“Any fingerprints? Evidence?”
“No fingerprints,” he said. “As for evidence, whoever did it took it with them. They found DNA samples that match her parents but that could’ve been from hugging her before she left their house. Other than that, it’s all inconclusive.”
“How did the parents seem?” I asked, looking in through the window at Jessica as she cooked dinner and then Katie at the kitchen table doing homework.
“Distraught. Beth is their only child.”
“I can’t even imagine,” I said. “And the fiancé?”
“He won’t talk to anybody, but he’s been visiting her at the hospital. They were supposed to be married in April.”
“Is there anyone that had it out for her? Somebody at work maybe?”
“We don’t even know if was premeditated. It could’ve been some thug that was going to rape her and changed his mind at the last minute.”
“So, she wasn’t…”
“No. There were no signs of penetration and her clothing was intact.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Well, what do you say, Max?” he cut to the chase. “Can I put you on a plane to Louisville in the morning? All expenses paid, of course.”
“I’ve only got a week to finish up things at the prison—”
“I’ll get you an extension,” he said assuredly. If there was one thing I didn’t miss about Linden, it was his cockiness. “Just say the word and I’ll get the ball rolling on my end.”
“Yes,” I said as Jessica beckoned me through the window to come in for dinner.
Chapter Four
The next morning, I told Jessica and Katie bye then drove an hour to the Houston airport.
I boarded a 9 a.m. flight to Louisville and arrived in the city shortly after 12:15 p.m. local time. I’d been to Kentucky once before as a child with my parents, primarily to fulfill my father’s Civil War obsession, and remembered seeing a show about Stephen Foster, the nineteenth-century songwriter that penned notable tunes like “Oh! Susanna” and “My Old Kentucky Home.” I learned later in life that the latter was an anti-slavery ballad involving a slave that had been taken from his home and longed to return one day.
I got off the plane, retrieved my luggage, and saw a driver standing close by with a sign that said “Crawford.” I introduced myself and, without saying a word, he led me outside to a town car. I hopped into the back seat, and he drove me to the hotel in Louisville where I’d be staying. When I arrived, Linden was waiting for me outside, smoking a cigarette and talking on his phone. The driver retrieved my suitcase and carried it inside to the lobby.
“Yes ma’am,” Linden said, nodding to acknowledge me as I walked toward him. “He just got into town. Oh, no. You don’t need to go the trouble. Okay. One moment and I’ll ask him.”
He moved the phone away from his face. “Do you like blueberry pie?”
I shrugged. “I suppose,” I told him.
“It’s a simple question, Crawford. Do you like it or not?”
“Yes,” I answered, resisting the urge to smack him thirty seconds into our first encounter in eight years.
“He does,” he spoke into the phone again. “We’ll be there in an hour, ma’am. See you then.” He ended the call and then gave me a once-over. “Nice outfit,” he said, motioning to my plaid shirt and khaki slacks. “Did you just come from a church picnic?”
“When did you start smoking?” I asked, ignoring him.
“Don’t ask,” he said, flicking the cigarette onto the ground. “Come on.” He started toward a black luxury town car. “We’ll take my rental.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To talk to Beth’s parents,” he replied. “They want to meet you first.”
I motioned to the hotel. “Shouldn’t I check in?”
“It’s already been done. Your things will be in your room when we get back.”
The drive to the home of Edward and Allie Martin took a little over an hour, primarily because we had to stop while a few cows crossed the road. Once out of Louisville, we were in farm country, the open fields and barns of rural America that thanklessly provided crops and livestock for cities too overcrowded for such endeavors. By the time we reached the Martins’ ranch-style house and farm, I couldn’t tell them apart from all the others we had passed along the way.
We drove up a gravel road to the main house and got out of the car. It was so quiet and peaceful that I suddenly felt very tired. I noticed a hammock near the back porch, and it began to call to me. Its summoning was crudely interrupted, however, when Agent Linden stepped in between us.
“You awake, Crawford?” he asked bluntly.
“I’m fine,” I told him.
Mr. and Mrs. Martin stepped out onto the front porch of the house to greet us. Allie Martin had been a homemaker her whole adult life, the kind that went out of her way to be a hostess despite the fact something horrible had happened. Her silver hair shone in the sunlight as she made her way down the steps toward us. Edward, a lifetime farmer, followed slowly behind.
“Good afternoon,” Allie spoke in a high pitch that betrayed her somber countenance.
“Nice to see you again, Agent Linden.”
“Nice to see you, ma’am,” he replied.
“You must be Mr. Crawford,” she said, extending her hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Martin,” I said, accepting her handshake. Her grip was weak but warm. “I’m very sorry about your daughter.”
“Thank you,” she said, letting go. She motioned to Edward. “This is my husband, Edward. Edward, this is the man I told you about. He’s here to find out what happened to Beth.”
“I hope you can help our little girl,” he said, avoiding eye contact.
“I’ll do my best, sir,” I said, trying to sound reassuring.
“We appreciate your efforts,” said Allie. “Shall we go inside?”
We followed them into the house and I immediately felt like I had walked into an episode of Little House on the Prairie. Save the flat screen television mounted on the wall, the living room could’ve easily been a replica of one from a hundred years ago. Made up of handcrafted wooden furniture and a solid oak coffee table, it had a simplicity to it that had long been squelched by modern day design. There was even an old mahogany desk with an oil lamp on it in the corner of the room where I imagined Mr. Martin wrote letters on parchment with a long-feathered quill pen.
“Please have a seat,” Allie said, motioning to a couch with hand-stitched pillows I assumed she had made herself. “I’ll get the blueberry pie,” she added and then left to enter the kitchen.
Taking the lead, Linden sat down first, and I eased onto the couch next to him. Edward sat down in a rocking chair, which not surprisingly, was right next to a fireplace stacked with wood. I imagined the two of them sitting together on a cold, winter night as the flames crackled and warmed them up late into the evening. For a long time, Edward didn’t say anything. I tried reading his mind, but it was scrambled. Little seemingly unrelated thoughts would pop in his head only to quickly dissipate. For example, he abruptly went from wondering how old Linden and I were to reminding himself to feed the chickens.
“Here we are,” Allie said, entering the room and placing the best blueberry pie I’d ever seen on the coffee table. It was on a silver tray along with silverware and four small plates. “Go on,” she said, sitting in a matching love seat across from us. “Don’t be shy.”
“Thank you,” I said, reaching for a spatula tucked under a particularly tasty-looking piece. “It’s very nice of you.”
Linden gave me a look as I put a piece on one of the plates, but I didn’t care. I had missed breakfast, so homemade blueberry pie sounded amazing. I took a bite and had to stop myself from letting out a low moan. I placed the plate on the table, careful not to scarf down the whole thing at once. I restrained myself despite the smell wafting up into my nose and taking hold of me like a spell.
“It’
s delicious,” I told Allie.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said.
Linden sighed. “Mr. and Mrs. Martin,” he began impatiently. “Is there anything you can tell Mr. Crawford about that night that might help him, some type of clue maybe?”
Allie shook her head. “Not really,” she replied. “Beth came in for the weekend like she always does from time to time. She said it was to get away from the city, but I know it’s that job of hers at the art gallery. Very stressful. She stayed late Sunday night and headed home around nine. Or was it ten?”
“Sleeping pills,” Edward blurted out.
“Excuse me?” said Linden.
“My wife takes sleeping pills,” Edward continued. “That could be why she don’t remember.”
“Now Edward, I’m sure these young men don’t need to know about that.”
“Actually, it could helpful,” said Linden. “Did you take sleeping pills that night?”
“Yes,” she replied hesitantly. “I take them every night. They help me…wind down before bed.”
“What time do you take them?”
“Around eight thirty.”
“Do you remember Beth leaving that night, Mrs. Martin?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t. I told her goodnight and went to bed. It wasn’t until later that night that Edward woke me up when the police called.”
“So, are you some kind of mind reader?” Edward suddenly asked me. “Like Johnny Carson when he played that fellow with the turban?”
“Not exactly,” I said, grinning. “I’m more of a face-to-face kind of mind reader.”
“You’ll have to excuse my husband,” said Allie. “We had Beth later in life after we decided we couldn’t have children. It was a miracle really. I was forty-four and Edward was forty-seven. Now we’re in our seventies, and sometimes our minds aren’t as focused as they used to be.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“What about her fiancé?” Linden jumped back in. “What was he doing earlier that evening?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Allie said. “He’s at the hospital with Beth now.”
Linden nodded. “Anything else you can tell us?” he asked. “Was Beth acting differently that night?”
“No different than any other time,” answered Allie. “Like I said, she has a stressful job. As much as she likes coming here, she’s always rushing to get back home. It’s like she suddenly realizes she has a deadline or something.”
“I see,” said Linden. “Well, with your permission, we’d like to go to the hospital now and let Mr. Crawford see if he can find out anything.”
“You have our permission,” she said. “At this point, we’re open to almost anything.” She looked at me intently. “You’re going to go into her head?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“When you’re in there, please tell her we love her.”
“Of course,” I told her even though I had no idea what was in store for me.
After I finished the pie, I gave Mrs. Martin my phone number and asked her to call me if she thought of anything else that might be helpful. Then Linden and I left and headed back to Louisville. Upon our arrival at the hospital, a nurse escorted us to Beth’s room. I peeked in through the window from the hallway and saw her lying there, all peaceful and quiet. No sooner than the nurse opened the door, Bobby Fugate, Beth’s fiancé, blocked our entrance.
“I’m not going to allow this,” he said to Linden without even glancing at me. “Who the hell do you think you are bringing some quack to see my fiancée?”
Bobby was in his early thirties and dressed like he was running for Congress. His immaculate suit and tie were overshadowed only by his two-hundred-dollar haircut. He reminded me of Linden in a way but more aggressive and potentially way more annoying. I stepped aside so the near-doppelgängers could hash it out.
“You don’t have any say in the matter, Mr. Fugate,” Linden told him authoritatively.
“Beth’s mom and dad agreed to it.”
“I don’t care!” he said. “They’re too old to be making decisions like this! I should be able to say ‘no’ to this nonsense! I’m going to be her husband!”
“Of course, you are,” Linden said smugly. “But you’re not yet. Now if you’d be so kind as to step aside, we have work to do. Unless you’re planning to interfere with a federal investigation, in which case you could face charges.”
Bobby glared at Linden for a minute but ultimately backed down. “This is bullshit!” he said and then brushed past me on his way out of the room.
“I take it he’s not open to questions,” I said.
“Don’t worry about him,” Linden said. “I’ll wait outside and make sure nobody comes in. We can debrief afterwards. Do you need anything before you get started?”
“No.” I entered the room and saw Beth up-close for the first time. “Let’s just hope it works.”
Chapter Five
After my initial visit into Beth’s unconscious, I realized I needed to get creative if I was going to make any headway. Not only was she in a place that seemed to offer her escape, but she also thought she was someone named Margaret Stevens, a person I hadn’t heard of before. The truth was I required assistance, and, since I couldn’t bring anyone in with me, I opted to become the ones in Beth’s life that might be able to help. More succinctly, I decided to practice the art of shapeshifting.
Transforming into others within dreams is one of the techniques I learned during the later years of working at the prison. Early on, I had no clue what I was capable of but, through trial and error, discovered little tricks I could use to help rehabilitate an inmate.
In the case of Donald Thatcher, the one thing that made him conscious of the horrible nature of his crime was his grandmother or, for therapeutic purposes, me masquerading as his grandmother.
At the age of eighteen, still living at home, Donald got into an argument with his parents over how much time he spent in his room playing video games. Ultimately, Donald’s father took the gaming device out of his room and gave him an ultimatum. Either he got a job, or he had to move out of the house. This made Donald very angry. So much so that, mimicking the style of one his favorite games involving a covert assassin, he snuck into his parents’ room in the middle of the night and slit their throats.
When Donald went to prison, his eighty-year-old grandmother was the only person that would visit him. She’d bring him cookies, see how he was doing, but never once confronted him about killing her son and daughter-in-law. Not surprisingly, Donald loved when she came to see him and entered a depression when she passed away two years into his sentence. I started working with him about six months after her death.
At first, Donald wanted nothing to do with me. When I went into his dreams, he’d try to kill me off with an imaginary sword or flamethrower. Obviously, he couldn’t hurt me, but I still gave him the satisfaction of “getting rid of me” by disappearing from his dreams.
After all, there’s no use hanging around if the person you’re trying to help isn’t ready to be helped yet.
But then I had a potentially unethical yet promising hypothesis. If I were to confront Donald as his grandmother, would he be more likely to feel remorse for his crime and stand a better chance of being rehabilitated? Nothing else was working so I figured it was worth a shot. I began experimenting with self-morphing inside my own dreams. I even studied home movies of Donald’s grandmother to learn her mannerisms and voice patterns. I had already been mentally projecting objects into dreams so I decided changing my appearance couldn’t be that much more difficult. I was wrong.
As it turns out, using your mind to alter yourself into someone else requires a keen sense of detail and razor-sharp concentration. One false move and you completely blow your cover.
For example, the first time I tried it in one of Donald’s dreams, I accidentally thought of my dog Spots I had as a kid and morphed into Donald’s grandmother’s body but with Spot
s’ head.
Luckily, Donald didn’t see me, and I was able to try again.
Once I was finally able to accurately portray his grandmother, Donald no longer tried to kill me. I had his complete attention. I told him he had done a bad thing but that I still loved him.
He broke down into tears that subsequently continued when he woke up in the prison mental health wing where I had projected into his dream through a one-way mirror. Not long after that, he was open to treatment for the first time and has been making progress ever since.
In Beth Martin’s case, I didn’t have a specific person in mind. My goal was to try different people in her life and see who caused a reaction. Since she identified herself as Margaret during our first encounter, my hope was that someone close to her might remind her of her true identity and, thus, bring her out of the false one. I decided to start with her parents since I’d had some, albeit brief, interactions with them.
After settling myself into the visitor’s chair in her hospital room, I projected into her mind for the second time and, once again, landed in the middle of the golf course at her imaginary “retirement” hotel. In the distance, I saw her sitting on the veranda at the same table as before and slipped out of sight behind a tree. I focused on the details of Allie Martin’s face, the dress she wore the day we met, and the Southern drawl when she spoke. I stepped out from behind the tree and made my way to the veranda. When I reached her table, she was staring at the ground.
“Hello, honey,” I said, doing my best to sound motherly. “How are you doing?”
She looked up at me and paused for a moment. She studied me the way you study a person you sort of recognize but can’t quite place from where. Wanting to help jog her memory further, I took the seat across from her and placed my hand on hers. She looked at my hand and then back at me. Before I could say anything else, she suddenly pulled her hand away from mine.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
“I thought you might want to talk,” I answered.
“Why would I talk to you?” she said. “I don’t even know you.”
When Beth Wakes Up Page 3