Some Gave All (21 page)

The sky was low and gloomy gray; pine trees dipped in a bitter wind that stung Cat’s cheeks and nose with frozen needles. She rubbed her gloved hands together, reminding herself to be grateful even for this hard, brittle day: For so many, there were no more days at all.

A dozen emails and text messages came in and she prioritized them, smiling at an e-card Heather had sent her: On the screen was a diva in a black-and-silver evening gown smoking a cigarette in a long, black lacquer holder and arching one penciled-on brow at the viewer. The text read
I’m not apologizing, dahling. Well, not exactly.
Chandler women were stubborn and proud. She still couldn’t believe Heather had mixed it up like that. She wanted to be proud of her but the only thing she felt when she replayed last night in her mind was pure, unadulterated fear. Heather could not be part of this bleak, dangerous world. Heather was the porch light, the sunflowers in the garden.

Mazursky scrolled through his own smartphone missives—Cat imagined that many of the questions she and he had about the other would be answered if they simply swapped phones for thirty seconds—and then he put it in his pocket.

Mistrust sleeted against Catherine’s heart and then they reached their first stop: a low concrete building at Vanek Memorial State Mental Health Facility. One window was lit and a security guard stood behind a sheet of bullet-proof glass, waiting for them to step right up. They had to present their credentials and relinquish their weapons in a metal tray at the bottom of the window. The man examined their pieces of identification carefully, then made a call. Mazursky stamped his feet for warmth and flashed Cat a little smile.

“How suspicious of me were you? I mean, before I identified myself as an agent?” he asked her.

“I’m still suspicious of you.”

The guard sent back their IDs with two visitor badges and told them sternly to wear them at all times.

“And don’t lose them, or you might wind up in here,” he finished. Maybe it was meant to be a joke, but Cat didn’t laugh and neither did her companion.

They were about to enter the mental health holding facility where Aliyah had been admitted. A clutch of narrow grimy windows, all of them covered with wrought iron bars, alleviated the grim face of the building. A trio of smoking chimneys coughed into the air, coating the scene with a Victorian, sepia look. A hundred years ago, this place would have been called an insane asylum.

After the intake guard stowed their guns, a buzzer sounded and the main gate opened. It was metal and it creaked and squealed on rusted hinges. A guard in a gatehouse asked them to wait until an escort arrived—a heavy-set matron named Lena Mueller with short gray hair and matching eyebrows, who didn’t smile or say hello as she shepherded them into the main building.

The interior was more depressing than the exterior. Few lights were on; the white paint on the walls was peeling. A bulletin board contained out-of-date safety flyers and a faded map of the facility with fire escape routes marked by red arrows. There were innumerable doors with buzzers, and guards, and orderlies, and finally they were walking down a gloomy corridor signposted P
EDIATRIC
C
ARE
U
NIT
. Cat was appalled at the idea that Aliyah, who had already suffered so much, was incarcerated here. There was no better word for it.

Finally they came to a door with a tiny square of glass in the center. Chicken wire veined the window, obscuring their view. Beside the door was a file in a holder.
Patel, Aliyah.
The silent, cranky Ms. Mueller pressed a buzzer, which was answered. Then she used a swipe key as well as a metal key and the door swung open like the beckoning fingers of a witch with an oven and an appetite.

In profile, Aliyah was sitting in a medical gown on a cot with her back against a brick wall. She was staring down at her hands, and her hair hung in front of her face, effectively shielding her from view. She was so small that her feet didn’t reach the edge of the narrow bed. Her shoulders were slumped and she made no effort to acknowledge Cat and Mazursky’s entrance into the room.

Just as she did not acknowledge the man seated on an orange plastic chair facing her:

Sky Wilson.

“What the heck?” Cat demanded, as Sky smiled calmly and got to his feet.

She had the presence of mind to glance over at Mazursky, to see if he recognized Sky. If he did, he kept a very good poker face.

“Detective Chandler,” Wilson said. “I thought you were taking time off or I would have let you know that I was coming here.” Was that a veiled dig that she hadn’t informed him of the same thing? “I think I’m making progress with my friend Aliyah here. I’ve been working on her throat chakra, the seat of communication. I can feel her increase in connection.” He smiled at Agent Mazursky. “Are you one of her doctors?”

Cat gave Agent Mazursky a long, hard look. If he said the wrong thing—
anything
—in front of Wilson, they were going to have a big problem. Mazursky seemed to get it; he inclined his head and said, “I’m David Mazursky. I’ve been brought in as a consultant on this case.”

Cat turned to the matron and pointedly thanked her. The woman told Cat that she’d be outside the door. She showed her where the panic button was—big and red and up too high for Aliyah to reach.

“I’m sure we won’t need it,” Wilson said to the woman’s stiff, retreating back, then looked up at Cat. “Well, it’s catatonia. That much is evident.”

He rose from his chair and indicated that she should take it. There were no other chairs in the room. When she remained standing, he sat on the cot beside Aliyah instead. Aliyah didn’t move a muscle.

“I did my time in violent crimes,” Wilson said. “This is trauma, pure and simple. But Aliyah wants to talk to us. She’s melting the wall between us with her laser-beam eyes. It’s her superpower.” He smiled at the little girl, who didn’t smile back.

“I thought we were going to leave the interviewing to Mrs. Kuhl,” Cat said. She took the chair so that three adults weren’t hovering over the little girl.

“You don’t perform delicate surgery with a table saw,” Wilson replied. “Mrs. Kuhl simply doesn’t have the proper tools.” He waved a hand in front of Aliyah’s wall of hair. “I can feel the heat of your laser eyes melting the wall, Aliyah. Your words are floating in the bubbles, just like we talked about. Once the wall has melted away, the bubbles will pop, and your words will be freed.”

He turned to Cat and Mazursky. “Hold out your hands. You can feel the heat from the wall as it melts away.”

Catherine wanted to brain him. But there was no way she was going to argue with him in front of Aliyah or Mazursky, so she held out her hands.

She
did
feel heat. A warm strip of air between Aliyah and her. Mazursky didn’t seem to feel anything, or if he did, he gave no indication. His face was a combination of annoyance and curiosity.

Cat glanced upward to see a vent in the wall. She heard a puffy little blowing noise. The source of the heat, then, and no New Age woo-woo.

“Okay, Detective Wilson,” she said firmly. “It’s time to—”

“Mmmm,” Aliyah mumbled to the floor.

Cat was galvanized. She glanced toward Wilson, who was beaming at the little girl.

“Pop,” he whispered. “There goes a bubble. And out comes a word.”

“Mmmm.” Her thin fingers flexed. “Mmmon…”

Monster.
That was what she was going to say. Cat caught herself sitting on the edge of her chair in anticipation. She held her breath.

“Mmmo.” Her legs twitched.

“Pop, goes another bubble,” Wilson chirped. He clapped his hands. “Way to—”

Aliyah flung herself at him and raked his face with her fingernails. Fissures of blood sprang open as he fell backward and she landed on his chest, clawing at him. She was kicking and shrieking, and screaming one word, over and over again. Not monster, no:

“
Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!
”

A
s Aliyah attacked Sky Wilson, Mazursky pressed the panic button and a siren like a ship’s klaxon whooped. The door was open in two seconds and the matron rushed in with two attendants in white uniforms. They dive-bombed at Aliyah and hoisted her off Wilson. She kicked and screamed as the three adults tried to contain her. Her eyes were wild. Spittle flew from her mouth.

Wilson grabbed at his face and said, “It’s all right, Aliyah. You’re safe.”

They were pressing her against the bed, holding her down. A flash of movement and then she went limp. The matron wheeled around with a syringe in her hand.

The older of the two attendants knelt beside Wilson and barked at the other one to get gauze and antiseptic. But Wilson pushed himself to his feet and, covering his face, edged past the man and sank down beside the cot. He put his hand on the crown of Aliyah’s head.

“It’s all right. You’re safe. You are divinely protected. No one can harm you. Don’t be afraid. Nothing can hurt you here.”

Aliyah whimpered.

“Wilson, you need to be looked at. That’s an order,” Cat said.

“Jonas, take him to the nurses station,” Ms. Mueller told the man who had already been attempting to help him. “Dr. Lewis should be there. She can take a look.”

“We’ll go with him,” Cat said.

Each attendant slid an arm under Wilson’s shoulders, as if he were an injured football player being helped off the field. Cat held open the door while Jonas spoke into a radiophone. By the time they got to the nurses station, a doctor in a white coat was waiting for them.

“Wow, I would never have expected this from Aliyah,” the doctor said. “She hasn’t moved a muscle since she was brought in.” She applied a square of gauze to the bloody tracks, tossing it into a bin marked
BIOHAZARD
. Cat sidled over and plucked it out. Mazursky quietly picked up a paper drinking cup and Cat dropped the gauze into it. Then he slipped the cup into his coat.

“That was before the bubble machine was plugged in,” Mazursky said dryly. Cat couldn’t help her quick grin.

“I got through to her.” Wilson puffed out his chest. “Someone finally broke down the barrier.”

“Better you than me. You may have scars.” The doctor appraised his wounds. “I’m thinking a few sutures.”

“Once you’re fixed up, you should take the rest of the day off,” Cat said.

“I’m fine,” Wilson insisted, but he looked ashen. “The plumber is coming today. A white sage smudge…”

“I can drive you home,” Cat said. “Dr. Mazursky can drive my car to the precinct and wait for me there.” She just hoped she hadn’t left anything incriminating in the vehicle.

“To the precinct.” Wilson tilted his head. “I assumed that you worked here, Dr. Mazursky.”

“No, I’m a consultant,” was all Mazursky said, and Cat didn’t elaborate either. It was clear from Wilson’s bunched shoulders that he knew he was being kept out of the loop.

As the doctor numbed and stitched up Wilson’s face, Cat glanced at her phone to see a text from J.T.:
FOOTAGE DANGEROUS
. She was dying to know exactly what that meant, but J.T. had prudently not attached it. She replied to say she’d come right over after dropping off Wilson.

The gray-haired matron appeared and informed the doctor that Aliyah was sleeping now. They had administered a powerful sedative.

“What did you say to her?” the matron asked Wilson.

“I provided a safe place for her to re-experience her trauma, in hopes of exorcising it.” He frowned as the doctor tied off one of the sutures. “She said ‘Mommy.’ Right, Detective Chandler?”

As was usually the case with beast-related situations, Catherine chose to be very selective about her reply. “I think that’s right,” she hedged.

“It was definitely what she said.”

“Her mother’s been dead for most of her life,” Cat said.
Or has she?
Could it be that Lucky Number Seven, the first murder to feature the new beast DNA, had nothing to do with serums or government scientists and everything to do with revenge for Aliyah’s abuse at the hands of her aunt?

The three fell silent. The doctor applied bandages to the stitched areas, then handed Wilson two small white pills and a paper cup filled with water.

“Painkillers,” she said. “Take them.”

“So if the mother is dead,” Wilson murmured as he took the medication and chased it with his water, “maybe this triggered a memory of her mother. How did her mother die?”

“That’s an excellent question,” Cat said, easing up on him a little. “One I think is worth finding out. For all we know, Indira Patel’s death is related.” She glanced at Mazursky, who was chewing the inside of his cheek. He looked as uneasy as she felt.

“But you can find it out tomorrow,” she added. “I want you to go home.”

“Meanwhile, Aliyah is in here, suffering,” Wilson said.

“She’s unconscious,” the matron said flatly.

“The spirit still suffers,” he replied. “It still suffers.”

After Dr. Lewis wrote Wilson a prescription for antibiotics, Mazursky, Cat and Wilson walked back through the labyrinth of buzzing doors and gates. At the guard gate they returned their badges; then they got back their guns and walked to the parking lot. Wilson pulled out his phone.

“Hi, Mom. Listen, I accidentally cut myself. Do you have aloe vera growing in the apartment? That’s great.” He was pressing his fingertips on his bandages and wincing. Cat felt truly bad for him. He had succeeded in getting through to Aliyah when no one else had been able to. She wanted to chastise him for doing it without her but she could also understand, and countenance it. They were in the middle of a crime wave, and he had been relegated to financial forensics and waiting for ATM footage. It showed initiative that he had gone to visit Aliyah. Truly, he should have checked in with her and Tess, too, but both of them had been too busy to pay much attention to him.

Mazursky said, “Do you have any evidence bags on you? I’ll take the gauze square into our lab.”

“You’re going to be at my precinct,” she began as she handed him a bag, but he shook his head.

“I know you managed to process samples at your lab but we have a lab that’s fully protected. I’ll retain possession.” He put the square in the bag and sealed it shut.