TPG (10 page)

“And,” Liam said.
“Get this
—
Allie
didn’t
die. And look what happened when
he pitched that day.”

“He had his worst
start at home,” Kyle said, specifically remembering the game as Eddie had
accused him of jinxing the man.

“Correctamundo. He
probably wasn’t able to absorb everything he needed.”

Could it be?
Kyle wondered. Could Evan
Hillier really be doing this? Kyle thought back to the alley that night. The
man was tall … it
could’ve
been
Hillier. Maybe he didn’t finish with what he needed because Kyle had chased him
away.

But it couldn’t
be, Kyle thought as he brushed the notion aside. It didn’t make sense. No one
was able to do what Liam was suggesting. It was ludicrous. But the coincidence
was too much to ignore. Could there be a serial killer out there? Someone
timing the deaths to Hillier’s starts? Maybe some Yankees fanatic?

“Liam,” Kyle said.
“I have no idea what’s going on here, but if these burst aneurysm incidents
really do coincide with Evan Hillier’s home starts we need to speak to the
police.”
And I need to tell them what I
saw.

“I already spoke
to the detective handling the case. He’s not buying into it. So I’m going to
take matters into my own hands.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ll do a little
recon.”

“Recon?”

“Right,” Liam
said. “I’ll snoop around. Find out where he lives, where he goes. See what he
does the nights before his starts. Get some intel, and then we’ll catch him in
the act.”

“And how are we
going to do that?”

“Simple. He’s
scheduled to pitch at home again in five days. Right before they go on the
road. I’ll get the info on him, and then we’ll follow him and stop him.”

It can’t be Evan Hillier,
Kyle repeated
to himself. “Can you email me the info of the detective you spoke to?”

“Already did it
while we were speaking. And maybe you can convince him to listen to what I’m
saying, but I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s willing to try and get it.”

Kyle wasn’t
surprised. The theory was beyond out-there.

“And get this,”
Liam said. “Allie was practicing Deeksha and she was the only one who didn’t
die.”

“Deeksha?” Kyle
asked, familiar with the Buddhist cleansing technique and even recalling Allie
mentioning something about having tried some holistic approaches and Liam
having mentioned something about a Giver during one of their earlier
conversations.

“Yeah,” Liam
answered. “She’s been seeing a Giver since she’s been home for the summer.
That’s probably why she was texting you about Sheldrake. I’ve already left a
message with the guy so we can meet him. He’s out of town right now, but as
soon as I hear back from him I’ll schedule an appointment so we can go talk to
him.”

Kyle didn’t object
to Liam’s proposal, as he was more anxious to just end the conversation and
call the one person he knew would either put his mind at ease or set it ablaze
with anxiety.

And that person
was not a Deeksha Giver.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“I need another favor,” Kyle said.

There was no
answer on the other end.

“Last one. I
promise.”

“If it’s about the
files,” Tom said, “I told you, I can’t help you. I don’t have access. They’ve
been marked sensitive and requisitioned.”

“All I need to
know is the dates,” he said. “That’s probably still there, right? The entries
for them?”

Tom didn’t answer.

“How about this,”
Kyle tried. “I’ll read you the dates I have, and you just let me know if I’m
right or not.”

“Kyle, I’m telling
you, I can get into big trouble for this. I shouldn’t have even told you about
the information in the first place.”

Kyle ignored him
and read all the dates up to Allie’s. Then he slowly repeated them.

“Why is it even so
important?” Tom asked. “The police, or someone else, are investigating. The
files have already been pulled. If there’s something there, they’ll find it.”

“I just need to
know.”

Kyle heard a loud
sigh over the phone. “This is it, though,” Tom said. “Understand? No more after
this. I can’t keep putting myself at risk. Not for this.”

Kyle was pretty
sure Tom wanted to add,
and not for you.
But
he didn’t. Instead, he gave Kyle the answer he was looking for.

“Yes,” he said.

“They coincide?”

“They coincide.”

Kyle knew what he
had to do. He couldn’t hide it anymore. Something was up. He had to come clean,
completely clean. And he had to do it to the police. He thanked Tom again then
called the detective whose number Liam had sent over. A Detective Slattery.

At the third ring,
he heard a man answer, “Slattery,” on the other end.

“Detective
Slattery?” Kyle asked.

“Who’s this?”

“Kyle Vine. Liam
Murdock gave me your number. He told me you’re investigating his niece’s
incident.”

“Murdock,” the man
said. “He just called. He’s the guy who thinks his niece was attacked.”

“That’s correct.”

“And who are you?”
the man asked with a thick Long Island accent.

“His niece’s
professor,” Kyle explained. “Liam shared his theories with me.”

“Right, right. He
said he was talking to someone. You’re a shrink, right?”

“I’m a
psychologist, correct.”

“Then you must
know that your man Murdock is a goddam nut.”

“He’s eccentric,
yes.”

“No. He’s a nut.”

Kyle rubbed the
back of his neck. “You don’t believe him, I take it?”

“Don’t tell me you
do.”

“Well,” Kyle said,
“whether I do or don’t isn’t the issue.”

“What’s the issue
then?”

“Liam’s uncovered
a very odd coincidence.”

“Yeah, I know.
That these things are happening every time Evan Hillier pitches.”

“And you don’t
find that odd?”

“Hey, I’m a Mets
fan,” Slattery said. “I’d easily blow up a few brains if one of our guys could
put together a string of starts like that.” Slattery chuckled at his own line,
then with a no-bullshit tone said, “Do I find it odd? Yeah, it’s odd. But I
took a look at a few of the autopsy reports. Nothing suspicious. Nothing at
all. Same with his niece. They say these types of things just happen
sometimes.”

“I agree, but what
about the timing of it? And the ages of the victims? Don’t you think there
might be some …” Kyle trailed off, not sure how to complete the sentence.
“I don’t know exactly, maybe a serial killer or someone out there timing them
to Hillier’s starts?”

“Serial killer? I
guess that’s better than what Murdock thinks—that it’s Hillier himself.
But it still makes no sense. How would they be doing it?”

“I have no idea.
But shouldn’t you investigate?”

“I already looked
at the reports. There’s nothing there. No drugs or anything. What else do you
want me to do?”

“Maybe tail
Hillier?”

Slattery laughed.
“You’re kidding me, right? Put a tail on the ace of the Yankees over this?
Please tell me you’re not serious.”

Kyle wanted to
mention something about the files having been marked as sensitive but didn’t
want to implicate Tom, so he danced around the subject instead. “Is there any
way I’d be able to take a look at the files of the people who’ve had these
ruptured aneurysms?”

“
Can
you? I don’t know. Not my
department. Like I said, nothing suspicious. It’s not like they came to us.
They aren’t homicides or anything. But I guess you can do a FOIL request to the
coroner’s office or something.”

“So you don’t have
them?”

“I just said I
didn’t.”

So who requisitioned them?

“Let me ask you
this one last thing, Detective,” Kyle said. “Suppose someone saw a person near
one of the victims when they had their stroke. Would that cause you to
investigate?”

“Depends on what
they saw this person do.”

“Nothing. He was
just there. But then say he took off after the victim collapsed.”

“Did that happen?”

“Let’s say it did.
I’m just curious how these things go.”

Slattery
hesitated, then said, “Would this man—this witness—have touched the
victim in any way?”

“Let’s suppose
not.”

“Then why would
that make me any more prone to investigating?”

“You wouldn’t find
it suspicious?”

“To be honest Mr …”

“Vine.”

“To be honest, Mr.
Vine, I don’t find any of this suspicious,” Slattery said, his tone becoming
sharper.

“Not even the
dates?”

“Look,” he
softened his voice, “I feel bad for Murdock and the families of whoever else
this happened to. I do. But the guy’s off the wall. We aren’t dealing with
murder here. Just isn’t the case. Now unless there’s something else you know, I
don’t know what else to say. Maybe you should focus on helping Murdock get some
medication or something.”

Kyle didn’t press
any further. He simply thanked Slattery for his time and hung up, then leaned
back in his chair and stared at one of his photos of Bree.

She had on big red
sunglasses and a floppy pink hat. It was an older photo. She was nine at the
time. He and Sheila were still together. They were still a family. Things were
good. They were happy. At least, he was happy. And so was Bree. He was sure of
it. That’s the reason he kept that photo on his desk year after year. He knew
Bree’s “camera-ready” smiles as opposed to her genuine ones, the feel-good ones
where the smile and the laughs came from deep in her belly. The photo on the
desk was one of
those
smiles. A real
in-the-moment smile. It wasn’t a staged photo, wasn’t a “camera-ready” shot.
They’d been watching a juggler perform in the park and the guy was hamming it
up with the slapstick. All of the kids loved it. Ate it up. Especially Bree.
She was on the verge of tears she was laughing so hard. The photo was shot
without her even knowing it. It made Kyle smile every time he looked at it.
Even now. Even knowing that Sheila was probably sleeping with someone else at
the time, or wanting to. Bree’s smile, her happiness … it still made
him
smile.

He loved when she
was happy.

And he knew why he
needed to smile right then, why he needed that jolt of happiness.

To mask what a
coward he was. To hide the shitty feeling he couldn’t escape after not having
told Slattery the truth, not having said he was there that night with Allie.
That he saw someone else there as well. That he knew there was something
suspicious going on. He could justify it all he wanted, but it didn’t excuse
his actions, or more to the point, his
inactions
.

He didn’t say
anything because he was selfish, because he didn’t want his life to get any
worse. He didn’t want the school to find out. He didn’t want his colleagues to
find out. He didn’t want Sheila or Bree to find out. Didn’t want to become any
more of a pathetic character than he already was.

He just didn’t
want to have to deal with it.

He stared at the
photo again, at the smile that jumped off the picture.

But he didn’t
smile this time.

He thought of Bree
being in a coma instead of Allie. He thought of the stress on Nicki Shelton’s
face, of the anguish and lack of hope in her voice.

No, he didn’t
smile.

But he also didn’t
pick up the phone.

He didn’t call
Slattery.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

He turned off Third Avenue and
walked down Eighty-third, a treelined residential street with more than the
usual smattering of commercial stores. Not large ones. Small shops in what
should be ground floor apartments. A dry cleaner, some clothing stores, a hobby
store, travel agency, pet supply store. Little, quaint stores. The type you
don’t see much anymore on the Upper East Side, an area overtaken by the likes
of Duane Reades and Starbucks.

In the middle of
the block was a small sign that said “The Bodhi Studio” next to a lantern with
an actual candle inside adorning the doorframe. Liam had called Kyle the night
before, which was one day after their conversation about Hillier, and given him
the time and place for their appointment with the Deeksha Giver Allie had been
seeing.

When Kyle entered
the small waiting room, Liam was already sitting on a folding chair inside. There
wasn’t much to the room. No receptionist, no magazines. Nothing but two chairs,
some burning incense and a few tiny artificial waterfalls lightly splashing in
unison against jagged earth tone tiles.

Liam stood and
gave Kyle a hearty shake and patted him on the back as he walked in, greeting
him like a lifelong friend. Kyle found it odd, but then he found almost
everything Liam did odd.

“Found out some
big news last night,” he told Kyle. “Really big.”

“What’s that?”
Kyle asked, hoping for some good news about Allie. Maybe she was starting to
wake, or at least show some signs of waking.

“I spoke to
Hillier’s doorman,” he said, his eyes even more puffy than when Kyle last saw
him. It looked like he hadn’t slept a wink in days. “The overnight guy.”

“Spoke to him
about what?”

“Hillier, of
course.”

Kyle closed his
eyes and took a deep breath. “I figured that much out. But
what
about Hillier did you discuss with him?”

“I asked him if
Hillier does anything funny on the nights of his starts.”

“And?”

“And, for a
hundred fresh ones, he told me Hillier does something
very
suspicious the night of
every
start.”

Kyle waited for
the rest, for Liam to tell him without any prompting. But Liam didn’t say a
word, just stared at him with a wide toothy grin behind his scraggly beard that
had bits of bread tangled in its thick hairs.

“And what’d he
say?” Kyle finally asked.

“That Hillier
leaves at the same friggin time every friggin night before every friggin
start.”

Kyle let the
response linger, digesting it.

“Same exact time
before
every
friggin start,” Liam
slowly repeated, careful to emphasize the importance of the statement.

“What time?”

“Midnight. On the
dot.”

Kyle thought about
it for a few more seconds.

“Crazy, right?”
Liam said.

“And the doorman
told you this?”

“Yup. He said
Hillier takes his car out. The building has a self-serve garage in the
subbasement and the doorman sees Hillier take his car out on the closed-circuit
security camera every night before a start.”

“You’re sure about
this? You’re sure this guy isn’t lying?”

“Lying? Why would
he lie? I gave him a hundred and asked him what Hillier does the night before
his starts. Why would he lie?”

“Maybe he just
needed to say something to justify the money.”

Liam shrugged. “I
guess that’s possible. But it’ll be easy enough to find out.”

“How so?”

“When we follow
him in two days.”

Kyle massaged his
forehead, which already started to ache. “Wait a second. Let’s just back up.
The guy said Hillier leaves at midnight, but the strokes have been happening at
all different times in the early morning, right? Some were as early as one or
two, but others were as late as six or seven. And didn’t one happen in the
afternoon?”

“I already considered
that,” Liam said. “The guy said he never kept track of when Hillier returned.
He said he usually takes naps at that hour because no one is coming or going.
So Hillier could have returned at any time.”

“But why would he
leave at midnight? And especially right
at
midnight. Particularly if he wasn’t doing anything until six or seven in
the morning?”

Liam shrugged
again. “Could be anything. Maybe it’s a ritual. Maybe he had to pick up some
equipment. Maybe he has to meet someone else who helps him out. I have no idea.
But the question we should be asking is what is he
doing
when he leaves?”

Kyle took a deep
breath as he digested the impact of the new information.

“You have to
admit,” Liam said, narrowing his puffy eyes behind his thick glasses. “The
coincidence is pretty bizarre.”

It was. And he was
curious. He was also trying to reconcile the intelligent, insightful, deductive
side of the man who had put together the clues leading to a pattern of
Hillier’s starts in only days with the potentially deluded, irrational man
crying for help.

But the sudden
appearance of a man about his own age wearing khakis and a plain white
button-down disrupted his thoughts. The man was a few inches shorter than Kyle
and had thinning dark hair and a bit of a paunch, with an easy smile plastered
on his face.

“Mr. Murdock?” the
man asked, looking at them, unsure which of them was Liam.

Liam stepped up
and shook the man’s hand. “That’s me,” he said. “This here’s my good friend
Kyle Vine.”

Kyle was amazed at
how easily Liam characterized their relationship as a friendship, apparently
blind to the fact the friendship was one-sided.

Kyle struck out
his hand. “I presume you’re Mr. Chhabra?”

“Please, Ahmed is
fine,” the man said with a warm comforting smile while shaking Kyle’s hand. He
turned his auburn eyes to Liam. “And let me express how saddened I am about
Allison. But she is strong, my friend. Her will, her energy, is second to
none.”

“Which is probably
why she didn’t succumb like the others,” Liam said.

If Ahmed thought
the statement strange, he didn’t let on. He just let his compassionate gaze
linger.

“Did Liam tell you
about what he thinks happened to Allie?” Kyle asked.

“About the stroke,
yes,” Ahmed said. “Very odd for someone so young, and so healthy—in mind,
spirit and body.”

“It is,” Kyle
agreed. “But did he tell you why he thinks she had the stroke?”

“He did.”

“And what do you
think?”

Ahmed nodded over
to the door. “Let’s discuss inside,” he said. “It’s more comfortable.”

Kyle and Liam
followed the Deeksha Giver through the door, which led straight into a
modest-sized room decorated to look like a fancy spa—a few plush chairs,
more artificial waterfalls, some colorful abstract artwork adorning the walls,
dim lighting, overhead speakers playing serene instrumental music.

Ahmed motioned for
them to take a seat.

“I understand
Allie had been coming here,” Kyle said.

“Yes,” Ahmed said.
“Once a week for about a month or so. Friends in college had introduced her to
Deeksha.”

“For what
purpose?” Kyle asked. “Why was she doing it?”

“Cleansing,” Ahmed
said. “She was looking to cleanse her soul so she could calm her anxieties,
allay her fears, and strengthen her confidence.”

“Was she having
any particular difficulties that prompted it?” Kyle asked. “She didn’t seem all
that anxious to me.”

“Problems? Allie?”
Liam jumped in. “None.”

“We all have our
daily stresses and anxieties,” Ahmed said. “Allison is no different than most.
But was there anything particularly worrisome or concerning? No. Mr. Murdock is
correct. I was simply her personal trainer for her mind.”

“But how did she
even get into it? How did her friends get into it?”

Ahmed shrugged.
“It’s not that uncommon these days for young people to partake in such
cleansing and energy healings. Especially for the competitive ones once they leave
for college and become more independent. In high school they obtain their edge
by taking amphetamines like Ritalin and Adderall. Once in college, many seek a
more wholesome approach.”

“And they think
they get that through Deeksha?”

“They do it by sharpening
their energy and cleansing their spirit, whether that’s through Deeksha or
another approach. Yes.”

“How much does it
help?” Kyle asked.

Ahmed smiled.
“Would you like to give a try?”

“Yeah,” Liam said.
“That would be great, Kyle. Try it out. Then you can see what we’re up against
firsthand.”

Kyle looked around
and soaked in the room some more. The lights were dim, the smell of incense
wafted, the slight splashing of water echoed over the cautious hint of the soft
music sneaking out of the hidden speakers. Just what he would’ve
expected—everything was in place to put your mind at ease and isolate the
clutter. But energy transfer techniques like Deeksha were supposed to do more
than just put you at ease. They were supposed to give the mind a state of malleability,
make one’s neurons susceptible to external manipulation. Many times the
practice was aided by hallucinogens, like leyham, which was slipped to the
person unknowingly so they’d describe the process afterwards as feeling a
tingling or shift of their mind, not knowing it was due to the drugs rather
than an actual energy transfer. But a true energy transfer was performed
without any drugs. It was part of the Buddhist search for enlightenment, dating
back to when “the Buddha” was still known as a man named Siddhartha Gautama who
was trying to reach life’s ultimate goal—supreme happiness. Nirvana.

“Would I have to
take anything?” Kyle asked.

Ahmed smiled.
“No,” he said. “Ingest nothing but the words I speak and the energy around
you.”

Kyle had actually
been curious about the practice for a while and had thought about giving it a
try. The technique had been growing in popularity, and had been becoming a
larger part of his lectures. It would serve him well on many fronts to get a
better sense of what actually occurred.

“Where do I sit?”

“Right where you
are sitting is fine,” Ahmed said.

“So,” Kyle said,
shifting his body about in the chair looking to get more comfortable. “From
what I know, the transfer requires a relaxed meditative state
—
”

“Mr. Vine,” Ahmed
gently interrupted. “If I may, preconceptions of what it is I do, and what you
will experience, are probably best left aside. As I’m sure you’re familiar from
your own practice, when a patient comes in telling you how you are going to treat
them, it becomes an uphill battle for you to break through the preconceived
notion.”

“Yeah, Kyle,” Liam
said. “Probably best if you just let him do his thing.”

Kyle shifted about
some more. “Fine.”

“Excellent,” Ahmed
said. “Close your eyes and just let your mind relax. Try to think of nothing
but what you hear. The falling water trickling down. Drop by drop by drop.”

Kyle shut his eyes
and felt the lights dim even further around him. He leaned his head back in the
enormously comfortable chair as Ahmed’s talking continued to ease Kyle into
what he assumed was the normal routine, gently instructing him with a soothing
and calming voice to clear his mind. Kyle did his best to try to follow the
instructions, but rather than drift about, his thoughts remained planted on what
was coming next
—
awaiting
the transfer, anticipating the steps Ahmed would take, wondering if he would
feel the tingling that had been described in various accounts, or the
heightening of his senses that he’d seen documented in studies. But Ahmed was
not in the same rush. There was no urgency in his voice. Kyle tried to match
his patience, tried to push his pressing thoughts to the side, but it wasn’t
working. He couldn’t relax. He followed the instructions, the breathing
techniques, the listening for his heartbeat, the attempt to feel every speck of
his body from his toes to his head
—
typical
meditative tricks he was very familiar with.

But he couldn’t
empty his mind.

Ahmed told him to
open his eyes.

He did.

Ahmed instructed
Kyle to gaze into his eyes, to search deep into the depths of his pupils. Kyle
did, first focusing on the man’s light brown irises, then piercing straight
into the pitch-black center. Ahmed then instructed Kyle to place one hand
behind his own head and cup the base of his skull. Kyle complied and watched
Ahmed do the same as he calmly explained that the hand on the back of the head
locks in the energy. He then held out his other hand and placed it on Kyle’s
forehead, telling him he was targeting the focal point of where the energy
would flow.

Ahmed’s voice
vibrated in a deep soothing chant as he slipped into a meditation mantra, his
gaze intensifying and holding firm with Kyle’s eyes. His jaw clenched and his
eyes slightly strained.

But Kyle felt
nothing.

The chanting went
on for minutes, maybe five, until Ahmed gently released his hand and broke off
his gaze, his warm smile reappearing.

“What?” Kyle
asked, his hand still cupped to the back of his head.

Ahmed’s smile
widened. “You are a psychologist.”

“Yes.”

“You know the
blocks a mind constructs when its focus is elsewhere.”

“I do.”

Ahmed studied
Kyle’s eyes. “You have many things going on right now. Beyond your concern for
Allison.”

“That obvious?”

“Your mind is like
a brick wall.”

“I know,” he said.
“I’m trying to relax, trying to open things up, but I can’t stop pressing.”

“And that
happens,” Ahmed said. “You know how it is, people come in defiant.”