by JM Gulvin
Moving to the little bar area he searched the shelves but there was nothing that caught his eye. He was stumped. No clue as to what Isaac had discovered and yet he had left that message in Austin. He walked the hallway to the stairs once more, conscious that he must have missed something down in the study. He noticed one of the bedroom doors was ajar and he paused. For a moment he stood there and then stepped inside and fumbled on the wall for the light.
The bed was neatly made, a nightstand and chair alongside it. On that chair a set of Ike Bowen’s clothes still folded. A clock beside the bed, no book, no photograph, this was where a soldier slept and that space was entirely functional. Reaching for the light once more, Quarrie was about to go back downstairs when he noticed the open closet.
Inside he found two rails of jackets, shirts and trousers, one fixed below the other, and underneath those a pair of work boots he had seen Isaac wearing. Next to them a sweater lay discarded. Lifting that he found a small wooden shelf with a space underneath, but the space was empty.
He checked the nightstand drawers and the other half of the closet, but found nothing there either. Back in the hallway he went downstairs and searched Ike’s study a second time without any luck, and again he climbed the stairs. In the living room he stood in the middle of the floor trying not to let the frustration get the better of him. He considered the bar area and the coffee table then he stared at the green felt card table. Crossing to it, he dropped to one knee and sought the alcove Isaac had mentioned. He stared. No deck of cards, no chips. What he saw was a slim, metal box.
It reminded him of something from a safety-deposit vault in a bank. He could see no trace of a key, however. He hunted for it, felt around in the alcove then looked behind the bar again. Carrying the box to the kitchen, he searched the drawers and cupboards but still there was no sign of any key, so he took his knife to the lid instead. It took him a couple of minutes and he was cursing under his breath, but finally he got the box open.
Papers, insurances, the deeds to the house and an aged-looking address book. He flicked through that and came to where a page had been torn out, but on the page after that an indentation had been left and somebody had shaded it with a pencil.
Quarrie stared: Clara Bowen née Symonds who had left the family fifteen years ago, she was living in Tulsa as Carla Simpson. Taking a moment to consider what that actually meant he leafed through the rest of the papers and found yet another letter that Isaac had written to his father. This one was still in its envelope however, unlike those in the desk. Another mission, a marine captured by the Vietcong in the Crow’s Foot, Isaac had been part of a two-man insertion team sent in to get him back. The boy had seen some action, that was for sure. Quarrie slipped the letter back inside the envelope and as he returned it to the box he noticed the postmark stamped on the front.
*
Clara was sitting in the passenger seat as Isaac propelled his father’s car south. The road not lit, a median separating the four lanes of blacktop, she sat with her knees drawn up, her heels pressed to the floor and her hands together in her lap. Next to her Isaac drove with both hands on the wheel and his gaze intent on the road. He didn’t speak. She didn’t speak. Every now and then, however, he would look round at her as if he still couldn’t quite believe it was her.
‘You’ve changed,’ he said, finally. ‘I know it’s been fifteen years already, but you’re not how I remember. You’re not how I thought you’d look.’
‘I’m older,’ she said. ‘We’re all much older. You were only a boy when I left.’
He nodded; eyes on the road once more, he pushed out his lips. ‘So why did you leave us anyway?’
Clara did not answer.
‘You need to tell me,’ Isaac said. ‘You need to explain. Fifteen years is a long time. Me and Ish were only kids and we never could get our heads around why you took off.’
Clara just gazed ahead.
‘Was it to do with my dad? Did he hurt you? Was he fooling around?’
Clara glanced at him but did not speak.
‘Tough to talk about, huh? I get that. I understand.’ He offered a smile. ‘Look, we got plenty of time, maybe now’s not good, maybe right now we just need to get where we’re going and you can tell me all about it then.’ Again he looked sideways. ‘Things weren’t the same after that vacation though, were they? Lawton, Mom: you changed after we got home. I remember. I watched you and you weren’t the same. It was like you were somebody else.’
Still she sat there, fists clenched where her arms were folded across her chest.
‘It’s OK,’ Isaac told her. ‘I understand, or at least I’m trying to. I have tried to, all these years I’ve been trying to make sense of you leaving out on us when you did. Me and Ishmael, we had a great time over in Lawton but I remember how it was with Dad. Memorial weekend, he and his army buddy hanging out together talking about the old days and drinking all day and all night. That must’ve been hard on you, Mom. I could never remember that guy’s name.’
‘Morley, his name was Morley,’ she said.
‘That’s right, Morley.’ Isaac lifted a hand from the wheel. ‘Well, anyway, on the Saturday night they were setting out on the porch sharing another bottle and talking about all sorts of stuff. I know because though Ish was asleep, I was awake, and I heard every word they said.’
A car swept past in the outside lane and Clara stared at the tail lights where they gathered in red.
‘I always figured it was something to do with that weekend.’ Isaac was nodding as if to himself. ‘You taking off I mean. It had to be because it wasn’t so long afterwards that you left.’
‘It was fifteen months,’ she said.
‘Was that how long it was?’ Isaac looked at her with a glaze to his eye. ‘Really, I never figured that. I guess time’s different when you’re a kid and I guess that was right around the time Ish started having his difficulties. I remember that pretty well. I just don’t remember if he started having those difficulties before you left, or was it on account of how you did?’
They drove in silence. Isaac’s gaze had darkened a little, as if talking about those times had really bothered him. Clara sat where she was, still upright, still very tense; she kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. A couple of miles further down the road she turned to him. ‘So, where are we going?’ she said.
‘I told you, somewhere safe.’
She looked ahead once more as another car came tearing past, only this time it was on the other side of the median and she could see a red light flashing at the grille.
Isaac drove on. Head cocked to one side, he pushed out his cheek with his tongue.
‘Dad had your address,’ he said. ‘I never thought about that till just now, but you were only just up the road and he knew where you were all the time. When we were growing up I mean, so he must’ve been in touch.’ He frowned. ‘Why would he still be in touch? And if he was in touch then why did you change your name? You’re either Clara Symonds or Clara Bowen. Why did you change your name?’
She did not answer. She stared ahead.
‘It’s not so different to your real name,’ Isaac went on. ‘I mean Carla for Clara and Simpson for Symonds, but why change it at all?’ Lifting a hand from the wheel he gestured. ‘I don’t understand. I mean, if you wanted to leave the old man and get a divorce, that’s OK I suppose, but when a woman does that she goes back to what she was called before.’
‘I wanted a fresh start,’ she told him.
‘Sure you did.’ He stared at her. ‘Otherwise why would you leave when you did?’
*
It was dawn by the time Quarrie drove North Main Street in Tulsa. A glance at the sign outside the ballroom, he was thinking about Clara and why she hadn’t told him who she really was. Why had she not answered the door? And why did she tell him on the phone that she didn’t know who Mary-Beth Gavin was?
When he got to the house he could see the pale blue VW Bug. Another car was bumped up against the curb a l
ittle further up the road and he could see a woman in the driver’s seat, fishing around in her purse. Pulling across the bottom of the drive, Quarrie shut off the engine.
On the sidewalk he considered the little house where the curtains were drawn across the windows. At the front door he knocked, but nobody answered. Expelling a breath, he lifted a fist and knocked again. He was thinking about how Isaac must’ve felt after he discovered that his mother was only a couple of hundred miles away. He was thinking about the message he had left in Austin and that last letter he had seen in the box.
He knocked a third time but still nobody answered. He didn’t think anybody was in there but he walked around back just the same. There he knocked one last time but nobody came to the door. When he turned he saw a middle-aged woman watching him from the path.
‘Morning,’ he said, conscious of the way she was staring. ‘It’s all right, I’m not a housebreaker, I’m a cop.’ Reaching in his jacket pocket he showed her his star.
Around five feet five, she had dark hair pinned with a wooden clip and she seemed to stare as if transfixed.
‘Are you a neighbor, mam?’ Quarrie said. ‘Do you know where Ms Simpson is?’
She looked up sharply as if suddenly snapped from a trance. ‘Her name is Symonds not Simpson. You should know that if you’re a cop.’
For a second or so Quarrie stared. ‘Are you OK, mam? Is everything all right?’
She did not reply. She remained where she was: her body stiff, he noticed she was standing on the balls of her feet. She looked like a frightened child, and in some macabre kind of way he was reminded of the etchings on the walls of Miss Annie’s cell.
‘My name’s Quarrie,’ he said. ‘I’m a Texas Ranger. Is everything all right?’
‘I know who you are.’ Visibly gathering herself, the woman started towards him. ‘I talked to Clara on the phone and she said how you showed up here at the house.’
Quarrie raised one eyebrow. ‘Did she tell you why she didn’t come to the door?’
The woman bit down hard on her lip. ‘She was frightened. She was scared. That’s why she didn’t come to the door. She was confused. She told me she’d been going through her old photos and it was all coming back. She told me she couldn’t deal with it.’
‘Mam,’ Quarrie said. ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.’
‘She knows she should’ve spoken to you,’ the woman said. ‘She told me that. She knows she should’ve just come to the door regardless.’
‘Regardless of what?’
‘Of Dr Beale: what he said to her, what he said to all of us.’
Quarrie peered at her now. ‘Who are you, mam? How do you know Dr Beale?’
‘He told her he was taking care of it,’ the woman went on. ‘I told him we had to talk to the police but he didn’t want to do that. He said all the police would do is gun him down and he wasn’t going to let that happen.’
There were tears in her eyes now and she was sounding very confused. Taking her hand, Quarrie led her to his car where she sat down in the passenger seat. He stood before her, resting an elbow on top of the door. ‘Who are you?’ he asked again. ‘How do you know about this?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘My name is Nancy McClain. I’m a nurse at Bellevue Hospital.’ She looked him hard in the eye. ‘I called there yesterday looking for Dr Beale, but he’s still not back so I spoke to Alice instead. She told me what happened. She told me what you did. She told me how you were in Miss Annie’s room.’
She was quiet again and she seemed to be fighting her emotions. ‘I nursed her – Miss Annie. For twenty-five years I nursed her and before that I worked with her, back when she was still Peggy-Anne. She only became Miss Annie later, after. It was much later that Miss Annie turned up and we never saw Peggy again.’
‘Mam, I—’
‘She’d been having problems.’ Nancy was staring beyond him now as if he wasn’t there. ‘We all knew that but we just thought it was a hazard of working with mental patients. It happens to some nurses; psychiatric stuff, it can take its toll and we all suffered a little I suppose. It’s hard on the nerves working with people who’re so unpredictable, and that’s all we thought it was. We had no idea how serious things had gotten, not till much later on.’ She lifted a hand to gesture. ‘When she was working she seemed just fine, or at least she did until she found out.’ Her eyes darkened as she focused on Quarrie’s face. ‘That’s when things changed, that’s when Miss Annie showed up and she’s been there pretty much ever since.’
‘Nancy,’ Quarrie said. ‘I’m not following you. What’re you talking about?’
Eyes downcast, Nancy chewed her lip. ‘So much has happened. So much happened back then and so much since. Four years ago Dr Beale took over from Dr Sievers down in the Piney Woods, and he was much younger, he was much more modern. He had different ideas about the patients; his was a completely different approach. He was keen to make his mark. He was always so keen to make his mark I think he let his ambition get the better of him. I told him as much just the other day.’ She turned to look at Quarrie again. ‘What he tried to do, how he brought Ishmael to the hospital and what happened when he did …’
Quarrie squatted on his haunches. ‘Nancy, why did Dr Beale bring him to the hospital? I know he wasn’t violent. Not then. Ishmael wasn’t a criminal. Why bring him to a secure facility?’
Nancy didn’t answer. Again she bit her lip.
‘You need to tell me,’ Quarrie insisted. ‘You need to tell me why Ishmael was brought to Trinity.’
‘Dr Beale,’ she said. ‘He was treating Miss Annie and he found out that Ishmael was in a sanatorium in Houston. He heard what his symptoms were and as far as he was concerned they weren’t treating him properly. It was his area of expertise, his forte; and he had a particular theory. He thought he could help. What he saw in Ishmael was exactly what he’d been working on, but the symptoms – most doctors don’t accept they exist.’
She took a moment to catch her breath. ‘Dr Beale went to visit Ishmael’s father. He told him what he wanted to do and what he thought it would achieve, and Ike agreed to it right off the bat. He came to the hospital and Dr Beale had me in on that initial consultation.’ Tears seemed to burgeon again as she continued. ‘Ike said he would try anything – anything at all that might help. So Dr Beale had Ishmael brought to Trinity and we gave him three months to settle in. We were told he wasn’t dangerous, had never hurt anyone or been in any trouble. We gave him plenty of freedom. He was allowed to mingle pretty freely. Dr Beale wanted him to mingle as freely with the other patients as was safe. His intentions were sound. Dr Beale, I mean – you have to understand his intentions were medically sound and he was doing what he believed was for the patient’s good.’
‘But what was he doing?’ Quarrie said.
She did not seem to be listening. She seemed to be recounting a series of events as if to convince herself. ‘He thought that if we sat him down, if they were able to talk, it might help Ishmael break out of his trap.’ She nodded then, she nodded as if to herself. ‘We were all there: Mary-Beth and me on the other side of the mirror, with Dr Beale in the room and Charlie outside just in case.’
Taking her hand Quarrie squeezed until she looked up. ‘You just said “trap”. You said Ishmael was trapped. What do you mean, Nancy? Where was Ishmael trapped?’
Nancy did not answer right away. She sat staring across the road. ‘“Trapped” was how Dr Beale described it,’ she said finally. ‘He thought if we brought him in, if he knew what’d happened then perhaps the spell might break and we’d be able to find out what it was that locked him in.’
‘Locked him in?’ Quarrie said. ‘What do you mean, Nancy? What’re you talking about?’
Still she peered beyond him. ‘But that’s not what happened. The spell wasn’t broken. Ishmael was broken instead. What we did, what Dr Beale thought might help – it sent him clear over the edge.’
She was trembling. Hands in h
er lap, she was shaking. ‘He went after Mary-Beth because she held the records and she called Dr Beale asking for help. When he couldn’t get what he wanted Ishmael broke into the kerosene store and set that fire and the whole place went up.’ She was crying now as she spoke. ‘We thought he was dead. We thought he’d burned in his own inferno. But he hadn’t. He escaped that fire and he knew what had happened and he knew who he thought was to blame.’
Thirty-two
With the darkness finally beginning to dissipate Isaac pulled into his father’s house. He had left the pickup parked on the drive but the garage doors were open. Stepping hard on the brakes he brought the car to a stop and sat with his hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel.
He remained like that for a moment, his gaze darting left and right. ‘Somebody’s been here,’ he said. ‘Somebody opened those doors. Wait here while I check it out.’ Opening the driver’s door he had one foot in the gravel before he stopped. ‘No,’ he said, as if he’d had second thoughts. ‘That’s a stupid idea. You can’t stay in the car, it’s not safe.’
Clara looked over at him. She laid a hand on his arm. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s all right.’
He seemed to consider that for a moment then sat back in the seat. ‘Mom, I think it’s Ishmael that might’ve been here and he means to kill you like he killed our dad.’ He took her hand. ‘Do you understand? That’s what he plans to do, but I’m not going to let him do that. I lost Dad already. I’ll lose Ish too if the cops catch up to him. I only just found you, Mom. I’m not about to lose you again.’ He lifted his hand to her cheek. ‘You have to trust me. You have to come with me. You’re not safe in the car by yourself.’
Clara sat there for a moment longer and then she got out. Taking her hand Isaac led her across the gravelled drive.