Speaking in Tongues

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Vile. You're disgusting . . ."

  "Me? I'm just telling you what he said."

  Tears coming down her face. "She wouldn't! There's no way. It's impossible."

  "They didn't seem to think it was impossible. They seemed to think she did it pretty often."

  "Tate! How can you say that?"

  "And he said it was a couple years ago. When she was fifteen."

  "She didn't. I'm certain."

  A wave of fury consumed him. His hands cramped on the steering wheel. "How could you not know? What were you so busy doing that you didn't notice any condoms in your daughter's purse? Didn't you check who called her? Didn't you notice what time she got home? Maybe at midnight? At one? Two?"

  "Stop it!" Bett cried. "Don't attack me. It's not true! It's a misunderstanding. We'll find her and she'll explain it."

  "They seemed to think--"

  She screamed, "It's a lie! It's just gossip. That's all it is! Gossip. Or they're talking about somebody else. Not Megan."

  "Yes, Megan. And you should have--"

  "Oh, you're blaming me? It isn't my fault! You know, you might have been more involved with her life."

  "Me?" he snapped.

  "Okay--sure, your happy family didn't turn out the way you wanted. Well, I'm sorry about that, Tate. But you could have checked on her once in a while."

  "I did. I paid support every month--"

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, I don't mean money. You know how often she'd ask me, Why doesn't Daddy like me? And I'd say, He does, he's just busy with all his cases. And I'd say, It's hard to be a real daddy when he and Mommy are divorced. And I'd say--"

  "I spent Easters with her. And the Fourth of July."

  "Yeah, and you should've heard the debriefings on those joyous holidays." Bett laughed coldly.

  "What do you mean? She never complained."

  "You have to know somebody before you complain to them."

  "I took her shopping," he said. "I always asked her about school. I--"

  "You could've done more. We might've made some accommodation. Might've been a little more of a family."

  "Like hell," he spat out.

  "People've done it. In worse situations."

  "What was I supposed to do? Take up your slack?"

  "This isn't about me," she snapped.

  "Well, apparently it is. You're her mother. You want somebody else to fix what you've done? Or haven't done?"

  "I've done the best I could!" Bett sobbed. "By myself."

  "But it wasn't you yourself. It was you and the boyfriends."

  "Oh, I was supposed to be celibate?"

  "No, but you were supposed to be a mother first. You should've noticed that she had problems."

  Tate couldn't help but think of Bett's sister, Susan. The woman had desperately wanted children, while Bett had always been indifferent to the idea. After her husband, Harris's, death Susan had moved in with a man very briefly--he was abusive and, from what Tate heard, half crazy. But he was a single man--divorced or widowed--with a child. And Susan put up with a lot of crap from him just to have the young boy around; she desperately wanted someone to mother. After they'd broken up, the lover had turned dangerous and stalked her but even at the worst moments Susan still seemed to regret the loss of that child in her life. Tate now wished Bett had shown some of that desire for Megan.

  "I saw she was unhappy," Bett said. "But who the hell isn't? What was I supposed to do? Wave a magic wand?"

  His anger wouldn't release the death grip it had on his heart. "Hell, that's probably exactly your idea of mothering. Sure. Or cast a spell, look up something in the I Ching. Read her tarot."

  "Oh, stop it! I gave up all that shit years ago . . . I tried to be a good mother. I tried."

  "Did you?" he was astonished to find himself saying. "You sure you weren't out looking for your King Arthur? Easier than changing diapers or helping her with homework or making sure when she was home after school. Making sure she wasn't fucking--"

  "I tried . . . I tried . . ." Bett was sobbing, shaking.

  Tate realized the car was nudging eighty. He slowed. A deep breath. Another.

  Long, long silence. His eyes, too, welled up with tears. "Listen, I'm sorry."

  "I tried. I wanted . . . I wanted . . ."

  "Bett, please. I'm sorry."

  "I wanted a family too, you know," she whispered, wiping her face on the sleeve of her blouse. "I saw the Judge and his wife and you and the rest of the Colliers. I didn't talk about it the way you did but I wanted a family too. But then things happened . . . You know."

  "I lost my temper. I don't . . . You're right. Those kids back there . . . it was probably just gossip."

  But his words were flaccid. And, of course, they came far too late. The damage had been done. He wondered if they'd separate now and never speak to each other again. He supposed that would happen. He supposed that it would have to.

  And oddly, he realized how much the idea upset him. No, it terrified him; he had no idea why.

  A long moment passed.

  Bett spoke first. He was surprised to hear her say, in a calm, reasoned voice, "Maybe it's true, Tate--what you heard about her. Maybe it is. And maybe part of it's my fault. But you know, people change. They can. They really can."

  They continued on in silence. Bett closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the headrest.

  What a man hears, he may doubt.

  What he sees, he may possibly doubt.

  "Bett? I am sorry."

  What he does . . .

  "Bett?"

  But she didn't answer.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She decided she was safest here, in her cell.

  If the father--Aaron Matthews--had wanted to kill her he could have done so easily. He didn't have to stash her away here, he didn't have to buy all the food. No, no, she had this funny sense that though he kidnapped her he didn't want to hurt her.

  But the son . . . He was the threat. She needed protection from him. She'd stay here locked in Crazy Megan's padded cell until she figured out how to escape.

  She opened one of the files she'd taken from Peter's room. In the dim light she scanned the pages, trying to find something that might help her. Maybe the hospital was near a town. Were there photos or brochures of the hospital and grounds? Maybe she could find a map. If she started a fire, people might see the smoke. Or maybe she'd find ventilation shafts or emergency exits.

  She remembered a padlocked door marked Basement down one of the corridors nearby. If she could break the lock on the door, were there exits down there she might get through? She flipped through the documents, looking for a picture or photo of the hospital--trying to find basement windows or doors she might climb out of.

  Damn, that's smart, says an impressed Crazy Megan.

  Shhhh . . .

  Megan happened to glance at the papers on the top of the pile.

  . . . patient Victoria Skelling, 37, paranoid schizophrenic, was found dead in her room at 0620 hours, April 23. COD was asphyxia, from inhalation of mattress fibers. County police (see annexed report) investigated and declared the death suicide. It appeared patient Skelling gnawed through the canvas ducking of her mattress and pulled out wads of stuffing. She inhaled approximately ten ounces of this material, which lodged in her throat. The patient had been on Thorazine and Haldol, delusions were minimal. Orderlies described her in "good spirits" for much of the morning of her death but after spending the day on the grounds with a group of other patients she grew increasingly depressed and agitated. She complained that rats were coming to get her. They were going to chew her breasts off (earlier delusions and certain dreams centered around poisoned breast milk and suckling). She calmed again at dinnertime and spent the evening in the TV room. She was extremely upset when she went to bed and orderlies considered using restraints. She was given an extra dose of Haldol and locked into her room at 2200 hours. She said. "It's time to take care of the rats. They win, they win." She was found the nex
t morning dead . . .

  Gross, both Megan and C.M. think simultaneously.

  She flipped through more pages.

  . . . Patient Matthews (No. 97-4335) was the last person to see her alive and he reported that she seemed "all spooky."

  So Aaron Matthews's son, Peter, had been hospitalized here. And after the hospital was closed his father brought him back. Why, she couldn't guess. Maybe he felt at home here. Maybe his father broke him out of the hospital for the criminally insane to have him nearby.

  She flipped through another report and learned that someone else had committed suicide.

  . . . The body of Patient Garber (No. 78-7547) was found behind the main building. The police and coroner had determined that he had swallowed a garden hose and turned the water on full force. The pressure from the water ruptured his stomach and several feet of intestine. He died from internal hemorrhaging and shock. Although several patients were nearby when this happened (Matthews, No. 97-4335, and Ketter, No. 91-3212), they could offer no further information. The death was ruled suicide by the medical examiner.

  Megan read through several other files. They were all similar--reports of patients killing themselves. One victim was found in the library. He'd apparently spent hours tearing apart books and magazines, looking for a sheet of paper sturdy enough to slice through the artery in his neck. He finally succeeded.

  She shivered at the thought.

  Someone else had leapt out of a tree and broken his neck. He didn't die but was paralyzed for life. When asked about why he'd done it he said, "He'd been talking to 'some patients' and he realized how pointless life was, how he was never going to get better. Death would bring some peace."

  Yet another report stated, "Patient Matthews was the last person to see victim alive." The administrator wondered if he'd been involved and the boy had been interviewed and evaluated but no charges were brought.

  Reading more, she found that not long after the last suicide a reporter from the Washington Times heard of the deaths and filed an investigative report. The state board of examiners looked into the matter and closed the hospital.

  But Megan understood that the deaths weren't suicides at all. How could they have missed it? Peter Matthews had killed the other patients and somehow covered up the evidence to make the deaths look like suicide.

  She flipped through the rest of the files and clippings.

  Nothing she found told her anything helpful. She shoved them under the bed. What can I do? There has to--

  Then she heard the footsteps.

  Faint at first.

  Oh, no . . . Peter was coming back up the hall.

  Well, he'd missed her before.

  Closer, closer. Very soft now, as if he was trying not to make any noise. But she heard his breathing and remembered the picture of the eerie-looking boy--his twisted mouth, the tip of his pale tongue in the corner of his lips. She remembered the stained sheets and wondered if he was walking around, looking for her, masturbating . . .

  Megan shivered violently. Started to cry. She eased up to the door, put her head against it, listened.

  No sounds from the other side.

  Had he--?

  A fierce pounding on the door. The recoil knocked her to her knees.

  Another crash.

  A whispered voice. "Megan . . ." And in that faint word she heard lust and desperation and hunger. "Megan . . ."

  He knows I'm here . . . He knows who I am!

  Peter was rattling the lock. A few loud slams of a brick or baseball bat on the padlock.

  No, please . . . Why'd Matthews leave her alone with him? As much as she hated the doctor, Megan prayed he'd return.

  "Megannnnnnn?" It now sounded as if the boy was laughing.

  A sudden crash, into the door itself. Then another. And another. Suddenly a rusty metal rod--like the spears in his horrible comic books--cracked the wood and poked through a few inches. Just as Peter pulled the metal back out Megan leapt into the bathroom, plastered herself against the wall. She heard his breath on the door and she knew he was looking through the hole he'd made. Looking for her.

  "Megan . . ."

  But from that angle he couldn't see that there was a bathroom; the door was to the side.

  For an eternity she listened to his lecherous breathing. Finally he walked off.

  She started back into the room. But stopped.

  Had he really gone? she wondered.

  She decided she'd wait until dark. Peter might be outside and he'd see her. And if she plugged up the hole he'd know for certain she was there.

  She sat on the toilet, lowered her head to her hands and cried.

  Come on, girl. Get up.

  I can't. No, I can't. I'm scared.

  Of course you're scared, Crazy Megan chides. But what's that got to do with anything? Lookit that. Lookit the bathroom window.

  Megan looked at the bathroom window.

  No, it's nuts to think about it.

  You know what you've got to do.

  I can't do it, Megan thought. I just can't.

  Yeah? What choice've you got?

  Megan stood and walked to the window, reached through the bars and touched the filthy glass.

  I can't.

  Yes, you can!

  Megan crawled back into the room, praying that Peter wasn't outside the door and looking through the peephole he'd made. She reached under the bed, sure she'd come up with a handful of rat. But no, she found only the manila file folder she'd been looking for. She returned to the bathroom and eased up to the window, pressed the folder against the glass. She drew back her fist and slugged the pane. The punch was hard but the glass held. She hit it again and this time a long crack spread from the top to the bottom of the window. Finally, another slug and the glass shattered. She pulled her fist back just as the sharp shards fell to the windowsill.

  She picked a triangular piece of glass about eight inches long, narrow as a knife. Taking her cue from patient Victoria Skelling's sad end, Megan, using her teeth, ripped a strip off one of the mattress pads on the wall. She wound this around the base of the splinter to make a handle.

  Good, C.M. says with approval. Proud of her other self.

  No, better than good Megan reflected: great. Fuck you, Dr. Matthews. I feel great! It reminded her of how she'd felt when she'd written those letters to her parents in Dr. Hanson's office. It was scary, it hurt, but it was completely honest.

  Great.

  Crazy Megan wonders, So what's next?

  "Fuck the kid up with the knife," Megan responded out loud. "Then get his keys and book on out of here."

  Atta girl, C.M. offers. But what about the dogs?

  They've got claws, I've got claws. Megan dramatically held up the glass.

  Crazy Megan is impressed as hell.

  *

  "There's a van."

  "A van?" Bett asked.

  "Following us," Tate continued, as they drove past the Ski Chalet in Chantilly.

  Bett started to turn.

  "No, don't," he said.

  She turned back. Looked at her hands, fingers tipped in faint purple polish. "Are you sure?"

  "Pretty sure. A white van."

  Tate made a slow circle through the shopping center then exited on Route 50 and sped east. He pulled into the Greenbriar strip mall, stopped at the Starbucks and climbed out. He bought two teas topped with foamed milk and returned to the car.

  They sipped them for a moment and when a red Ford Explorer cut between his Lexus and the van he hit the gas and took off past a bookstore, streaking onto Majestic Lane and just catching the tail end of the light that put him back on Route 50, heading west this time.

  When he settled into the right lane he noticed the white van was still with him.

  "How'd he do that?" Tate wondered aloud.

  "He's still there?"

  "Yep. Hell, he's good."

  They continued west, passing under Route 28, which was the dividing line between civilization here and the farml
and that led eventually to the mountains.

  "What're we going to do?"

  But Tate didn't answer, hardly even heard the question. He was looking at a large sign that said, FUTURE HOME OF LIBERTY PARK . . .

  He laughed out loud.

  This was one of those odd things, noticing the sign at the same time the van was following them. A high-grade coincidence, he would have said. Bett--well, the old Bett--would of course have attributed it to the stars or the spirits or past lives or something. Didn't matter. He'd made the connection and at last he had a solid lead.

  "What?" she cried, alarmed, responding both to his outrageous U-turn, skidding 180 degrees over the grassy median and the harsh laugh coming from his throat.

  "I just figured something out. We're going to my place for a minute. I have to get something."

  "Oh. What?"

  "A gun."

  Bett's head turned toward him then away. "You're serious, aren't you?"

  "Oh, yep. Very serious."

  Some years ago, when Tate had been prosecuting the improbable case of the murder of a Jamaican drug dealer at a Wendy's restaurant in suburban Burke, Konnie Konstantinatis had poked his head into Tate's office.

  "Time you got yourself a piece."

  "Of what?"

  "Ha. You'll want a revolver 'cause all you do is point 'n' shoot. You're not a boy to mess with clips and safeties and stuff like that."

  "What's a clip?"

  Tate had been joking, of course--every commonwealth's attorney in Virginia was well versed in the lore of firearms--but the fact was he really didn't know guns well. The Judge didn't hold with weapons, didn't see any need for them and believed the countryside would be much more highly populated without weaponry.

  But Konnie wouldn't take no for an answer and within a week Tate found himself the owner of a very unglamorous Smith & Wesson .38 Special, sporting six chambers, only five loaded, the one under the hammer being forever empty, as Konnie always preached.

  This gun was locked away where it'd been for the past three or four years--in a trunk in Tate's barn. He now sped up his driveway and leapt out, observing that with his manic driving he'd lost the white van without intending to. He ran into the barn, found the key on his chain and after much jiggling managed to open the trunk. The gun, still coated with oil as he'd left it, was in a Ziploc bag. He took it out, wiped it clean and slipped it into his pocket.

  In the car Bett asked him timidly, "You have it?" the way a college girl might ask her boyfriend if he'd brought a condom on a date.