New Title 1

by Carol Davis Luce

  Chapter 18

  Thelma Klump had suffered multiple contusions, a fractured skull, acute smoke inhalation,, and second-degree burns to both hands. Considering her age and the circumstances surrounding the trauma, the doctors gave her less than a thirty percent chance of recovery.

  Wearing a plain white cotton hospital gown, her head covered in bandages, Klump looked frail and very old. The once fierce eyes now stared at Justin with a watery placidness. Justin leaned over her. "Who is he? What's his name?"

  "Will . . . Will Bently." Her voice, affected by the smoke in her lungs, sounded like crackling cellophane.

  Alex stiffened. "William Bently? Are you sure?"

  Klump nodded.

  Alex squeezed Justin's arm. "My father."

  "How did he get around? Did he drive your car?"

  "Motorcycle. Kept in shed."

  "Miss Klump, can you tell us anything about him? Where he comes from? Why he was after Alex? Anything?"

  Her eyes widened, became frightened. She looked at Alex. "Careful. Be careful. Fire. Monsters. Crazy .. ."

  "What else?" Justin asked. "Please, help us."

  "Westgate." She cleared her throat. It sounded like dry leaves being crunched underfoot. "Dr. Penn .. . Pennburg."

  "Dr. Pennburg and a place called Westgate? Is that correct?"

  She nodded, looking again to Alex.

  "Can you describe him?" Justin asked.

  Klump lifted a bandaged hand and pointed to a glass of ice water on the night stand.

  Justin looked to the nurse standing in the corner.

  The nurse stepped to the bed, lifted the glass with the flex-straw and put it to Klump's lips.

  Klump sipped, coughed, then whispered, "Scars."

  "Scars?"

  "Face . . . hands."

  “What kind of scars? Burns? Cuts? What?"

  She nodded.

  "How old is he?"

  Klump closed her eyes.

  The nurse reached a hand to the bandaged wrist, took a pulse. "She's about done in. Maybe tomorrow . . .”

  Klump opened her eyes and rolled her head from side to side. She coughed. Pain distorted her face. Reaching out a hand, she looked beseechingly at Alex.

  Alex laid a hand on Klump's shoulder. "I know we've had our differences, Thelma," Alex said quietly. "But I don't believe you really wanted him to hurt me."

  "No," Klump whispered. "So shamed . . . I .. you saved my . . . life . . ."

  "You would have done the same for me."

  The woman closed her eyes again and turned her head away.

  Thelma Klurnp died one hour later.

  "Westgate is a private asylum in Portland, Oregon. And Pennburg turns out to be a Dr. Penndulbury, a psychiatrist," Justin told Alex after hanging up the telephone.

  Kneeling on the floor in her art alcove, she was fitting a painted canvas into a frame. She looked up at Justin. "Then he is crazy."

  "Looks that way." He left the bed and came to her. Dropping to his knees, he took the screwdriver from her hand and finished screwing on the clamps. "You heard Klump's description of him. Do you recall ever seeing anyone with scars on his hands and face?"

  "I've been racking my brain. But, no, no one." She handed him two screw eyes and a length of picture wire. "The name William Bently. My father. Lora. Oregon. The lapse of years. It's all tied together some way. Justin, what if my father survived the accident on the boat, but from a blow to the head or something got amnesia? That could explain the need for a psychiatrist."

  "Anything is possible, Alex."

  "Suppose he just got his memory back after all those years. It's possible he thinks I betrayed him by marrying Joe. Now he's come after me."

  Justin stopped twisting the picture wire and stared silently at Alex.

  Alex laughed. 'What is it about me that seems to attract sex fiends, degenerates, and crazies?"

  "Are you saying I'm a crazy degenerate?"

  "You're the sex fiend."

  "And proud of it."

  She turned serious again. "Justin, did you get any feedback from the town where Lora lived?"

  "No, not yet. The county authorities are doing what they can to find her, but I can't wait while they dingdong around. I've got to go to Westgate. This Dr. Penndulbury should be returning my call any time. I doubt if he'll talk to me on the phone. I don't even know if he'll talk to me in person, but I've got to try."

  "I'm going with you?"

  "We'll see."

  Alex picked up the jar of screw eyes and the box of clamps. She rose, carried them to the supply shelf on the wall above her work table. "I’m going,” she said. "It's not a matter for debate." As she stood on tiptoe to put away the framing supplies, she knocked over a coffee can of nails. Grabbing for the can, trying to keep hold of the jar and box in her other hand, she called out, "Justin, help. I can't let go here."

  Justin came up behind her, but instead of helping her, he stood close to her. His hands, cupped her hips, moved up and down, caressing.

  "Jus, the nails."

  His arms went around her waist, his body pressed against hers. He kissed the nape of her neck, her throat, her earlobe. His hands roved over her breasts. The snap on her jeans popped open, the zipper slowly came down. Alex made a few feeble protests. Then, passion rising, her breath quickening, she stopped struggling, closed her eyes and let herself feel — everything, just as Justin had taught her.

  Justin's breathing became hoarse in her ear. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her jeans. He worked them down over her hips and legs as he kissed the curve of her lower back. Her panties came down next. Alex stepped out of them. Naked from the waist down, she sighed as the coarse denim of his Levi's rubbed against her soft flesh.

  "You're wicked," she whispered, still stretching out to hold onto the supplies on the shelf.

  "Ummm." He began to unbutton her shirt.

  With a moan, Alex pulled her hands away from the shelf and, amid the clinking din of falling nails and clamps, she spun around in his, arms, locking her body to his. As they kissed, he backed up toward the bed.

  Dr. Penndulbury saw William Hunter to the door. It was five o'clock. Hunter was his second to last patient of the day. He was tired. It had been one of those days. Everyone had had an emergency. Everyone had been on the verge of hysteria. The only one who had been calm, who had seemed relatively normal, had been Hunter. A success story, Dr. Penndulbury thought. He wished they could all be that way.

  Back at his desk, he pressed the intercom for Abigail Leger, his receptionist. "Mrs. Leger, send in Mr. Post."

  "Yes, Doctor."

  "Is that it? No more squeeze-ins?"

  "That's it, thank the Lord. We both deserve a medal for getting through this day.”

  "I'll settle for a Remy and a cigar."

  "Oh, Doctor, there was a call from a Sergeant Holmes in Reno, Nevada."

  "In regard to what? Did he say?"

  "No, Doctor."

  "I'll get back to him after I've seen Post." He started to hang up. "Oh, Mrs. Leger, bring in a new box of Kleenex, please.”

  "Are your parents living?" Alex asked, running her toes up and down along Justin's leg.

  He adjusted the pillow, propped himself up, then pulled Alex back into his arms. "No. Both gone."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It happened a long time ago. They died together. Asphyxiation. We lived on a farm in a small community outside of Boise, Idaho. One night the pilot light on their gas furnace went out. They died in their sleep.”

  "Where were you?"

  "San Francisco. College. The University of California. At the time I had three years of premed behind me."

  "You wanted to be a doctor?"

  "Not really. My father was a doctor and he wanted his only son to follow in his footsteps. After they died I realized I wasn't cut out for medicine, never had been, so I dropped out of school and moved to Reno.”

  "What made you decide on police work?"

  "I guess I wa
s influenced by the father of my college roommate. Tim's old man, Patrick O'Farrell, was the typical Bronx Irish cop. He was retired when I met him. Living in Sausalito. God, the tales that old man could tell around the kitchen table, never once repeating himself. I had a standing invitation to Sunday dinner at their house. I rarely missed a dinner." Justin smiled, letting his mind drift back in time.

  "You said you were leaving the force in January, what will you do then?"

  "Ranch.”

  "Like a cowboy?"

  "Got myself a spread just outside o' town. Aim to poke some cows and buck some broncos."

  "You're making that up."

  "Nope."

  "You don't look like a cowboy. Don't dress like a cowboy.”

  "You ain't seen me on the spread.”

  "And you sure as shootin' don't sound like a cowboy."

  "Reckon I'll get the hang of it, by and by." He dropped the drawl. "Enough about me. Your turn.”

  "Well, I'm thirty-eight, divorced, with a son eighteen who —"

  "I don't want vital statistics. I want to know about Alexandra Carlson. What does she like? What does she hate?"

  "Well, let's see. She likes escargots, bubble baths, and having her back rubbed. She's afraid of grasshoppers, the dark, and crazy people out to do her in. She doesn't like bigots, anchovies, and football." She turned in his arms. "Justin Holmes . . . tell me more about him."

  "He likes football, anchovies, and rubbing the back of a beautiful woman. He's afraid of bubble baths, a beautiful woman, and cop killers. He doesn't like the ballet, escargots, and crazy people out to do in that beautiful woman."

  "Children?" she asked.

  "A daughter. Her name is Casey. She's ten."

  "Do you see her often?"

  "Not as often as I'd like. She and her mother live in southern California."

  Alex lightly pulled at the hair on his chest, curling it around her fingers. "How'd you get so good?"

  "Good at what?"

  "You know. . . ."

  “For a woman who's absolutely decadent in bed, you have a problem saying what's on your mind."

  "I'm a doer, not a talker. So how'd you get so good?"

  He caressed a breast. "Have I told you that you have perfect breasts?"

  She shook her head. "A little smallish, don't you think?"

  He pretended to study each one with care. "You're right. I take it back, they're not perfect, they're incredibly small. Not even worth touching.”

  "They're not that small.”

  "They're just right. Now, do you want to talk, sleep or —"

  The phone rang.

  Alex sighed. She answered. Justin watched the muscles in her face tense. She handed the phone to Justin and mouthed the words, "Dr. Penndulbury.”

  Justin took the receiver. “Dr. Penndulbury, thank you for returning my call. I'll get right to the point. You have a patient by the name of William Bently. We believe Mr. Bently is involved in several criminal activities here in Washoe County. I need to talk to you as soon as possible.”

  There was a pause on the line, then, "I have no patient named Bently.”

  Justin felt the air go out of him. Had this one big lead turned out to be nothing? If so, where would he go from here?

  "Can you describe the man?" Penndulbury asked.

  “Scars.”

  "Tell me about these crimes, detective Holmes," the doctor said.

  "But —"

  "I have no patient named Bently. But I believe I know who you're speaking of."

  Justin felt the air coming back. "Yes. Well, we'd like to question this man about an attack made early this morning on an elderly woman in Reno.”

  "Impossible. William was in my office today for his weekly session.”

  "He's there? In Oregon?"

  "That's what I said.”

  "When? How long ago did you see him?"

  "Not more than an hour ago.”

  "He's back then,” Justin said more to himself. "Dr. Penndulbury, I'm flying to Portland. Can you meet with me tonight?"

  Justin heard the doctor sigh. "I'm exhausted, Sergeant. Whatever you have to tell me—whatever I choose to divulge to you about my patient—can wait until morning. I'll see you in my office at eight."

  "Until eight then." Justin hung up. He dialed 0 and asked the operator to put him through to the county police in Portland. After talking to a Sheriff Thompson, Justin called the airport and booked a single seat on the six-twenty A.M. flight.

  "I'm going with you," Alex said when he hung up. "Call the airline back and book another seat.”

  "No. You're safer here. He's back there now. I don't want you in the same state with him."

  "I'm not staying in this house alone, Justin. He's crazy. He just bludgeoned and torched an old woman who took him in.”

  A chill bowled down Justin's Spine. "You'll go somewhere else."

  "Where?"

  He paused before saying, "I don't believe I'm about to suggest this, but would you feel safe at Ott's place?"

  "I don't want to involve Greg in this."

  Justin was silent.

  "It's not what you think," Alex said. "We're friends. That's all. We've never—Greg and I—well, we just never . . ."

  "Are you saying the two of you have never been intimate?"

  "Yes. That's what I'm trying to say."

  "Then you were telling the truth about not being with him at his condo that night?"

  "Yes," she said emphatically.

  Justin pulled away from her and turned around to stare into her eyes. Like a jolt from a stun gun, it hit him. Someone had been there that night. He had seen him. Of course Ott had been the obvious choice. But he knew now that the man in the window could only have been Alex's tormentor. Klump's killer.

  "I'm telling the truth,” she said, drawing back, her voice rising in anger.

  He grabbed her shoulders. "Oh, Alex," he said, suddenly crushing her to him. "He could have killed you that night. And I drove on by."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "He was there. Smoking a cigarette at an upstairs window. I thought it was Ott —with you. I was mad, jealous. Stupid. I drove away thinking the worst."

  Alex went limp against him. "I smelled smoke. I went upstairs. Greg came home then. I left.”

  "Thank God."

  "That was the day he listened in on the phone while Greg and I talked.” She spoke slowly. "Greg told me where to find the house key. I was to feed his fish."

  "He must have followed you there.”

  She nodded.

  Justin felt sick when he realized what could have happened if Ott hadn't come home at that moment. If she had been attacked or killed, he would have been responsible.

  "Don't blame yourself," she said, as though reading his mind. "I'm the one who ran off."

  "I made you run away."

  "I should have stayed. I wanted to.”

  They held each other without speaking. Justin stroked her back until he felt the taut muscles relax. "My place," Justin said, out of the blue.

  "Hmmm?"

  "He doesn't know where I live," Justin said. "You'll be safe there."

  "Alone?"

  "I'll get someone to stay with you."

  "Justin —"

  "Please, Alex, do what I say for once, okay?"

  She sighed deeply. "Okay.”

  That night, wrapped in Justin's arms, Alex dreamed of the monsters. They crawled up through the heater vents, oozed out through the electric sockets and surfaced through the drains. She let out an agonizing cry. Justin shook her awake. He held her tightly to him while she trembled.

  When he felt she had gotten a grip on herself, Justin asked, “What was it? What did you dream?"

  "I can't remember."

  Justin waited. Then he said, "You kept saying, 'I don't believe in you . . . you're not real. What's not real, Alex?"

  "Monsters.”

  "What kind of monsters?"

  "Whatever kind my mind can
conjure up.”

  "I don't understand."

  "It was a little game my father used to play, called 'Monsters in the night. In order to keep Lora and me inside after dark, he'd tell us there were monsters hiding in the bushes, waiting for us to come out. Knowing it wasn't true didn't stop me from being afraid. I slept with a night light, yet the night terrors still got to me. It never fazed Lora, though. Late at night, after my father would go to bed, she'd sneak out of the house."

  "What kind of a man was your father?"

  "A man who had been hurt. An overprotective man." Her finger nervously traced a pattern on the sheet. "He lectured us constantly. Don't go in the street. Don't talk to strangers. Don't go near the water. Don't, don't, don't."

  "I did the same with Casey. It's only natural to want to guard our kids against harm.”

  "But, you see, he reinforced his warning with facts — hard undeniable facts."

  "Such as?"

  "Every day he read to Lora and me from the newspaper. Tragic items. Whatever he came across, he never failed to pass along to us. If a picture happened to accompany the story, hey, all the better. Visual aids are so much more effective, don't you think?"

  Justin remained silent.

  "I remember, when I was five or six, he made us watch a TV newscast about a girl my age who'd been raped and murdered. Teenagers had found the mutilated body rolled up inside a feather mattress dumped in the woods. The story seemed to go on and on, day after day. For years I had nightmares about that little girl in the mattress."

  She fell silent. Justin kissed her temple, held her snug in his arms.

  She realized then that the room was completely dark. She had gone to sleep the past two nights without a night light. Justin had been the only security she had needed. Even now, after the nightmare, she felt safe and serene in his arms.

  "Do you have a picture of your father?" Justin asked.

  "In the hall."

  "I'd like to take it with me tomorrow."