by Неизвестный
"Nothing to say, Sally? I cut back on the dosage so you could talk to me." She felt a sharp slap on her cheek.
"Look at me, Sally. Don't pretend you're off in outer space. I know this time you can't be." He slapped her again.
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard.
"Is James all right?"
He stopped shaking her. "James?" He sounded surprised. "Oh, that man you were with in The Cove. Yes, he's fine. No one wanted to take the risk of killing him. Was he your lover, Sally? You only had him a bit over a week. That's moving fast. He must have been desperate.
“Just look at you, all skinny and pathetic, your hair in strings, your clothes bagging around you. Come on, Sally, tell me about James. Tell me what you told him."
"I told him about you," she said. "I had a nightmare and he helped me through it. I told him what a piece of slime you are."
He slapped her again, not too hard, but hard enough to make her shrink away from him.
"You're rude, Sally. And you're lying. You've never lied well and I can always tell. You might have dreamed, but you didn't tell him about me. You want to know why? It's because you're crazy and I'm so deep a part of you that if you were to tell anyone about me, why, you'd just collapse in on yourself and die. You can't exist without me, Sally.
"You were away from me for just two weeks, and look what happened. You're a mess. You tried to pretend you were normal. You lost all your manners. Your mother would be appalled. Your husband would back away from you in disgust. As for your father, well-well, I suppose it's not worth speculating now that he's shuffled off his mortal coil."
"Where am I?"
"Ah, that's supposed to be the first thing out of your mouth, if books and TV stories are to be believed. You're back where you belong, Sally. Just look around you. You're back in your room, the very same one decorated especially for you by your dear father. I've kept you under for nearly a day and a half. I let up on the dosage about four hours ago. You took your time coming to the surface."
"What do you want?"
“I have what I want; at least I have the first installment of what I want. And that's you, my dear."
"I'm thirsty."
"I'll bet you are. Holland, where are you? Bring some water to our patient."
She remembered Holland, a skinny, furtive little man who'd been one of the two men to stare through the small square window while he was hitting her and caressing her, humiliating her. Holland had thinning brown hair and the deadest eyes she'd ever seen. He rarely said anything, at least to her.
She said nothing more until he appeared at her side, a glass of water in his hand.
"Here you are, Doctor," he said in that low, hoarse voice of his that lay like a covering of loose gravel in all those nightmares, making her want to be drugged so she wouldn't realize he was around her.
He was standing behind Beadermeyer, looking down at her, his eyes dead and hungry. She wanted to vomit.
Dr. Beadermeyer raised her and let her drink her fill.
"Soon you'll want to go to the bathroom. Holland will help you with that, won't you, Holland?"
Holland nodded, and she wanted to die. She fell back against the pillow, a hard, institutional pillow, and closed her eyes. She knew deep down she couldn't keep herself intact in this place again. She also realized that she would never escape again. This time it was over for her.
She kept her eyes closed, didn't turn toward him, just said, "I'm not crazy. I was never crazy. Why are you doing this? He's dead. What does it matter?"
"You still don't know, do you? You still have no memory of any of it. I realized that almost immediately. Well, it isn't my place to tell you, my dear." She felt him pat her cheek. She flinched.
"Now, now, Sally, I'm not the one who tormented you, though I must admit that I enjoyed the one tape I saw. Except you weren't even there, you were just flopping back, your eyes closed, letting him do what whatever he wanted.
"You didn't have any fight in you. Why, you were so out of it, you barely flinched when he hit you. But even then you weren't afraid. I could tell. The contrast, at least, made for fascinating viewing."
She felt gooseflesh rise on her arms as remnants of memories flooded her-the movement of his hands over hers, the pushing and slapping, the caressing that turned to pain.
She heard the bed ease up and knew that Dr. Beader-meyer was standing beside her, looking down at her. She heard him say softly, "Holland, if she gets away again, I'll have to hurt you badly. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Doctor Beadermeyer."
"It won't be like last time, Holland. I made a mistake on your punishment last time. You rather liked that little shock therapy, didn't you?"
"It won't happen again, Doctor Beadermeyer." Was there disappointment in that frightening little man's voice?
"Good. You know what happened to Nurse Krider when she let her hide those pills under her tongue. Yes, of course you do. Be mindful, Holland.
"I must go now, Sally, but I'll be with you again this evening. We'll have to get you away from the sanitarium, probably tomorrow morning. The decision about what to do with you hasn't been made just yet. But you can't stay here. The FBI, this Quinlan fellow, he's got to know all about this place. I'm sure you did tell him some things about your past. And they'll come. But that isn't your problem.
“Now, let me give you a little shot of something that will make you drift and really feel quite good about things. Yes, Holland, hold her arm for me."
Sally felt the chill of the needle, felt the brief sting. Within moments, she felt herself begin to drift out of her brain, to float in nothingness. She felt the part of her that was real, the part of her that wanted life-such a small flicker, really-struggling briefly before it succumbed. She sighed deeply and was gone from herself.
She felt hands on her, taking off her clothes. She knew it was Holland. Probably Dr. Beadermeyer was watching.
She didn't struggle. There was nothing more to care about.
Quinlan woke up with a roaring headache that beat any hangover he'd ever had in college. He cursed, held his head in his hands, and cursed some more.
"You've got the mother of all headaches, right?"
"David," he said, and even that one word hurt. "What the devil happened?"
"Someone hit you good just above your left ear. Our doctor put three stitches in your head. Hold still and I'll get you a pill."
Quinlan focused on that pill. It had to help. If it didn't, his brain would break out of his skull.
"Here, Quinlan. It's strong stuff; you're supposed to have just one every four hours."
Quinlan took it and downed the entire glass of water. He lay back, his eyes closed, and waited.
"Doctor Grafft said it would kick in quickly."
"I sure as hell hope so. Talk to me, David. Where's Sally?"
"I'll tell you everything. Just lie still. I found you unconscious in that narrow little strip of alley beside the Hinterlands. Thelma Nettro had reported you and Sally missing, so I started looking.
"You scared the shit out of me. When I found you lying there, I thought you were dead. I slung you over my shoulder and brought you to my house. Doctor Grafft met me here and stitched you up. I don't know about Sally. She's just gone, Quinlan. No trace, nothing. It's like she was never even here."
If he hadn't hurt so badly, Quinlan would have yelled. Instead, he just lay there, trying to figure things out, trying to think. For the moment, it was beyond him.
Sally was gone. That was all that was real to him. Gone, not found dead. Gone. But where?
He heard children's voices. Surely that couldn't be right. He heard David say, "Deirdre, come here and sit on my lap. You've got to keep very quiet, okay? Mr. Quinlan isn't feeling well, and we don't want to make him feel worse."
He heard a little girl whisper, but he couldn't make it out. Deirdre meant sorrow. He slept.
He awoke to see a young woman with a pale complexion and very dark red hair looking at him.
She had the sweetest face he'd ever seen. "Who are you?"
"I'm Jane, David's wife. You just lie still, Mr. Quinlan." He felt her cool palm on his forehead. "I've got some nice hot chicken soup for you. Doctor Grafft said to keep it light until tomorrow. You just open your mouth and I'll feed you. That's right."
He ate the entire bowl and began to feel human. "Thank you," he said, and slowly, her hand under his elbow, he sat up.
"Your head ache?"
''It's just a dull thud now. What time is it? Rather, what day is it?"
"You were hurt early this afternoon. It's eight o'clock in the evening now. I hope the girls didn't disturb you."
"No, not at all. Thank you for taking me in."
"Let me get David. He's tucking the girls into bed. He should be just about through with the bedtime story."
Quinlan sat there, his head back against the cushions of the sofa, a nice comfortable sofa. The headache was gone now. He could get out of here soon. He could find Sally. He realized he was scared to his socks. What had happened to her?
Her father had come for her just as he'd promised he would. No, that was ridiculous. Amory St. John was long dead.
"You want some brandy in hot tea?"
"Nan, my pecker doesn't need optimism." Quinlan opened his eyes and smiled at David Mountebank. "Your wife fed me. Great soup. I appreciate you taking me in, David."
"I couldn't leave you with Thelma Nettro, now, could I? I wouldn't leave my worst enemy there. That old lady gives me the willies. It's the weirdest thing. She always has that diary of hers with her and that fountain pen in her hand. The tip of her tongue is practically tattooed from the pen tip."
"Tell me about Sally."
"Every man I could round up is talking to everybody in The Cove and looking for her. I've got an APB out on her-''
"No APB," James said, sitting up straight now, his face paling. "No, David, cancel it now. It's critical."
"I won't buy any more of this national security shit, Quinlan. Tell me why or I won't do it."
"You're not being cooperative, David."
"Tell me and let me help you."
"She's Sally St. John Brainerd."
David just stared at him. "She's Amory St. John's daughter? The daughter who's nuts and who ran away from that sanitarium? The woman whose husband is frantic about her safety? I knew she looked familiar. Damn, I'm slipping fast. I should have made the connection. Ah, that's the reason for the black wig. Then she just forgot to put it on, didn't she?"
"Yeah, that and I told her to relax, that you would never connect her to Susan Brainerd, at least I prayed you wouldn't."
"I wish I could say I would have, but hell, I probably never would have unless I saw her in person and then saw her again on TV. What were you doing with her, Quin-lan?"
Quinlan sighed. "She doesn't know I'm FBI. She bought that story about me being a PI and looking for those old folks who disappeared around here three years ago. I came here because I had this feeling she would run here, to her aunt. I was just going to take her back."
"But why is the FBI involved in a homicide?"
"It's not just a homicide at all. That's only part of it. We're in it for other reasons."
"I know. You're not going to tell me the rest of it."
"I'd prefer not to just yet. As I was saying, I was going to take her back, but then-"
"Then what?"
"Her father phoned her twice. Then she saw his face at her window in the middle of the night."
"And you found her father's footprints on the ground the next morning. Her father's dead, murdered. Jesus, Quinlan, what's going on here?"
"I don't know. But I've got to find her. Someone was trying to scare the hell out of her-make her believe she was crazy-and that aunt of hers didn't help a bit, kept telling her in an understanding, tender voice that she'd be hearing things and seeing things too if she'd been through all that Sally had, and she had been in that sanitarium for so long, and that would make her think differently, wouldn't it?
"Then the two murders. I've got to find her. Everything else is nuts, but not Sally."
"When you feel well enough, you and I will go see her aunt. I already spoke to her, but she just said that she hadn't seen Sally, that she was staying with you at Thelma's Bed and Breakfast. We searched your tower bedroom. Her duffel bag was gone and all her clothes, her blow dryer, everything. It's like she was never there. Look, Quinlan, maybe when she saw you unconscious, she got really scared and ran."
"No," James said, looking David straight in the eye. "I know she wouldn't leave me, not if I were lying there unconscious. She just wouldn't."
"It's like that, is it?"
"God only knows, but she has a thick streak of honor and she cares about me. She wouldn't have left."
"Then we've got to find her. Another thing-I'm an officer of the law. Now that I know who she is, it's my duty to report her."
"I'd appreciate it if you'd wait, David. There's more at stake here than just Amory St. John's murder, lots more. Trust me on this."
David looked at him for a long time. Finally, he said, "All right. Tell me what I can do to help."
"Let's go see Aunt Amabel Perdy."
Dr. Alfred Beadermeyer was enjoying himself. Sally didn't know the small new mirror in her room was two-way. No one knew, at least he didn't think so. He watched her sit up slowly, obviously trying to coordinate her arms and legs. Since her brain was fuzzy, it was difficult for her, but she just kept trying. He admired that in her, and at the same time he wanted to destroy it. It seemed to take her several moments to realize she was naked.
Then, very slowly, as if she were an old woman, she rose and walked to the small closet. She pulled out a nightgown she'd left here when she escaped before. She didn't know it, but he had bought it for her. She slipped it over her head, teetering a bit but managing finally. Then she walked back to sit on the edge of the bed. She held her head in her hands.
He was getting bored. Wouldn't she do anything? Wouldn't she start yelling? Something? He had nearly turned to go when at last she raised her head and he saw tears streaming down her cheeks.
This was better. Soon she would be ready to listen to him. Soon now. He would hold off on another shot for an hour or so. He turned away and unlocked the door of the tiny room.
Sally knew she was crying. She could feel the wet on her face, taste the salt when it trickled into her mouth. Why was she crying? James. She remembered James, how he lay there, blood streaming from the wound over his left ear. He'd been so still, so very still. Beadermeyer had promised he wasn't dead. How could she believe that devil?
He had to be all right. She looked at the soft silk gown that slithered against her skin. It was a lovely peach color with wide silk straps over her shoulders. Unfortunately it bagged on her now. She looked at the needle marks in her arm. There were five pinpricks. He'd drugged her five times. She felt her head begin to clear, slowly, so very slowly. More things, memories, began to filter through, take shape and substance.
She had to get out of here before he either killed her or took her someplace else, someplace where nobody could find her. She thought of James. He could find her if anyone could.
She forced herself to her feet. She took one step, then another. Soon she was walking slowly, carefully, but naturally. She stood in front of the narrow window and stared out onto the sanitarium grounds.
The mowed lawn stretched a good hundred yards before it butted against a heavily wooded area. Surely she could walk that far; she had before. She just had to get to those woods. She could get lost in those woods, just as she had before. Eventually she'd found her way out. She would again.
She walked back to the closet. There was a bathrobe and two more nightgowns, a pair of slippers. Nothing else. No pants, no dresses, no underwear.
She didn't care. She would walk in her bathrobe, to the ends of the earth if necessary. Then another veil lifted in her brain, and she remembered that she'd stolen one of the nurse's pa
ntsuits that first time, and her shoes. Would it be possible to do that again?
Who had done this to her? She knew it wasn't her father. He was long dead. It had to be the man pretending to be her father, the man who'd called her, who'd appeared at her bedroom window. It could have been Scott, it could have been Dr. Beadermeyer, it could have been some man either of them had hired.
But not her father, thank God. That miserable bastard was finally dead. She prayed there really was a hell. If there was, she knew he was there, in the deepest pit.