Stealing Faces

by Michael Prescott

  “Without money she would run out of options pretty fast.”

  “She must have had money. I can’t imagine how she got it. Possibly there was some cash hidden at the house. Or perhaps she stole money, or got it from a friend who’s remained silent. I can’t say. But she vanished. She’s been missing for all this time. I thought she might have died. The suicide rate among unmedicated schizophrenics is quite high. But I was wrong. She’s very much alive. And apparently, at long last, she’s decided to lash out, hurt me in any way she can.”

  “You seem pretty sure she’s the one who’s harassing you.”

  “Quite sure.”

  “How can you know?”

  “Because I saw her.”

  The phone rang. Cray let his message machine answer. He listened to the faint, tinny voice over the speaker for a moment, then shrugged.

  “Nothing urgent. Where was I?”

  “You saw Kaylie.”

  “Yes. Just last night, at a resort hotel in the Tucson foothills.”

  “Which resort?”

  He named the place. Shepherd knew it well. One of the city’s best.

  “Why were you there?” Shepherd asked.

  “I was in the mood for their chicken quesadilla. It’s a favorite dish of mine. They serve it at the bar and grill.”

  “You went alone?”

  Cray met Shepherd’s gaze. “I’m not the most sociable of men, Detective. When I was younger, it was different. But I’ve spent two decades at Hawk Ridge. I’ve been director of this facility for the past fourteen years. As director, I live here, on the grounds. I spend every day, nearly every waking hour, hemmed in by doctors, nurses, orderlies, guards, patients, visitors, all making demands on my time....”

  The phone rang again, as if to punctuate the point. Cray ignored it.

  “To cut to the chase, I’ve learned to rather relish the opportunity to get away by myself. Do you think that’s so eccentric?”

  Shepherd didn’t, and he said so.

  “Well, then.” Cray resumed his story. “I went there for dinner. But before I could order, I became aware of being watched. A woman across the room was looking at me. She was alone, as I was. I might have taken it as an invitation to approach her, but something about the woman was ... unsettling.”

  “You didn’t recognize her?”

  “Not at the time. She’s changed. As a teenager, she was red-haired; now she’s a blonde. And she’s older, of course, and slimmer, I’d say. And I saw her only from a distance. Still, I knew the woman was familiar, and some sixth sense warned me of a threat. I left the bar. She followed me. Finally I worked up the nerve to confront her—but when I tried, she melted away into the dark and was gone.”

  He drained his coffee cup. Shepherd noted the deep crescents underscoring Cray’s eyes. The man was weary. No wonder he needed caffeine.

  As if anticipating this thought, Cray nodded. “I didn’t sleep well last night. Couldn’t get that woman out of my mind. I knew I’d seen her before, but where? Then, early this morning it came to me. Kaylie. Of course it was Kaylie. You know, I really should have expected that she would come after me someday.”

  “Should you?”

  “Certainly. She hated her confinement here. Though we tried to help her, she must have felt humiliated and abused. She would never forget ... or forgive.”

  “So you think she’s still crazy?”

  Cray smiled indulgently. “Crazy is not a term of art in my profession, Detective. What we’re dealing with in Kaylie McMillan is chronic, unmedicated psychosis that can escalate unpredictably into an acute, florid episode. She has demonstrated a capacity for lethal violence. She displays cunning and foresight and monomania. She is a danger to herself and others. And now”—the smile was long gone—“she appears to have targeted me.”

  Shepherd wasn’t sure what to say. But a response seemed unnecessary. Cray was already rising.

  “Words can’t tell the whole story,” he said. “Let me show you what she did to my Lexus.”

  He led Shepherd into the anteroom, where the secretary was just returning from lunch.

  “I’ll be gone a few minutes, Margaret.” Cray shrugged. “Police business.”

  Margaret was no more impressed than the receptionist downstairs had been. She glanced at Shepherd only long enough to ascertain that she didn’t know him.

  “Walter back yet?” she inquired of Cray.

  “No. He may be gone awhile.”

  He and Shepherd left together. In the hall Shepherd asked, “Who’s Walter?”

  “A patient. One of our long-termers. He’s functional up to a point, but he can never be deinstitutionalized. He’s been here too long.”

  The thought of a lifetime spent inside these drab walls was insufferably depressing to Shepherd. “Where is he now?” he asked.

  “Running an errand for me.”

  “You use your patients to run errands?”

  “Only this one patient. Walter is special. You’d be surprised how adept he is at certain rather simple tasks.” Cray reached the stairwell door and paused with his hand on the knob, a long-fingered, elegant hand with perfectly manicured nails. “Schizophrenia can be something of an asset, you know.”

  Shepherd thought this was a joke, but he saw no humor in Cray’s face.

  “It’s quite true,” Cray said. “Every adaptation of the human organism must have some survival value, or it would have been bred out of the gene pool.”

  “What survival value?”

  “Well, take Walter, for instance. Like many schizophrenics, his sensitivity to visual stimuli is acute. He’s tireless, resistant to fatigue. And single-minded. Give him an assignment, and he won’t stop until he gets it done. In many ways he’s far superior to us normals.”

  “I’m not sure I’d buy that.”

  “But think about it, Detective.” There was Cray’s smile again, cool and bland and somehow secretive. “This is a man who misses nothing around him, who never loses his focus ... and who never, ever quits.”

  24

  “Find the red car. Find the red car. Find the red car. Find the red car.”

  Walter Luntz repeated the words in a steady monotone as he drove the Toyota Tercel down Tucson’s streets.

  He loved the Tercel, which Dr. Cray had bought for him—think of it, just for him, a gift from the great Dr. Cray. It was the car he used for running errands, a wonderful car, though too small for Walter, who stood six foot three and had to stoop in doorways.

  Hunched in the driver’s seat, his callused hands wrapped around the steering wheel, his bald head bent low under the roof, he devoted his full concentration to the job he’d been given.

  “Find the red car. Find the red car.”

  He was unaware that he was speaking. He heard the instructions in his mind, spoken not by his own voice but by Dr. Cray’s.

  “Find the red car.”

  It was the last thing Dr. Cray had told him before sending him forth on his mission. It was the only thing that mattered, and Dr. Cray had stressed the importance of the red car, of finding the red car, over and over again. He had even shown Walter a picture of a very similar car, which he had found in a place called the Internet.

  The car in the picture was not red, but Dr. Cray had told Walter to imagine it as red, and with effort, Walter had been able to do so.

  Find this car, Dr. Cray had said as they sat together in his office with the door closed. It could be anywhere in Tucson, but most likely you’ll find it at a motel, in the parking lot. Do you know how to recognize a motel?

  Walter knew. He had even stayed in a motel once, years ago, when he was a young man. He remembered that there had been a slot by the bed that you put quarters into, and the bed would quiver. Fun.

  There are many cars like this in Tucson, Dr. Cray had told him. You can’t check every one, so just check the ones in the motel parking lots. The special car, the one I need you to find, has a license plate with this number on it.

  D
r. Cray had handed him a slip of paper with a string of letters and numerals written carefully by hand. Walter had studied the paper for a long time before nodding.

  Can you do it? Dr. Cray asked, his voice more gentle than Walter had ever heard it.

  Sure I can, Walter had said, pride lifting him.

  He could, too. It was rare for him to drive as far as Tucson, much less to explore the city one street at a time, and the excursion would tax his capabilities—but he could do it.

  For Dr. Cray, he could do anything.

  Because Dr. Cray was the greatest man in the world. Dr. Cray might even be God.

  Sometimes, especially at night when Walter lay alone in bed in the small guest room that was his home, he thought that Dr. Cray had come down from heaven to help all the sad, ill people like himself, and when they were cured, every one of them normal again, then Dr. Cray would ascend to the clouds in a burst of glorious light.

  Walter had not shared these thoughts with Dr. Cray. He was shy.

  The car belongs to a woman, Dr. Cray had said, keeping his voice low and conspiratorial. She’s a very dangerous woman, Walter. If you find her car, you must not let her see you. Do you understand?

  Sure, he’d said, though in truth he had some trouble following this.

  Just call me. Use the phone I gave you. Dr. Cray had kindly supplied Walter with a fine telephone that he took with him whenever he ran an errand. Walter had used the phone only once, when he became confused by a proliferation of street signs and had to pull over in a panic. Call me, and tell me where the car is, and I’ll take care of it from there.

  But she’s dangerous, Walter had protested. You said so.

  I can handle her.

  You’ll get hurt.

  No, Walter, I’ll be fine, just fine.

  Walter, who did not like the thought of anything bad happening to Dr. Cray, the great Dr. Cray, Dr. Cray who was his hero and savior and maybe God, had made a soft mewling noise.

  Are you okay, Walter? Walter? Are you okay?

  I’m okay, Walter had said.

  Dr. Cray seemed to think for a moment. Then he said very softly. Listen, Walter. I think I’d better tell you who this woman is. You know her. Or at least, you knew her once. She was a patient here.

  There have been lots of patients, Walter said. It made him dizzy to think of how many there had been, coming and going, getting well sometimes, or other times dying. The dead ones were buried in the graveyard, and there was nothing left of them but bronze plaques and flowers.

  Yes. Dr. Cray’s face was calm and expressionless. Many patients, but you may remember this one. Her name was Kaylie. Kaylie McMillan. She was just a girl when she came here, and you were thirty-seven.

  Kaylie, Walter said, and he nodded.

  Do you remember?

  I remember. The girl’s face came to him, sharp and vivid. He had a photographic memory. He might have been looking right at her. She was pretty.

  Very pretty, Dr. Cray agreed. I was trying to help her, but before I could, she ran away. Do you recall that night, Walter? She ran away, and there was trouble.

  Walter stiffened. He remembered the trouble. There had been police and other people, people with cameras and microphones, and later it had been on TV, and they made it look like it was Dr. Cray’s fault. They said bad things about Dr. Cray and the hospital, and they kept using the same strange words, breach of security.

  It had been bad. And Kaylie had caused it. She had run off, abandoning Dr. Cray, who only wanted to make her better. She had run, and Dr. Cray had been blamed.

  She’s a bad person, Walter said.

  Dr. Cray nodded gravely. Yes. She is.

  I hate her.

  You don’t need to hate her. You only need to be careful that she doesn’t see you. She looks a little different now, but not too much. Her hair is blonde, not red as it used to be. Do you think you would know her if you saw her again, Walter?

  I’ll know her.

  Good. If you find the car, don’t let her see you. Because she may remember you too. Do you understand?

  Walter had been silent, thinking hard, a fierce frown stamped on his face.

  Do you understand, Walter? Dr. Cray asked again.

  Walter had responded that time. I understand.

  But Dr. Cray had not seemed sure, and so he had repeated the instructions, then repeated them again.

  The last thing he said before opening the office door was the most important thing of all: Find the red car.

  “Find the red car,” Walter said to himself as he cruised along 22nd Street in the slow lane. “Find the red car. Find the red car.”

  He had seen many red cars in the parking lots of many motels during his search, but none of the cars had been right. Some had been the wrong shape, not at all like the picture from the Internet, and some had been the wrong kind of car—a Toyota, like the car he drove, or a Hyundai or a Honda. Funny names.

  Repeatedly he’d actually stopped to check the license plate of a Chevrolet Chevette, comparing it with the number Dr. Cray had written down. Every time his heart had been beating fast and hard with excitement, because he was so very eager to complete his mission and please Dr. Cray, but every time he had been disappointed. The license plates had been wrong.

  The last time it happened, in sheer frustration he had banged his fist on the side panel of the Chevette, and a man coming out of the motel had stopped to look at him.

  That was bad. He was not supposed to attract attention. Dr. Cray had been very clear on that point.

  “Find the red car. Find the red car.” For variety he altered his emphasis on the words. “Find the red car. Find the red car. Find the red car.”

  He would find it. He knew he would. There were countless things he was no good at. He couldn’t write more than a few words without losing track of what he wanted to say, and he couldn’t get the jokes on TV comedy shows, even when they were explained to him, and he couldn’t do laundry or have long conversations or eat soup without getting it all over himself.

  But this job he could do.

  He would find the red car.

  But he would not use the telephone to call Dr. Cray.

  He would take care of Kaylie McMillan all by himself.

  She had hurt Dr. Cray once before, simply by running off. How much worse could she hurt him if she really tried?

  Walter didn’t intend to find out. After all, the great Dr. Cray might be God, but he was a human person too, and Walter didn’t want anything bad to happen to him. He didn’t want Dr. Cray to ... die. He wouldn’t be able to stand it if Dr. Cray died.

  Kaylie McMillan, on the other hand ...

  She could die, and no one would care.

  Killing her would be easy. She wasn’t big, and he was. He would ambush her, leap up and take her by surprise, clap his hands to her head, and with one twist of his wide shoulders he would snap her neck.

  Then she would never hurt anyone ever again, and everything would be fine, just fine.

  “Find the red car,” Walter Luntz said, nodding in obedience to the command. “Find the red car. Find the red car. Find the red car.”

  25

  Cray lived in a house at the rear of the hospital property, screened by hedges and served by a private drive. The director’s mansion, it was called, although it was actually no more than a modest two-story home in the Southwestern style.

  Shepherd followed Cray down a winding path to the house, past a small well-tended cemetery where two dozen patients—“the unclaimed ones,” Cray explained offhandedly—were interred. The air was warm and still, and there was birdsong in the high branches of the trees.

  At the side of the house was a two-car garage with a single window at shoulder height. The pane had been smashed.

  “One of our groundskeepers reported this to me about two hours ago. The break-in must have occurred last night.”

  “When you were home?”

  “Yes. But my bedroom is upstairs, on the other side of the
house. I never heard the sound of breaking glass. Or any other sound.” Cray shrugged. “Perhaps that’s just as well. It wouldn’t have been advisable to directly confront Kaylie—not in her present condition.”

  He unlocked the side door and flipped a light switch. Two bare bulbs in the ceiling of the garage snapped on, casting a pale yellow glow over Cray’s Lexus.

  Shepherd circled the vehicle. It had been savagely abused. Someone had slashed all four tires and grooved deep scratches in the black finish. The front window on the driver’s side had been shattered; Shepherd saw a large, jagged rock on the bucket seat. The seat cushions were sliced in tatters, and the lid of the glove compartment hung open, the contents strewn. Shepherd saw a scatter of CD cases on the floor. Symphonies, operas. Every disk had been defaced.

  “Did she make any attempt to enter the house itself?” he asked.

  “No. But of course all the doors were locked, even the door from the garage.”

  “Is there a burglar alarm?”

  “I’ve never thought it necessary to install one. Not in a gated compound patrolled by armed guards.”

  “How about the Lexus? Doesn’t it have a security system?”

  “An antitheft system is standard. But I’m afraid I had it disabled soon after I bought the vehicle.”

  “Why?”

  “Too many false alarms. The system was overly sensitive to vibrations or casual contact. The horn was constantly blaring. I just got tired of it.”

  “But Kaylie wouldn’t have known the system was turned off.”

  “I doubt she would have thought about it at all. In the throes of her obsession, she would not be functioning rationally.” Cray waved a hand at the vehicle. “As you can see.”

  “Did she take anything from the car or the garage?”

  “Yes. A spare medical kit I kept in the vehicle.”

  “A kit?” Shepherd remembered the 911 tape. “Like a satchel?”