The Beginning (12 page)

“There hasn't been another call,” Amabel said. “Either from Thelma or from your father.”

“He knows that I've left your house,” Sally said thoughtfully. “That's good. I don't want you in any danger.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Sally. There's no danger for me.”

“There was for Laura Strather and Doc Spiver,” Quinlan said. “You be careful, Amabel. Sally and I are going exploring. Thelma told us about this shack up the hill behind Doc Spiver's house. We're going to check it out.”

“Watch out for snakes,” Amabel called after them.

Which kind? Quinlan wondered.

Once they were rounding the corner to Doc Spiver's house, Sally said, “Why did you tell Amabel where we were going?”

“Seeding,” he said. “Watch your step, Sally. You're not all that steady on your ankle yet.” He held back the stiff, gnarly branch of a yew tree. There was a barren hill behind the house, and tucked into a shallow recess was a small shack.

“What do you mean, seeding?”

“I don't like the fact that your dear auntie has treated you like you're so high-strung no one should trust what you say. I told her that to see if perhaps something might happen. Then if it does—”

“Amabel would never hurt me, never.”

He looked down at her and then at the shack. “Is that what you believed about your husband when you married him?”

He didn't wait for her to answer him, just pushed open the door. It was surprisingly solid. “Watch your head,” he said over his shoulder as he stooped down and walked into the dim single room.

“Yuck,” Sally said. “This is pretty bad, James.”

“Yeah, I'd say so.” He didn't say anything else, just began to look around as he imagined the sheriff had done only days before. He found nothing. The small space was empty. There were no windows. It would be pitch black when the door was closed. Just plain nothing. A modicum of hope, that was all he'd had, but still, he was more than a modicum disappointed. “I'd say that if Laura Strather was kept prisoner here, the guy holding her was very thorough cleaning up. There's nothing, Sally, not a trace of anything.”

“He's not hiding in here, either,” she said. “And that's what we're really doing here, isn't it?”

“Both, really. I have a feeling that your
father
wouldn't lower himself to stay in this place. There aren't even any free bathrobes.”

 

THAT
afternoon they ate lunch at the Hinterlands. This week Zeke was serving Spam burgers and variations on meat loaf.

They both ordered Zeke's original-recipe meat loaf.

“The smells make me salivate,” Quinlan said, inhaling. “Zeke puts garlic in his mashed potatoes. Breathe deeply enough and no vampire will come near you.”

Sally was toying with the curved slice of carrot in her salad. “I like garlic.”

“Tell me about that night, Sally.”

She'd picked up the carrot and was chewing on it. She dropped it. Then she picked it up again and slowly began eating it. “All right,” she said finally. She smiled at him. “I might as well trust you. If you're going to betray me, then I might as well hang it up. The cops are right. I was there that night. But they're wrong about everything else. I don't remember a thing, James, not a blessed thing.”

Well, hell, he thought, but he knew she was telling him the truth. “Do you think someone struck you?”

“No, I don't think so. I've thought and thought about it and all I can figure out is that I just don't want to remember, can't bear to, I guess, so my brain just closed it down.”

“I've heard about hysterical amnesia and even seen it a couple of times. What usually happens is that you will remember, if not tomorrow, then next week. Your father wasn't killed in a horrific way. He was shot neatly through the heart, no muss, no fuss. So, it would seem to me that the people involved in his death shook you so much that's the reason you've blocked it all out.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, then turned around and saw the waitress bringing their plates. The smell of garlic, butter, roasted squash, and the rich aroma of the meat loaf filled the air around them.

“I couldn't live here and stay trim,” James said. “It smells delicious, Nelda.”

“Catsup for the meat loaf?”

“Does a shark have a fin?”

Nelda, the waitress, laughed and set a Heinz bottle between them. “Enjoy,” she said.

“Nelda, how often do young Ed and Martha eat here?”

“Oh, maybe twice a week,” she said, looking a bit startled. “Martha says she gets tired of her own cooking. Young Ed is my older brother. Poor man. Every time he wants to see Martha, he has to endure Thelma's jokes. Can you believe that old woman is still alive, writing in that diary of hers every day and eating that sausage?”

“That's interesting,” James said when Nelda left them. “Eat, Sally. That's right. You're perfect, but I'd be worried for you in a strong wind.”

“I used to run every day,” she said. “I used to be strong.”

“You will be again. Just stick with me.”

“I can't imagine running in Los Angeles. All I ever see is pictures of horrible fog and cars stacked up on the freeways.”

“I live in a canyon. It's got healthy air and I run there as well.”

“Somehow I can't imagine you living in Southern California. You just don't seem the type. Does your ex-wife still live there?”

“No, Teresa is back east. She married a crook, interestingly enough. I hope she doesn't have kids with the guy. Their genetic potential is hair-raising.”

She laughed, actually laughed. It felt as wonderful to her as it felt to James hearing it.

“You have any idea how beautiful you are, Sally?”

Her fork stilled over the meat loaf. “You're into crazy freaks?”

“If you ever say anything like that again, you'll piss me off. When I get pissed off I do strange things, like take off all my clothes and chase ducks in the park.” The tension fell away from her. He had no idea why he'd told her she was beautiful; it had just slipped out. Actually, she was more than beautiful—she was warm and caring, even while she was living this nightmare. He wished he knew what to do.

“You said you don't remember about that night your father was killed. Do you have other gaps in your memory?”

“Yes. Sometimes when I think about that place, very sharp memories will come to me, but I couldn't swear if they are truly memories or just weird images stewed up by my brain. I remember everything very clearly until about six months ago.”

“What happened six months ago?”

“That's when everything went dim.”

“What happened six months ago?”

“Senator Bainbridge retired suddenly, and I was out of a job. I remember that I was going to interview with Senator Irwin, but I never got to his office.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. I remember it was a sunny day. I was singing. The top was down on my Mustang. The air was sharp and warm.” She paused, frowning, then shrugged. “I always sang when the top was down. I don't remember anything else, but I know I never saw Senator Irwin.”

She said nothing more. She was eating her meat loaf. She probably didn't realize she was eating, but he wanted her to keep at it. He guessed he wanted her to eat more than he wanted her to talk. At least for now. What had happened?

James paid their bill and walked outside while Sally went to the women's room. He wondered how he was going to keep his hands off her when they got back to his tower bedroom.

He heard a whisper of sound that didn't belong in that small narrow space beside the Hinterlands. He turned around, wondering if Sally had come out of the cafe without his seeing her. That was when he heard it again. There it was, a whisper of sound. He pivoted quickly on his heel, his hand inside his jacket on the butt of his SIG-Sauer, a 9mm semiautomatic pistol that fit his hand and his personality perfectly. He was at one with that pistol, as he'd never been with any other before in his professional life. He was pulling it out, smooth and quick, but still, he was too late. The blow struck him just over his left ear. He went down without a sound.

“James?” Sally stuck her head out the door of the cafe. There was no one around. She waved to Nelda, then turned back. Where was James? She frowned and stepped down. She heard a scraping sound, then she knew she heard a whisper—a man's whisper? James? She wheeled about to look in that sliver of space beside the building.

What she saw was James lying on his side on the ground, a trickle of blood trailing down his cheek toward his chin. She yelled his name and skidded onto her knees beside him, shaking him, then drawing back. She sucked in her breath. Gently she laid her fingers on the pulse in his throat. It was strong and slow. Thank God, he was all right. What was going on here? But then she knew.

It was her father, he'd finally come to get her, just as he'd promised he would. He'd hurt James, probably because he'd been protecting her.

She looked up for help, praying to see anyone, it didn't matter how old he was, just anyone. There was no one around, not a single soul.

Oh, God, what should she do? She was leaning down to look at the wound when the blow crashed directly down on the back of her head and she crumpled over James.

 

SHE
heard the sound. It came at short intervals. It was water, one drop after another, hitting metal.

Plop.

She opened her eyes but couldn't seem to focus. Her brain felt loose, as if it were floating inside her head. She couldn't seem to think; she could only hear that plop. She knew something wasn't right. She tried to remember but couldn't quite make her brain fasten onto something that would trigger a thought, any thought, anything that had happened to her before she was here, wherever here was.

“You're awake. Good.”

A voice, a man's voice,
his
voice. She managed to follow the sound of his voice. It was Dr. Beadermeyer, the man who had tormented her for six long months.

Yes, she remembered that, not all of it, but enough to have it burn through her sleep and terrify her over and over in nightmares that still brought vivid pain.

Suddenly she remembered. She'd been with James. Yes, James Quinlan. He'd been struck on the head. He was lying unconscious on the ground in that small slice of land next to the Hinterlands.

“Nothing to say, Sally? I cut back on the dosage so you could talk to me.” She felt a sharp slap on her cheek.

“Look at me, Sally. Don't pretend you're off in outer space. I know this time you can't be.” He slapped her again.

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard.

“Is James all right?”

He stopped shaking her. “James?” He sounded surprised. “Oh, that man you were with in The Cove. Yes, he's fine. No one wanted to take the risk of killing him. Was he your lover, Sally? You had him less than a week. That's moving fast. He must have been desperate.

“Just look at you, all skinny and pathetic, your hair in strings, your clothes bagging around you. Come on, Sally, tell me about James. Tell me what you told him.”

“I told him about you,” she said. “I had a nightmare and he helped me through it. I told him what a piece of slime you are.”

He slapped her again, not too hard, but hard enough to make her shrink away from him.

“You're rude, Sally. And you're lying. You've never lied well and I can always tell. You might have dreamed, but you didn't tell him about me. You want to know why? It's because you're crazy and I'm so deep a part of you that if you were to tell anyone about me, why, you'd collapse in on yourself and die. You can't exist without me, Sally.

“You were away from me for two weeks, and look what happened. You're a mess. You tried to pretend you were normal. You lost all your manners. Your mother would be appalled. Your husband would back away from you in disgust. As for your father, well—well, I suppose it's not worth speculating now that he's shuffled off his mortal coil.”

“Where am I?”

“Ah, that's supposed to be the first thing out of your mouth, if books and TV stories are to be believed. You're back where you belong, Sally. Look around you. You're back in your room, the very same one decorated especially for you by your dear father. I've kept you under for nearly a day and a half. I let up on the dosage about four hours ago. You took your time coming to the surface.”

“What do you want?”

“I have what I want; at least I have the first installment of what I want. And that's you, my dear.”

“I'm thirsty.”

“I'll bet you are. Holland, where are you? Bring some water to our patient.”

She remembered Holland, a skinny, furtive little man who'd been one of the two men to stare through the small square window while he was hitting her and caressing her, humiliating her. Holland had thinning brown hair and the deadest eyes she'd ever seen. He rarely said anything, at least to her.

She said nothing more until he appeared at her side, a glass of water in his hand.

“Here you are, Doctor,” he said in that low, hoarse voice of his that lay like a covering of loose gravel in all those nightmares, making her want to be drugged so she wouldn't realize he was around her.

He was standing behind Beadermeyer, looking down at her, his eyes dead and hungry. She wanted to vomit.

Dr. Beadermeyer raised her and let her drink her fill.

“Soon you'll want to go to the bathroom. Holland will help you with that, won't you, Holland?”

Holland nodded, and she wanted to die. She fell back against the pillow, a hard, institutional pillow, and closed her eyes. She knew deep down she couldn't keep herself intact in this place again. She also realized that she would never escape again. This time it was over for her.

She kept her eyes closed, didn't turn toward him. “I'm not crazy. I was never crazy. Why are you doing this? He's dead. What does it matter?”

“You still don't know, do you? You still have no memory of any of it. I realized that almost immediately. Well, it isn't my place to tell you, my dear.” She felt him pat her cheek. She flinched.

“Now, now, Sally, I'm not the one who tormented you, though I must admit that I enjoyed the one tape I saw. Except you weren't even there, you were flopping back, your eyes closed, letting him do whatever he wanted.

“You didn't have any fight in you. Why, you were so out of it, you barely flinched when he hit you. But even then you weren't afraid. I could tell. The contrast, at least, made for fascinating viewing.”

She felt gooseflesh rise on her arms as remnants of memories flooded her—the movement of his hands over her, the pushing and slapping, the caressing that turned to pain.

She heard the bed ease up and knew that Dr. Beadermeyer was standing beside her, looking down at her. She heard him say softly, “Holland, if she gets away again, I'll have to hurt you badly. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Dr. Beadermeyer.”

“It won't be like last time, Holland. I made a mistake on your punishment last time. You rather liked that little shock therapy, didn't you?”

“It won't happen again, Dr. Beadermeyer.” Was there disappointment in that frightening little man's voice?

“Good. You know what happened to Nurse Krider when she let her hide those pills under her tongue. Yes, of course you do. Be mindful, Holland.

“I must go now, Sally, but I'll be with you again this evening. We'll have to get you away from the sanitarium, probably tomorrow morning. The decision what to do with you hasn't been made yet. But you can't stay here. The FBI, this Quinlan fellow, he's got to know all about this place. I'm sure you did tell him some things about your past. And they'll come. But that isn't your problem.

“Now, let me give you a little shot of something that will make you drift and really feel quite good about things. Yes, Holland, hold her arm for me.”

Sally felt the chill of the needle, felt the brief sting. Within moments, she felt herself begin to drift out of her brain, to float in nothingness. She felt the part of her that was real, the part of her that wanted life—such a small flicker, really—struggling briefly before it succumbed. She sighed deeply and was gone from herself.

She felt hands on her, taking off her clothes. She knew it was Holland. Probably Dr. Beadermeyer was watching.

She didn't struggle. There was nothing more to care about.

 

QUINLAN
woke up with a roaring headache that beat any hangover he'd ever had in college. He cursed, held his head in his hands, and cursed some more.

“You've got the mother of all headaches, right?”

“David,” he said, and even that one word hurt. “What the devil happened?”

“Someone hit you good just above your left ear. Our doctor put three stitches in your head. Hold still and I'll get you a pill.”

Quinlan focused on that pill. It had to help. If it didn't, his brain would break out of his skull.

“Here, Quinlan. It's strong stuff; you're supposed to have one every four hours.”

Quinlan took it and downed the entire glass of water. He lay back, his eyes closed, and waited.

“Dr. Grafft said it would kick in quickly.”

“I sure hope so. Talk to me, David. Where's Sally?”

“I'll tell you everything. Lie still. I found you unconscious in that narrow little strip of alley beside the Hinterlands. Thelma Nettro had reported you and Sally missing, so I started looking.

“When I found you lying there, I thought you were dead. I slung you over my shoulder and brought you to my house. Dr. Grafft met me here and stitched you up. I don't know about Sally. She's gone, Quinlan. No trace, nothing. It's like she was never even here.”

If he didn't hurt so badly, Quinlan would have yelled. Instead, he lay there, trying to figure things out, trying to think. For the moment, it was beyond him.

Sally was gone. That was all that was real to him. Gone, not found dead. Gone. But where?

He heard children's voices. Surely that couldn't be right. He heard David say, “Deirdre, come here and sit on my lap. You've got to keep very quiet, okay? Mr. Quinlan isn't feeling well, and we don't want to make him feel worse.”

He heard a little girl whisper, but he couldn't make it out. He remembered that Deirdre meant sorrow. He slept.

He awoke to see a young woman with a pale complexion and very dark red hair looking at him. She had the sweetest face he'd ever seen. “Who are you?”

“I'm Jane, David's wife. You lie still, Mr. Quinlan.” He felt her cool palm on his forehead. “I've got some nice hot chicken soup for you. Dr. Grafft said to keep it light until tomorrow. You open your mouth and I'll feed you. That's right.”

He ate the entire bowl and began to feel human. “Thank you,” he said, and slowly, her hand under his elbow, he sat up.

“Your head ache?”

“It's just a dull thud now. What time is it? Rather, what day is it?”

“You were hurt early this afternoon. It's eight o'clock in the evening now. I hope the girls didn't disturb you.”

“No, not at all. Thank you for taking me in.”

“Let me get David. He's tucking the girls into bed. He should be about through with the bedtime story.”

Quinlan sat there, his head back against the cushions of the sofa, a nice comfortable sofa. The headache was gone now. He could get out of here soon. He could find Sally. He realized he was scared to his socks. What had happened to her?

Her father had come for her just as he'd promised he would.
No, that was ridiculous. Amory St. John was long dead.

“You want some brandy in hot tea?”

“Nah, my pecker doesn't need optimism.” Quinlan opened his eyes and smiled at David Mountebank. “Your wife fed me. Great soup. I appreciate you taking me in, David.”

“I couldn't leave you with Thelma Nettro, now, could I? I wouldn't leave my worst enemy there. That old lady gives me the willies. It's the weirdest thing. She always has that diary of hers with her and that fountain pen in her hand. The tip of her tongue is practically tattooed from the pen tip.”

“Tell me about Sally.”

“Every man I could round up is talking to everybody in The Cove and looking for her. I've got an APB out on her—”