The Beginning (13 page)

“No APB,” James said, sitting up straight now, his face paling. “No, David, cancel it now. It's critical.”

“I won't buy any more of this national security crap, Quinlan. Tell me why or I won't do it.”

“You're not being cooperative, David.”

“Tell me and let me help you.”

“She's Sally St. John Brainerd.”

David stared at him. “She's Amory St. John's daughter? The daughter who's nuts and who ran away from that sanitarium? The woman whose husband is frantic about her safety? I knew she looked familiar. Damn, I'm slipping fast. I should have made the connection. Ah, that's the reason for the black wig. Then she forgot to put it on, didn't she?”

“Yeah, that and I told her to relax, that you would never connect her to Susan Brainerd, at least I prayed you wouldn't.”

“I wish I could say I would have, but I probably never would have unless I saw her in person and then saw her again on TV. What were you doing with her, Quinlan?”

Quinlan sighed. “She doesn't know I'm FBI. She bought that story about me being a PI and looking for those old folks who disappeared around here three years ago. I came here because I had this feeling she would run here, to her aunt. I was just going to take her back.”

“But why is the FBI involved in a homicide?”

“The homocide's only part of it. We're in it for other reasons.”

“I know. You're not going to tell me the rest of it.”

“I'd prefer not to yet. As I was saying, I was going to take her back, but then—”

“Then what?”

“Her father phoned her twice. Then she saw his face at her window in the middle of the night.”

“And you found her father's footprints on the ground the next morning. Her father's dead, murdered. Quinlan, what's going on here?”

“I don't know. But I've got to find her. Someone was trying to make her believe she's crazy. And that aunt of hers didn't help a bit, kept telling her in an understanding, tender voice that she'd be hearing things and seeing things too if she'd been through all that Sally had, and she had been in that sanitarium for so long, and that would make her think differently, wouldn't it?

“Then the two murders. I've got to find her. Everything else is nuts, but not Sally.”

“When you feel well enough, you and I will go see her aunt. I already spoke to her, but she said that she hadn't seen Sally, that she was staying with you at Thelma's Bed and Breakfast. We searched your tower bedroom. Her duffel bag was gone and all her clothes, her blow dryer, everything. It's like she was never there. Look, Quinlan, maybe when she saw you unconscious, she got really scared and ran.”

“No,” James said, looking David straight in the eye. “I know she wouldn't leave me, not if I were lying there unconscious. She wouldn't.”

“It's like that, is it?”

“God only knows, but she has a thick streak of honor and she cares about me. She wouldn't have left.”

“Then we've got to find her. Another thing—I'm an officer of the law. Now that I know who she is, it's my duty to report her.”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd wait, David. There's more at stake here than Amory St. John's murder, lots more. Trust me on this.”

David looked at him for a long time. Finally, he said, “All right. Tell me what I can do to help.”

“Let's go see Aunt Amabel Perdy.”

 

DR.
Alfred Beadermeyer was enjoying himself. Sally didn't know the small new mirror in her room was two-way. No one knew, at least he didn't think so. He watched her sit up slowly, obviously trying to coordinate her arms and legs. Since her brain was fuzzy, it was difficult for her, but she kept trying. He admired that in her, and at the same time he wanted to destroy it. It seemed to take her several moments to realize she was naked.

Then, very slowly, as if she were an old woman, she rose and walked to the small closet. She pulled out a nightgown she'd left there before she escaped. She didn't know it, but he had bought it for her. She slipped it over her head, teetering a bit but managing finally. Then she walked back to sit on the edge of the bed. She held her head in her hands.

He was getting bored. Wouldn't she do anything? Wouldn't she start yelling? Something? He had nearly turned to go when at last she raised her head and he saw tears streaming down her cheeks.

This was better. Soon she would be ready to listen to him. Soon now. He would hold off on another shot for an hour or so. He turned away and unlocked the door of the tiny room.

Sally knew she was crying. She could feel the wet on her face, taste the salt when it trickled into her mouth. Why was she crying? James. She remembered James, how he lay there, blood streaming from the wound over his left ear. He'd been so still, so very still. Beadermeyer had promised he wasn't dead. How could she believe that monster?

He had to be all right. She looked at the soft silk gown that slithered against her skin. It was a lovely peach color with wide silk straps over her shoulders. Unfortunately it bagged on her now. She looked at the needle marks in her arm. There were five pinpricks. He'd drugged her five times. She felt her head begin to clear, slowly, so very slowly. More things, memories, began to filter through, take shape and substance.

She had to get out of here before he either killed her or took her someplace else, someplace where nobody could find her. She thought of James. He could find her if anyone could.

She forced herself to her feet. She took one step, then another. Soon she was walking slowly, carefully, but naturally. She stood in front of the narrow window and stared out onto the sanitarium grounds.

The mowed lawn stretched a good hundred yards before it butted against a heavily wooded area. Surely she could walk that far; she had before. She had to get to those woods. She could get lost in those woods, as she had before. Eventually she'd found her way out. She would again.

She walked back to the closet. There was a bathrobe and two more nightgowns, a pair of slippers. Nothing else. No pants, no dresses, no underwear.

She didn't care. She would walk in her bathrobe, to the ends of the earth if necessary. Then another veil lifted in her brain, and she remembered that she'd stolen one of the nurse's pantsuits that first time, and her shoes. Would it be possible to do that again?

Who had done this to her? She knew it wasn't her father. He was long dead. It had to be the man pretending to be her father, the man who'd called her, who'd appeared at her bedroom window. It could have been Scott, it could have been Dr. Beadermeyer, it could have been some man either of them had hired.

But not her father, thank God. That miserable bastard was finally dead. She prayed there was a hell. If there was, she knew he was there, in the deepest pit.

She had to get to her mother. Noelle would help her. Noelle would protect her, once she knew the truth. But why hadn't Noelle ever come to see her during the six months here? Why hadn't she demanded to know why her daughter was here? As far as Sally knew, Noelle hadn't done anything to help her. Did she believe her daughter was crazy? Had she believed her husband? Had she believed Sally's husband?

How to get out of here?

 

AMABEL
said, “Would either of you gentlemen care for a cup of coffee?”

“No,” Quinlan said curtly. “Tell us where Sally is.”

Amabel sighed and motioned the two men to sit down. “Listen, James, I already told the sheriff here that Sally must have gotten scared when she saw you were hurt, and she ran. That's the only explanation. Sally's not a strong girl. She's been through a lot. She was even in an asylum. You don't look shocked. I'm a bit surprised that she told you about it. Something like that shouldn't be talked about.

“But listen, she was very ill. She still is. It makes sense that she would run again, like she ran away from what happened in Washington. If you doubt me, go to Thelma's. Martha told me that all of Sally's things were gone from your room. Isn't that odd? She left not even a memory of herself in that room.

“It was like she wanted to erase her very self.” She paused a moment, then added in a faraway gypsy's voice, “It's almost as if she was never really there at all, as if we all just imagined she was here.”

Quinlan jumped to his feet and stood over her. He looked menacing but David didn't say a word, just waited. Quinlan stuck his face near hers and said slowly and very distinctly, “That's bullshit, Amabel. Sally wasn't an apparition, nor was she nuts, as you implied to her, like you're implying to us now. She didn't imagine hearing a woman scream those two nights. She didn't imagine seeing her father's face at her bedroom window in the middle of the night. You tried to make her doubt herself, didn't you, Amabel? You tried to make her think she was crazy.”

“That is ridiculous.”

Quinlan moved even closer, leaning over her now, forcing her to press her back against the chair. “Why did you do that, Amabel? You said you knew she was in a sanitarium. You knew, didn't you, that someone put her there and kept her for six months drugged to her eyebrows? You didn't try to assure her that she was as sane as anyone—no, you kept on with the innuendos.

“Don't deny it, I heard you do it. You tried to make Sally doubt herself, her reason. Why?”

But Amabel smiled sadly at him. She said to David, “Sheriff, I've been very patient. This man only knew Sally for a matter of days. I'm her aunt. I love her. There's no reason I would ever want to hurt her. I would always seek to protect her. I'm sorry, James, but she ran away. It's as simple as that. I pray the sheriff will find her. She's not strong. She needs to be taken care of.”

Quinlan was so angry he was afraid he'd pull her out of the chair and shake her like a rat. He backed off and began pacing around the small living room. David watched him for a moment, then said, “Mrs. Perdy, if Sally ran, can you guess where she would go?”

“To Alaska. She said she wanted to go to Alaska. She said she preferred Mexico, but she didn't have her passport. That's all I can tell you, Sheriff. Of course, if I hear from her, I'll call you right away.” Amabel rose. “I'm sorry, James. You know who Sally is. It's likely you've told Sheriff Mountebank her real name. There's a lot for her to face, and she'll have to face it eventually. As to her mental status, who's to say? All we can do is pray.”

James wanted to wrap his fingers around her gypsy neck and squeeze. She was lying, damn her, but she was doing it very well. Sally wouldn't have run away, not with him lying unconscious at her feet. She wouldn't.

That meant that someone had her.

And that someone was the person who had pretended to be her father. James would bet on it. Now he knew what to do. He even had a good idea where she was, and it curdled his blood to think about it.

It was a black midnight, not even a sliver of moon or a single star to cast a dim light through that cauldron sky. Roiling black clouds moved and shifted, but never revealed anything except more blackness.

Sally stared out the window, drawing one deep breath after another. They would be here soon to give her another shot. No more pills, she'd heard Beadermeyer say; she just might be able to hide them again in her mouth. He announced that he didn't want her hurt again, the bastard.

There was a new nurse—her name tag said Rosalee—and she was as blank-faced as Holland. She didn't speak to Sally except to tell her tersely what to do and when and how to do it. She watched Sally go to the bathroom, which, Sally supposed, was better than having Holland standing there.

Dr. Beadermeyer didn't want her hurt? That could only be because he himself wanted to be the one to hurt her. She'd seen no one except Beadermeyer and Holland and Nurse Rosalee. They'd forced her to keep to her room. She had nothing to read, no TV to watch. She didn't know anything about her mother or about Scott. Most of the time she was so drugged she didn't care, didn't even know who she was, but now she knew, now she could reason, and she was getting stronger by the minute.

If only Beadermeyer would wait just a few more minutes, maybe fifteen minutes, then she'd be ready.

But he didn't give her even two more minutes. She jumped when she heard him unlock the door. No time to get into position. She stood stiffly by the window in her peach silk nightgown.

“Good evening, my dear Sally. You're looking chipper and really quite lovely in that nightgown. Would you like to take it off for me now?”

“No.”

“Ah, so you've got your wits together, have you? Just as well. I'd like to have a conversation with you before I send you back into the ether. Do sit down, Sally.”

“No, I want to stay as far away from you as possible.”

“As you wish.” He was wearing a dark blue crew sweater and black slacks. His black hair was slicked back as if he'd just had a shower. His teeth were white, the front two top teeth overlapping.

“Your teeth are ugly,” she said now. “Why didn't you wear braces as a kid?”

She'd spoken without thinking, another indication that her mind wasn't completely clear yet.

He looked as if he wanted to kill her. Without conscious thought, he raised his fingers to touch his teeth, then dropped his arm. There was only a thin veil of shadow separating them now, but she recognized the anger in him, knew he wanted to hurt her.

He got control of himself. “Well, you're a little bitch tonight, aren't you?”

“No,” she said, still watching him, her body tensed, knowing he wanted to attack her, hurt her badly. She didn't know she could hate a person as much as she hated him. Other than her father. Other than her husband.

Finally, he sat down in the single chair and crossed his legs. He removed his glasses and put them on the small circular table beside the chair. There was a carafe of water and a single glass on the table, nothing more.

“What do you want?” The carafe was plastic—even if she struck him squarely on the head, it wouldn't hurt him. But the table was sturdy. If only she were fast enough, she could grab it and smash him with it. But she knew she would have to be free of the drugs for at least another hour to be fast enough, strong enough, to bring him down. Could she keep him talking that long? She doubted it, but it was worth a try.

“What do you want?” she said again. She couldn't bring herself to take a step closer to him.

“I'm bored,” he said. “I'm making so much money, but I'm never free to leave this place. I want to enjoy my money. What do you suggest?”

“Let me go, and I'll see that you get even more money.”

“That would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?”

“Do you mean that you have other people in here who are perfectly sane? Other people you're holding prisoner? Other people you're being paid to keep here?”

“This is a very small, very private place, Sally. Not many people know about it. I gain all my patients through referrals, carefully screened referrals.

“Just listen to me. This is the first time I've ever talked to you as an adult. Six months I had you with me, six whole months, and you were always as interesting as a jointless doll, except for that time you jumped through the window in my office. If anything proved to your dear mother that you were nuts, that story did. That made me sit up and take notice of you, but not for long. This is much better. If only I could trust you not to try to escape me again, I would keep you just as you are now.”

“How do you imagine that I can escape?”

“Unfortunately Holland is quite stupid, and he's the one who tends you most often. I do believe Nurse Rosalee is a bit afraid of you. Isn't that odd? As for Holland, he begged me to let him take care of you, the pathetic creature. Yes, I can imagine you waiting behind that door for him to come in.

“What would you do, Sally? Hit him on the head with this table? That would stun him. Then you could strip off his clothes, though I doubt you'd enjoy stripping him as much as he enjoys stripping you. No, you see, I'm in a bind. And please don't move. Remember, I'm not Holland. Stay where you are or you get a nice big shot right now.”

“I haven't moved an inch. Why am I here? How did you find me? Amabel had to call to tell you where I was. But why? And who wanted me back here? My husband? Were you the one who pretended to be my father or was it Scott?”

“You speak of your poor husband as if he's a stranger to you. It's that James Quinlan, isn't it? You slept with him, you enjoyed him, and now you want to dump poor Scott. I would never have taken you for such a fickle woman, Sally. Wait until I tell Scott what you've done.”

“When you speak to Scott Brainerd, tell him I fully intend to kill him when I'm free of this place. And I will be free soon, Dr. Beadermeyer.”

“Ah, Sally, I'm sure that Scott wants me to make you more malleable. He doesn't like women who are aggressive, all tied up in their careers. Trust me to see to it, Sally.”

“Either you or Scott called me up in The Cove pretending to be my father. Either you or Scott came to The Cove and climbed that silly ladder to scare me silly, to make me think I was crazy. There's no one else. My father is dead.”

“Yes, Amory is dead. I think personally that you killed him, Sally. Did you?”

“I don't know if you really want the truth. I have no memory of that night. It will come back, though. It has to.”

“Don't count on it. One of the drugs I'm giving you is excellent at suppressing memory. No one really knows yet what the long-term side effects will be. And you will be taking it forever, Sally.”

He rose and walked to her. “Now,” he said. He was smiling. She couldn't help herself. When he reached for her, she cracked a fist as hard as she could against his jaw. His head flew back. She hit him again, kicked him in the groin with all her strength, and ran to grab that table.

But she stumbled, her head spinning, nausea flooding through her. Her legs collapsed beneath her. She fell to the floor.

She heard him panting behind her. She had to get to that table. She struggled to her feet, forced one foot in front of the other. He was close behind her now, panting, panting, he was in pain, she'd hurt him. If she didn't knock him out, he would take great pleasure in hurting her. Please, God, please, please.

She clutched the table, lifted it, turned to face him. He was so close, his arms stretched out toward her, his fingers curved, coming toward her throat.

“Holland!”

“No,” she said and swung the table at him. But it was a puny effort, and he blocked it with his shoulder.

“Holland!”

The door flew open and Holland ran into the room.

“Hold the little bitch, hold her!”

“No, no.” She backed away from the men, but there was no room, only the narrow bed and the table she held as a shield in front of her.

Dr. Beadermeyer was holding his crotch, his face still drawn in pain. Good, she'd hurt him. Anything he did to her would be worth it. She'd hurt him.

“That's enough, Sally.” Holland's voice, soft and hoarse, terrifying.

“I'll kill you, Holland. Stay away from me.” But it was an empty threat. Her arms were trembling, her stomach roiling now. She tasted bile. She dropped the table, fell to her knees, and vomited on Dr. Beadermeyer's Italian loafers.

 

“YOU
either help me or you don't, Savich, but you don't tell a soul about this.”

“Quinlan, do you know what you're asking?” Dillon Savich leaned back in his chair, nearly tipping it over, but not quite because he knew exactly how far to go. His computer screen was bright with the photo of a man's face, a youngish man who looked like a yuppie broker, well dressed, easy smile, well-groomed hair and clothes.

“Yes. You're going with me to that sanitarium and we're going to rescue Sally. Then we're going to clean up this mess. We'll be heroes. You won't be gone from your computer for more than a couple of hours. Maybe three hours if you want to be a hero. Take your laptop and the modem. You can still hook into any system you want.”

“Marvin will cut our balls off. You know he hates it when you try to go off on your own without talking to him.”

James said, “We'll give Marvin all the credit. The FBI will shine. Marvin will be grinning from ear to ear. He'll give the credit to his boss, Mr. Maitland, so he won't cut Marvin's balls off. Mr. Maitland will be happy as a loon.

“And on and on it goes. Sally will be safe and we'll get this damned murder solved.”

Savich said, “You still ignore the fact that she might have killed her father herself. It's a possibility. What's wrong with you? How can you ignore it?”

“Yes, I do ignore it. I have to. But we'll find out, won't we?”

“You're involved with her, aren't you? It was only one week you were with her. What is she, some sort of siren?”

“No, she's a skinny little blonde who's got more grit than you can begin to imagine.”

“I don't believe this. No, shut up, Quinlan, I've got to think.” Savich leaned forward and stared fixedly at the man's photo on the computer screen. He said absently, “This creep is probably the one who's killing the homeless people in Minneapolis.”

“Leave the creep for the moment. Think, brood, whatever. You're going to try to figure all the odds. You're going to weigh every possible outcome with that computer brain of yours. Have you developed a program for that yet?”

“Not yet, but I'm close. Come on, Quinlan, my brain is why you love me. I've saved your butt at least three times. You wouldn't trade me for any other agent. Shut up. I've got to make an important decision here.”

“You've got ten minutes. Not a second more. I've got to get to her. God knows what they're doing to her, what they're giving her. She could be dead. Or they could have already moved her. If the guy who hit me bothered to check my ID, then they know I'm FBI. We haven't got much time even if they didn't check. I know they'll move her; it only makes sense.”

“Why are you so sure she's at the sanitarium?”

“They wouldn't take the chance of taking her anywhere else.”

“‘They' who? No, you don't know. Ten minutes, then. No, shut up, Quinlan.”

“Thank God, you've already been to the gym this morning or I'd have to wait for you to lift your bloody weights. I'm getting some coffee.”

Quinlan walked down to the small lounge at the end of the hall. It wasn't that the fifth floor was ugly and inhospitable. It couldn't be, since they let tourists get within a floor of them. It didn't look all that institutional, only a bit tired. The linoleum was still pale brown with years of grit walked deep into it.

He poured a cup of coffee, sniffed it first, then took a cautious sip. Yep, it still made his Adam's apple shudder, but it kept the nerves finely tuned. Without it an agent would probably fold up and die.

He needed Savich. He knew that Savich would set up an appropriate backup in case it turned out they couldn't handle the job. He'd been tempted to go directly from Dulles to Maryland to that sanitarium, but he'd given the matter a good deal of thought. He was in this up to his neck, and he wanted to save Sally's neck as well.

He had no idea about the security at Beadermeyer's sanitarium, but Savich would find out and then they'd get over there. He couldn't take the chance of alerting his boss, Brammer. He couldn't take the chance that Sally could be plowed under in the fallout.

He drank more coffee, felt the caffeine jolt hit his brain and stomach at about the same time.

He wandered back into Savich's office. “It's been ten minutes.”

“I've been waiting for you, Quinlan. Let's go.”

“Just like that? No more arguments? No more telling me there's a thirteen percent chance that one of us will end up in a ditch with a knife in his throat?”