Daughter of Darkness (29 page)

    As soon as Coffey hung up, the cats started meowing. Food time. They followed Coffey out to the kitchen. He put down three small plastic bowls on the floor and then put a small measuring cup of dry food in each bowl.

    He spent the next fifteen minutes in the bathroom shaving and showering. In his bedroom, he put on black socks, black cordovan loafers, black slacks, white shirt, blue knit tie and tan summer-weight sport coat. This was one of those days when his cabbie attire wouldn't suffice.

    He ate breakfast in a McDonald's parking lot and spilled a smidge of coffee on his slacks. He spent half a foolish minute imagining the billions of dollars that would roll in when he sued McDonald's for scalding himself.

    Then he was at the library, sitting in the section that had to do with local businesses. He felt like a genius when he came upon the Sigma Corporation logo and found that it matched the S inside the circle.

    In the next twenty minutes he learned that Sigma had been incorporated five years ago with six board members and a mission statement that read, in part, "To expand the horizons of such controversial (but worthwhile) human endeavors as holistic healing, criminal rehabilitation through restructured thought processes, and the betterment of daily human life through a reordering of deviant impulses."

    In a word (or two words, actually): mind control.

    The most interesting name on the board of directors was Kenneth Bowman. He was listed as President and CEO. There was a brief bio of the man. Nothing in his background, with the possible exception of a four-year-stint as the sales manager of a pharmaceutical company, seemed to have any bearing on the stated goals of Sigma.

    Coffey punched Kenneth Bowman up on the business computer. There were five such Bowmans in the Chicago area. One wholesaled fruits and vegetables, one had a discount TV and radio store, one owned six tire stores, and one owned three small pharmacies. The Bowman he wanted was listed as the President and CEO of Sigma-but was also listed as co-owner of three other small businesses (Orion, Ltd.; Stoneman Enterprises; and Walker Laboratories). What was even more interesting was the information about the other co-owner, Priscilla Bowman, a psychiatrist and Kenneth Bowman's wife.

    And Jenny Stafford's shrink.

    He knew where his next appointment would be.

    

    

    Several times during the night, Quinlan had considered raping her. Easy enough to do with the drugs he'd given her. But these were light drugs. He needed her to look alert when he brought her in.

    Of course, he'd considered raping her many times before. But he'd been reluctant. And he knew why. What would it prove if he had drug-induced sex with her? His pride was that he was able to seduce all his young women through the sheer power of his mind. Yes, he knew it was machismo. Yes, he knew it was vanity. Yes, he knew it was college-sophomore conquest. But he needed it. He was beyond money now; even beyond power in most respects. Power, especially, which brought so much responsibility with it. You constantly had to check on your power, make sure it was secure, and it got very, very tedious.

    But sweet seduction. To take an intelligent young woman and to bring her completely under your sway through sheer willpower…

    What could be better than that?

    He stood now in the doorway of the bedroom he'd prepared for her. Beautiful Jenny, velvet hair a dark storm on the white pillow, eyes and nose and lips of such classical beauty that it made him oddly afraid of her. Beauty was true power, at least for Quinlan.

    She stirred. It was time to wake her. Near noon.

    She didn't seem to recognize him at first. Her eyes were briefly wild, afraid. And then she seemed to relax some.

    He came over and sat on the edge of the bed. He'd slipped her into a black strapless nightgown. Even her shoulders were lovely.

    "Good morning," Quinlan said. "It's a beautiful autumn day."

    He could barely stop himself from touching her. His fingers sensed the feel of her flesh; his ears anticipated the sound of her gentle voice; his eyes never wanted to close upon her beauty.

    The only one he'd never seduced.

    And now he would never get the chance.

    He said, "Do you remember last night?"

    "Last night?" Anxious; even afraid.

    "Coming here."

    "Yes. Coming here. Yes. I don't know why I came here, though." Her face pinched with disapproval. "You didn't treat me very well when I-was living here. So it doesn't make sense that I'd call you."

    "But you did call me."

    "Yes; yes, I did."

    "And I picked you up and brought you here, and we talked."

    "Talked about what?"

    "You don't have any recollection?"

    She watched his face carefully. "You're scaring me. If there's something you want to say, just say it."

    "I'm not sure what to do now."

    "About what?" she said.

    He took his time answering. "You told me some things last night."

    She brushed dark hair back from white skin. "Some things?"

    He sighed and stood up and walked over to the window. This particular room was used for guests. The apartments were all decorated by those who lived in them. Guest rooms were as impersonal as most hotel rooms. Double bed, bureau, an easy chair, a bathroom.

    In the warm sunlight, a lanky woman in a gray uniform steered a green riding mower around the grounds. At a nearby picnic table, one group of patients were having their lunch.

    "What're you trying to tell me?" she said.

    He came back over and sat next to her on the bed again. She had pulled the sheet up to her shoulders.

    "I'm going to tell you something," he said. Then, "Remember how badly I treated you when you lived here with us."

    "Of course I do."

    "Do you know
why
I treated you like that?"

    "No, why?"

    "Because I was in love with you." Once again, he touched his hand to her cheek. "And I still am." He looked away from her. Nobody had ever accused him of underplaying a dramatic moment. "That's why it's so difficult."

    "Why what's so difficult?"

    A sigh. "I think you know, Jenny, what I'm talking about."

    "No, I don't. I don't have any idea." Anxiety again. Slowly building fear.

    He took her hand. "You killed those two men, Jenny. At least that's what you told me."

    "No!" she said. "No, I didn't tell you that! I couldn't have! I wouldn't have!"

    Another long sigh. "I have it on tape, Jenny."

    She started to get up from the bed, gripping the front of the strapless gown so it wouldn't slide down.

    But he pushed her back in bed. "Jenny, you have to stay calm. You know how you can get." She started to speak, but he stopped her. "Don't you see what you did? You called me because you wanted to confess. You knew I'd help you."

    "I didn't kill those men!"

    He stared at her. "I think you know better than that, don't you, Jenny? If you're really being honest with yourself?"

    "No!" she said. "No, I didn't!"

    She tried once more to get up. This time, she didn't let him stop her so easily. She pushed against him, raised her fists. He touched a button on the nightstand and Barcroft the security chief appeared.

    "We need to get her to the police," Quinlan said. "And it seems she doesn't want to go."

    

    

    Jenny wasn't sure what kind of injection they gave her. They had a lot of needles here at the compound. And a lot of different cutting-edge drugs, too.

    Quinlan and his man got her down on the bed. Barcroft gave her the injection. He was gentle, probably only because he didn't want there to be any bruising. How would it look to the police if you brought in a bruised-up woman?

    The needle stung. Even when the tip of the hypodermic was penetrating her flesh, Jenny fought against the man.

    The effect of the drug, whatever it was, was immediate. It was just a light supplement to the drug she'd already been given. Nothing heavy. She could feel a cold charge of serum coursing through blood. She expected the drug to drag her down, the way a pre-op injection would. But very quickly it became apparent that the drug was intended only to calm her, make her controllable for them.

    She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. There was no sense fighting the drug. There never was. Quinlan ran the hospital with drugs. He could set your mood according to his whim. All hail the hypodermic.

    "We'll let you sleep a little while," Quinlan said. "Then we'll come back for you."

    "Wear something nice," the man in the gray uniform said. "There'll be a lot of cameras at the police station. I already called the press and told them we'd be bringing you in."

    She'd underestimated the effects of the drug. True, it didn't seem to be one of his killer drugs-one that would make you a zombie for days-but it wasn't quite as harmless as she'd first thought either.

    It was putting her to sleep…

    And as she fell asleep… the man's words still in her ears… she saw the shape of it then. Like looking at a table full of pieces-and then suddenly seeing the shape of the whole puzzle.

    Quinlan had killed those two men and then made it look as if she had. He had also-somehow-managed to manipulate her into calling him. And he had spent last night using drugs to get a taped "confession" out of her.

    She remembered the long, sad days at the end of her hospital stay. How much he'd hated her. How many ways he'd tried to seduce her. In certain ways, it had almost been funny, the way i a French sex farce is funny. And yet it was sad, too. For him, she'd come to symbolize some kind of acceptance. He needed to seduce her to prove this. And when she wouldn't comply… he'd turn her over to the police. She could see him savoring the glory in the press. An insane girl (given her history, the press would have no problem casting her as a rich, spoiled, insane monster) that only a guru like Quinlan could deal with. Quinlan would be a hero. Even his numerous critics would have to walk more carefully around him. Most gurus didn't bother with civic responsibility, but here was Quinlan performing a service for the entire city…

    She slept…

    

    

    "You bitch! You think I don't know who you are!"

    A nightmare. That was all Jenny could attribute it to. A young woman with a shaven head, a young woman who managed to be strikingly pretty even without hair, was slapping her, calling her names.

    Jenny tasted hot blood. Her
own
hot blood. The inside of her cheek had been cut from one of the blows.

    This was no nightmare.

    Jenny rolled away from the arc of the young woman's slaps. Rolled away and then dove for the end of the bed so she could get to her feet. But the young woman was there, grabbing her hair. Jenny slapped her hard enough to move the young woman back a few inches. Jenny scrambled to her feet.

    "Who
are
you?" she said.

    "Gretchen," the young woman said. And for the first time, Jenny got a good enough look at the face to conclude that Gretchen was insane. The lovely dark eyes didn't quite focus upon Jenny but looked instead at some imaginary world that only Gretchen saw. The anger that tensed the face had an element of sadness about it, too. It wasn't righteous rage, the irrational moment of a rational person, but frenzy, the inchoate pain of the unbalanced.

    "He loves me," Gretchen said. Then she touched her stomach. "I'm going to have his baby."

    "Who?" Jenny said, still groggy from the medicine.

    All sorts of questions flooded her mind. Who was Gretchen? Why did she hate Jenny so much? And how in God's name had she gotten through a security-safe door?

    And who was the "he" she was talking about?

    "Listen," Jenny said, taking deep breaths, forcing herself to calm down, "you need to explain what's going on here. I don't want either one of us to get hurt."

    "He loves me," Gretchen said angrily.

    "Who is 'he?' "

    "Oh, c'mon. Don't be coy."

    "You mean Quinlan?"

    "Yes. Who else?"

    "Well, then I'm glad he loves you. And I'm glad you're having his child."

    "You lie," Gretchen said. "You want his baby. I know you do."

    As strange and frustrating as the conversation was, Jenny more pitied Gretchen than feared her.

    "Gretchen, listen, how did you get in here?"

    Gretchen glanced around the room, as if electronic eavesdropping devices were everywhere. As perhaps they were. She then leaned forward and whispered in Jenny's ear. "I stole a pass card from the lock-up one night."

    "The lock-up? How did you get in there?"

    Gretchen smiled, then. Her smile was eerier than her frown. Scarier, too. "The little thing between my legs. A few of the guards find me attractive."

    Jenny didn't have any doubt of that. Nor did she doubt that Gretchen got what she wanted as a result.

    "That's how I found the tape, too," Gretchen said.

    "What tape?"

    Gretchen smiled again. For a moment, Jenny's compassion waned. This was like looking very, very deep into the pit. Once you looked down there, you were never the same again… Perhaps Jenny feared that she would end up like Gretchen someday.

    "Wouldn't you like to know?" The smile remained.

    Jenny saw that here was a potentially useful confidante. Jenny needed any information she could get to fight Quinlan's story that she'd simply gone insane and killed those two men, then turned to Quinlan and asked him to hide her in the commune. It was clear that Gretchen didn't know about any of this. She was assuming that Jenny was here to stay.