have been on Aunt Geneva’s list of edible foods, it was on Joe’s. Amy had readily agreed to try it, willing to move on. Seeing how well Amy looked now, Joe wondered if she might be ready to move on in other ways as well. Maybe Dr. Sher was right. Maybe there was no way through this for Amy except by facing the ugliness head-on.

  “Yes, we’ll stop and get a pizza,” Joe said.

  Amy’s face lit up with a smile.

  Joe turned to Dr. Sher. “I’m sorry I tried to stop you. I should have trusted you. It’s just that I don’t know what I am seeing here.”

  Dr. Sher was watching Amy put on her jacket. “I really think I need to see her again. You can’t expect much from just one visit.”

  Joe nodded.

  “That song she was singing,” Dr. Sher began.

  “She’s done it before. It seems to calm her.”

  “But you don’t know what it means to her?”

  Joe shook her head. “I’ve asked her. She doesn’t remember it when she’s awake.”

  “Apparently, she was able to retrieve it during the hypnosis. The song must be a good memory, something she goes to when the bad memories get to be too much.”

  “The song’s nonsense, though,” Joe said.

  Dr. Sher was watching Amy and looked back at Joe. “What?”

  “The words. They don’t make any sense.”

  Dr. Sher’s eyes locked on Joe’s. “They make perfect sense. She’s singing in French.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  There was an advantage to working as a cop in a college town for almost fifteen years, Louis decided. Shockey not only knew the best doctors, but he knew lawyers and judges, too. One in par
ticular, an arthritic old judge named Herman Fells. Fells, whose own daughter had been murdered twenty years ago, agreed to fit them in on his family court calendar between two other pending cases. Shockey had been forced to allow an agent from Family Services to attend the hearing, but because of his contacts, he had managed again to get someone sympathetic to keeping Amy out of the system.

  Louis glanced at his watch. They had been inside the courtroom for more than an hour now—Joe, Shockey, and Amy. At first, he had been miffed that Joe had asked him to stay out in the hallway. Amy would be more relaxed—and lucid—if Louis was not in the small courtroom, Joe had told him. Louis hadn’t asked Joe why she thought Amy didn’t seem to mind Shockey being close.

  It bothered him—but not enough to get in the way of things.

  He looked at the doors. Shit, what was taking so long?

  Maybe they didn’t have enough information. Dr. Sher had suggested that Amy get a routine exam to rule out any physical problems, and Amy had passed. And Dr. Sher’s own written assessment declared Amy competent to tell the judge how she felt about her father, Owen Brandt, and why she didn’t want to be with him. That had to be enough to get her into a custody hearing.

  The other things—her memories or dreams, the strange blackouts—those were like defense mechanisms, Dr. Sher had said, the brain’s way of blocking out pain until it was ready to handle it.

  He could understand that. He might not understand Amy, but he sure could understand the shield the brain brought down over some things. It had been only recently, on his last trip up to Michigan, that some of his own memories—the bad ones—had shoved forward. Like the time he had locked himself in a closet to avoid a belt whipping from one of his foster fathers.

  But at least he knew that memory was real. Some of this stuff with Amy, like the smelly hole, the ropes, the dead kitten, he wasn’t so sure about. He supposed they could be based in reality, maybe filtered though an overactive imagination.

  But Amy being able to sing in French—something she couldn’t do when she was awake—was one thing he didn’t understand.

  He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the paper Joe had given him last night. Dr. Sher, who had lived in Paris and spoke fluent French, had written out some of the words she had heard Amy singing. The English words he and Joe had heard had been only their own ears hearing the phonetic version. But Dr. Sher, listening to the tape over and over, had come up with a transcription of what she believed Amy was singing: