Enter Evil

by Linda Ladd

  “Hey, Claire. It’s about time I heard from you.”

  “You think you can get somebody’s home address and phone number for me?”

  Harve laughed. “Sure, that’s one of your more simple requests.”

  “Okay, it’s this girl who works in Branson. Her real name is Sharon Richmond, but she goes by Khur-Vay, and that’s K U R hyphen V A Y. She’s got a belly dancing studio on the main drag over there. She graduated from high school in Jefferson City. I’d say she’s midthirties. Dark hair. Green eyes. Probably five feet six inches, hundred ten pounds, maybe less. She’s Asian, I think, but if not, she’s sure as hell interested in the Orient.”

  “Shouldn’t take long.”

  “You’re a genius.”

  “I’ll call you back. Give me about ten minutes.”

  Shutting my phone, I thought for the millionth time how nice it was to have a computer whiz on my friend list. Harve’s multiple Internet businesses gave him options most people didn’t have. He was the best at what he did.

  While I waited, I sat there and thought about this new development. When I was in Khur-Vay’s studio, we talked about Mikey. If she didn’t have anything to hide, why wouldn’t she just come out and tell me who she was and that she had dated Mikey herself?

  The patient files had finally come in from the clinic late yesterday evening. They were stacked on the desk in front of me, both Young’s and Collins’s. I was trying to work out a way to get a warrant for their homes but hadn’t come up with a legitimate reason to do it. Maybe a nocturnal breakin was in order. It was as good a time as any to read through them and see if I could find out how they were getting by with their dirty tricks. Bud was supposed to help, but he was late coming in, still on the road, I guess. The warrant had asked for Mikey’s and now Cleo’s files, but the doctors had willingly included a handful of other patients who were there during the same period. I really needed those of all patients in the clinic, and two years before and after. Zero chance of that. I looked at the thickness of the file folders. Fun, fun, I had a feeling I was going to spend the whole night reading through stuff straight out of Wes Craven scripts.

  Beginning with Boyce Collins’s patient load, mainly because he annoyed me the most, and possibly had molested me, too, I began with Mikey’s rather thick file. He was diagnosed paranoid. No kidding. Three hundred evil eye bracelets either attached to his person or amulets strung all over his house pointed to that conclusion. Obviously, and in hindsight, he was right to be worried. I read on, all kinds of therapies, but especially group therapies with his fellow patients. He was quiet, attentive, caused no trouble, but was scared of his shadow. Probably because of Ice Queen of the Universe. For once, I voted with Freud on the mother thing.

  Twenty minutes passed. No Harve. No Bud. Okay, keep going. The more I read, the more I realized that an inordinate amount of these kids had committed suicide, either at the clinic or after they’d left. Of course, the place catered to at-risk kids, many of whom had already tried to take their own lives but failed. It probably wasn’t inordinate for that kind of place, but it didn’t exactly make Oak Haven look like a suicidal patient’s lifeline. I wondered if maybe the troubled teens fed on each other behind closed doors and dared each other to pull the trigger. Many of the files had successful outcomes, I guess, but there was just something that didn’t pass the sniff test with me. I knew the doctors up there were involved in these murders knee-deep.

  I read on. It appeared more girls than boys ended their lives while in residence. I thumbed through the faxes, looking for Sharon Richmond. Not there. I looked for Li He. She was treated by both doctors. She was obsessive compulsive with suicidal tendencies. That explained her neater than humanly possible dorm room.

  The Mexican Hat Dance song broke the silence. With trepidation, I picked it up. Maybe I just wouldn’t pick up to anybody except trusted friends. It was Harve. I punched him on quickly.

  “That girl was harder to track down than I thought. She moves around a lot. She lives in Ozark now. She moved there several years ago from Dyersburg, Tennessee.”

  Ozark was a small town halfway between Branson and Springfield. “You get an address on her?”

  “Yes. She lives on State Highway W. Box number is 1550.”

  “Got it. I’m going down there and see what she has to say.”

  “Now? It’s a little late, isn’t it?”

  “Nah. I don’t have anything else to do. If I wait, she might be gone by the time I get there. I have a feeling it’s a good idea to surprise the lady.”

  “Be careful. Where’s Black?”

  “Working.”

  “Where’s Bud?”

  “On his way back from St. Louis, probably.”

  “Well, be careful. Call if you need an ambulance.”

  “Ha ha, Harve.”

  He laughed, and then I did, but I didn’t really think it was all that funny. I had ridden inside a few ambulances in my day, and I preferred Black’s Humvee.

  After I hung up, I grabbed my purse, made sure all my weapons were loaded, stopped at the snack room, poured me a cup of that morning’s coffee, now with a consistency resembling Mississippi mud, choked some down, and I mean that literally, checked in with the night desk with instructions on where I was going and why, called Black, who was still with that patient, and told his voice mail where I was going and why, and then headed off to Ozark, Missouri, a good hour and a half drive away. Look out, Sharon Richmond aka Khur-Vay, here I come, ready or not.

  Here Comes Trouble

  Tee became obsessed with the detective bitch. His call did not trigger her overdose as planned, so she was still sniffing around. Oh yes, she had to go. The news articles about her were plentiful, a dime a dozen. And it didn’t take him long to figure out her Achilles’ heel. She had a seriously demented stalker at one time and was that a serendipitous gift for Tee. An androgynous stalker at that, one who nearly killed her before he had been put away in a mental hospital. Tee had to grin. All he had to do was set the guy free, and he’d take care of matters, and Tee wouldn’t have to dirty his hands, so to speak.

  The stalker’s name was Thomas Landers, but he had masqueraded as a woman and had gone by the name of Dottie. Once, Thomas had been a very close friend of the detective, and if Tee had anything to do with it, Thomas would be her bosom buddy again, and real soon, too. Best of all, the man was incarcerated in a hospital located not far away, and Tee had the right credentials to gain access to him, interview him, and if he met Tee’s expectations, which he fully expected him to do, he might be able to help the psycho escape. And if he did, and if Thomas Landers got hold of the nasty little detective again, so be it. May they live happily ever after in hell, as far as Tee was concerned.

  Tee smiled. It could happen. He could make it happen.

  The interview with Thomas Landers was easy enough to set up. Tee’s colleagues at Thomas’s hospital were pleased at his interest. Thomas was such an interesting case, so intelligent, so psychologically deficient, but making progress day by day. He was so much better, in fact, that they were considering supervised day trips. Input from another doctor of Tee’s reputation would be greatly appreciated. So he set things in motion, just like that.

  Tee got his first glimpse of Thomas in a private interview room. His new subject was smaller than he had expected him to be. He was sitting quietly, his fingers laced together on the table in front of him. He didn’t look like he would harm a fly, but from the files that Tee had read, the guy would lop off a man’s head with a meat cleaver without batting an eyelash. All the better. Nothing Tee liked better than a natural-born killer.

  “Hello, Thomas.”

  “Hello, Doctor. Are you here to examine my head? I have a thing about heads, you know.”

  Tee laughed, thinking that rather clever. He liked his new patient at once. Landers’s voice was very calm and studied, but he looked mildly surprised by Tee’s reaction, and somehow, pleased.

  “So I’ve heard,” Tee sai
d.

  “You aren’t horrified like the other doctors?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then you must have your own agenda, I suspect.”

  “Yes, I do. Want to help me?”

  Thomas stared at him out of big, intelligent blue eyes. The reports had indicated his hair was bleached blond when he went as a woman, but now it was dark brown, cut short by the hospital staff. He was very serene and unmoving, but very interested in what Tee had to say.

  At length, and after a glance at the screened-glass window in the door, Thomas said, “Possibly. How can I help you?”

  Tee glanced at the window, too, although he had made sure the room wasn’t equipped with microphones or cameras. He said, “We have a mutual friend, Thomas.”

  “Indeed. And who would that be?”

  “That would be Claire Morgan, or as you knew her, Annie Blue.”

  His words impacted Thomas. The man couldn’t hide it, although he tried. He lowered his gaze, and several minutes passed before Thomas said, “You know my Annie?”

  “I sure do.”

  “Is she all right? Nobody will tell me about her.”

  “Oh, she’s fine. She misses you. She told me that herself.”

  For the first time, Thomas smiled. “I suspect you’re lying about that.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Why are you really here? It’s obvious you need me for something.”

  “Nope. I just think it’s time you met and talked to Annie again, spent some time with her. I believe that’s the therapy which would help you most. Of course, your other doctors don’t agree. So we’d have to keep this just between ourselves. You do understand that.”

  Thomas observed him, then crossed his arms over his chest. He was very muscular and looked strong. “They won’t let me out of here to see her. That’s the last thing they would allow. They won’t even let me have her picture in my room.” He sighed.

  Tee said, “They won’t know. I’ll think of a way to help you escape this place. We’ll meet when you’re outside and I’ll take you to her.”

  Thomas said, “I worry about her. She’s got a dangerous job.”

  “Yes, I know. I understand your admiration of her. She’s quite a woman.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just do exactly what I say, and I’ll get you out of here without anyone knowing it. Then I’ll get you that one-on-one meeting with Annie.”

  Thomas narrowed his eyes. “You got yourself a deal, Doctor. When do I leave?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Little Miss Sharon aka Khur-Vay lived way out in the boonies of Ozark, Missouri. Lots of trees and hills and narrow blacktopped roads and no streetlights. I hoped she was home after I had put in such a long drive, but I sure didn’t want to give her a call so she could pack her bags and flee before I rang her doorbell. Along the drive, I spent some time on the cell phone with Black, who was burning furious because I’d gone off without him. He didn’t care for the idea that I was headed into the dark woods alone, either, so I gave him Khur-Vay’s address and told him to come on down and join the party, if it’d make him feel better. He said it’d make him feel better, and to turn on my GPS tracking device so he could find me, and not to answer my phone to unknown callers. Gladly, I agreed to both suggestions. Phone friends, yes; phone fiends, no. Not that I considered one small belly dancer particularly threatening unless, of course, she knocked me unconscious with some serious hip swivels.

  When I finally found the right box number on Khur-Vay’s very dark and Cur-Vay road, it was fastened to a brand-new, shiny silver mailbox with gold reflective numbers but no glow-in-the-dark name. There was a barred gate locked across the entrance to the graveled drive but no corresponding fence. Therefore, if I so desired I could just drive on the grass around the gate and get up to the house anyway. The purpose of Fatima’s gate, therefore, eluded me. However, I didn’t want to get thrown in jail on a vehicular trespass charge by my worthy Ozark PD counterparts, so I pulled my Explorer off on the shoulder. I could see lights on up at the house at the far end of the driveway, about fifty yards up a rise. It looked like a small ranch house inside a grove of tall pine trees. A couple of cars were parked out front.

  I got out, locked my door, and waded through some tall weeds edging the road. Hesitating, slightly gun-shy of late, I considered calling for backup but for what? I was armed. Sharon Richmond didn’t strike me as a dangerous character who’d pull a gun and shoot me dead, and I had pretty good instincts about stuff like that. I was just paying a social call. She’d told me to call her if I wanted to learn how to entice Black with my belly. So, hey, maybe I was here to order up some belly lessons, so enthused, in fact, I couldn’t wait until she opened up shop again.

  Or, in a less Mickey Mouse scenario, she might have invited a whole bevy of evil Jekyll-and-Hyde doctors in for green tea and peach fried pies. I pulled the Glock out of my shoulder holster, just in case, and felt incredibly better about the whole thing with the heft of the weapon in my right hand.

  It took me a couple of minutes to walk up to the house, mainly because I was being stealthy and looking in the thick shadowy bushes for murderous assailants. The driveway was longer than it looked from the road. All was very quiet in the dark night. About a million plus crickets were having a hoedown in the bushes, really giving their back legs a work out, but nary a bird call from yonder tree branches. All gone to Fort Lauderdale on vacation, I guess. Two cars sat in front of the house: one, an older, rather beat-up, olive green Dodge van and the other, a newer model white Concorde. I had the urge to keep my gun up and out in front to greet the bogeymen I usually ran into at times like this. Not a good sign, that. But I didn’t get any of my innate danger vibes, the kind that really got me all nervous and riled up. I had learned to always trust my instincts. They’d done right for me so far. I was still alive, wasn’t I?

  I walked up the front steps, not exactly hiding my approach, but not tromping around with hobnailed boots, either. I stopped and examined the house. The front windows were lit up, all yellow and welcoming, but covered with vertical blinds so I couldn’t see who was hiding inside. I opened the screen door and tapped lightly with my knuckle. It was just so dang quiet. No sounds came from inside the house and nobody answered the door. So I walked back down the steps and placed my palm on the hood of van. The motor was cold. So was the Concorde’s.

  A breeze tossed the top branches of the trees around the house, no doubt looking for the absentee birds. It smelled like rain was coming, the air suddenly cooler after a very hot day. Then I heard the voices, drifting to me through the wind and cricket tantrums. Okay, somebody was in the backyard doing something or other. The something or other was what I was most interested in. I eased around the corner, the Glock pointing down at the ground along my right thigh. Not that I thought petite little Khur-Vay was gonna attack me with her castanets or tie me up with her see-through scarves, or anything, but then again, her alter ego Sharon Richmond might decide to attack me with something sharp and shiny and not fun to be planted in my chest.

  More overgrown and scratchy bushes lined the side of the house, and I had to wade through tall weeds that had a sulfuric, acrid stink that would probably cling to my jeans through both rinse cycles, but they cushioned my increasingly cautious advance and now I could see a strange soft glow coming from somewhere behind the house. I proceeded carefully and stopped to listen several times, a little wary about rounding that back corner and putting myself into somebody’s gun sights. It’s always good to know how many people might jump you before you show yourself. Still, I had no sense of bodily threat. Go figure.

  Now I could tell that there were two voices, both female, both speaking in normal tones, neither yelling bloody murder or screaming in agony, which was always a good sign. The women sounded like they were just sitting around and shooting the bull, not literally, of course, that would’ve alarmed me. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but it didn’t sound particularly
life threatening. Just two girls having a little chat. Always fine in my creeping-up-on-somebody book.

  So I relaxed a little bit, that is, until I heard the soft but unmistakable click of a weapon cocked somewhere behind me and a male voice saying, “Put the gun down or you’re gonna get a new hole drilled in the back of your head.”

  Well, okay, and shit. But a new hole drilled in the back of my head was something I didn’t really care for, so I went for my best bravado and bluffed him without ado, “I’m a police detective, here to investigate a case. I’m not putting my gun down and I’ve got backup on the way.”

  Luckily, that changed his tune. “Look, Officer, I don’t want trouble. Put your weapon down and then we’ll talk.”

  “Sorry, no can do.”

  Rustling footsteps occurred in the dark, and then the voice again, closer now. “Do it or I’ll shoot you. I’m not kidding.”

  Crap. “How about we talk about this some more?”

  “Do it, lady, now, or I’m gonna blow your fuckin’ brains out.”

  Fairly certain by his heavily gritted teeth that he wasn’t kidding around any more and that he was polite because he’d called me lady and hadn’t shot me without giving me a chance and that it wasn’t a voice I’d heard before and definitely not that of any witch doctors from Oak Haven, I said, “Well, okay, if you think I should.”

  Slowly, I squatted down and lay my weapon on the ground, pleased as punch that I had my handy little .38 revolver strapped to my ankle in easy reach, and this guy didn’t know it. I also had a cylinder of mace in my jeans’ pocket, which often came in handy when accosted by strangers. Now if he just held off on shooting me where I stood, I’d be okay. Happily, the aforementioned sixth-sense antenna that usually apprised me of impending danger was still not quivering, not even a wimpy little wiggle of unease. Which made me wonder if it was broken, or out of batteries.

  “Walk on ahead of me, out to the backyard, if you will.”

  I guess I would. Jeez, what a refined assailant I’d run into; usually they just clubbed me in the head. I did what the guy said. When I rounded the corner, I saw the two women. They were sitting on a little concrete patio with about fifty strings of Christmas lights strung all over the place, swaying in the wind and dripping rows of icicles from the surrounding trees, thus creating the ghostly or romantic glow, depending on one’s mood. To me, and in my present plight, it seemed ghostly. I recognized Khur-Vay right away because she jumped up and said, “Why, it’s Detective Morgan. What a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?”