He shook his head. His voice strained, he said, “I really am insane. I really am.”
12
The Voice of Insanity
“You are not insane!” Larkin snapped as her patience began to wear thin.
“Yes, I am,” he argued. “Now I’m dreaming I’m two people.” Ray shivered and pulled the thin blanket more tightly about him.
“Did you take your meds?”
“You know I did. You saw me. Larkin, all the voices didn’t disturb me as much as feeling torn apart.”
“Ray, listen to me. You have to go for help.”
“I have to call Latrice.”
“Why would you get in touch with that maniac?”
“You’re right. I can’t call her. She thinks I’m some derelict who sleeps in street gutters.” Ray Gautier looked around him and laughed sardonically. “I almost do. I’ll have to see her face to face.”
“No!” Larkin shrieked. “She might realize you’re not under her influence anymore.”
“I have to. If I don’t make contact with her, she might come here to see what’s wrong. I’ll be fine. I look like crap. I smell like crap. It’s a good time to go see her. I’ll go this afternoon.”
She could not convince Ray to stay. All she could do was pray he would pull off his deception.
♣♣♣
As the public health facility closed, Ray Gautier loitered on the street, hood shielding his face, but eyes alert. He waited until the tall, muscular woman with short dark hair came out. She saw him and vigorously walked over. “What’s wrong?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?”
“She wants a bath,” Ray babbled. “She won’t stop bugging me for a bath. She’s giving me such a headache.”
“A bath?” The woman held her hands in the air and shook her head. “I don’t want her grimy, moron. She has to be spotless, clean, pure. You haven’t touched her or anything, have you?”
He knitted his eyebrows together. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a man, a pitiful excuse, but a man. You know what I mean.”
“Oh.” Ray shook his head. “Momma’s voice wouldn’t allow me to do that.”
“Be a good boy.” A half smile crossed her face. “Listen to your momma.”
“Oh, I do.”
“I hope so. Mommas give good advice. Let me clarify one thing. When’s your birthday?”
“January 13th.”
Latrice shook her head. “Not a Gemini. Mommas usually give good advice, just like me. You didn’t listen to me very well with the Dupree kid. He’s crazier than you. You should’ve picked someone less volatile.”
“Are you still mad at me?” Ray looked at the ground and shuffled his feet.
“No, you got me what I wanted. In addition, the little thug is off the streets. How’s Larkin’s cut?”
“Healed, and only a tiny scar. I snipped the stitches just like you said to. I’m sorry.” He bit his lip like a little boy. “Don’t be mad at me. You’re the only person who cares about me.”
“I’m not mad. Do you need more money?”
“Yeah. She really likes Mexican food. Oh, did I tell you she wants a bath?”
“Yes,” she hissed. She took out her wallet and handed Ray three crisp one hundred dollar bills. “I only have three hundred on me. Go get a big washtub and some bath gel that smells really good. Connect a hose to the faucet in the bathroom. And pick her up something clean, but cheap, to wear. I have a special garment for her day. And take a bath yourself. You stink.” The woman started to turn away.
“When?”
“Huh?” She whipped back toward the hooded vagrant.
“When is her day? Why is it so special?”
“I already told you why. She’ll culminate the purification process. She’ll bring forth he who will stop the chaos.”
“And the voices?”
“Yes, Ray. I promise your voices will stop.”
“When?”
“Halloween.”
“How? Will you give me some new medicine?”
“Something even better. Trust in me, Ray.” For a moment Ray thought he could see a forked tongue and he envisioned Kaa, the snake from The Jungle Book.
Latrice’s voice went on in its hissing fashion. “The voices will stop forever. I promise. I’ll take care of you just as soon as Larkin has fulfilled her purpose.” Latrice, her dark maroon scrubs swishing, stalked away.
The vapors from her voice hung like ice shards in the fall air. Ray shivered.
He crumpled the money in his fist as he realized the voice of insanity had just spoken to him. He did not want anything Latrice had touched. As he walked down the street, he handed the cash to a homeless bum who wondered why someone as bad off as he was would give him three hundred dollars.
♣♣♣
Ray bumped and rattled through the door carrying a large washtub.
“What in the world?” Larkin asked.
“A bath for the lady and a few other surprises.”
“Well, the first surprise is you. You look like a million bucks.”
Ray had bathed, shaved, and wore clean jeans and a royal blue Polo sport shirt. In clothes that fit properly, it was easy to tell the man was in excellent physical condition from the muscle tone in his arms alone. He obviously worked out. “Yeah?” he asked with a genuine smile and deep dimples. “Thank you. I went by my house. I couldn’t stand the sight or scent of myself for another second.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Why?”
“What if the police had found you?”
“Now, who sounds crazy? What if they had?” He pushed the heavy wooden door shut with his foot. “You’d be free and safe, and I’d be in jail. As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about that. We’ll talk after your bath.”
He put the tub by the bathroom door and gathered several packages out of it.
“How did you get that stuff here?” asked Larkin.
“My car. It’s not spectacular, but I like it. I have a white Nissan Altima.” He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I know. The voice of insanity is taunting me, but I refuse to give in.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re the one who was in my parking place.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
“I got soaked.”
Ray chuckled as he attached the hose to the faucet and started the water into the tub. “Come on. Time to get soaked again. I don’t know how hot you like it.” He handed Larkin a bag from Bath and Body Works. It contained bath gel, shampoo, and conditioner, all in cucumber-melon scent. “It smelled nice,” he explained.
He handed her a bag from Wal-Mart. It contained washcloths, towels, a package of disposable razors, shaving cream, deodorant, a brush, two toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant soap for him, and undergarments in surprisingly the right size. “I guessed,” he said.
The last bag, from Victoria’s Secret, Ray put on the bed. “For when you get out.”
Larkin placed her untethered hand in the warm water. It felt marvelous. She felt Ray’s touch on her other wrist, and her shackle slipped off.
“I’ll wait outside. Knock when you’re done,” he said to her unspoken question. “I won’t hurt you. I told you that. You remind me so much of Rhonda. She would’ve looked a lot like you if she’d grown up. I loved my little sister very much.” He left Larkin to her bath and brought several more items in from his car, including a heater, more blankets, and more clothes for both him and Larkin.
♣♣♣
Every instinct inside Larkin told her to run as fast as she could the second Ray left the room. With one hand on the doorknob, a still, small voice whispered to her, “No. Stay. You are the one who will end this.”
Startled, she looked around her. “God, is that you?”
13
The Voice of Reason
Raiford Reynolds jumped when his phone rang. He answered quickly, “Reynolds.”
“Ray, it’s Mom. Sorry to bother you at work, but I didn’t ask when we talked ea
rlier. I called to see if you’ll be able to come tomorrow. It’s the anniversary of Ronnie’s death.”
“I know, but I just can’t leave. The Sloan woman is still missing, and I haven’t found the other Ray yet. Mom, he is my twin brother.” He rubbed his forehead as if a migraine was coming on. “Am I crazy to want to find him and to prove he’s not a killer?”
“No, honey. It’s the right thing to do. When you find him, bring him home. You said he has no family. We can be his family. We’ll get him the help he needs.”
“How sweet. That’s why I love you. You’re always understanding and reasonable.”
“So, listen to the voice of reason. You’re doing the right thing, and I love you all the more for it. Keep me up to date. ’Bye for now.”
“’Bye, Mom.” He hung up and smiled.
From the other desk, Chris asked, “And Mom said?”
“I’m doing the right thing.”
“I told you so. Did you tell her about my dream?”
“Yep.”
“What did she say about that?”
“When the time comes, you should follow your heart.”
A frown creased Chris’s brow. “That doesn’t sound too reasonable to me. I only know this man from my research with you.”
Ray shrugged. “If you don’t wanna hear the answer, don’t ask the question.”
Chris scowled and went back to running pictures of the different drawings that had been on each of the victims through the computer. Without looking at her partner, she said, “Take the Amidrine before you’re sick.”
♣♣♣
Larkin knocked on the heavy wooden door. She wore the pink pajamas with matching silver pin-striped pink tank top, soft velour pink robe, and fuzzy pink slippers that had been in the other bag. Her wet hair hung in copper ringlets over her shoulders.
Ray came back into the room. She asked candidly, “What’s going on in your head?”
“What do you mean? I’m finally listening to the voice of reason. You told me I need to go for help. I think you’re correct. I’ve begun to act.” He swept a hand on each side of his body. “As you can see, I’ve cleaned myself up. You look a whole lot better, too. I didn’t buy you any makeup. I think you look just fine without it.”
“Thanks.” She smirked. “Do you buy clothes, or um, lingerie, for women often?”
“I don’t consider that lingerie.” Ray laughed. “I call that comfortable. I’ve bought lingerie. Believe me, it was not cotton, and it did not cover that much.” He arched an eyebrow. “Do you think that’s lingerie?”
She blushed and changed the topic. “Where did you get money for all of this? Did Latrice give you money?”
“She gave me three hundred bucks and told me to get you something clean and cheap. Larkin Sloan, you don’t deserve cheap.” Ray proceeded to bring in several more packages, including a crumpled brown grocery sack.
The clothes he had purchased for her were not cheap. It was hard for her to believe they were exactly the right size and colors she would have chosen for herself. This man has good taste in women’s clothing, she thought.
“How did you get these things?”
“I used my credit card.”
“Ray!” Larkin screeched. “They track those things.”
“I don’t care.” He shrugged. “Now that I’m back on my medication, I’m thinking very rationally. I’m not a homeless bum who holds a sign on a street corner that reads, ‘Will work for food,’ although I gave Latrice’s three hundred dollars to one. No, I am a college graduate and an architect at Bertram and Associates. You asked me once if I had anyone. Yeah, I do—my friend, Walter. I just lost track for a while. It won’t happen again.”
“Okay,” she relented, and then pointed at the grocery sack. “What’s that?”
“That nasty outfit. I’m going to burn it when this is over, but I thought I’d better hang on to it in case I have to see Latrice again.”
He pulled out a cell phone. Larkin listened to the one-sided conversation. “Walter, this is Ray…I’m fine…Really, I’m fine…I’d love to come back, but I have a little problem…I need your advice…How did you know…He did? So, you think I should go to him? I will first thing tomorrow…Walter…Walter… Damn! I lost him. My battery’s dead.” He looked at the phone and stuck it in his pocket. Sheepishly, he said, “Well, maybe I didn’t remember everything. I wish I had. He was saying there was something I needed to know about this Detective Reynolds. Oh, well.” He shrugged and gave a little dip with one corner of his mouth. “Walter says I should definitely go to him though.
“Larkin, I’m not going to chain you up, but I think you should stay here. You’ll be safe. Latrice doesn’t want anything to do with you until Halloween, but if she should discover you’re free, she might do something. Will you stay here and wait for me to bring Detective Reynolds?”
Still hearing the voice from earlier, she sighed, “Yeah. I trust you to do what’s right.”
“Well, then.” He smacked his hands together in one sharp clap. “I hope you like Chinese. It’s my favorite, and since this will most likely be our farewell dinner, I was selfish.”
“I love Chinese, and there’s not a selfish bone in your body.”
♣♣♣
Raiford Reynolds reluctantly answered his cell phone as he drove home in his black, fully restored, 1967 Mustang Shelby GT. “Reynolds.”
“Detective, this is Carol Johnson, Mr. Gautier’s neighbor. His car is gone from where he always parks it.”
“The Escort?”
“No, his new one.”
“What kind of car does he have?”
“A white Nissan Altima.”
“Do you know the license plate?”
“No, sorry. I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Yes, thanks.” He hung up, annoyed that the Office of Motor Vehicles had a blue Escort registered to Raiford Gautier. They were so far behind since Hurricane Katrina, they didn’t have his new car registered to him yet. “And I’ve been looking for the damned Escort. White Altima—it was sitting in front of the townhouse, and one of the teachers at St. Ignatius mentioned Larkin being aggravated that a white Nissan had been parked in her parking place.” He slapped his forehead. “Shit!”
He still had his phone in his hand when it rang again. “Reynolds,” he said shortly.
“Detective Reynolds, Walter Bertram here.”
Gautier’s neighbor and boss calling back to back? Something is afoot
“I’ve spoken with Ray,” Bertram said. “He said he’s coming to see you tomorrow. I tried to tell him about your relationship, but the phone died.”
“Do you think he’ll really come?”
“He sounded coherent. If he’s taking his meds, he’ll be there. Please, keep your word. Don’t hurt him.”
“I have no intention of hurting my twin brother. I discovered we have the same birth mother, and we were adopted by two different families. That’s our real relationship, not just look-alikes. I know it sounds like a fairytale. Maybe like all fairytales, there’ll be a happy ending. Thanks for calling.”
14
Coincidence or Connection
Ray Reynolds arrived at the station early. The first thing he found was a fax showing that Raiford Gautier had been on a shopping spree with his platinum Visa. Ray scowled. “Is he really nuts?” he mumbled to himself.
When Chris arrived, he pounced to open the door as the knob rattled. “Oh, it’s you,” he said disappointedly.
“Nice to see you, too, Ray,” jabbed Chris sarcastically. “Did you sleep last night? You look like hell.”
Dark circles shadowed his blue eyes. “Not much.” He looked at his khakis, a pale yellow button-down shirt, and brown loafers. “At least I’m clean, but I neglected to shave.”
“I kind of like the shadow. Gives you that bad-boy image.”
“Thanks.” He smirked. “Bertram called. He talked to my brother—my brother is supposed to be coming in this morning.
I’m a nervous wreck.”
“Chill, dude!” Chris quipped. “Seriously, relax, Ray. I’ll be right here with you. Let’s work.”
The two of them sat down to reread the files they had compiled on the victims, hoping that some thread would finally unravel and give them a real clue.
♣♣♣
A couple of hours passed when the dispatcher buzzed Ray. “Detective Reynolds, you have visitors.”
“Send ’em back,” Ray said exultantly, thinking Gautier had gone to Walter Bertram first and Bertram was coming with him. Better yet, Larkin Sloan.
Three fairly young men walked into the office that housed Ray and Chris. Chris put her head in her hands. “It’s only Curly, Larry, and Moe.” She grinned at the three FBI agents. “Ray, let me introduce you. Agent Lawrence Dantzler, Agent Patrick Swift, and Agent, Profiler, Steve Journey.”
As Chris introduced the men, Ray’s analytical detective’s mind assessed them. Bet Dantzler’s team leader; he was. They shook hands. Germanic heritage; big man, two hundred thirty pounds on six and half feet. Looks like a Viking, platinum blond hair and bright blue eyes. The detective vaguely caught a quick discourse between Dantzler and Chris.
“Lawrence, are you still fighting in the mixed martial arts circuit?”
“Yeah, why?”
“It looks as if your nose has been broken recently. It’s misaligned.”
“You should see the other guy. I won the bout.”
Ray noted Dantzler could be a force to be reckoned with. Swift could vanish in a crowd. He’s so ordinary looking in that gray suit. Bet it came off the rack at J. C. Penney. Five-ten and one sixty, average. Caramel hair in a tight curl matches his eyes exactly. Looks like a faded tint-type photograph. The two men shook hands. Callouses. What does he do besides push papers? Orange discoloration on his fingers—yard work?
Ray tried not to stare at the profiler, Steve Journey. Poor guy; everybody’s definition of geek. He pushed his black rimmed glasses up on his rather beaky nose to hide big dark brown eyes. Yep, dork. Might help if he’d cut that hair. Looks like straw, but limp as spaghetti. Style it at least. That stringy mess shouts dweeb. Ph. D. Gotta be intelligent. Journey’s firm handshake gave Ray second thoughts about his character.
Lucky Thirteen (The Raiford Chronicles Book 1) Page 9