Flesh and Blood

by James Neal Harvey

  “I suppose I was. But I was so thankful and so relieved, I wasn’t about to question it. My mother and I were all the family Jan had, and we didn’t have any money. The bills were staggering.”

  “I’m sure they were.”

  “The psychiatrist who was treating her said at first she might never come out of it. In fact, I got the impression that deep down he didn’t expect her to.”

  “When she was attacked, was she robbed?”

  “I don’t know. That is, she was wearing an expensive watch and a gold bracelet, and some rings. None of those things were taken, but her purse was missing.”

  “Did the police come up with any suspects?”

  “No, not a one. I don’t think they tried very hard. They said it looked to them like she was a hooker and she’d run into the wrong man, or somebody who had a grudge against her.”

  “Did you think that was possible?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. I did think it was pretty strange, the way she had all that money all of a sudden. Especially because she didn’t have another job, as far as I knew. But that’s no excuse for the way they acted. As if she’d gotten what she deserved.”

  “What happened to her possessions?”

  “I sold them to help pay her bills. But the money didn’t go very far. If the Cunninghams hadn’t stepped in, I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “So she was being treated at Brentwood. Then what?”

  “For months, she was in this awful condition. And then Senator Cunningham died and I told her about it. I didn’t expect her to respond, but she began to cry.”

  “And that was the first time you’d seen a reaction from her?”

  “Yes. And then after that, she gradually started to come out of it. She began speaking to me. But what she said was that she was afraid someone would hurt her. She was terrified.”

  “Did she say who that someone was?”

  “No. But later she told me the truth about what she’d been doing. Told me someone had been keeping her, doing drugs with her and beating her when they had sex.”

  “You said on the phone you thought the Cunninghams were somehow involved or that they knew what had happened.”

  “Yes. I know that sounds terribly ungrateful, after all they’ve done for her. But listening to her, I just became more and more suspicious. I didn’t dare go to the police. Around here, the Cunninghams are like God. It’s amazing the kind of influence that family has.”

  “Isn’t it, though.”

  “That was why I called you. I’m so worried about Jan. She says I have to get her out of there, that she’s in terrible danger.”

  “I think,” Ben said, “we’d better have a talk with her. Right now.”

  72

  At ten minutes before five in the afternoon, Orcus parked the sedan in the visitors’ lot at Brentwood. Twilight was deepening; the days were short at this time of year. He was wearing his working clothes: topcoat and scarf, the felt hat pulled down over his eyes. No dark glasses, however; that would be a detail someone might remember. He got out of the car and surveyed the building, then walked up the steps to the front entrance and went inside.

  The receptionist looked up and smiled. Instead of approaching her, Orcus merely waved casually as he stepped over to one side of the room and sat on a couch, telling her he was waiting for someone who was visiting.

  Next to the couch was a table stacked with magazines and newspapers. He picked up a copy of that morning’s Times and pretended to immerse himself in it. The receptionist went back to her own reading, a paperback novel.

  Two other people were in the outer area, white-haired women who were sitting together on the opposite side of the room, chattering away. One of them was knitting what appeared to be a sweater. They paid no attention to him.

  He waited until his watch read three minutes before five. Then he got up and went to the desk, asking if there was a men’s room on the floor. The receptionist pointed to the hallway behind her. Orcus mumbled thanks and made his way down the hall to a door bearing the letter M.

  There was no one else in the room, which contained three urinals, three stalls, two sinks. He’d have a long wait ahead of him; he could take his time. He entered a stall and locked the door.

  First, he removed his scarf and his topcoat and hat and hung them on the hook on the back of the door. He had on a navy blue bathrobe he’d been wearing under the coat. He opened the front of the robe and reached into the waistband of his pants, getting out the folded nylon gym bag he was carrying there. Next, he unzipped the bag and stuffed his outer garments into it, then zipped the bag shut. After that, he sat down on the toilet to wait.

  The shift change, he knew, would take place at five o’clock. At that time, a different receptionist would come on, one who wouldn’t be aware of his presence. Nor would she become aware, he reasoned, because he hadn’t signed in.

  Orcus had observed that there were fewer attendants on at night than during the day. He assumed this was because the facility had no violent patients. They were all harmless, the majority of them just dotty old folks.

  By eight o’clock, the kitchen staff would have left, after tidying up following supper, which was served at six. Then the center would settle down to the evening routine, with patients watching TV and playing cards or checkers in the lounges, some of them shuffling through the halls. By ten, most would be in bed, with their lights out. The attendants would themselves be drowsy and some of them would be nodding off, as well. He also knew from his surveillance that no cleaning people worked here at night. Those chores were all done in the daytime.

  As usual, waiting was the most difficult part of the operation. Over the next few hours, he stood up from time to time, stretching stiff muscles in his arms and legs and back, then resumed his place. Unfortunately, the toilet seat was the horseshoe type, with no lid, and sitting on it for long periods caused his thighs to become crampy.

  The discomfort reminded him of the night he’d perched on the bumper of the car near the South Street Seaport, waiting to do another job and then blowing it. Recalling that made him bitter, but it was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat. Tolliver was still right up there on his list. The thought of the detective produced a sharp twinge of anger.

  While he sat on the toilet, Orcus counted six visits to the men’s room by persons he couldn’t see but could only hear, men who used the urinals and drifted out again. The sounds told him that four of them washed their hands after urinating; two did not. Other sounds indicated that a seventh visitor occupied a neighboring stall and defecated mightily. That one also washed his hands afterward, humming to himself as he did.

  At shortly after ten, Orcus exited the stall. There were cramps in both his legs and his feet tingled. He paused to massage the muscles in his thighs and his calves for a minute or two, then bounced up and down on the balls of his feet to restore circulation.

  He was reasonably sure no one would be using the stall he’d occupied until the next morning, but just to be safe he didn’t leave the gym bag there, instead placing it in the cylindrical waste container, under a pile of crumpled paper towels. He’d pick it up before leaving the hospital.

  When he stepped back into the hallway, it was deserted, as he had expected. The lights had been turned down to half their earlier level. The only sounds he heard now were the rumble of a furnace and a low babble of voices coming from one of the floors above, probably from a TV set still on somewhere.

  Along this corridor, the rooms seemed to be either administration offices or those for public use, none of them housing patients. Elevator doors were located at the end of the hallway, and just beyond them were swinging doors he thought might lead to a stairway.

  They did. Walking slowly and carefully, he went through the doors and climbed the stairs, on the theory he would be less likely to encounter someone there. Anyone moving around would be more inclined to use the elevator.

  On the second-floor landing was another set of swinging doors. He pu
shed them open and stepped through.

  And jumped a foot.

  A man was standing directly in front of him, grinning.

  Orcus tensed, reflexively reaching for the Browning in his right-hand pants pocket. He had the pistol halfway out before he saw the man clearly.

  He was old. Incredibly old, his deeply lined face twisted by the grin. Only a few wisps of white hair remained on his skull. He too was wearing a bathrobe, over pajamas, and there were slippers on his feet. The dim light in the hallway was reflecting weakly from his false teeth.

  “Hello, Father,” the old man said. “Are you going to take me home now?”

  Orcus exhaled, and pushed the Browning back into his pocket. He was about to brush past when an idea occurred to him. Taking the old man’s arm, Orcus said, “Not just yet, but soon. Okay?”

  The ancient head bobbed once and the grin stayed in place. “All right, Father.”

  Moving slowly and sticking close, Orcus guided the man down the corridor, speaking to him in a low voice. He’d taken a half dozen steps when he saw something that made him glad he’d hit on the plan. Coming toward them were two of the hospital staff, a man and a woman.

  Orcus ducked his head, holding on to the old codger’s arm and continuing to talk to him in a tone just above a whisper, about how nice the fall weather was and how it probably would snow soon and how that was a good thing because then they could all go sledding.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the staffers were a nurse and an attendant. They were deep in a conversation of their own. As they drew closer, he picked up a few words—something to do with overtime pay. The nurse was gesticulating with her hands, saying it was unfair. They paid no attention to Orcus and his new friend, striding past and going on down the hallway.

  Orcus relaxed and kept walking. He also continued to talk to the old man, at the same time checking the small name signs beside the doors of each of the rooms. There was another floor above this one; he hoped he wouldn’t have to go up there. If he did, he’d have farther to go when it came time to get out of here—which would make the trip just that much riskier.

  They’d gone the length of the corridor and turned the corner before he saw what he was looking for.

  JAN DEMAREST, the sign next to a door said.

  He turned back to the old man. “Where’s your room, sonny?”

  “What?”

  “I said where’s your room? Where do you live?”

  “Where do I live? Oyster Bay. Can we go home now, Father?”

  “In the morning. Where’s your room?”

  “What?”

  “Come on, we’ll go down to the lounge there. Okay? You can watch TV.”

  He guided the man a few steps farther, to where an open archway led into a sitting room equipped with a television set and a card table. A handful of men and women were sitting in front of the TV, all wearing bathrobes. Not far from them, an attendant was sprawled out in an armchair, reading a magazine.

  Orcus gave his friend a little shove, whispering, “You go on in and sit there, enjoy the show.”

  To his relief, the geezer did as he was told, moving into the lounge with small jerky steps and taking a chair alongside the others.

  Orcus turned and walked quickly back to the room with Demarest’s name on it. When he got there, he looked up and down the corridor, making sure it was deserted. From the pocket of his robe, he took out a pair of rubber gloves and drew them on. Then he opened the door and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

  73

  Ben drove, with Peggy Demarest giving him directions. She said Brentwood wasn’t far, but he was finding it hard to make good time on the backcountry roads. At an intersection, a pickup truck with a large black dog in the bed pulled out in front of them and hogged the center of the narrow blacktop.

  Tolliver blew his horn, but that only inspired the driver of the truck to slow down more. Ben hit the horn again, and this time the guy stuck his arm out the window and gave him the finger.

  “Some people around here are like that,” Peggy said. “They think that’s standing up for their rights.”

  “Some people are like that everywhere. This the only way to get to the hospital?”

  “It’s the shortest way.”

  He put his thumb on the horn again and then thought, The hell with it. The important thing was to get there.

  “You said your sister never mentioned a name, never gave you any idea of who the man was who was keeping her?”

  “No. I tried to get it out of her, but she became very upset when I did. She said he’d find out and then he’d kill her.”

  “What about the psychiatrist—how much of this did he know?”

  “Not nearly as much as I’ve told you. Jan didn’t trust him any more than she did anyone else.”

  “Who is he? What’s his name?”

  “Jay Chenoweth.”

  “And he’s on staff?”

  “Yes. Chief of psychiatry, in fact.”

  “What are your impressions of him?”

  “A nice guy, very bright. Quite young, too, for somebody with that much responsibility.”

  “Why did your sister distrust him?”

  “I don’t know. She said I was the only person she’d be willing to confide anything in. But she wouldn’t even tell me very much. She was just so afraid. Kept saying that this someone would find out and then he’d come and kill her.”

  “And she never told you any more about her experiences with the Cunninghams?”

  “Nothing more than I’ve told you.”

  “How secure is the hospital? Are there guards?”

  “I guess so, but I’ve never seen one. It’s more like a rest home. There’s nobody violent there. Mostly old people who’re senile.”

  Tolliver looked at the pickup truck, rolling along at an easy pace, smack in the center of the road. The dog’s eyes reflected eerily from the headlights of the Taurus.

  Damn it, Ben thought, that’s enough. He flicked his headlights to high beam and pulled over to the left as far as he could go.

  As expected, the truck moved over to block him. When it did, Ben flipped his steering wheel and put the accelerator on the floor. The Ford shot by on the right, missing the pickup by a coat of paint.

  Behind him, the truck driver blew his horn and put his lights up. But in seconds, the other vehicle was left far behind.

  “It’s just around this next bend,” Peggy said, “where you see the stone pillars.”

  74

  She was in bed. The room was in semidarkness, illuminated only by a tiny night-light, but Orcus could make out her features. In the faint glow, her auburn hair appeared almost black. She was wearing pajamas, lying on her back, breathing slowly and deeply.

  He looked about the room. There was a single window with the drapes drawn over it and two vinyl-covered chairs, the woman’s robe lying on the back of one of them. Her slippers were on the floor beside the bed.

  In the wall opposite was a built-in chest of drawers; on its surface was a hairbrush and a small framed photograph, a snapshot of several people. Next to the chest was an open closet space with a few articles of clothing hanging in it.

  There was a door near the head of the bed. He opened it silently, finding it led into a bathroom, as he’d thought. The only indication the room was in use was a toothbrush in the holder over the sink.

  He turned back to the woman. Her lips were parted slightly and he could see the jagged scar that ran down the side of her face. Her breasts rose and fell in a steady rhythm, telling him she was in a deep sleep.

  He stepped to the chair where her robe was and picked up the garment. It was made of wool and had a belt. He slipped the belt out of the loops and dropped the robe back onto the chair.

  The belt was thick and strong; he tested it by wrapping the ends around his fists and tugging on it. When he was satisfied, he moved once more to the figure lying in the bed.

  As he bent over her, he could
still hear muffled noise coming from the TV in the lounge. It was the sound of canned laughter.

  75

  Tolliver drove between the stone pillars and along the winding drive. Only a few lights were showing in the sprawling old building, apparently coming from the hallways. Nearly all the outside rooms were dark.

  He pulled to a stop before the steps leading up to the front entrance and he and Peggy got out of the Taurus. A number of cars were parked in the lot, vehicles that he assumed belonged to staff members. It was cold out here and he could hear the wind moaning in the pines. He ran up the steps, Peggy following as he went inside.

  A uniformed guard was sitting at the desk, his feet up, his cap pulled down. When Ben approached, the guard jumped to his feet, blinking and adjusting his cap. “Visiting hours are over,” he said.

  Tolliver waved his shield. “Police officer. I need to speak with one of your patients. Her name is Jan Demarest. This is her sister.”

  “Listen,” the guard said, “I’m not supposed to let anybody in here at night. I have orders to notify Dr. Chenoweth if—”

  “Notify him, then,” Ben said. He turned to Peggy. “You know where her room is?”

  “Yes, it’s on the floor above. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  They rode in the elevator. He wished they’d used the stairs. The car took forever to creak and groan its way up there. When the doors opened, Peggy led the way down the corridor.

  Light from ceiling lamps reflected from the mottled gray vinyl floor tiles and from the pale green walls, but nothing else was visible in the hallways. No nurses or attendants were around; the place seemed deserted. Tolliver could hear snoring coming from behind some of the doors they passed.

  Peggy turned a corner, into another empty corridor. Halfway along it, she stopped and held up her hand. They were standing outside a room that had Jan Demarest’s name next to the door.

  “Better let me go in first,” she said softly. “I don’t want to startle her. Give me a couple of minutes, okay?”