by Blake Pierce
Nobody else was in the room at the moment. Riley reminded herself …
If he’s the killer, he’s fast and precise.
She had to be on the alert.
She stood next to Dr. Bayle, who said without even looking at her …
“Tell me, Agent Paige—how did your interview with Wesley go?”
It seemed like an abrupt way to begin a meeting that Riley already found to be puzzling.
And anyway, what am I supposed to tell him?
Since Dr. Bayle was Wesley’s therapist, should she give him all the details—including Wesley’s story about the bullies tormenting the caged puppy? That didn’t seem right somehow. She remembered Wesley saying …
“I think I can tell you something I’ve never told anybody else.”
And then he’d told her what he apparently thought to be one of his deepest, darkest secrets.
He trusts me, she thought.
She didn’t want to violate that trust.
On the other hand, there was no reason to lie.
She said, “He didn’t tell me what I needed to know.”
“Which is who killed Robin Scoville,” Bayle said, without taking his eyes off the sharks. “Or at least give you a description of her killer.”
“That’s right,” Riley said.
“Yes, I’ve been trying to coax that out of him as well. I’m pleased with the progress he and I have been making in terms of his condition. But when it comes to telling anyone what he saw that night …”
Bayle paused, then added, “Well, I’m afraid that might never happen. Right now, he doesn’t dare even think about what he saw. I don’t think he’ll ever be able to talk about it.”
Then he locked eyes with Riley and added, “But then, I guess it’s possible that you consider me a suspect.”
Riley stopped herself from saying …
“Yes, it was starting to cross my mind.”
Turning back to the sharks again, Bayle continued, “It only makes sense, really. I understand perfectly if you feel that you and your colleagues think you have to investigate me. If you do, please consider my life an open book—especially everything I’ve been doing for the last week or so, my comings and goings and so forth. I’ll be glad to tell you everything, and I’ll make certain that you can confirm everything I say. The sooner you eliminate me as a suspect, the better, I’m sure.”
Riley studied his handsome but expressionless features closely, looking for some clue to what he was really thinking.
But he might as well have been a blank sheet of paper …
I can’t read him at all.
“Please sit down, Agent Paige,” he said. “I think we’d both be more comfortable.”
Riley stood for a moment, weighing the risk.
Although she still couldn’t determine whether he was the killer or not, she had a gut feeling …
He’s not interested in killing me right now.
She wasn’t sure why she felt that way so strongly, but she sensed that this man actually did want to talk about other topics.
Riley sat on the bench beside him, but turned slightly toward him so she would be aware of any sudden move on his part.
She said, “Dr. Bayle, could you please tell me why you asked me to come here?”
With just a trace of surprise in his voice, Bayle said …
“Why, to talk with you, of course. I told you yesterday—I know a lot about you, and I’ve always wanted to talk with you. Of course, with all that’s been going on, we haven’t had much of a chance to get to know each other. This seemed like an excellent opportunity.”
“But—alone?” Riley asked.
“Naturally. Why wouldn’t I prefer to talk to you one-on-one?”
Riley was surprised to realize …
That’s a perfectly sensible answer.
Or at least it seemed almost sensible. She still didn’t understand his mysterious behavior, especially why he’d chosen this place for their meeting. But little by little, something about Dr. Bayle’s personality was starting dawn on her. He was in some way different from most other people. She couldn’t yet put her finger on whatever it was.
Still staring at the sharks, Bayle said …
“I’m fascinated by these creatures—how wonderfully flawless they are. Natural selection has fashioned them into such perfect eaters. Did you know they have amazing digestive systems? Their expanding stomachs break down everything they eat with acid that’s strong enough to dissolve metal. They can eat just about anything.”
Pointing at a shark that was passing near the glass, he continued …
“And look at what great swimmers they are. They’ve got cartilage rather than bones, making them supple and resilient. And they’ve got that sleek shape and that tail and all those perfectly shaped fins, almost aerodynamic in design. There’s nothing clumsy about them, nothing that’s not graceful and efficient.”
Riley shrugged slightly and said, “I hear they have to keep moving in order to breathe.”
“That’s true of most sharks, including these,” Bayle said.
“That doesn’t sound so efficient to me,” Riley said.
“But it’s not like they miss standing still,” Bayle said. “It’s not like they wish they could do it. It doesn’t occur to them that there’s such a thing as being still. It’s completely outside their experience. Movement is all they know.”
Then he added without a smile, “So I would guess that they’re fine with it.”
Bayle fell silent, then took up a different topic.
“I guess Dr. Rhind has told you that I have a way of wandering off from time to time. I know it puzzles people. But I really need those breaks. Wherever I happen to be working at any time, I make sure there’s a place nearby where I can get away and lose myself, preferably in animal life. For instance, Bridgeport has a wonderful zoo with a reptile room. I could stare at lizards and snakes for hours at a time.”
Riley squinted as something began to dawn on her.
“You can only deal with people for just so long at a time. Is that right? People drain your energy. If you’re around people too long, you get …”
She paused as the word came to her …
“Overloaded.”
Bayle nodded silently.
Riley stifled a gasp, then added …
“You’re autistic.”
Bayle tilted his head slightly.
“Well, I’m on the spectrum, anyway. There are many kinds and degrees of autism, so it’s useful to think of it as a spectrum. When I was a kid, everybody thought I was retarded. But I was eventually diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome, if you want to put a label on it. I don’t much care for labels myself. Anyway, I eventually proved to be … very functional, I’m sure you agree.”
Functional—and brilliant, Riley thought.
Bayle continued, “I suppose the idea of someone like me becoming a therapist must strike you as strange. It’s true that I’m extremely short on empathy. But I more than make up for that with my strengths for analysis. And autistic patients often appreciate having a therapist who can relate to their experience. That can work out especially well for certain patients, including Wesley Mannis.”
“Please explain,” Riley said.
“Well, Wesley’s problem isn’t a lack of empathy at all. His empathy is so powerful and overwhelming that he can’t control it. It floods through him all the time. He feels whatever everybody around him is feeling. It gets terribly painful for him, which is why he withdraws into his shell and sometimes tries to stay there. But when he’s around someone like me, he doesn’t feel overloaded. So he doesn’t mind opening up. It often works that way.”
Riley’s mind rushed along as she tried to grasp what she was hearing. Wesley’s condition suddenly made much more sense to her now. He’d felt such empathy for a tormented puppy that it had haunted him for many years—until he’d finally told Riley all about it.
She said cautiously, “Wesley … opened up to
me too.”
“And why do you think that was?”
Riley thought back to the conversation she’d had with Wesley and wondered …
How can I put our connection into words?
Instead she said to Bayle, “Maybe you can tell me.”
Bayle turned his head and looked Riley straight in the eye. “Riley—is it OK for me to call you Riley? I’d like very much for you to call me Kevin.”
“That’s fine,” Riley said.
“As I said before, I’ve been extremely interested in you for a long time. I’m a student of human nature, after all, and you’re … well, a very unique human. I’ve read everything I could get my hands on about the cases you’ve solved. And I’m fascinated by your ability to get into a killer’s mind. That rare ability you have, that uncanny intuition—my guess is that Wesley relates to it. He thinks of you as a kindred spirit. As do I.”
Riley’s eyes widened with astonishment.
“Are you saying that I’m … autistic?”
Kevin Bayle shrugged and said, “I wouldn’t put it that way. Like I said, I don’t like labels. But I think we can both agree that you’re not what anyone would describe as normal—or to use a term that I prefer, neurotypical. Your experience of the world is different from almost anybody else’s. It’s so different that you take it for granted—like the way sharks don’t know anything else but swimming, so it doesn’t occur to them that there’s such a thing as standing still. You never stand still, Riley Paige. You don’t even think about standing still. That’s why I’m fascinated by you.”
Riley felt absolutely speechless.
Kevin leaned toward her a little and said, “Riley, I’ve always wanted to ask you—what’s it like? Getting into the mind of a killer, I mean? Sensing his presence so strongly that you can share his point of view?”
Riley shuddered and said, “It’s terrifying. A lot of the time I wish I couldn’t do it. But I can, so … I guess you could say it’s kind of my duty to make the best use of it I can. But there’s always a danger—of becoming a monster myself.”
She gulped hard and added, “Sometimes I worry that I am some sort of monster. It’s hard, keeping those dark parts of my mind hidden from people, protecting people I love from … myself.”
Riley suddenly found herself talking freely with Kevin, going into details about cases he’d read about, telling him about specific moments when her terrifying ability came into play. She also talked about things she barely spoke of with anyone else. She described moments when her inner darkness had consumed her, for example when she’d crushed the hand of the young man who had injected April with heroin, or when she and April had pulverized the man who had imprisoned them.
When she finished talking, she felt limp and tired—but also strangely relieved.
It had felt good to talk to someone who really wanted to understand all those terrible things about her …
Someone who would never judge me.
Finally Kevin smiled at her—the first time she’d ever seen him smile, she thought.
He said, “Thank you for sharing all this, Riley. I’m truly grateful—and honored to make your acquaintance at long last.”
Without another word, Dr. Kevin Bayle got up from the bench and headed out of the room.
Riley realized that she was no longer surprised by such brusque behavior. It was just his way. Besides, she was pretty sure she knew that he was on his way back to Wilburton House to take care of his patient. She hoped he could continue to help Wesley Mannis.
When Riley walked out of the building, she saw Bill and Jenn sitting in the borrowed car, staring at Kevin as he walked on toward his own vehicle.
Bill looked like he was about to climb out of car and accost Bayle. Then he saw Riley and settled back into the driver’s seat.
When Riley got into the car, Bill asked her …
“What happened in there?”
Riley’s mind boggled at the question.
How can I begin to explain?
Instead she said simply …
“Kevin Bayle isn’t the killer.”
“Then who the hell is?” Bill said. “Didn’t you get any information out of him at all?”
“He doesn’t know anything about it,” Riley said, trying not to sound defensive.
As Bill started driving them back into Wilburton, Riley remembered something Kevin had said about Wesley.
“Right now, he doesn’t dare even think about what he saw. I don’t think he’ll ever be able to talk about it.”
She felt sure that he was right, which meant that Wesley Mannis was another dead end in their investigation.
Riley let out a sigh of despair.
We’re back at square one, she thought.
And they were surely running out of time before the killer claimed another victim.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
As Bill drove back to the Ramsey Inn, Riley’s head was still spinning from her encounter with the brilliant therapist. She was trying to get her mind around what Kevin Bayle had revealed to her when Bill grumbled …
“Are you telling us Dr. Bayle didn’t give you any information at all?”
Jenn added, “You sure did spend some time with him. He must have had something to tell you.”
He had a lot to say, all right, Riley thought.
And I told him some things as well.
Bayle, who, as it turned out, was himself on the autism spectrum, had revealed something Riley hadn’t really understood—that her own mind wasn’t exactly normal …
Not “neurotypical.”
It was a lot to process. But Riley knew this was not the time to try to deal with it. She needed some time to think it over. She’d known for a long time that she had abilities that most people lacked, but she’d never thought about it as possibly an actual difference in her brain.
She replied to Bill and Jenn, “He didn’t tell me anything useful about the case.”
Jenn said, “And you’re sure he’s not the killer himself?”
Riley felt slightly startled by the question. The very idea now seemed utterly impossible to her.
“I’m absolutely sure,” she said.
“Could you tell us why you’re sure?” Bill said.
Riley stifled a sigh. “You’ll just have to take my word for it.”
She heard Bill let out a growl.
She knew he didn’t like it when she went all cryptic. The truth was, she didn’t like it either. He was her best friend, and she liked to think she could talk to him about anything. Maybe she could tell him about the conversation some other time. Or …
Maybe not.
Maybe it was something she should just keep to herself.
Bill said, “Well, Meredith sent the plane for us early this morning. We’ve left it waiting at Tweed–New Haven for hours now. He was pretty grouchy about our delay when I talked to him back before we paid Wesley Mannis a visit. He’s probably furious by now.”
Jenn added, “We’ve got to get packed and get out of here fast. He’ll probably be OK when he knows we’re on our way back.”
Riley’s heart sank at that idea.
She said, “But we’ve got the wrong guy in custody. We all agree on that, don’t we? Bruno Young isn’t the killer, and we all know it. The real murderer is still out there.”
Bill said, “It doesn’t matter what we think. The only suspect is locked up. We’ve got no other leads to follow. There’s nobody else to interview. We’ve got nothing else to do here.”
Riley knew there was no point in arguing. After all, Bill was right. She also knew that that they would almost certainly have to fly back here again—probably after yet another murder.
Some unknown person’s life was at risk. If she could only figure out some other track to investigate, maybe she should prevent that next murder.
When they got back to the inn, Riley went straight to her room and sat down on the edge of her bed. She knew Bill and Jenn would be ready to go within minutes. But
somehow she couldn’t make herself pack up her go-bag.
In fact …
I really want a drink.
She opened the room’s little refrigerator and looked inside. It was stocked up with soft drinks, nothing alcoholic. She had half a mind to head downstairs to the bar …
Stop it!
She reminded herself that it was still before noon, and the bar probably wouldn’t be open. Besides, she ought to know better than to suppose a drink would really make her feel better. Things tended to get out of control when she tried to drink her troubles away.
Don’t even think about it, she told herself.
She gazed around at the comfortably decorated room with its flowered bedcover and matching stuffed chair. A watercolor on the wall featured the billowing sails of boats in a regatta. She realized that she had taken no previous notice of these surroundings and that she wouldn’t miss them when she left. Maybe it was time to get back to a more practical world where she could actually do some good, perhaps solve somebody else’s problems.
With a sigh, Riley picked up her go-bag and went into the bathroom to pack her toiletries.
Then she heard a knock at the door.
It’s Bill already, she thought. Or Jenn.
Her colleagues must have packed faster than she’d even expected.
She called back impatiently, “Give me just a few minutes.”
But then came another knock. This time Riley noticed that the knocking was soft and hesitant …
Not like Bill or Jenn.
Who was it, then?
She walked to the door and called out …
“Who is it?”
She heard a muffled voice on the other side of the door.
“Who is it?” she asked again.
Again came that muffled voice, but she couldn’t tell what the person was saying.
Suddenly wary, Riley wondered whether she should have her weapon ready. But when she looked through the peephole, her heart quickened.
Wesley Mannis was standing outside her door.
Riley swung the door open.
“Wesley!” she said. “Come on in.”
Wesley shifted his weight from one foot to other shyly for a moment, as if unsure of what to do.