“I was just leaving,” Reginald said. “I want to be able to provide Dr. Perkins my best evaluation of which patients my pharmaceutical might help. I’m very eager for his return. Thank you for your help, Faith,” Reginald said.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Proctor. Good luck with your research. I’ll just refile those records.”
“Have a good day, Doctor, Faith.” Reginald came out of the office and almost bumped into me before I dodged him.
“Let’s go,” Reginald whispered, hurrying me down the empty hall.
“Is it wrong to charm young girls into helping you?” I asked. I’d tell him about my strange encounter with Joanne later. The bigger news was the poor drowned woman.
“It might be, but I found out something interesting.”
“What?” I didn’t mind delaying my news.
“All of the patients who’ve received the benefits of having their skulls opened and their brains sliced have been discharged except for one. A Lawrence girl.”
I nodded. “Cheryl Lawrence.”
“How did you know?”
“She’s dead. They just pulled her out of the river.”
“Was it an accident or a suicide?” Reginald grasped my arm and eased me into the shadows. “Or was it murder?”
“Murder? Who would murder a mental patient?”
“A doctor who botched the job.”
“But Dr. Perkins is in Europe. He couldn’t have harmed her.”
Reginald put his arm around my shoulders and moved me down the hall at a brisk pace. At the end of the hallway, there was a small alcove where cleaning supplies were stored. We stepped inside, listening for footsteps.
When we heard nothing, Reginald continued. “Men like Perkins pay others to do their dirty work. And he’s got the perfect alibi.”
“Do you really think he murdered his own patient?” I didn’t want to believe it. This was the man in charge of Camilla’s fate. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“I only glanced quickly at the file, but Cheryl Lawrence was diagnosed as ‘feebleminded’ before the surgical procedure. That’s not what Nurse Brady said.” Reginald peeked into the hallway and motioned for me to hold our position. “Perhaps she was a bad result. A living example of what could happen if the surgery failed. Which would be worth hiding, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “Drowning would be the simplest way to murder her and leave no evidence. If she was simpleminded, then it’s easy enough to make people believe she wandered away from the hospital, stepped into the river to cool off on a hot summer day, and drowned.” I looked at him. “Camilla’s in danger.”
“You’re not wrong about that.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow moving down the wall of the hallway. I put my fingers on Reginald’s mouth to silence him. “Someone’s there.”
We eased back against the wall with the mops and brooms and held our breath. Reginald’s hand gripped my arm, giving me support. In a moment Dr. French passed the opening. He was in such a hurry he didn’t even glance in the alcove. I couldn’t account for the terror I felt. As a child I’d sometimes played hide-and-seek with other children, and I’d had the same unreasonable terror. I hated hiding and hoping not to be found. Helplessness and fear made my legs weak, and I trembled.
“Are you okay?” Reginald asked. The danger had passed, and he offered his arm as we left the small alcove.
“I’ve always hated hiding.” I tried to brush it off with a laugh, but even to me the sound was pitiful. “The other children would laugh at me because I always volunteered to be ‘it.’ I wanted to hunt, not hide.”
“No victim behavior for you.” Reginald gently guided me down the hallway. “Did something happen to you? Maybe someone meant to hurt you and you had to hide?”
“No, nothing like that. No bad experiences. Just a character quirk.” I felt so much better moving down the hall. We passed a window and looked out at the sunshine in the oak and sycamore trees. It was like a tonic.
“Madam would say this is something from a past life, an unreasonable fear or impulse that has no explanation in life experience.”
“So I was in danger in a past life and hid, terrified of being found. What would I have been?” The discussion felt silly, but I didn’t care. The act of walking and talking calmed me.
“Perhaps you were a thief, trapped in your victim’s house. Or a battered wife. Or a spy.”
“I like the idea that I was a spy. Perhaps in the Civil War.”
“Or maybe in Athens or Sparta. Madam believes that our souls have been in existence since the beginning of time. We return to this reality to experience a physical life in an effort for our spirits to mature and grow.”
“Do you believe this?” I asked Reginald.
“I don’t disbelieve it. Your writer hero, Arthur Conan Doyle, has been taken through a rebirth of past lives through the use of hypnosis. It is called a regression.”
“I’ve never heard of this.”
Reginald explained. “In ancient Indian literature, some great religious men practiced exploring their incarnations through yoga and meditation. The idea is to unburden this life from past experiences. Mr. Doyle is a firm believer. He and Madam have delved deeply into the subject. Madam says this physical life teaches compassion, because we suffer so much loss and pain.”
“Certainly that.” We turned the corner to the hallway containing Camilla’s room. I slowed my pace. I’d lost my parents and Alex, and I was only twenty-four years old. The time that stretched in front of me would bring more loss. “How can I discover my past life?”
“There are those trained in the technique. Before you ask, I am not.”
He was correct that I wanted to try it.
“When we resolve this case, we’ll travel to New Orleans and talk to Madam.” Reginald looked straight ahead instead of at me.
“Promise?” I asked.
“If you still want to when we finish this case, I’ll take you. Sometimes knowing too much isn’t the right answer.”
“Why would you say that?” I stopped so he faced me.
“Because it’s true. We are here now. Whatever happened in the past is gone, as if it never happened. I believe it’s best to leave that behind and simply try to live today as best we can.”
“But what harm to explore?”
“People under hypnosis aren’t always reliable. It isn’t a science, Raissa.”
“Were you regressed?”
He set off at a walk. “No. But I’ve seen it done.”
I caught the sleeve of his jacket. “What happened?”
“The results were . . . tragic.” He pointed toward Camilla’s door. “We should be plotting a way to get her out of here.”
“Wait. Tell me what happened. I’m not a child or a fool.”
“The hypnotist regressed a young man to a life in Persia. He was a sex slave. And he liked it.” Reginald’s eyes were sharp and hot. “When he woke up and realized what he’d admitted to, he hanged himself that night. He couldn’t bear the humiliation of being a male prostitute. Not even in a past life.”
Reginald had grown up on the streets. He’d been in an orphanage. What had he endured?
“I’m sorry. I should have let it drop.”
“No, you have a right to know, to learn. But this past-life regression isn’t a party trick.”
“The young man who took his own life—no one could prove that he was a sex slave two hundred years ago. He should have shrugged it off.”
“Perhaps he killed himself because he was forced to confront his real feelings. Desires he couldn’t even admit to himself. When people are unmasked and they aren’t ready to face the truth, it can be devastating. Imagine your most shameful fantasy or desire being revealed to a group of your friends. Everyone has secrets, things they hide even from themselves.”
“It would be difficult.”
“Not a single one of us expected Jacob to take his own life. If he’d only talked to me, I might
have helped him.”
“Did Madam perform the regression?”
“No, her sessions are always private. To prevent something like this from happening.”
“Does a present life always echo a past life?” I asked.
“Seldom, from my experience, but I’m a novice. It’s dangerous, though, when an interest or behavior is revealed. As I said, none of us was prepared for what happened, especially not Jacob. And Malcolm, the hypnotist, was devastated.”
“I’m so sorry, for all involved.”
“Society isn’t kind to those who differ from the accepted path. But who decides what’s accepted? Isn’t that the question we should be asking? Who decides that women are property? Or that the murder of a white man is punishable, but the murder of a black man is not important?”
Reginald had raised some issues I wanted to discuss, but not before we spoke to Camilla. If we were going to convince her to leave with us, we needed to do it right away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“But I’m not cured.”
Camilla sat in the straight-back chair beside the tiny desk in her room. Her pose was demure, but I’d struck a will of iron beneath the calm, pliant exterior. The progress I’d made on the riverbank convincing her to leave had faded to nothing.
“Dr. Abbott can care for you in Montgomery. He’s agreed to do this. There’s a hospital there. Just let us get you out of here.” I knelt beside her and grasped her hands. “It’s not safe here. Let us help you.”
“I can’t. I’ve thought about what you said, but I can’t. Were I to go to the hospital in Montgomery and word got out that I had attempted to kill David, my family would be ruined. Our engagement would be broken. He could never marry a woman who tried to kill him—he would be a social outcast, and banking is about connections in society. David says he doesn’t care, but I do. Even a whiff that I’m a madwoman is unacceptable. I can’t risk that. I love David, and I want to be his wife.”
“Then stay in your home or the Sayres’ home.” I refused to release her hands.
“No.” She met my gaze full-on. “I will not. Mother won’t have me, and she’ll punish the Sayres if they get involved.”
“Camilla, something’s not right about Dr. Perkins.” I hadn’t wanted to tell her about Cheryl Lawrence’s death. I didn’t want to shock or upset her. I had no idea how tenuous her grasp on her calm logic might be. But I told her anyway. She had to know.
“Do you have proof Dr. Perkins had anything to do with her death? Or just suspicions? I’ve seen her walk to the river. Sometimes she was calm enough, but other times she was frantic. She talked about swimming across the river to get away from Bryce. Maybe she tried that and drowned. If you have evidence of foul play, tell me now.”
“In this instance, suspicions are enough,” Reginald said. “If the girl drowned herself because of what had been done to her—or if she was drowned by someone else because of it—in either instance, you could be in danger.”
Our arguments weren’t budging her. I tried a different tack. “What if I speak with your mother and convince her that it isn’t safe for you here?” It would be a Herculean chore, but I was willing to try.
“She won’t allow it. She made herself clear, and one thing you should know—Mama never backs down. If I want to return to Montgomery, I must be cured.” At last she looked at us. “Or I must believe the source of my illness can be found and eradicated. Am I haunted? Can you say that positively? Can you promise that my behavior stems from Roswell House?”
“I don’t know.”
She shook her head. “If it’s come to the place where being haunted by a dead spirit is preferable to all else, then I am lost,” she said.
I’d failed her. I sensed nothing around her, and the only identifiable spirits I’d seen at Bryce had nothing to do with Camilla, except they seemed to point out the fate she might share with them.
She plucked at the fabric of her dress. “If I’m not haunted, then clearly I’m mad. To lose control of my body and commit such a terrible act—with no memory of doing it or explanation as to why I would—that is madness, and I won’t subject my family to ridicule from my behavior. And I certainly won’t risk David’s life.”
I stood. We would not sway her. If we meant to take her with us, we would have to abduct her against her will. I couldn’t see that Reginald would agree to such an action. I wasn’t certain I could, though I was worried enough about her welfare to consider it.
“We have to go now,” I said. “We return to Montgomery tomorrow morning. After we’ve visited Roswell House, maybe we’ll have some answers for you.”
“I hope you find something. I sincerely do. I want to go home. I hope you know that. But I can’t. I just can’t.” Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t allow them to fall. Her will was impressive.
“We’ll do everything we can to find a way to help you and return you, undamaged, to your life.” Reginald patted her shoulder. “For now we’ll leave you to rest.” He inclined his head toward the hall, and we left the room.
Reginald and I were silent as we traversed the hall. Sobs and moans came from some of the patient wards. The murmur of conversation buzzed like a distant hive. I wondered if the glassy-eyed patients we passed viewed us as ghosts of a life left behind. To them, the world we lived in was no more real than visitations from the dead.
While Reginald stopped in the lobby to call for a car to drive us, I went outside. The heat was so oppressive, and a sudden light-headedness made me stagger. As I sank to the steps to sit, a movement in my periphery vision compelled me to turn my head. Connie Shelton stood not a hundred yards away. She wore the same dress, and her hair lifted and fell on a breeze that only she could feel.
I knew for certain then. She was a ghost.
My heart hammered, and the sense of dizziness made me brace my palms on the steps to keep from falling over and cracking my head. For what felt like an eternity, I couldn’t hear anything. It was as if a bell jar had been placed around me. When Reginald’s shoes showed up beside me, I looked up at him, unable to communicate.
“Raissa! Are you sick?” He took my hands and helped me up. Sound returned, and I could speak.
“Connie Shelton didn’t leave with her uncle, as the nurse told us. She’s dead.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s standing right there, beside the camellia bush.” Unladylike as it might be, I pointed. Connie Shelton stood beside the glossy forest-green leaves of a tall camellia. She turned slowly around, revealing the back of her dress ripped and shredded. Her back was a lacework of blood, as if she’d been flayed by something.
“Oh dear God.” I stumbled, but Reginald held me upright. “She’s been savagely abused.”
“I can’t see her.”
“Be glad you can’t. Someone beat her without mercy. Her spirit has returned here to Bryce, and she wouldn’t be here if she were alive. She’d be with her uncle. If such a person even exists.” Connie had left with someone purporting to be a relative. I knew better. The person she’d left with had killed her. “As soon as we get to Montgomery, we have to look into it. We have her uncle’s address. We have to find out what happened to her. Maybe tomorrow we can examine her file.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Reginald asked.
“I’m almost afraid to find out.” I was still a bit woozy, and I leaned on his arm as he helped me into the hired car that had arrived.
“You need to eat something, and I want to explore some topics.” He asked the driver if he knew how to reach the catfish restaurant Faith had told him about. A moment later, we were under way.
I looked back at the hospital. On the first floor, where the records office was, I saw a dim shadow standing in a window. It was male, and the man seemed to be watching us depart. By the time I called Reginald’s attention to the window, the figure was gone. Almost as if I’d imagined it.
A chill traced over me, and, despite the ninety-degree heat, I felt
cold.
Carmichael’s Catfish Cabin boasted the decor of a gentleman’s hunting and fishing camp. It catered to the Tuscaloosa elite who wanted to get away from the city for an evening of fresh fried catfish and a view of the beautiful Black Warrior River. It was set deep in the woods, a place both isolated and romantic as the sun descended. The drive had been winding and filled with hairpin curves, skirting cypress swamps and black-water sloughs.
The restaurant was situated on a bluff with a lovely view of the river below. I sat at a table along an open front porch and looked out. The river reminded me of Cheryl Lawrence, the poor young woman who’d drowned. Under suspicious circumstances.
Reginald ordered for us both, and the food was delicious. I’d thought I couldn’t eat, but after one taste of the light cornmeal-dipped fish, I realized I was starving. Reginald ordered iced teas, a perfect complement to the crispy fish and tart coleslaw. As I ate and watched the sun set, my body relaxed, and I was able to laugh at Reginald’s jokes.
“Thank goodness,” he said, signaling for more tea. “You had me worried.”
“Well, we clearly can’t help Camilla by taking her out of Bryce. She refuses to leave.” I sipped the cold, sweet beverage, glad the day was finally over. “So let’s talk about what we can do.”
“The way I see it,” said Reginald, “we still don’t have all the facts. I see three possibilities. She is insane, she is haunted, or she is being manipulated by someone, whether through chemicals or some method I don’t know. My money is on a supernatural force.”
I nodded. “We must examine Roswell House.”
“Top of the list tomorrow,” he agreed. “As soon as we get to Montgomery.”
The waitress approached, and I was glad of the distraction. “We have fresh watermelon, pear tarts, or pound cake for dessert.”
“I couldn’t eat another bite, but the choices sound wonderful.”
“I’m stuffed, too.” Reginald slid folded bills toward her. “Keep the change. Can you call a car for us to get a ride back to Tuscaloosa?”
“There are some drivers waiting for fares. I’ll let one know.”
As we walked through the dining area, two men watched me. Their interest was so naked and intense that I stepped to the other side of Reginald.
The House of Memory (Pluto's Snitch Book 2) Page 11