A Question of Ghosts (17 page)

They fell silent again as the Bentley purred down Ambaum, a broad street choked with traffic even in mid-afternoon. Most considered West Seattle a tony neighborhood, and parts of it certainly were; there were mansions overlooking Puget Sound that stole your breath. But the families Becca worked with were usually impoverished, and some of them lived in the poorer neighborhoods braiding off this street.

She felt her stomach knot, knowing they were minutes from meeting an honest to hell lost soul. Accepting Luther’s doughnut had been a bad call, but he had all but forced it on her.

The neat grounds of Horizons lay nearer the wealthier district. It resembled a manicured horseshoe of an apartment complex more than a therapeutic halfway house. Becca counted eighteen well-kept units lining the tree-shaded walk as they approached the main office.

“You would be Joanne Call and Becca Healy. Correct?” The woman striding to meet them looked about Rachel’s age, and she moved with the vigor and energy Rachel used to have in abundance. “I’m Dr. Emily Kelley. I’m clinical director here.”

She didn’t offer her hand, and she stopped a good two yards from them. Her tone was polite and her manner poised, but Emily Kelley was obviously ticked off. Becca had seen the same brittle body language in some of her countless supervisors when they felt unfairly disempowered. “Would you come this way?”

Dr. Kelley was already going that way, and whether they followed seemed a matter of indifference to her. Becca stumbled in her wake, and Jo’s hand was fast and sure beneath her elbow. Emily slowed to a stroll as she led them around the side of the building.

“It seems the two of you have powerful friends.” Emily glanced back at them, her tone milder now. “The call from Western didn’t leave us a lot of room for negotiation. John’s team here didn’t get a vote as to whether you met with him.”

“And what are your objections, exactly?” Jo was reliably willing to forego small talk.

“Well, you’re not journalists. That’s a plus.” Emily sighed and slid her hands into her pockets. “I suppose Ben Chavez was afraid you’d run straight to the media if you weren’t granted an audience. We’re going to have to brace ourselves for that onslaught anyway, as soon as John’s presence here becomes common knowledge. Hello, Paula.”

Emily nodded pleasantly to a blunt-featured woman who passed them on the shaded walk. She’d spoken the woman’s name with palpable warmth, unlike her formal pronunciation when she referred to Voakes.

“But to answer your question, Dr. Call, I object to this interview because we don’t want to make a sideshow of this man, or this program. Horizons has had a remarkable success rate transitioning the chronically mentally ill into the community. We do valuable work here.”

“And we won’t be detracting from that success.” Jo’s pace was stolid. “We just want a few minutes with Voakes, and we’ll be on our way.”

“You wouldn’t be getting a few minutes if John weren’t willing. I’m honestly not sure why he’s agreed to see you today. He told us when he transitioned here that he wouldn’t meet with reporters or with guests he doesn’t know. And he knows no one.”

“Was he told our names?” Becca asked blandly.

“Of course.”

It wasn’t hugely relevant. Voakes hadn’t necessarily agreed to see them because he recognized Becca’s name. But she saw Jo’s sharp eyes register the fact, a brief flickering of their cobalt light.

“I couldn’t even tell John the purpose of this interview.” Emily ducked under a low lattice awning and motioned them through. “Ben was vague about your interest, in the extreme.”

Jo opened her mouth, but Becca touched her arm. “Emily, I have personal reasons for being here. My parents were shot to death in nineteen seventy-eight, and we think there’s a possibility John Voakes knows something about what happened.”

Emily Kelley stopped and turned to them, and Becca got the distinct impression she was in this work for the right reasons. Emily’s weathered features held compassion, the kind of old and weary compassion of a veteran of the wars, someone who has worked with the marginalized for a very long time. In social service, Becca had known women who genuinely cared for the length of their careers, like Emily—and women who went through the motions, well-intended but empty bureaucrats. Like her aunt.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Becca. But I have to ask if I should call in a public defender to sit in on this meeting.”

“We’ll do whatever you think is best, but that’s probably a little premature. If you can see your way clear to letting us go ahead, join us for this talk. Jo and I will back off if you get uncomfortable with any road we take.”

Emily nodded, her gaze on the vast vegetable garden spread out before them. “What chances do you think our people have getting jobs out there, thanks to rare cases like John William Voakes? The mentally ill are being demonized again in this city. Have you felt it, Becca?”

Becca nodded. Lurid headlines had surfaced over the past few years of isolated atrocities committed by Seattle’s truly malignantly crazy. Most of them had histories with Western State.

Emily nodded at two men walking back toward the complex, who both waved friendly greetings. “All our people take the rap for the sensational cases, and the vast majority are completely harmless. Better than harmless. They just want to live independently, give back to their communities…”

Emily trailed off, and she smiled at Becca for the first time. “I have a feeling I’m preaching to the choir. All right. I’d rather you take the lead on this, Becca, rather than Dr. Call.” She glanced at Jo. “No slight intended. And if I pull the reins at any time, I expect you to stop immediately.”

Emily walked on. Becca turned to Jo, disconcerted. She had assumed Jo would handle this. She wasn’t certain she was prepared to be in charge of a sensitive chat with a serial killer.

“You can do this,” Jo said and followed Emily.

And just like that, Becca found she agreed. Jo must have been listening in Becca School. She knew what she needed in this moment, not a shared anxiety, but the calm and immediate confidence of a friend. She squared her shoulders and kept them that way as she saw John William Voakes dig a sharp trowel into overturned earth.

An elderly white man knelt by a furrowed row of cabbages at the far end of the large garden, digging slowly into the soil with the glinting trowel. A wheelchair waited nearby. A young man, an immensely big attendant, stood next to Voakes, his muscled arms crossed. Becca knew the old man was Voakes and the big man was staff—the latter was glaring, not at Voakes, but at them, protective of his client.

“John’s visitors are here.” Emily greeted her staff quietly, and the man lumbered to meet them. “This is Peter, John’s personal attendant.”

“I didn’t realize he was so old.” Becca’s throat was drying as she watched the frail man struggle from his knees into the wheelchair. “Isn’t Voakes in his sixties?”

“Yes, mid sixties,” Emily replied. “But he’s dying. That’s why he’s here.”

Peter had reached them, and he planted his solid bulk in the middle of the paved path, blocking their way. He regarded them stonily, confident that his stance would intimidate them enough for a few moments of awkward silence, at least.

But he hadn’t counted on Jo, who either had no notion of body language or simply lost that awareness when she chose to. Jo closed the distance to Peter and stood very, very close to him, her breasts brushing his folded arms, her height making it possible to stare directly into his wide brown eyes. A breeze whipped a lock of Jo’s dark hair in his face, but he didn’t dare blink.

Becca walked rapidly to them, in case a sensitive chat was needed.

“You’re guarding a serial killer, not a monk.” Jo’s low voice was calm, but those spooky eyes were inches from Peter’s. “We’re not going to harm him. I’m sure you’ll be standing close by to ensure that. As will your boss, who has approved this interview, so
step aside
.”

Peter stepped aside. Jo stalked past him, then turned and waited for Becca. Emily shook her head at Peter and followed Jo. Becca took Peter’s arm and walked with him, ignoring his surprise and discomfort. She knew this kid. She had worked with him a hundred times in entry-level positions.

“Peter, the work you’ve chosen to do. It’s not a sprint; it’s a marathon.” She gave the kid’s arm a friendly squeeze. “You’ve got to learn to pace yourself. I can see how passionate you are about your job, but your kind of passion burns us out. If you don’t learn to take care of yourself, you’ll flame out and be gone from this work in two years. That’s a promise.”

“Okay,” the kid whispered. He looked a little dazed.

“Good luck.” Becca squeezed Peter’s arm again, fond of him because of his genuine zeal and devotion. Equally sure he’d be gone in two years. She released him and summoned all her energies to meet a murderer.

John William Voakes was her nightmare of what Rachel might become—skeletally thin, weak to the point of infirmity. Shriveled and trembling, he sat crab-like in the cushioned wheelchair, his bony hips not filling the width of the seat. His balding, freckled head was lolling to one side, and Becca couldn’t see his face. From a remote corner of her mind, she could empathize briefly with Peter’s protectiveness toward his fragile client. She and Jo, Peter, and Emily, stood in a small circle around the chair.

“John, you’ve been expecting this visit.” Emily’s tone was oddly flat, devoid of sympathy, and she darted Becca and Jo a look of warning. “I know you’re ill, but you’re much more alert than you’re pretending to be.”

And John William Voakes rose smoothly from the chair, his head bobbing up, strength suffusing his thin limbs, and Becca took a ragged step back. His short, stumpy form stood erect easily, and his rheumy eyes lit up when he saw Becca. A snapshot of his merry, smiling face went off in her mind, and she knew she would carry the image the rest of her life.

Jo moved swiftly between them, just a small step, but one that placed her squarely between Becca and Voakes, and Becca lowered her head and released a small gasp of relief.

“If you feel you’ve delivered enough shock value, John, I’ll ask you to sit down.”

Emily didn’t raise her voice, and Becca trusted Voakes wasn’t doing anything too alarming. She imagined him and Jo Call locking eyes, and was glad she couldn’t see it. Then she decided she had to see it. She moved from behind Jo and regarded the man fully.

John William Voakes was indeed studying Jo avidly, his head cocked to one side. And inevitably, Becca was reminded of the banality of evil. She had looked into the faces of fathers who tried to smother their infants because they cried at night, and most of them held this same bizarre, discordant look of normality.

Apparently, his little surprise had cost him. Voakes was weaving on his feet now, and the color was draining from his face. Jo’s silent immobility, her flat gaze, might have prompted this weakening, but he was obviously a sick man. He looked at Becca again.

The lower lids of Voakes’s colorless eyes were rimmed in moist red. He held out his hand to Becca, and his voice was gentle and wetly sibilant. “Hello, Clarice.”

Becca stared at him, ignoring his hand, and he lowered it to his side.

“I’m sorry, Miss Healy.” Voakes smiled again. Typical of Western State long-timers, his dental care had been lacking. “I’ve wanted to greet you with that for years.”

“John, I told you to sit down. Now,” Emily said. “It wasn’t a suggestion.”

Peter started as if nudged awake and brought the wheelchair around behind Voakes. He had to touch the back of its pedals against Voakes’s legs gently before he broke his gaze from Becca’s and settled stiffly into the chair. She could smell him from where she stood, a mixture of fresh earth and rank sweat and illness.

“Let’s do this back in your room.” Emily’s voice hadn’t warmed. “It’s past time for your afternoon meds. Peter?”

The big kid pushed the wheelchair slowly away from the garden, allowing some distance to grow between them. He leaned down and murmured something to Voakes, who nodded limply, his fatigue authentic now.

“We had one of our units outfitted for hospice services.” Emily walked with them, her sandals clocking slowly on the cement walk. “There’s room for a hospital bed, IV stands, and the chair. Nurses from the hospice at Swedish Hospital visit morning and night to keep him comfortable.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Jo might be asking for an estimate on a plumbing repair.

“Colon cancer, widely spread. He’s on palliative care. No further treatment is possible, so they’re just keeping him free of pain.”

“That’s kind of them.” Jo waited while Peter inserted a keycard to unlock a private cottage at the edge of the walk. “He’s being kept separate from your other residents?”

“They avoid him. He’s hardly an escape risk, but we never leave him unattended. Let’s let Peter get him settled.” Emily stopped them outside the door of a spacious bedroom. They watched as Peter parked the wheelchair beside the white bed and helped Voakes into it. He moved with the wincing hesitance of an elderly man with a terrible disease.

“So basically, he was brought here to die,” Jo said.

“He was allowed to come here because he’s dying. As a young man, John used to make his living as a gardener. He filed a plea to spend his remaining time here, tilling vegetables that will go to area food banks.”

“Giving back to the community,” Jo said dryly.

Emily shrugged. “It’s a matter of months. Maybe weeks.”

Becca was fixed on Voakes, and she started a little at Emily’s touch on her arm.

“Are you all right with this? It’s got to be hard for you.”

“I’m fine. Thanks, Emily.” Becca meant it, on both counts. They entered the bedroom, which smelled sharply of disinfectant.

“So this is supposed to be fifteen minutes.” Peter sounded brash, perhaps to atone for his earlier face-off with Jo. He handed Voakes a small paper cup and a plastic beaker with a straw, and waited until he downed the pills with two painful swallows. “That’s all he’s got in him, once these meds knock him out. You still okay with this, John?”

Peter seemed to hope for some denial, but Voakes nodded weakly, sinking back against the stiff pillow. Peter raised the railing on the bed and elevated its front so Voakes sat erect. No effort was made to supply chairs for them, but Becca would rather stand. In addition to the disinfectant, the room was filling with the odor of a sweaty, dying old murderer. She felt Emily’s gaze on her and realized the floor was hers.