Silent victim s-2

by C. E. Lawrence

  He pulled the tightly wrapped parcel from his coat pocket and carefully undid the rubber band around the plastic bag. Holding his hand out flat, he slid the contents of the bag onto his bare palm, shivering at the feel of them-soft and smooth and wet as eels. He examined them-each pair was different, and the more he collected the more he came to appreciate the subtle variations-the singular shades of blue, or brown, or-his favorite-hazel.

  He looked at the pair in his hand. They were blue, but not a deep ocean blue-more of an aquamarine blue, with a greenish tinge to them. They were on the large side, and if he looked closely enough he could see tiny flecks of gold at the edges of the irises. Yes, these were nice, very nice-definitely a worthy specimen to keep the others company.

  He sighed with pleasure. Carefully he lifted the lid of the glass jar on the middle shelf of the bookcase and added his trophies to the ones floating in the jar. Come to me, my pretty ones, my little jewels, my windows to the soul. They stared out at him-perhaps they were severed now from their souls, or maybe-just maybe-the souls lived behind them still.

  He heard his father coughing in the other room-a bitter, grating sound. He replaced the lid on the jar and slid it back into the bookshelf. He would go to his father now, safe in the knowledge that he had yet another secret to keep from him.

  C HAPTER S IXTY-ONE

  "Oh, Dr. Campbell, do you think my brother is capable of-of murder?"

  Charlotte Perkins stood in front of the French window overlooking the street, her damp hair plastered to her head, awkward in ill-fitting clothes, hands hanging at her sides in surrender.

  "What do you think?" Lee said.

  "Until now I would have said no, but then I would not have thought him capable of desecrating the doctor-patient relationship either. To say nothing of the… union… between us." She looked at Lee with pleading eyes. "Before you judge us too harshly, let me tell you that there was never any question of our having children. Of course, now we are too old, but it was never a possibility in the first place."

  Lee didn't ask for details.

  "So you see, what we did-who we were-caused no harm to anyone else."

  "What about you? Did it cause harm to you?"

  She drew her sweater tighter around her shoulders. "I used to believe everything my brother told me, but now…" Her voice trailed off, as if she couldn't bear to continue the thought.

  "Why do you believe your brother was… intimate with Ana Watkins?"

  "You may perhaps think me foolish," she said. "But I had my suspicions for some time. Then one day I lingered outside the office during one of her sessions, and I heard-" She paused to blink back tears. "I heard sounds that could only mean one thing. Later, I was standing outside in the hall when she came out. She caught my eye, and gave a triumphant little smile, as if to say, 'See, he's mine now.' I hated her then, and I hate her still."

  "If you hate her, then why come to me to help catch her killer?"

  "Because if you don't find him, other women will die. And I could never live with that on my conscience." "Even if the killer turns out to be your brother?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you hate him, too?"

  "I tried to hate him-oh, how I tried! But I couldn't. It seems I am incapable of hating him-weak, pathetic creature that I am."

  "You are neither weak nor pathetic, Miss Perkins," Lee said. "In fact, you are very determined and brave, coming here through a storm like this to tell me something that is obviously so difficult for you to talk about."

  In response, she walked over to the piano, its shiny wood gleaming in the lamplight, and touched the keyboard lightly. Her back to him, she said, "There's something else I should tell you."

  "What's that?"

  "I wrote the threatening note Ana received in the mail." "You? But the magazine was found at her house."

  "Yes-because I left it there. After she died I wanted the police to think she had written it herself." "How did her prints get on it?"

  For the first time since she arrived, Charlotte Perkins smiled-a sly, prideful smile. "I saw her reading that same magazine in the waiting room-that's why I chose it when I made my note."

  "You would make a very good criminal, Miss Perkins," Lee said.

  "But I only did it to scare her! I wanted her to stay away from my brother, not only for my sake, but for her own."

  "Did it occur to you that you could be arrested and prosecuted for your actions?"

  "There is something else I doubt my brother told you," she said, ignoring the question.

  "What's that?"

  "He sees patients at a public clinic in the city twice a month. He doesn't want people to know because it hurts his pride that he can't make his living entirely from private practice."

  "Where is this clinic?"

  "It's the mental health outpatient clinic at St. Vincent's." At the sound of the words, Lee's mind momentarily froze. "What is it?" she said. "Is something wrong?" "Oh, no," he said. "You know of it?"

  "Yes."

  He knew of it more than he was willing to tell her. He had spent a week there as a patient following his sister's disappearance, suffering from a clinical depression so severe that he was considered a suicide risk.

  "Do you think one of his patients there could be violent?"

  "Possibly. But I thought I ought to tell you, in any case."

  She looked at him with an anxious expression, her thin lips compressed, worry lines crisscrossing her forehead like railroad tracks at a busy junction.

  "I'll look into it. Can I ask you something?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "There was an entry in Ana's diary about confronting someone. Do you think that could have referred to your brother?"

  She bit her lip again. "I suppose so. One day a few weeks after I realized they were… together… I heard what sounded like an argument in his office, and when she came out after her session, I could see she had been crying."

  "So you think she might have wanted to break it off with him?"

  "Perhaps. It was a violation of the doctor-patient relationship, after all."

  Lee thought about how he had nearly violated that relationship himself, and a thin shiver sliced its way up his spine. He put a hand on Charlotte's shoulder and was surprised when she reacted by leaning into him. He stepped away and coughed to cover his own reaction. "Thank you for everything you've told me."

  "What happens now?" she said.

  "Does your brother know where you are?"

  "No. He thinks I'm at the hospital all day."

  "Do you have someone there to cover for you in case he calls?"

  She smiled sadly. "He won't. He never calls me at work. He doesn't care for the telephone-he likes to point out that when we were first 'alive,' it had not yet been invented."

  "Does anyone besides you and your brother know of your… relationship?"

  "I used to think no one did. But now I am not so sure. I

  think it's entirely possible that Ana Watkins knew-based on that smile she gave me when she left his office that day."

  "So you think he may have killed her to silence her?"

  She rose and began to pace the room.

  "Oh, Dr. Campbell, I don't know what to think! I pray that is not the case-I pray it with all my heart and soul!"

  "Clearly you can't return home. You're not safe there."

  "Oh, but I must. If I don't, he'll suspect something, and then who knows what he'll do?"

  "You can't. I don't care if he suspects or not."

  She startled him by taking his hands in hers. To his surprise, her hands were warm and soft.

  "Dr. Campbell, you must let me play this game out as I see fit."

  "If you insist on returning, at least let me put a police guard on your house."

  She laughed for the first time since he had known her. It was an odd, strangled chortle, the laugh of someone unfamiliar with joy.

  "My brother is very observant. He would sniff out a police presence immediately."
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  "I can't let you-"

  "You can't stop me," she said. "And now, if I might request my clothes back again, I must be on my way."

  He thought wildly of holding on to her clothes as a way of preventing her from leaving, but he knew it was useless. She would leave anyway, and when she turned up in a stranger's clothes, her brother wold be even more suspicious. He went to the laundry room to fetch her clothes. When she was dressed again, she pulled on her curiously old-fashioned boots and threw her cloak around her shoulders.

  "At least let me give you an umbrella," he said, looking out the window at the rain, which, though no longer torrential, was still falling.

  "I will have to leave it on the bus," she said. "He will see at once that it isn't mine."

  "Fine-leave it on the bus. I'm sure someone will find it useful," he said, handing her his sturdiest umbrella.

  "Thank you," she said, pulling the hood over her head.

  "No, thank you. You've helped us enormously. Wait!" he said, getting an idea. "Do you have a cell phone?"

  She shook her head. "My brother-"

  "Take mine." Grabbing it from the hall table, he pressed it into her hand.

  "I don't-"

  "Have you ever used one?" "Yes, at the hospital-"

  "All right. Now, here's my home number," he said, showing her the entry in the contact list, "and here is Detective Butts's cell number. I want you to call either or both of us if you find yourself in any kind of trouble."

  She turned her eyes up to him, and with the soft yellow hall light shining on her sharp, earnest face, she looked quite pretty.

  "All right-thank you." She hesitated, looking down at the phone clutched in her hand. "At the very least Martin knows more about Ana Watkins than he is admitting. I'll see what I can find out."

  "You've done quite enough, Miss Perkins. Please promise me you won't put yourself in jeopardy."

  "I can only promise to do my best. The rest is in God's hands."

  "If you can't think of your own safety, then think of how I would feel if anything happened to you."

  "Very well," she said with a little smile that, on anyone else, would have been flirtatious.

  And with that she slipped out into the night. As the door closed behind her, he was reminded of the night Ana left in much the same way-and of the terrible fate she met. He looked out the window at her retreating form, watching her sidestep the puddles forming on the sidewalk as she hurried down the street toward Third Avenue.

  C HAPTER S IXTY-TWO

  The house was dark and quiet when Charlotte pushed open the front door and crept into the foyer. The rain had stopped, but she could hear the slow, steady drip of water from the eaves, residue of the evening's downpour. She removed her cloak and hung it from the bentwood coatrack in the hall, then unlaced her soft leather ankle boots, which were wet and muddy. Martin hated finding stains on the lush Oriental carpets. It wasn't a long walk from the bus stop, but in the dark she couldn't avoid the puddles lying in wait for her among the cracks in the sidewalks. She propped her boots on the bottom of the rack and tiptoed along the side of the long maroon runner rug leading from the foyer through the front hall. She shivered a little as she dug her bare toes into the deep, plush wool-it felt so good after sitting on the bus for two hours in damp clothes.

  She tiptoed up the stairs and toward her room at the end of the long, narrow hall, silent as a cat, sliding her feet along the carpet to avoid tripping in the dark. She crept along the edge of the carpet, avoiding the center, where she knew the floorboards creaked underfoot. This was not the first time she had snuck home at night, hoping to avoid waking her brother. She had to pass his room in order to get to hers, so it was important to be extra quiet.

  As she tiptoed down the hallway, she ran her hand along the wall for balance, tracing the familiar pattern of the textured wallpaper with her fingers. As she approached her brother's bedroom, her fingers touched something wet and sticky. It was too dark to see what it was; it felt like someone had spilled pudding on the wall. She made a mental note to wipe it off in the morning-Martin had no doubt spilled it himself, but would hold her responsible and expect her to clean it up.

  The house was eerily silent, she thought as she passed her brother's room. She noticed the door was ajar, which struck her as odd. A shaft of moonlight sliced through the crack in the door, the long, pale blade of light falling across her path. Normally Martin kept it closed at night-maybe he had left it open because she was working late at the hospital. That is what she planned to tell him to explain why she was out so late tonight. With the practice of one used to deceiving, she had her story ready: one of her patients had gone into labor. It was a difficult birth, and she had stayed at the woman's side half the night. Of course, he could easily check up on her-he had done so before-so she would have to coach her colleagues to cover for her. But that shouldn't prove too difficult; they had done it in the past. Most of the women she worked with thought Martin was a tyrant and a cad, and couldn't understand why she let her brother boss her around so much.

  But they didn't understand-no one did, really. He had a power over her she could not explain, deeper than blood, shared history, or even sex. There was something preternatural about it, a bond that she had tried hard to break, but never with success. He was her Mesmer, her Rasputin, her Houdini.

  When she reached her bedroom she slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind her. She lit an oil lamp-Martin made concessions to the modern world, but electricity was not one of them-and went to her dressing table. Sitting in front of the graceful beveled mirror, she leaned over and felt underneath the table for what she knew was hiding there. Her fingers closed on the familiar object; carefully she withdrew the ornately carved wooden box, placing it in front of her. Her hands trembled a little as she opened it and took out the amber-colored bottle. She shook it gently to disperse the reddish-brown liquid inside, then used the attached eyedropper to measure out a small amount, which she placed on her tongue. The droplets sparkled like gold in the warm light of the gas lamp. One, two, three drops-her body began to relax the moment she tasted the familiar bitterness. She felt the liquid slide down the back of her throat and let her head fall back. A thin sigh of pleasure escaped her lean body.

  She studied the label on the bottle for a moment before putting it away. The handmade lettering was old fashioned and carefully wrought; she was proud of her work. Too bad she could not share it with Martin. Her job at the hospital gave her access to the raw materials; the rest of the work was hers. After a few hours of pouring through herbalist texts and chemists' textbooks for measurements and formulas, the rest was not hard.

  She put the bottle back in its hiding place and opened a window-the room suddenly felt unbearably stuffy-then lay down on her four-poster canopy bed. The laudanum went to work quickly-the alcohol in the homemade tincture made certain of that. Her head began to fill with a pleasant cotton-wool sensation, and she stared up at the ceiling, studying the water stain that always reminded her of a unicorn… Her mind relaxed more and more as she slid further from consciousness, wrapped in the welcoming arms of a drug-induced sleep. She floated through opium-flavored dreams in which she danced in a grand ballroom with that handsome Dr. Campbell while her brother watched from the sidelines, his face purple with fury.

  She jerked into consciousness abruptly, her skin tingling, shivering from the cool evening air. She wasn't sure what had awakened her-was it an unfamiliar sound or smell, or the curtains billowing out in the sudden gust of wind blowing in through the open window? Whatever it was, she was certain something had changed in the atmosphere of the room-something was different.

  She sat up, her head swimming in a blur of opium. The drug dragged at her body as she rose from the bed; the air itself seemed encased in a blue haze. She was not frightened or even startled when the door to her bedroom opened and the tall, slim figure in white entered the room. In her drug-induced fog, she was unable to make out the face, even though she squint
ed hard at it. She realized all at once that it was a spirit. So her brother's prophecies had come to pass, and she was at long last able to communicate with the dead! She had long chided herself for being unable to sense, as he did, that they were both the embodiment of long-departed souls. He alone seemed to have access to the "world beyond the veil," as he called it. But now, she thought joyfully, the veil was at last lifting for her! She too would know the mysteries that, until now, she had sensed only vaguely.

  She approached the shape lurking deep in the shadows of her room, her arms outstretched as if to embrace it. The figure shrank back, and she was afraid it would leave. She tried to speak to it, to call it back, but the laudanum had thickened her tongue, and her attempt at speech came out as a guttural grunt.

  The sound of her voice seemed to startle the spirit, and he-she could see clearly now it was a man-gave a little gasp.

  She tried to tell him not to be afraid, but it came out as, "Doan bay fried."

  Now he was standing less than a yard away, and she reached out a hand to him. To her surprise, the spirit grabbed her wrist, and she was startled to find that, for a ghost, his grip was very firm indeed, the fingers quite strong. His skin was surprisingly warm. She wasn't sure what she expected, but not this.

  She tried to wrest her hand free, but, with one quick pull, her visitor drew her body close to his, wrapping his long arms around her. She had an impulse to surrender, to swoon in the firmness of his embrace, but another, more primal impulse took over, and she resisted, trying to wrench free. But the laudanum had turned her muscles to rubber, and her effort was pathetically ineffective. It was like struggling in a hangman's noose-any attempt to free herself only served to tighten his grip.

  She fought against the effect of the drug, but it was no use. Her head was hopelessly fuzzy, and she only vaguely felt the sharp prick in her arm. She twisted around to see what had caused it, and was surprised to see her captor holding a syringe in his free hand. She tried to figure out what possible use a ghost could have with a syringe, but her sight was already beginning to dim as he lifted her up and carried her from the room.