Key West

by Stella Cameron

  But these weren’t pranks.

  She crawled under the quilt. The air conditioning was on and the house was cool. It felt good—safe—to be warm. The house was locked up and Chris and Aiden were in touch. She had nothing to fear. And she was regaining enough confidence to feel sure of herself.

  Consciousness slipped slowly, comfortably away. Images crowded her mind, mostly of Chris. Christian. They could go away and forget everything here.

  Her warm, safe feeling grew deeper.

  One sound penetrated. Just a faint sound somewhere above her head. She turned onto her back but didn’t open her eyes. A soft, soft sobbing. A baby sobbing.

  Sonnie did open her eyes then. Awake? She didn’t know. The noise stopped. Had she ever heard it at all?

  Twilight sleep claimed her again and she went with it. She was healing. If she weren’t, she wouldn’t be able to stay here like this and think logically about what was happening to her.

  A baby’s distant sobs sounded again. When she opened her eyes, she didn’t hear them anymore.

  She wasn’t coping at all. As long as she was around other people she felt almost normal, but not when she was alone. Maybe she did need treatment. What could it hurt?

  “Go. Go. Go.” Her mouth dried out. She gathered the quilt to her neck. A man’s voice high in the room—stuttering the word. “She’s waiting. Go.”

  Sonnie resisted the urge to cover her head. She did settle even lower in the bed. Νο, she would not give in to this. And she would not blame other people for the condition she was in.

  She located the bottle of sleeping pills in the bedside table and went to the bathroom for water. The glass was missing so she returned to take the medication with cold coffee.

  She almost dropped the mug. She’d forgotten she was holding it. And she recalled being told the medicine was strong and she’d have to lie down when she’d taken it. Sonnie did so and felt herself begin to float.

  Her eyelids were too heavy to open, so she didn’t try. When she parted her lids again, the light from outside had begun to dim. She was still so tired, her limbs so heavy.

  A baby cried. A brokenhearted baby sobbed. Neglected and alone.

  Sonnie began to cry, too. If her mind had been destroyed, but enough had been left intact to give her periods when she felt she was normal, she would suffer like this as long as she lived. No good to anyone. She should go away where no one knew her, and no one could be worried for her.

  The child’s noises went away, and Sonnie felt herself going away, too.

  A scream tore through the house. Sonnie sat up and covered her ears. “Stop it,” she cried. “Chris, I need you.”

  Another scream somewhere overhead, and an explosive sound. Metal wrenched from metal, and sliding rubber. She smelled burning rubber.

  She leaped from bed and her legs wouldn’t hold her. She slid to the floor. The noise was all around her. Bigger and bigger. The screaming went on and on.

  Sonnie panted, and whispered, “Please stop. Let me go.” She was finished now. Taking in a big breath she shouted, “Let me go,” and huddled in a ball on the carpet.

  The unmistakable roar of igniting flames brought her own screams to join the others. A searing current, a draft of intense heat engulfed her, stole her breath.

  She collapsed and waited to die. She wanted to die now. Sensation faded.

  Sonnie opened her eyes and thought, dimly, that a lot of time had passed. Near darkness pressed the windows. She should gather a few things and leave—and not tell anyone where she was going. She owed the people who cared for her that much. If she could find a way to get better, she’d return; otherwise they would never hear from her again.

  The baby cried. Her throat sounded hoarse and she hiccuped. An exhausted plea for comfort.

  Pain assaulted every joint, but Sonnie used the side of the bed to pull herself upright. This time the crying didn’t stop.

  How many hours had she slept? Darkness had fallen. If the phone had rung, she hadn’t heard it.

  She pressed her ears to try to drown out the sound of the baby, but she heard it just the same.

  She staggered across the room and opened the door to the hallway. The baby’s cries became louder.

  Now the noise wasn’t disembodied. It came from Jacqueline’s room. Sonnie felt weak and sick. She swallowed again and again, willing herself not to vomit.

  Too light-headed to walk without holding on to the wall, she turned the handle on the nursery door and pushed it open carefully.

  Grayness crowded every corner, but the white flounced bassinet almost shone in its dim surroundings.

  The rocking bassinet.

  Sonnie stepped, very cautiously, closer.

  The desperate crying came from the baby’s swaying bed. Inside the bed, tiny arms and legs flailed.

  Thirty

  He’d meant it when he told Sonnie he thought they were nearing a resolution. What he hadn’t told her was that he wasn’t sure he was relieved at the prospect. The two scenarios that scared the hell out of him were that everything would come down and he’d be in the wrong place at the wrong time—or that Sonnie was mentally unbalanced.

  Why didn’t he just say it like it was? He had no choice but to see this thing through to the end, but he knew the end might cost him his newfound hope for the future: Sonnie.

  Chris had left his bike in the club’s employee parking lot. He went along a walkway to one of the enclosed pools and let himself in by an age-old but very skilled cop trick. He reached over the gate and released the lock from the inside.

  He had called a few minutes earlier and asked for “Billy Keith in twenty-seven,” to which the front desk clerk obligingly replied, “Twelve, sir. I’ll ring for you.” Trusting people could be so helpful. Chris had let the phone ring until the clerk came back on the line and said, “I’m sorry. There’s no answer. We don’t have a mailbox system, but I can take a message for Ms. Keith and make sure she gets it when she comes back in.”

  “She’s out?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “Oh, absolutely, sir,” the man said. “She’s difficult to miss, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do indeed.” So why had they both wasted time ringing the room? “Thanks for trying. I’ll call back.”

  Chris walked along a pathway of crushed white rock as if he knew exactly where he was going. There’d probably never be a better chance than now to take a look at Billy’s room. He already knew that Romano wasn’t at the club today. Sonnie had checked and been told he’d gone to Stock Island and would be there overnight. That meant a look at his room could come after Billy’s.

  A woman in a bikini and carrying what resembled a good-size vase filled with a blue, paper parasol—decked drink, pushed through a door from the building. Chris promptly strode in that direction and held the door open for her.

  If her mouth hadn’t been full, she would doubtless have engaged him in deep conversation. As it was, she stared and sputtered and Chris escaped into a corridor papered with palm-strewn foil.

  Seedy was the word that came to mind. A new do would definitely be in order, not that Chris gave a damn.

  He found room twelve so fast, he paused. This was all too easy.

  The place hadn’t yet graduated to key cards. Thank God. Another ten seconds and Chris was inside.

  With one hand at the clip-on holster he wore at his waist under a denim jacket, he planned his approach and started with the bathroom. He turned up nothing of interest, except for a stash of masculine toiletries. Dr. Lesley, no doubt. Just as well Detective Talon was ex. He’d definitely lost his touch. True, the doc hadn’t been very visible since he’d been here, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t around. And why wouldn’t he and Billy be sharing a room?

  Chris moved even faster. He opened one of two closets and went through pockets as rapidly as he could. Dr. Lesley’s clothes hung there, and Chris saw no reason not to search them, too. He checked a shelf above, a
nd moved clothes aside to see if anything had been taped to the wall behind. Nothing. And the clothing yielded nothing.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Chris prepared to shut himself in the closet.

  Another knock Chris said, “Yes?” and quit breathing. “Housekeeping.”

  “Later,” he said, shaking his head. If you belonged in a room, you didn’t usually knock on the door before entering.

  With Jim Lesley unaccounted for, every second became even more precious. Chris threw open the second closet. That was when he saw a leather satchel tossed on a shelf in the nearest bedside table. The bed was a vast effort covered with, yep, palm trees on blue. The walls and ceiling were blue. The carpet was blue. The club had definitely gone the watery tropical route. He supposed he could say it sort of fit in with the private pool he could see in a courtyard beyond sliding glass doors.

  The satchel looked feminine.

  He started on a short dress encrusted with silver sequins. A jacket hung on top had pockets. But for a used tissue, the pockets were empty.

  Shit. He’d look in the bag.

  Made of the kind of leather that sucked fingers into its tan softness, it closed with one of those snap buckles that was pretty close to ski-boot style. This buckle was gold. Chis slipped it open and looked inside. A small bottle of Coco. A lipstick—Shiseido, a powder compact—Shiseido. Money. Loose money. Chris sank his lingers into several inches of bills and brought up a handful of hundreds, fifties, and the odd grand. The lady was very relaxed about security around here—and she liked to deal in cash.

  An inside zippered pouch yielded several pens and two leather-bound notebooks. Chris flipped through one, and at last he found something that really surprised him. Billy Keith kept a record of her dreams. He dropped that little tome back into its “safe place” and opened the other book.

  Numbers. Telephone numbers. Addresses. Random notes that she wrote almost in code because she didn’t bother to complete a thought, and grammar wasn’t Billy’s forte. She liked to make shapes with words. A shopping list in the shape of a fish blowing bubbles. What she wanted the hairdresser to do for her took on the shape of a hair dryer. Evidently the gentleman also gave interesting massages.

  The shape of a gun with a long barrel consisted of nothing but names written so that it was impossible to tell which first names went with which last names.

  One name stood out. Ginger-Pearl. Chris scanned for last names that might help him remember where he’d first seen them.

  He didn’t need to. He eased a couple of fingers into a back pocket in his jeans, drew out the list of names he’d found in Ena’s attic, and found Ginger-Pearl with ease. Last name Smith. And the rest of the names used to make Billy’s artistic gun were also on the list.

  The project had yielded something useful, even if Chris still had to find out exactly what, but he could be walked in on at any moment. Back at the closet, the search went on. And one after the other, pieces of clothing yielded nothing. In the midst of Billy’s expensive and flashy wardrobe, he found a black sweatsuit made of some soft microfiber. It looked very unBilly.

  Chris took the jacket off the hanger and checked the size, just to be certain Lesley’s clothing hadn’t gotten mixed in. Nope, this was Billy’s. Probably used as warm-ups before playing tennis, or whatever she did with her time when she wasn’t being a nuisance to Sonnie.

  In the right front pocket of the jacket, he found a black silk stocking cap and gloves. Glancing down, Chris noted black sports shoes with black socks stuffed inside. Even Detective Talon at his least sharp could figure out how useful this number would be at night if a person didn’t want to be seen.

  He ought to leave.

  In the left jacket pocket Chris hit pay dirt—so to speak. He withdrew his hand and looked at pale grit crammed beneath his fingernails. That led him to examine the gloves more closely. Oh, baby, you’ll never get into Special Forces. The fingertips and palms of the glονes were soiled gray-white. When he shook out one glove, a powdery substance flew.

  Chris stuffed the gloves away, felt around for a small sample of what he’d found to take away, and put it in his own pocket. He smacked his hands together to remove any residue.

  Now he wanted to see Sonnie so badly it hurt. He hadn’t come up with anything a resourceful person couldn’t explain away, but the evidence was good enough for him—it tied Billy Keith in somewhere, and now he’d have to find out where that was.

  Aiden had gone to Miami to see what he could find out about the address Chris had discovered at Ena’s. Chris was grateful he’d decided to take on the list of names himself. He needed some time alone with a telephone directory. And he needed to persuade Ena to allow him to poke around in her house. He thought he could do that.

  A peach-colored teddy and negligee slipped from its hanger to the floor. Chris gathered it up, trying to visualize Sonnie in anything trimmed with ostrich feathers. He failed.

  He also felt a familiar old friend: all systems on alert. The sound he heard at the door this time wasn’t a knock—or the voice of a maid. What he heard at the door was someone fumbling to insert a key. Escape was out of the question. He yanked pillows against the headboard and propped himself against them just as Jim Lesley meandered in, looking at the keys in his hand.

  Chris seized the only defense he might pull off. “You,” he said. “What the…”What are you doing letting yourself in here?”

  For an instant the man’s calm slipped. He looked quickly at Chris. “Talon?”

  “Yeah, Talon. I’m waiting for Billy.”

  Lesley shut the door. “Does she know you’re waiting?” Chris settled back on the pillows. “Couldn’t reach her before she left.”

  “So she doesn’t know. How did you get in here?”

  Chris gave his best innocent smile. “Just a little skill I picked up along the way.” He laughed as if hugely enamored of his joke.

  The doctor said, “Cute., but there are going to be questions.” He inclined his head. “She’s something, isn’t she? Billy? That’s what this is all about. You’re one more man she’s bowled over without even knowing she’s done it. Happens all the time. You want something of hers, is that it? Look, you don’t have to make excuses to me. Nothing too unusual about that as long as you don’t let it get out of hand.”

  Now the guy was analyzing him, but at least he showed no sign of having any idea about the real reason Chris was there. “You should see her in that,” Lesley said, pointing.

  Chris turned to see that he’d managed to drop the teddy and negligee again, and wisps of silk with ostrich feathers attached were visible under the closet door. “I bet she looks great,” Chris said. “Look, this was a bad idea. I don’t know what got into me, but I’d better clear out before I make a total fool of myself.”

  “Billy won’t be back for a while. I’m a believer in grabbing opportunities, Chris. I’ve been hoping for a chance to talk to you. I’d say this was the perfect chance.”

  Chris didn’t want a cozy chat with Jim, but he also didn’t want to miss anything useful the man might inadvertently say.

  The doctor went to the second closet, opened the door, and picked up the fallen lingerie. He carried it to the bed and stood over Chris. “It’s soft,” he said, holding it to his mouth, then rubbing it against his cheek and neck. “Here, take this. She doesn’t use it, but you can.” He winked and gave Chris the belt from the robe. “Just let me know if you want any ideas. Erotic stimulation is one of my areas of special interest. It’s been useful in my practice. Α happy patient is a docile patient—as long as they keep getting more of what they want. That’s my motto.”

  Chris squelched the urge to toss the belt aside. Instead he wound it quickly and stuffed it into one of his jacket pockets. “Thanks, Doc. I haven’t had much chance to get to know you, but I can see why Billy feels comfortable with you. She needs a strong, innovative man, doesn’t she?”

  “I like to think it’s something like that. Chris, it�
��s Sonnie I want to talk to you about.”

  Chris wasn’t surprised by the switch in topic.

  “I don’t think your interest in her is purely professional. And I’m sure Billy’s right when she says Sonnie isn’t your type—not sexually. You’re a man who must need a woman with an appetite to match his own. And the kind of physical stamina to match. Obviously Sonnie can’t satisfy you, but I think you care about her as a friend. Am I right?”

  Chris would like to smash the charming, sympathetic smile right off the hypocrite’s face. “Sonnie’s worth caring about. She’s very special.”

  “That’s exactly what I expected you to say, and it makes what I want to tell you much easier. How much do you know about schizophrenia?”

  “Not a lot outside of it’s being when people have delusions.”

  “A simple explanation, but certainly true to a degree in some cases. The presence of conviction—by the patient—that the patient is being persecuted is almost always demonstrated. I’ve no doubt you’ve heard about these poor, beleaguered souls being tormented by the belief that they hear voices—real voices, of course.”

  Chris supposed that if one charged by the hour, one might learn never to use one word where seven or eight would do. “I have heard that, yes.”

  “The good news is that there have been significant advances in the treatment of schizophrenia. Often we employ the type of cognitive therapy used for cases of severe clinical depression. And we’re scoring successes. Especially where a supportive family is involved.

  “Perhaps I can give you a sketch of what may happen. A patient may be convinced that there is a malevolent force set on destroying him or her. The patient hears this force, or can produce signs that it exists. Our cognitive approach is to make the patient spend time alone. Then we start to prove that this,

  for want of a better term, this force is not waiting somewhere, out there to do mischief, but that it in fact originated within the patient himself. By forcing the patient to confront the truth—in lucid moments, of course—we can make progress.

  “Chris, Sonnie hears voices, doesn’t she?”