by Lisa Jackson
Zellman had claimed he’d added Harrison’s name to his list of contacts in his phone, that it was an automatic thing with him. He’d wanted a journalist’s number at hand?
He didn’t buy it.
He thought about the raspy voice on the phone, one he assumed was Turnbull’s hissing threats, but really? The doctor knew Turnbull’s speech patterns, what irritated him. . . .
And asking for press? Turnbull? That just wasn’t what made him tick.
So, why call Harrison Frost?
A tense feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as Harrison considered the possibilities. By the time he reached Halo Valley, he’d convinced himself that Dr. Maurice Zellman was not the victim of anything other than his own deceit and treachery. In fact, in the whole dark scenario that filled his mind, Harrison felt Zellman could have been pulling the strings of everyone involved in the investigation from the onset. How else did they know anything about how Justice Turnbull thought or acted? Only from his psychiatrist, the one man who was his confidant, his only contact with the outside world.
The more he thought about it, the more the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and he could hardly believe it had taken him this long to see it.
It was only a matter of proving it.
“You son of a bitch,” Harrison said, as if the psychiatrist were in the car with him.
An hour later he was angling his Impala into the Halo Valley Hospital lot. He gazed with a locked jaw at the redwood and concrete building, that bastion of good intentions and failed results, at least in Justice Turnbull’s case. Side A, Side B, it didn’t matter. Just like a bad LP.
Slipping his pocket recorder and cell phone into his pocket, Harrison considered his Glock, then decided against it. Too many security cameras and even metal detectors in the mental hospital. He left the 9 mm in his locked glove box, then locked his car and walked into the hospital.
The receptionist on Side A was cool. “Dr. Zellman’s actually not seeing anyone,” she said, obviously starstruck by her boss.
“I realize he’s still recuperating, but please let him know I’m here.” He slid his card across the desk. “Tell him I think I have new information and want to run it by him, get his professional opinion.”
She stared at him a long second, then sighed and hit a button on her phone.
Zellman’s voice, a rasp Harrison recognized, answered. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” she said, “but there is a Harrison Frost from the Seaside Breeze who wants to talk to you.” Sliding Harrison a dubious look, she relayed the rest of his message, and to the girl’s wide-eyed surprise, Zellman said, “He’s here? Well, then, I guess you’ll have to send him in. Remind him I’m a busy man.”
“Oh, he knows, Doctor,” she said and clicked off. She buzzed Harrison through and gave him instructions that guided him to a skyway where private offices and conference rooms were located. Those he could access without a security code; Side B, where Justice Turnbull had been housed, was off-limits.
He clicked on his micro-recorder and kept the device in his jacket pocket.
Zellman was seated at his desk, where he was typing on his laptop while scanning a couple of green-jacketed files lying open on his ink blotter. His camel’s-hair jacket had been tossed onto a hall tree; his shirt collar, left open. The bandage around his throat was visible, as was his irritation.
Shoving away from his desk, he motioned Harrison into one of the two visitor’s chairs facing the desk. “I’m busy,” he said with effort.
“I thought you were at the hospital with your son.”
“He’s doing well. . . . Cuts were surprisingly superficial, thank God.”
“Too bad your wife didn’t get so lucky.”
“Yes,” he said, his face clouding. Was it with grief? Guilt? Fear? He sighed. “Is there something you wanted?”
“I’m surprised you could come into work.”
“I know. It’s difficult but I’m not good at waiting around.”
Harrison decided to take off the boxing gloves. “I did some research on you, Zellman.”
The doctor narrowed his gaze and said in a whisper, “Doing an article on this mess?”
“Mmm. Your wife filed for divorce two weeks ago.”
Zellman blinked. “A misunderstanding.” But he was more wary now.
“Your marriage was over a long time ago.”
“Mr. Frost, I loved Patricia. Still do,” he said, affronted. “This is preposterous. If you’ve finished harassing me, you can go.” He seemed to struggle to talk, but Harrison wondered. Was it all a crafty, malicious facade?
“You wanted her out of your life, and you saw a way to get rid of her. Even if it involved hurting your son.”
“What?” Zellman was on his feet, appearing agitated and, for the first time, dangerous. Harrison kept his eyes on the doctor as he sputtered, “Get out! Before I call security!”
“Call them.” Harrison settled farther down on his back and stared up at the psychiatrist. “Did Brandt get in the way? Try to save your wife?” he asked, a quiet rage seething through his blood.
“You’re insane!”
“You should know.”
“Get out of my office, now!” Zellman ordered, his voice clearer, the skin over his reddened cheeks drawn taut. Beneath the cultured reserve was a fierce, angry man.
“Did she want all your money? Or, was it that she just wanted out? Big ego slam.” Harrison narrowed his eyes, as if he understood. “Oh, I get it. There’s someone on the side, right? A girlfriend? You couldn’t risk the chance of losing your rep or your fortune.”
“I have never been unfaithful to my wife! It was Patricia—,” he started to say, then backpedaled quickly, trying to recover. “It’s true. She wanted a divorce. She didn’t care a whit about how that would affect Brandt, at his age.” He added icily, “It was she who had affairs, Mr. Frost. She who didn’t understand the boundaries of marriage, the responsibilities of raising a son . . .” He was stock-still, his anger having crystallized into something clear and cold and deadly. “Patricia couldn’t possibly see what a divorce would do. Her plebeian upbringing was always coming into play.” He sneered down at Harrison. “She didn’t even finish college.”
“Because she got pregnant with your son.”
Zellman’s eyes flashed a rage that had been seething for years, possibly decades.
“And that’s why I’m here at Halo Valley. Instead of teaching at Harvard, doing research at Yale . . . whatever.”
“So you killed her?”
“I told you—”
Harrison kicked his chair back and leapt to his feet. He towered over the shorter man. “You pretended to be Turnbull! You called me, played me, pretended to be that twisted nut job so that I would call the police and we would all buy into your pathetic act!”
“That’s enough!” Zellman reached into his top drawer and pulled out a Taser.
Whoa. Harrison focused on the weapon. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would render him helpless so that Zellman could use something else to kill him . . . the knife that he’d used to carve up his family. “Do you think you can really get away with this?” Harrison asked, knowing that there was no way to avoid the shock of thousands of volts if Zellman decided to use the weapon he must have been issued for extreme cases in dealing with the criminally insane.
“You’re deluded, Mr. Frost.” Zellman was calm again as he pointed the Taser at Harrison’s chest. “I assume you know the meaning of incapacitation via neuromuscular shock? Or maybe compliance via pain is more your style. Either way, this weapon is guaranteed to shoot enough voltage through your system to make you convulse and gasp, and squeal in pain like a pig being slaughtered.” He offered Harrison the coldest smile he’d ever seen.
“And you’re a fuckin’ murderer, Mr. Zellman.”
“It’s Dr.,” Zellman spat back, his voice clearer than ever. “I’ve earned my degree and title, and peop
le like you and Patricia never understand.” The weapon quivered a little in his hand. Zellman’s stun gun was without a cartridge. He wouldn’t be able to shoot Harrison from a distance or create the neuromuscular havoc he mentioned, but he could sure as hell zap him with enough electricity to send him to the floor. But he could do it only if he actually touched the weapon to Harrison’s body.
No way would he allow that.
Nor would he back off.
“Did you let Turnbull go on purpose? Fake your injury? Did you let that monster out in the world just so you had a cover to murder your wife and son?”
“Brandt is alive! He’s . . . going to make it! His wounds are only superficial!” A darkness gathered in his eyes, and Harrison realized he was hoping that Harrison would make the first move, jump him and force him to take defensive measures. The man’s lower jaw was trembling in rage or fear. Harrison couldn’t tell which it was.
“You could have killed him,” Harrison charged, ready to spring at a second’s notice. He kept his gaze locked on the psychiatrist’s eyes.
“I would never!”
“Sure you would. You’d take care of anyone who got in your way. Including Brandt!”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“How many times before were the police called to your place for domestic violence, huh? Just because the charges were dropped doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. What did it cost you to keep Patricia from leaving? Flowers? Diamonds? Or maybe a white BMW—”
“She was never satisfied!” Zellman roared, his voice strong as it quivered with fury. “Never.” He re-aimed the Taser to make a point. Threatening. “Come on,” he goaded. “Come on, attack me.”
“So you have a reason to use that thing?” Harrison said, though he was sweating bullets.
“I don’t need a reason!” Zellman snapped. He lunged, the teethlike prongs of the stun gun glinting.
Harrison leapt to the side.
Zellman missed. Nearly fell over.
“You self-serving fraud!” Harrison vaulted over the chair and grabbed Zellman’s arm, forcing the guy down. Was it his imagination, or did he hear footsteps? “In here!” he yelled toward the open doorway.
Zellman twisted and, teeth bared, forced his hand around.
Harrison shifted but felt Zellman press the stun gun against his arm.
Oh damn!
Zzzzzzztttt!!!!! Pain, so excruciating he screamed, shot through Harrison’s left forearm.
His knees buckled and he fell, knocking over the chair and dragging Zellman to the floor. Writhing, he rolled over the smaller man and was rewarded with another jolt of two hundred thousand volts.
“Stop! Police!” a deep voice said from the hallway, and to Harrison’s immense relief, Deputy Langdon Stone, weapon drawn and aimed at the doctor, strode into the room. “Maurice Zellman, you’re under arrest.”
“I don’t like this,” Catherine said sternly as she relocked the gun closet and handed Laura the little revolver, a .38 Smith & Wesson snub nose that had some years on it.
“I don’t either, but I think I need a weapon. A serious weapon.” Laura knew what she had to do. Justice’s last missive, a horrid image of all her sisters writhing in their death throes, convinced her.
She had to stop him.
She was the one.
“I didn’t tell the police I fired it. None of us did,” Catherine said.
Laura and Catherine walked outside and stood a moment on Siren Song’s front porch. The rain dripped steadily off the roof, and a brutal wind was kicking up. The door was closed behind them, no one else had been allowed to know what Laura wanted, but she noticed the curtains in the living room move and a pair of eyes—Cassandra’s, she thought—peeking through. Then there was the shadow of a wheelchair visible through the narrow window near the front door. Lillibeth was hovering, hoping to catch a phrase here or there.
It had been hours since Laura had seen Harrison, and in that time she’d formulated her shortsighted, if necessary plan, eventually calling in sick to work, then loading her car and driving back to Siren Song.
“You don’t have to do this.” Catherine’s face was grim, the lines in her face more pronounced than ever, and her hair, in the drab day, was an equally drab gray.
“Something has to be done, and I’m the only one who can contact him.” Laura said it without inflection, and the older woman gazed at her in worry.
“This has been such a nightmare.”
“Hopefully now it’ll be over.”
Catherine didn’t appear convinced as she reached into a pocket of her voluminous skirt and came up with an old box of bullets. “God help me,” she whispered, handing over the ammo and folding her fingers over Laura’s. “Please, be careful.”
“I will.” She forced a smile.
“If you’re not calling the police—”
“I’m not.” She wasn’t going to spook Justice before she had the chance to confront him.
“Then, please, take that reporter, Harrison Frost, with you. He seems strong and sturdy, and Lord knows he loves you.”
Oh, Catherine, if you only knew.
Laura nodded because she knew there was no way Catherine wouldn’t keep harping at her until she agreed. The older woman frowned, obviously wondering at Laura’s quick capitulation, but Laura left her to her thoughts. “I’ll see you soon,” she promised and hugged the woman who had tried her best to raise her.
“Take care.”
Laura released Catherine and hurried away, along the puddles of the pathway to the main gate, where Earl waited to bolt the gate after her. She climbed into her Subaru with the rubber raft strapped to its roof rack, an earlier purchase, one she’d made on a whim but one that could very well prove to be a necessity if she kept with her plans.
She knew facing Justice bordered on lunacy, but she didn’t care. This had to end. And it would. Tonight.
Harrison watched as Zellman was led away, his hands cuffed behind his back. It had taken fifteen minutes to read the psychiatrist his rights and haul him out of his place of business, but now Harrison and Detective Stone were alone in the doctor’s tidy office.
“How did you know?” he asked Stone.
“Same as you. The domestic violence charges were dropped, but there were the accusations. Zellman’s half nutty himself. Thought his wife was having affairs when she wasn’t. And then the knife wounds on Brandt and Patricia Zellman? Inconsistent with the wounds on the two women at Siren Song.”
“So Turnbull was attacking the women at Siren Song while Zellman attacked his own family?”
Stone was nodding. “The timing seemed too close, so we had to start looking at Zellman as the possible doer. He planned it all along. I even checked with his physician. He was faking his injuries, or at least making them appear worse than they were. He pretended he couldn’t talk, then mimicked Turnbull on the phone when he called you. We did find the phone. In a garbage can near the Drift In Market, close to where the last call was made according to the cell phone company tower records. I’m betting my badge the only prints we find on it are the doc’s.”
“You came at the right moment. I think he was going to claim I was attacking him and he shot me in self-defense.”
“How’re you feeling?” Stone asked.
Harrison moved his arm, which was down to a dull throb. “Electrified.”
Stone smiled thinly. “Good thing you don’t have a weapon on you. Or a recording device, because we wouldn’t want anything to compromise nailing Zellman for his wife’s murder and his kid’s assault.”
“Good thing,” Harrison agreed with a straight face. “I can’t believe the bastard attacked his own kid.”
“He never meant to really hurt him. It was a cover. He had to make sure the kid didn’t get up during the attack. But Brandt didn’t sustain any deep cuts. He didn’t recognize his dad, either, as he was attacked in the dark while he was sleeping. Or, at least he says he didn’t. By the time he was conscious an
d thinking, Zellman had barricaded him in the room by shoving a hall dresser in front of the door. Brandt was too weak to get out and then passed out, we think. Still working on that.” Stone exhaled heavily. “Zellman had to have had a pretty bad moment there, at the house, when it looked like Brandt was hurt worse than he thought.”
“Good,” Harrison stated coldly.
They were walking across the skyway. From the glass crossing, Harrison looked down on the parking lot, where emergency vehicles and police cruisers were parked, lights flashing, the night settling in. An officer was helping Zellman into the back of a car.
Stone said, “I’m not kidding, Frost. Don’t mess up my arrest, okay? Zellman may be crazy as a loon, but he’s still wealthy, can afford a good lawyer. This case has got to be pristine. If you have a recording or notes, I don’t want to see them. Ever. In exchange, once it’s over, you’ll get first crack at interviews with the department and Zellman.” He slid a glance at Harrison. “And this conversation never happened. You need to come down to the department and make a formal statement.” Then he walked swiftly away, calling the elevator.
Harrison waited until he saw Stone in the parking lot; then he reached into his pocket, withdrew the micro-recorder, tossed it onto the floor, and squashed it with the heel of his boot.
That accomplished, he picked up the pieces, stuffed them into his pocket, and pushed the call button for the elevator.
He glanced at his watch. Seven p.m. Now that Zellman was behind bars, he had to concentrate on Turnbull.
He thought of Laura, of course, but didn’t go there. Not yet.
Once outside, he jogged to his car, turned on his cell phone, and read through his texts before he got behind the wheel.
The message that made him take notice was from Buddy, sent fifteen minutes earlier.