He cleared his throat to push the thought from his mind. “Take your time.” His words belied the sharp stab of anticipation in his stomach. He did not want to scare her off by appearing too eager.
Her gray eyes roamed the room as if searching for an escape. “I’m afraid my brother has been less than honest with you.”
“Oh?” His attempt to sound disinterested failed, so he tried leaning back in his chair to conceal his impatience. But she wasn’t paying much attention to him; she was too caught up in her own struggle.
“Yes. I—well, this is so hard. Forgive me. I am quite beside myself today.”
“Of course,” he said. “Can I get you some more tea?”
“Yes, that would be nice,” she replied, hastily gulping down the rest in her cup.
He took her mug to the kitchen to refill it, and when he returned she was standing at the window, gazing out. As he entered the room she turned abruptly and blurted out the words as though she were afraid they might choke her.
“My brother and I are living as husband and wife.”
The force of her confession made him take a step backward. Some tea sloshed out of the mug onto the floor, but neither of them made a move to wipe it up.
He tried to formulate a response to her words, but everything that came to him seemed grossly inappropriate or inadequate.
She rescued him by continuing. “No doubt you think we are very wicked.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t. But—”
“We are very wicked,” she said. “Or at least that’s what I think. But my brother … “ She waved her hand as if dismissing the very idea of him. “To my brother it is all very natural, you see—even foreordained.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, still holding her tea in his outstretched hand. Something about her stopped him from crossing the remaining stretch of floor between them. He put the tea on the sideboard.
She paced in front of the window. For some reason the thought went through his head that she was a moving target, in case anyone outside tried to take a shot at her. He slipped behind her and closed the curtains.
“You have no doubt noticed that our attire is somewhat—antiquated.”
“It did occur to me.”
“There is a reason for that. It is not whim or fancy, or eccentricity, as you may have thought. It is because my brother believes that we are the reincarnation of a husband and wife who lived over a hundred years ago,” she said, wringing her hands. “And since our souls are essentially theirs, it is not only right but necessary that we live as husband and wife.”
“Who are they?”
She waved her hand again. “That is not important right now.”
“I see. How long has he had this … notion?”
“For the past fifteen years. Ever since he received the Gift.” “What gift?”
“The Gift of Second Sight—the ability to see through the mists of time.”
“I see. And what do you think about all this?”
“I don’t know what to think. I have always believed my brother to be the wisest and most honorable of men, but now …”
“Has something happened to change your mind?”
She shook her whole body, as if trying to cast off her worries. “I told you before that I had no contact with my brother’s patients.”
“Yes.”
“I was being less than honest. In fact, I tend to his appointment book and often admit patients for their visits.” “Why did you lie to us?” “Because he told me to.”
“Why?”
She looked at him, her eyes anguished. “I don’t know—when I asked him, he told me to mind my own business.”
“And why would he do that?”
She bit her lip until a small pinpoint of blood appeared—she was clearly struggling with her conscience.
“Because,” she said, the words wrenching themselves out of her, “I am certain he was having … relations … with one of his patients.”
“I see. And who was it?”
But even before she spoke, Lee knew the answer.
“Ana Watkins.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
Patiently you wait for me to come home to you—with such care I’ve collected you, my only true friends, beautiful and pure in your shiny glass bowl.
Caleb opened the door softly so as not to disturb his father. His treasure was tucked away carefully in his coat pocket, wrapped in plastic to keep it pure until he could add it to his collection. He closed the door behind him and tiptoed across the living room to the back bedroom. His keys rattled as he took them from his pocket—his hands were trembling a little. Sliding the key into the lock, he gave a quick twist and pushed. The door slid open on its oiled hinges, revealing his sanctuary, his secret lair, his holiest of holies.
He took a step into the room and closed the door behind him. It would not do to let his father wander in here, so he kept the door locked at all times. No one must come in here—this room was for him and his treasures only, so he could admire them at his leisure. It was his little secret.
He pulled the tightly wrapped parcel from his coat pocket and carefully undid the rubber band around the plastic bag. Holding his hand out flat, he slid the contents of the bag onto his bare palm, shivering at the feel of them—soft and smooth and wet as eels. He examined them—each pair was different, and the more he collected the more he came to appreciate the subtle variations—the singular shades of blue, or brown, or—his favorite—hazel.
He looked at the pair in his hand. They were blue, but not a deep ocean blue—more of an aquamarine blue, with a greenish tinge to them. They were on the large side, and if he looked closely enough he could see tiny flecks of gold at the edges of the irises. Yes, these were nice, very nice—definitely a worthy specimen to keep the others company.
He sighed with pleasure. Carefully he lifted the lid of the glass jar on the middle shelf of the bookcase and added his trophies to the ones floating in the jar. Come to me, my pretty ones, my little jewels, my windows to the soul. They stared out at him—perhaps they were severed now from their souls, or maybe—just maybe—the souls lived behind them still.
He heard his father coughing in the other room—a bitter, grating sound. He replaced the lid on the jar and slid it back into the bookshelf. He would go to his father now, safe in the knowledge that he had yet another secret to keep from him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
“Oh, Dr. Campbell, do you think my brother is capable of—of murder?”
Charlotte Perkins stood in front of the French window overlooking the street, her damp hair plastered to her head, awkward in ill-fitting clothes, hands hanging at her sides in surrender.
“What do you think?” Lee said.
“Until now I would have said no, but then I would not have thought him capable of desecrating the doctor–patient relationship either. To say nothing of the … union … between us.” She looked at Lee with pleading eyes. “Before you judge us too harshly, let me tell you that there was never any question of our having children. Of course, now we are too old, but it was never a possibility in the first place.”
Lee didn’t ask for details.
“So you see, what we did—who we were—caused no harm to anyone else.”
“What about you? Did it cause harm to you?”
She drew her sweater tighter around her shoulders. “I used to believe everything my brother told me, but now …” Her voice trailed off, as if she couldn’t bear to continue the thought.
“Why do you believe your brother was … intimate with Ana Watkins?”
“You may perhaps think me foolish,” she said. “But I had my suspicions for some time. Then one day I lingered outside the office during one of her sessions, and I heard—” She paused to blink back tears. “I heard sounds that could only mean one thing. Later, I was standing outside in the hall when she came out. She caught my eye, and gave a triumphant little smile, as if to say, ‘See, he’s mine now.’ I hated her then, and I
hate her still.”
“If you hate her, then why come to me to help catch her killer?”
“Because if you don’t find him, other women will die. And I could never live with that on my conscience.” “Even if the killer turns out to be your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Do you hate him, too?”
“I tried to hate him—oh, how I tried! But I couldn’t. It seems I am incapable of hating him—weak, pathetic creature that I am.”
“You are neither weak nor pathetic, Miss Perkins,” Lee said. “In fact, you are very determined and brave, coming here through a storm like this to tell me something that is obviously so difficult for you to talk about.”
In response, she walked over to the piano, its shiny wood gleaming in the lamplight, and touched the keyboard lightly. Her back to him, she said, “There’s something else I should tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“I wrote the threatening note Ana received in the mail.” “You? But the magazine was found at her house.”
“Yes—because I left it there. After she died I wanted the police to think she had written it herself.” “How did her prints get on it?”
For the first time since she arrived, Charlotte Perkins smiled—a sly, prideful smile. “I saw her reading that same magazine in the waiting room—that’s why I chose it when I made my note.”
“You would make a very good criminal, Miss Perkins,” Lee said.
“But I only did it to scare her! I wanted her to stay away from my brother, not only for my sake, but for her own.”
“Did it occur to you that you could be arrested and prosecuted for your actions?”
“There is something else I doubt my brother told you,” she said, ignoring the question.
“What’s that?”
“He sees patients at a public clinic in the city twice a month. He doesn’t want people to know because it hurts his pride that he can’t make his living entirely from private practice.”
“Where is this clinic?”
“It’s the mental health outpatient clinic at St. Vincent’s.” At the sound of the words, Lee’s mind momentarily froze. “What is it?” she said. “Is something wrong?” “Oh, no,” he said. “You know of it?”
“Yes.”
He knew of it more than he was willing to tell her. He had spent a week there as a patient following his sister’s disappearance, suffering from a clinical depression so severe that he was considered a suicide risk.
“Do you think one of his patients there could be violent?”
“Possibly. But I thought I ought to tell you, in any case.”
She looked at him with an anxious expression, her thin lips compressed, worry lines crisscrossing her forehead like railroad tracks at a busy junction.
“I’ll look into it. Can I ask you something?”
“Yes, of course.”
“There was an entry in Ana’s diary about confronting someone. Do you think that could have referred to your brother?”
She bit her lip again. “I suppose so. One day a few weeks after I realized they were … together … I heard what sounded like an argument in his office, and when she came out after her session, I could see she had been crying.”
“So you think she might have wanted to break it off with him?”
“Perhaps. It was a violation of the doctor–patient relationship, after all.”
Lee thought about how he had nearly violated that relationship himself, and a thin shiver sliced its way up his spine. He put a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder and was surprised when she reacted by leaning into him. He stepped away and coughed to cover his own reaction. “Thank you for everything you’ve told me.”
“What happens now?” she said.
“Does your brother know where you are?”
“No. He thinks I’m at the hospital all day.”
“Do you have someone there to cover for you in case he calls?”
She smiled sadly. “He won’t. He never calls me at work. He doesn’t care for the telephone—he likes to point out that when we were first ‘alive,’ it had not yet been invented.”
“Does anyone besides you and your brother know of your … relationship?”
“I used to think no one did. But now I am not so sure. I
think it’s entirely possible that Ana Watkins knew—based on that smile she gave me when she left his office that day.”
“So you think he may have killed her to silence her?”
She rose and began to pace the room.
“Oh, Dr. Campbell, I don’t know what to think! I pray that is not the case—I pray it with all my heart and soul!”
“Clearly you can’t return home. You’re not safe there.”
“Oh, but I must. If I don’t, he’ll suspect something, and then who knows what he’ll do?”
“You can’t. I don’t care if he suspects or not.”
She startled him by taking his hands in hers. To his surprise, her hands were warm and soft.
“Dr. Campbell, you must let me play this game out as I see fit.”
“If you insist on returning, at least let me put a police guard on your house.”
She laughed for the first time since he had known her. It was an odd, strangled chortle, the laugh of someone unfamiliar with joy.
“My brother is very observant. He would sniff out a police presence immediately.”
“I can’t let you—”
“You can’t stop me,” she said. “And now, if I might request my clothes back again, I must be on my way.”
He thought wildly of holding on to her clothes as a way of preventing her from leaving, but he knew it was useless. She would leave anyway, and when she turned up in a stranger’s clothes, her brother wold be even more suspicious. He went to the laundry room to fetch her clothes. When she was dressed again, she pulled on her curiously old-fashioned boots and threw her cloak around her shoulders.
“At least let me give you an umbrella,” he said, looking out the window at the rain, which, though no longer torrential, was still falling.
“I will have to leave it on the bus,” she said. “He will see at once that it isn’t mine.”
“Fine—leave it on the bus. I’m sure someone will find it useful,” he said, handing her his sturdiest umbrella.
“Thank you,” she said, pulling the hood over her head.
“No, thank you. You’ve helped us enormously. Wait!” he said, getting an idea. “Do you have a cell phone?”
She shook her head. “My brother—”
“Take mine.” Grabbing it from the hall table, he pressed it into her hand.
“I don’t—”
“Have you ever used one?” “Yes, at the hospital—”
“All right. Now, here’s my home number,” he said, showing her the entry in the contact list, “and here is Detective Butts’s cell number. I want you to call either or both of us if you find yourself in any kind of trouble.”
She turned her eyes up to him, and with the soft yellow hall light shining on her sharp, earnest face, she looked quite pretty.
“All right—thank you.” She hesitated, looking down at the phone clutched in her hand. “At the very least Martin knows more about Ana Watkins than he is admitting. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“You’ve done quite enough, Miss Perkins. Please promise me you won’t put yourself in jeopardy.”
“I can only promise to do my best. The rest is in God’s hands.”
“If you can’t think of your own safety, then think of how I would feel if anything happened to you.”
“Very well,” she said with a little smile that, on anyone else, would have been flirtatious.
And with that she slipped out into the night. As the door closed behind her, he was reminded of the night Ana left in much the same way—and of the terrible fate she met. He looked out the window at her retreating form, watching her sidestep the puddles forming on the sidewalk as she hurried down the street toward Third
Avenue.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The house was dark and quiet when Charlotte pushed open the front door and crept into the foyer. The rain had stopped, but she could hear the slow, steady drip of water from the eaves, residue of the evening’s downpour. She removed her cloak and hung it from the bentwood coatrack in the hall, then unlaced her soft leather ankle boots, which were wet and muddy. Martin hated finding stains on the lush Oriental carpets. It wasn’t a long walk from the bus stop, but in the dark she couldn’t avoid the puddles lying in wait for her among the cracks in the sidewalks. She propped her boots on the bottom of the rack and tiptoed along the side of the long maroon runner rug leading from the foyer through the front hall. She shivered a little as she dug her bare toes into the deep, plush wool—it felt so good after sitting on the bus for two hours in damp clothes.
She tiptoed up the stairs and toward her room at the end of the long, narrow hall, silent as a cat, sliding her feet along the carpet to avoid tripping in the dark. She crept along the edge of the carpet, avoiding the center, where she knew the floorboards creaked underfoot. This was not the first time she had snuck home at night, hoping to avoid waking her brother. She had to pass his room in order to get to hers, so it was important to be extra quiet.
As she tiptoed down the hallway, she ran her hand along the wall for balance, tracing the familiar pattern of the textured wallpaper with her fingers. As she approached her brother’s bedroom, her fingers touched something wet and sticky. It was too dark to see what it was; it felt like someone had spilled pudding on the wall. She made a mental note to wipe it off in the morning—Martin had no doubt spilled it himself, but would hold her responsible and expect her to clean it up.
The house was eerily silent, she thought as she passed her brother’s room. She noticed the door was ajar, which struck her as odd. A shaft of moonlight sliced through the crack in the door, the long, pale blade of light falling across her path. Normally Martin kept it closed at night—maybe he had left it open because she was working late at the hospital. That is what she planned to tell him to explain why she was out so late tonight. With the practice of one used to deceiving, she had her story ready: one of her patients had gone into labor. It was a difficult birth, and she had stayed at the woman’s side half the night. Of course, he could easily check up on her—he had done so before—so she would have to coach her colleagues to cover for her. But that shouldn’t prove too difficult; they had done it in the past. Most of the women she worked with thought Martin was a tyrant and a cad, and couldn’t understand why she let her brother boss her around so much.
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