by P J Parrish
There was one car in the Hidden Lake parking lot. It belonged to Alice. There were no police cars. No security. Just a monstrosity of a crane, the wrecking ball hanging motionless against the blue sky. A few bulldozers sat nearby, waiting to be put into action.
Louis put the car in Park and glanced over to the passenger seat. Phillip was bent forward, looking up at the administration building.
“I’ve been to the cemetery many times,” Phil said. “But I haven’t been inside the gates for fifteen years. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait here.”
Louis left the Impala running and hurried up to the door, Charlie’s present in his hand. The building seemed even emptier than before, no security officers roaming the halls, no voices. Up on the second floor, Charlie was sitting on the nurse’s desk, head bent over a comic book. He wore a cherry-red sweatshirt and what looked to be brand-new jeans.
“Hi, Charlie,” Louis said.
Charlie’s head came up and he slipped off the desk quickly, his eyes moving to the silver box in Louis’s hand. He shifted his weight, trying to hold back a smile.
Louis was about to hand it to him when Chief Dalum came down the hall from Alice’s office. She was right behind him. Both were in sweatshirts and jeans. Alice wore red Christmas ornament earrings.
“I didn’t see your car outside,” Louis said, extending a hand to Dalum.
Dalum took his hand, holding it a second longer than he needed to, tighter than he needed to. “Alice called me and said you’d be stopping by. I wanted to say good-bye,” Dalum said.
“Thanks for coming.”
“So, when you heading home?”
“Tomorrow.”
Dalum tilted his head toward the parking lot. “Who’s that with you?”
“My foster father. We’re on our way to see Claudia DeFoe.”
Dalum raised an eyebrow. “So you found her? Alive?”
“Yes,” Louis said. “Last thing I expected.”
“Was it?”
Louis held his look for a second. “I don’t know what I expected.”
“Best way to be,” Dalum said. “For a cop.”
Louis was quiet, trying to think of a quick way to thank Dalum for everything he had done. Thank him for sitting by his side the other night in the Ardmore Hospital. And for not saying a word for three hours. And for the warm fire in his house later. And the bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup on his nightstand at one in the morning.
“I’ll stay in touch,” Louis said.
“Send me a postcard,” Dalum said. “One of those ones with the sexy babes in bikinis.”
“Will do.”
Charlie was waiting, eyes still on the silver package in Louis’s hand. Louis held it out. “Merry Christmas, Charlie.”
Charlie took it slowly, his long fingers picking at the bow as if it were the petals of a delicate flower.
“Just rip it open,” Louis said.
Charlie did, letting the paper and box lid drop to the floor. He stared at the tissue paper, then looked up at Louis, confused.
Louis reached in and pulled out the Walkman and headphones, and set them on Charlie’s head. Charlie still didn’t seem to understand. Louis slapped the Walkman in Charlie’s hand and hit the Play button.
Charlie’s eyes widened and his right hand moved to the side of his head, cupping the earphones. Louis held the cassette cover in front of his face. Charlie smiled, somehow knowing what it was.
Alice stepped up, reaching for Louis’s hand, not in a handshake, but in an embrace, both hands over his. “Thank you,” she said. “For his gift, and for what you did.”
Louis was quiet, watching Charlie. Charlie was swaying to a tune no one else could hear, and at that moment he looked like some kid on the beach in Florida oblivious to everything and everyone else.
Louis looked back at Alice. “Do you have a job lined up?”
“Not right away,” Alice said. “I have some savings. Maybe I’ll look after the first of the year. There’s a shortage of us, you know. Nurses.”
Louis glanced at Charlie again. “I need to say good-bye now.”
Alice waved her hand to get Charlie’s attention, and he looked up, pulled the headphones down to his neck, and grabbed a box wrapped in red paper from behind the desk. He came to Louis and held it out.
“Merry Christmas.”
Louis took the box, peeled off the paper, and lifted the top. It was a hat. Knitted wool, with a red and yellow zigzag pattern and two long chin ties with red tassels on each end.
“I tried to tell him,” Alice said softly, “that you live in Florida and you don’t need a hat.”
“It’s a helluva hat,” Charlie said.
Louis laughed. “Yes, it is.”
“It’ll keep your head warm.”
“Yes, it will.”
Louis took a deep breath, trying to decide how he wanted to say good-bye to Charlie, but Charlie made the decision for him.
He stuck out his hand, fingers spread. “Good-bye, Mr. Kincaid.”
Louis shook his hand, held it for a moment, then grabbed Charlie around the neck for a quick hug. Charlie drew back, cheeks red.
“Men shake hands,” Charlie said.
“Friends hug.”
“Okay.”
Louis said good-bye again to Alice and Chief Dalum, and he tucked the wool hat under his arm and started down the steps. He paused at the first landing, stopped by something he couldn’t see, slowed by an image he tried to bring into focus.
It was of a woman sitting on steps similar to these, her three children at her feet, an uneasy husband standing in the shadows, watching. Louis glanced up at the second floor, then moved on, pushing open the doors and walking back into the early morning sun. He stopped short on the walk, drawing a quick breath.
Parked next to Alice’s car was a state police cruiser. Detective Bloom stood leaning against it, arms crossed, eyes in a squint, his badge glinting the same yellow gold as his hair.
Louis walked to him. Bloom stayed against the fender, watching him, waiting.
“We identified the victim from the tunnel,” he said as Louis came near. “A sixteen-year-old girl. Her family has a farm nearby.”
Louis was quiet.
“Nothing’s come out of the lake yet,” Bloom went on. “My divers are exhausted. We’re calling it off for a few weeks, see if something floats up.”
Bloom was staring at him, and Louis had the sense that he was testing him for some kind of reaction.
“And we identified that tool in Seraphin’s house,” Bloom said. “It was an old obstetrical instrument called a quadruple dilator. Made in the 1800s. It disappeared from one of the hospital showcases about a year ago.”
Louis remembered the prongs on the end, and he could see how it must have worked. He knew it wasn’t a random choice of weapons for Ives. He had taken a tool specifically designed to destroy a woman’s sexuality.
Seraphin’s words came back to him: Your man is impotent. He’s grown angrier over the years, an anger magnified by his inability to perform.
An image came to him of Ives standing in the corner of the boathouse, rubbing Seraphin’s blood on his pants, desperately trying to arouse himself.
“Jesus,” Louis whispered.
“What?” Bloom asked.
“You asked me before why Ives hated his doctor. Why did he hate someone who let him live out his rape fantasies?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Seraphin may have been cruel, but she was a doctor. She would not have released Ives back into the world without somehow making sure he was no longer dangerous. She castrated him.”
Bloom’s eyes narrowed as he tried to picture it. “More bullshit,” he said. “And who gives a damn anyway?”
“You should,” Louis said.
“All I care about is finding those two bodies, putting them in the ground, and stamping this one closed,” Bloom said. He nodded toward the administration building. “And I’ll be glad when they knock this dam
n place down and we can forget it was even here.”
A gust blew up behind them, sweeping the dry snow up in a sudden eddy. Louis blinked against the wind as he looked at the red brick buildings.
“I need to get on the road,” Louis said.
“I’d like you to stay in Michigan a few weeks.”
“No,” Louis said. “I’m going home.”
“I still got questions,” Bloom said.
“I gave you a five-page statement.”
“One that reads like a horror novel. One with no ending.”
Louis didn’t answer.
Bloom shook his head, lips tight; then he turned and yanked open the passenger door to the cruiser, bending inside. When he came up, he had Louis’s Glock in his hand.
Bloom thrust it out. Louis accepted it and started away.
“Hey.”
Louis turned back to Bloom.
“I’m going to be calling you in Florida.”
“You do that.”
Louis got in the Impala and shifted into Reverse. He hit the brake, his gaze going back to the administration building, then to the bulldozer sitting nearby.
“I’d like to make one more stop,” Louis said, looking at Phillip. “Do you mind?”
Phillip gave him a slow nod. “Whatever you need to do, Louis.”
CHAPTER 48
The car was quiet except for the scratching noise coming from the backseat. Louis looked in the rearview mirror. Doug Delp had his head down and was scribbling in his notebook.
Louis looked back at the road. He didn’t know if he could trust Delp. But he did know now that he could trust his own instincts. And his instincts were telling him that there was a story that needed to be told about Hidden Lake and that Delp was the only one who could do it.
Phillip was sitting silent in the passenger seat. He had agreed to let Delp write the story, but only after Louis had convinced him that Hidden Lake needed to be exposed and that Delp would be sensitive to Phillip’s privacy. But Louis hadn’t told Delp that Claudia was alive. Or that she and Phillip had a child.
He planned to. But he wanted to make sure he got something from Delp in return.
As they drove through the endless cornfields, Louis continued to tell Delp everything he knew about Hidden Lake. Ives, Seraphin, the rapes, it all came spilling out of him.
When Louis got to the part about being locked in the tunnels, he paused, his eyes trained on the road. After a moment, he went on, his voice as steady as he could manage. He started to talk about hearing the girl’s screams and stopped again.
Louis’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. Delp was looking at him, waiting for more.
“You want to come back to that part?” Delp asked.
“Yeah.”
Louis glanced over at Phillip. There was a sadness in his expression, like hearing the story had made him regret what he had put Louis through.
Louis used the rest of the drive to finish the story, pausing only once, when he got to what had happened in the boathouse. Delp was still writing when Louis turned onto the lakeshore road. Then his head shot up, his eyes swinging left, to the gray lake.
“Where are we?” Delp asked.
“Be quiet.”
Louis turned into the drive and parked behind Enid’s car and the black Jag. He looked at Phillip. Phillip was sitting back, shoulders stiff, eyes unblinking. His hands were clasped together in his lap. Louis waited for him to move. Or breathe.
The front door to the house opened and Rodney came out, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his slacks. Phillip pushed open the car door and slipped out, hesitating a moment before he walked to the porch.
Rodney said something, then stuck out a hand. Phillip did not take it. Rodney spoke again; then the two of them walked inside the house.
Delp leaned on the front seat. “What’s going on? Who is that guy? What the hell are we doing here?”
“Shut up.”
Louis sat watching the house, glancing down at his watch. One minute, two . . . five.
He opened the car door and got out. “Stay here, Delp.”
Louis shut the door on Delp’s protests. He walked to the porch and opened the front door, slipping inside. He closed the door quietly and stood for a moment in the foyer.
It was quiet. Louis heard a sound and looked to the living room on his left. Enid and Rodney were sitting across from each other, stiff on their chairs.
Whispers. Coming from the sunroom at the back of the house. Claudia’s soft voice. Phillip’s softer answer. But he couldn’t hear anything that was being said.
Louis bowed his head. I shouldn’t be here.
He turned and left, closing the door behind him.
Delp was standing by the Impala, a cigarette in his shivering hand. He tossed it to the ground as Louis came near.
“Claudia DeFoe is in that house, isn’t she?” Delp said.
“Yes,” Louis said, looking back to the house.
“You’re not going to let me in there, are you?”
“Not yet.”
Delp paused. “Quid pro quo,” he said.
“That’s right,” Louis said.
Delp’s eyes went to the house. “What do I have to do?”
“You’re good at finding things, Delp,” Louis said. “There’s someone I want you to find for Phillip.”
CHAPTER 49
He looked out the wet windows. The American Airlines jet was sitting in the cold rain. The waiting area was crowded with snowbirds, college students, and irritable children off to their first trip to Disney World.
“Looks like you’re finally boarding,” Phillip said.
Louis checked his watch. “I should be home by four.”
Phillip nodded, drawing a tired breath, his gaze moving to the tarmac and an incoming flight. Louis watched him, seeing the same pensive look that had been there since the drive back from Saugatuck yesterday. Phillip wasn’t sad so much as solemn, like he realized one door had closed but another was standing open. The old resoluteness was there in his eyes, too. At least now Phillip knew. And Louis could see that he was going to deal with it.
Frances . . .
Louis didn’t know about her. There had been no time to really talk. He would write her when he got home.
There had not been much time to talk to Phillip, either. But now he had time, if only ten minutes.
Your move, Louis.
“Phil,” Louis said, “I owe you an apology.”
Phillip turned to him.
“I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“That night in the kitchen. I was having trouble dealing with things,” Louis said. “It was getting to me and I took it out on you.”
“I didn’t see what it was doing to you,” Phillip said.
The final boarding call came for his flight.
“I need . . .” Louis began.
Phillip waited.
“I never told you,” Louis said. “I never thanked you.”
“For what?”
Louis shook his head slowly. “Everything.”
The ticket agent was looking at them. Louis picked up his duffel bag and faced Phillip. Before he could say anything, Phillip pulled him close and held him.
“I love you, son.”
“I know.”
CHAPTER 50
His suitcase was unpacked. But he hadn’t stopped there. He had swept the sand out of the cottage and cleaned out the refrigerator, tossing out the withered lettuce and old cartons of Chinese takeout.
Then he had turned his sights on the bookcase in the living room. He dusted all the books and CDs, then cleaned the four items on the top shelf—an old puka bead necklace, a tiny human skull, two picture frames, and a shiny black stone.
The necklace had belonged to a missing girl. The skull, from some unknown infant, had washed up on his beach after the hurricane. The sepia-toned photograph was of his mother, Lila. The other frame held a quote from Winston Churchill given to him by th
e widow of a dead cop. The black stone was a snowflake obsidian, a gift from his partner Ollie.
Each was a piece from his past, mementos from people whose lives had touched his for an instant before they were gone.
He carefully wiped the dust from the obsidian, remembering what Ollie had said. It is the stone of purity, Louis, that balances the mind and the spirit.
He set the stone down next to the baby skull, then reached into his suitcase and withdrew a small box. He took out the woolly hat Charlie had given him, folded it into a square, and set it on the shelf. Then he turned to survey the cottage. One last thing to do.
In the bedroom, he stripped the rumpled sheets from the bed and remade it with fresh white ones. He took his time, smoothing the wrinkles and positioning the two pillows. Then he cranked open the jalousie windows and the sea-tang breeze poured in.
Back in the living room, he paused to sort through the mail that had accumulated while he had been gone. Bills, junk, nothing that couldn’t wait. There was a postcard showing an old fort in St. Augustine. Louis turned it over and smiled as he read Ben’s boyish scrawl. He stuck the card under a refrigerator magnet.
He got a Heineken out of the refrigerator. Then he uncorked the bottle of cabernet that he had picked up at Bailey’s Market on the drive in from the airport.
He didn’t like red wine, but she did.
Pouring a full glass, he took the wine and the beer out to the porch. He set the glass down on the table and lowered himself into the lounge chair.
The sun was starting its descent into the gulf, but it was maybe eighty degrees. Still, he sat there, wearing a heavy sweatshirt, his arms crossed over his chest.
He couldn’t seem to get warm.
It would pass. He knew that. He knew other things now, too. He knew that Delp would tell the story and help Phillip start the search for his child. He knew that Phillip and Frances had to find their own way. He hoped it was back to each other.
He knew that he couldn’t wait to see Ben next week when he got home from St. Augustine. He knew he would be going fishing this month with Sam Dodie and that they wouldn’t catch anything. He knew he would meet his friend Mel Landeta for a beer at O’Sullivan’s. He knew there would always be a bottle of Remy Martin for him on the shelf at Roberta Tatum’s store and a table for him at Timmy’s Nook.