The Traveller (31 page)

He fixed her with a quick, sharp glance.

‘It was your fault. Your fault completely. It was just as if you had taken the gun yourself and pulled the trigger. It was just like you murdered that man. Snuffed out a life. See? Now you’re just like me. Do you understand that? Do you understand, killer?’

Anne Hampton nodded behind tears.

‘How does it feel, killer?’

She could not find words and he did not press her.

They drove into the expanse of night.

Disbelief

Marin Jeffers hurried through C ward, white coat-tails flapping behind him. He barely acknowledged the patients who shuffled awkwardly out of his path, parting like innocent animals meandering about a barnyard, making way for one with purpose. He managed to nod at the patients he knew, who greeted him with the usual assortment of

stares, smiles, snarls, averted looks and the occasional curse that was the day-to-day standard of the locked wards. He knew that his swift pace would cause some conversation behind his back; it was unavoidable. In a world reflecting

the constancy of routine, any behavior that spoke of some

external need or force was cause for discussion, debate, and

unwavering curiosity.

His own sense of intrigue ran equally unchecked. As he hurried along, he speculated shamelessly about the arrival of the homicide detective; considering as he reviewed the membership of the Lost Boys, trying to think which one

might have mentioned being in Miami within the past few years, which member of the group might have been oddly reluctant to talk about some recent event. In a gathering

that devoted much of its energies to concealment, Jeffers had become expert at recognizing the hidden or the taboo.

He swiftly searched his memory but was unable to come up with an instant answer. He recognized the sense of sudden excitement in himself; there was something compel-ing about the phrase ‘homicide detective’ that carried with

\ it a weight of mystery and fascination. He tried to form a mental picture of a woman investigating a murder, and thought she must be someone frumpy, hard-edged, and

purposeful. He wondered why he thought the idea of investigating death to be a masculine province; as if the nature of bloodied and shattered bodies was somehow inherently male, a violation belonging, in an odd way, to the arena of poker parties or locker rooms.

His mind rilled with images of sudden, violent death. He was struck with the quick portrait of his brother, picturing him in bush jacket and khakis, ready for one of his frequent travels to some war, disaster, or other representation of man’s folly.

He thought of his brother’s photographs from Saigon, Beirut, and Central America. A photo of his brother’s leaped out at him, a shot he’d seen in one of the national newsweeklies. It had been of another photographer, standing in the midst of a group of bodies at Jonestown, Guyana. The jungle greens and rich browns had formed a curtainlike backdrop for the man, who stood out in odd incongruity to the creeping dense growth behind him. The photographer had a red bandanna over his nose and mouth. It took just a moment to stare at the picture and realize that it was protection against the stench from the bodies swollen by sun and death. The photographer looked almost like some child’s idea of an old Western desperado, in jeans, boots, and denim shirt. In the photographer’s hand, though, instead of a six-gun had been a camera. And in the man’s eyes had been confusion and a kind of world-weary sorrow. Douglas Jeffers’ shot had caught his competitor at a moment of indecision, as if overwhelmed by the litter of suicide, not quite knowing what horrific image to plunder next. It was a perfect vision, Martin Jeffers had thought when he’d first seen it and now when he recalled it: that of a civilized man, standing in a prehistoric world, trying to comprehend behavior belonging to the world of animals, seeking to capture it for the consumption and fascination of a society that is perhaps less safe from aberration than it likes to think.

Jeffers hurried on, thinking of how many of his brother’s pictures were of death. He realized they were all individually fascinating, in their own way. We are forever searching,

he thought, to understand people’s behavior and the act that frightens all of us the most is murder.

But what is more common? he wondered.

And are we not all capable?

Now he sounded like his brother talking, Jeffers thought. He shook his head and listened to the squeaking sound his shoes made on the corridor’s polished linoleum floor. Well, some of us are a hell of a lot more capable than others. The faces of the Lost Boys flashed into his head.

That a detective would come to visit was not unusual. He recalled a number of occasions in the past few years when he’d received a similar summons and been brought face-to-face with some dark-eyed, monosyllabic man who’d asked increasingly pointed questions about one or another of the members of the therapy group. Of course, his ability

to assist had been severely limited by medical ethics and the concept of patient confidentiality. He remembered one detective, particularly persistent, who, after a frustrating conversation with Jeffers, had stared at him angrily for a long minute, then asked: Does the man have a roommate? No, Jeffers had replied. Does he hang out with anyone in particular? Well, yes, Jeffers remembered saying, he has one friend. Well, said the detective, let me talk to that man.

Jeffers recalled the way the detective had sat across from the compatriot of this one suspect in some forgotten crime. The detective had been direct, forceful, but never overtly aggressive. Jeffers remembered thinking he should study the detective’s approach, that there were some moments in the therapeutic process when it might be effective. He was impressed that within an hour the detective had had all the information he needed from the man, who was all too ready to sell his friend’s life for the promise of a reduction in his own term. Jeffers did not resent it. Ultimately, it was the way things worked in the world occupied by the Lost

boys, a place of trade offs, deals and lies.

Treachery as a way of life. Commonplace. Routine. He was struck with the idea that life is no more than a constant series of small betrayals, picayune lies, a constancy of compromise and rationalization.

He wondered again about the woman detective. She complicates things. So much of the work he did with the Lost Boys was to restore some vision of females as individuals, to recreate for them a picture of the opposite sex not dependent on the hatred they all felt. The idea that one of their potential victims would come now to stalk one of their number, that was both explosive and terrifying, as if one of their deepest and most inarticulate fears had risen from some nightmare and knocked on the door to the day room.

It will give us plenty to talk about, he thought. This was part of the challenge of the work: to create some therapeutic value out of the conjunction of memory and day-to-day life.

Maybe I’ll ask her to come along to a session, he thought.

That’d scare her. She’d want to arrest all of them.

And it would scare the bejesus out of the Lost Boys. They’ve been all too complacent lately, anyway. She could provide a necessary infusion of reality. It would shake things up, help focus the sessions, help get things back on track.

He grinned at the idea and knocked loudly on the C ward door for the attendant to let him pass. The door creaked as it opened, and Jeffers thought for a moment that everything inside the old hospital creaked and complained at use. He thanked the attendant, who stood sullenly as he swept through. Jeffers hurried down the corridor and was instantly in the administration wing of the hospital. The offices were nicer, the paint fresher, the sunlight unscarred by dirty crosshatched wire bars on the windows.

He opened the door to the administrator’s office. Dr Harrison’s secretary looked up and pointed at the inner office in the suite, jerking her thumb like a hitchhiker. ‘They’re in there, waiting for you,’ she said. ‘Which one do you think she wants?’

‘In a way, probably all of them,’ Jeffers replied. It was a small joke, and the secretary laughed as she waved him toward the door.

Jeffers entered the inner office. First he saw Dr Harrison, who stood up slowly from his seat behind a great brown desk. He was an older man, gray-haired, too sensitive for

the peremptory work of a state mental hospital, too old and tired to try to strike out on his own. Jeffers liked him immensely, despite his shortcomings as an administrator. Dr Harrison nodded at Jeffers, then, with his eyes, motioned toward the other person, who was rising out of a chair.

Jeffers barely had time to assess the woman. That she was close to his own age, he perceived immediately. Then be caught a glimpse of dark brown hair, a conservative but stylish silk dress and slender figure, before he was fixed by the detective’s eyes. They seemed to him to be black and staring rigidly at him. The usual male assessment of whether she was attractive or not was obliterated by the singular force of her glare. He had the disquieting sensation that he was being measured by an executioner, who with expert eye was calculating just how hard a blow with the ax would fell his head. He was immediately uncomfortable and stammered:

‘I’m Doctor Jeffers. How can I help you, detective…’

The words simply froze in the air.

His own hand, extended in greeting, hung momentarily before she raised her own in reluctant acknowledgment. Her grip was firm, perhaps too much so. She released his hand and he let it drop and the room was filled with a solid silence that Jeffers thought was like a fog bank rolling across the ocean. A cold, dampened moment passed, then another, as her eyes held to his, unblinking.

Then she spoke in a voice all the more terrifying for the control he thought she wrapped around every word:

‘Where is your brother?’

She damned herself instantly when she saw the mixture of shock and confusion race across his face. It had been unavoidable, she knew. As she had driven toward the hospital earlier that day, she had considered hundreds of approaches, dozens of different opening gambits, knowing all along, however, that when she confronted Susan’s murderer’s brother that there would be only one question that meant anything to her, and that she would be powerless to contain it. In Detective Mercedes Barren’s mind, the question was radioactive, glowing, permanent. She did not doubt that she would get the right reply; when you are willing to spend forever searching for one answer, eventually, inevitably, it arrives.

And when it arrives, she had thought, I will be ready.

A part of her, blissfully optimistic, had hoped it would be obtained easily. She did not trust this optimism, but she knew that a frontal assault often produces a quick, unplanned response, a blurted-out ‘Why, he’s in …’ and the name of some city or town, before the forces of caution took over, with the invariable follow: ‘Why do you want to know?’ She saw the brother’s mouth open, and his lips start to form a response, and she leaned forward slightly, expectedly, knowing immediately that she showed too much eagerness. Then, just as quickly, he slapped his mouth shut tight, and her own hard stare was met by an equally cool eye.

Damn, she thought again. It won’t be easy.

Damn, damn, damn.

In that moment she hated him almost as much as she hated the man she hunted. Flesh and blood, she thought. He’s the smallest step away.

She saw the brother swallow hard and glance over at the hospital director as if to buy a few moments of precious time to sort out what she knew must be a torrent of emotions. She sensed in that brief half-light of time that he used the seconds to order himself, coolly, professionally. She thought: He must be used to the unexpected. It must be part of his daily existence. He knows how to handle it. In a moment he returned his eyes to hers and met her silence with his own. Then, without taking his glance from her, he slowly pulled up a chair, and, carefully, as if unwilling to break the electrical connection formed in the small room, sat down. He deliberately crossed his legs, and with a delicate, easy gesture, as if he had not a care or concern in the entire world, motioned her back to her chair, like a teacher to an overanxious, overeager student.

Damn, she thought again. I almost had him.

And now he’s almost got me, she thought.

She sat down across from the murderer’s brother.

Martin Jeffers worked hard to affect an air of interested nonchalance, much as he would show when a patient blurted out some confession to one horror or another. Inwardly, however, he felt his throat constrict tightly, as if dutched by another’s hands, and the little hairs on the back of his neck rose. He could feel the wretched sudden stickiness of sweat beneath his arms and on his palms, but he dared not rub them on his pants.

He was awash in nightmare.

He would not put image to question in his mind; he focused solely on her request, refusing to engage in any dangerous extrapolation. She wants Doug! he thought. Then: I knew it! Then: But why do you know it? He fought against all the ideas that slid unbidden into his imagination: childhood fears, adult concerns.

He wanted desperately to grab hold of something, as if something solid could help steady the rocking sensation within his mind. But he knew, too, that the detective would notice, and he quickly forced everything, from his terror to his curiosity, aside, thinking: Find out. Give up nothing, but find out.

He took a deep breath. It helped.

He crossed his legs, shifting in the chair to a relaxed, comfortable position.

He reached down and adjusted one of his socks.

He put his hand to his breast pocket and removed a pen

and a small notepad. He tapped the pen point against the

paper several times in slow succession. Then he looked up,

and, mustering all the falseness and lies he could, smiled

at the detective.

‘I’m sorry, detective, I didn’t catch your name …’

‘Mercedes Barren.’

He wrote that down, feeling the act of scratching word to a page steady him.