An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries) (42 page)

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Authors: P.J. Parrish

BOOK: An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries)
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He went back to working the crystal. Finally it popped free, and he heard it hit the concrete floor. Carefully, he put his fingers on the exposed watch face, trying to feel the hands without moving them. But his fingers were numb, so he blew on them a few times before trying again.
Two-twenty. In the morning?
He put the pocketknife away and he started to walk. He walked slowly now because without the flashlight, he couldn’t see where he was going. He walked slowly now because he knew she wouldn’t be there. He didn’t call to her. His throat was raw from his own shouts that were never answered.
The echoing whimpers grew softer, like a baby crying itself out before sleep.
Like an apple baby . . .
Louis stopped. Where had that come from? The apple babies weren’t down here. They were in orchards and cider mills and baskets that were taken away in apple trucks.
Right, Charlie, right.
The crying sounded now like it was underwater and he closed his eyes again, wishing her dead. Wishing the baby dead.
“Stop!” he screamed.
Silence. It settled around him like a thick black blanket. And he welcomed it.
He pressed his forehead against the cold tile. He was losing it. He had to stay focused. But on what?
Ives . . . Seraphin.
Stay with what you know is real.
But what did he know? Everything was one black tangle in his mind. What did he
know?
That Seraphin knew Ives raped patients. No, more than that, she let it happen. She condoned it.
Why? Why? Think!
Therapy . . . she was using rape as some perverse sexual therapy?
The tile was cold and wet beneath his forehead, but he didn’t lift his head. Didn’t even open his eyes because it was almost like he could see now with them closed.
Ives . . . Seraphin.
Why did she give him those other three suspects?
Why did she let Ives leave Hidden Lake? Why did she set a rapist free?
A sound. Whimpering. He opened his eyes. No, it was his mind playing tricks. There was no crying anymore.
He shut his eyes.
Stay focused on what is real!
Babies . . .
they were real. Charlie had seen one, and he believed him.
Women patients locked away in isolation. Why? Pregnant from the rapes? Charlie saw babies. But where did the babies go? Maybe they weren’t normal because of all the drugs. Maybe they were aborted, their remains cremated and abandoned with all the others in the mortuary? Or . . . or taken away in baskets so no one would see?
Claudia?
She had been isolated. Did she have a baby? Where was it? Where was Claudia?
In the dark, her face came to him, the face in the photograph from her patient file. Claudia’s face came to him and it was as real as his own thoughts.
 
His fingers were shaking as he touched the tiny hands on the watch face. Three . . . and six. Three-thirty? He stuck his hands back under his armpits. He hadn’t moved in the last hour. He was still huddled on the floor, knees pulled in against the cold. He couldn’t feel his feet anymore.
It was so quiet now. No crying, no sounds at all.
No one was coming.
He took the pen from his pocket and felt along on the tile for a smooth spot.
What to write? And to who?
He had things he needed to say, things he had never said. To Phillip. And Kyla. To his sister and his brother. To a little boy named Ben. To Mel and to Sam Dodie and to Jesse . . . Jesse. God, he couldn’t even remember his last name.
His fingers were so cold he could barely grip the pen. And worse, he was starting to feel sleepy.
Stay awake . . .
He turned back to the wall, uncapping the pen.
He didn’t know what to say to
her
.
They never had to say much to each other. And it didn’t seem right now, especially now, to write something Joe would know was fake. There was something about her that kept him strong and he didn’t want
not
to be strong here. It was important what he wrote to her now. It would be what she would remember after all else was gone.
He turned slowly, his fingers finding the wall. He tried to spit on it but he had no saliva, so he just wiped it with his sleeve. Then in slow, careful strokes, he moved the pen across the tile.
 
JOE
 
He set the pen on the floor and closed his eyes.
 
Screaming. His eyes jerked open and he struggled to get up, bracing himself on the wall and wincing at the pain in his frozen feet.
No, not a scream. It was a scraping sound. He started down the tunnel toward the sound, limping, swaying from wall to wall. Another scrape, louder now.
It was the doors. Had to be the doors.
He tried to go faster, but each step sent stabs of pain shooting up his legs. The tunnel seemed to be growing colder. He hit an intersection and kept going. And then, suddenly, the air started to change. There was something different in it now, something colder and sharper.
More water. And the crunch of glass under his feet. No, ice.
And the air. It was cold. So fucking cold. And so . . . so fresh. He kept following it.
He stopped. In the black void ahead, he could see something. He squinted, afraid his mind was deceiving him again.
There was something there. A glimmer of gray . . . a faint cast of light and he knew what it was. The doors. The metal doors were open and the air he was feeling was coming from the opening by the lift.
The doors were open.
He stumbled to them, pressing his hands against the rusty surface. Then he felt his way along the concrete wall, his feet slipping on the water, the air getting colder and clearer.
The lift came into view, blue in the shaft of moonlight. A shadowy iron square, frosted with ice, shimmering at the end of the tunnel.
And next to it, a ladder.
He staggered to it. He fell off the first step of the ladder and he had to concentrate to make his foot stay on the rung. He grabbed the sides and pulled himself up, first one step, then another. And finally he was above-ground.
He threw himself off the ladder, hitting a thick layer of crusty snow, and he wanted to just lie there, but he didn’t, and he crawled a few feet, then pushed his body up onto all fours, gulping in the air. He stayed that way for a long time, afraid to open his eyes, afraid it was all a dream. His hands grew cold in the snow.
Slowly, he rose to his knees and looked out at the cemetery.
Everything was iced over, silvery white under a generous moon, all of it still and unmoving and pure. And it was beautiful.
CHAPTER 40
 
The light was pale pink, the morning rising as if it were coming from a deep sleep. Even the voices seemed hushed, and the footsteps in the snow were a soft steady crunch, like something brittle and fragile was breaking under the ground.
Louis stood wrapped in a blanket, someone else’s shoes on his feet, gloves on his hands. His body still trembled, but the cold was gone, leaving nothing inside. He watched the police work, watched as they disappeared in and out of the hole in the ground like roaches scrambling from the light.
Chief Dalum stood nearby, silent now, long ago giving up trying to urge Louis to go to the hospital. Louis had asked about Charlie, but Dalum hadn’t known anything. Didn’t know where Charlie was or why he hadn’t delivered the message.
“Bloom is here,” Dalum said suddenly.
Louis looked toward the cemetery entrance. Detective Bloom was hurrying toward them, his face red and wrinkled from sleep, his coat open, shirt half tucked in. Another man struggled to keep up with him, talking quickly as they both made long strides across the snow.
Bloom stopped at Louis, silencing the other cop with a wave of his hand. Louis looked at him for a moment, then away.
“What the hell were you thinking going down there?” Bloom asked.
Louis stared at the hole in the ground, pulling the blanket tighter. He heard Dalum say something to Bloom, and then the two walked away. Bloom came back a few minutes later, head down, and he blew out an apologetic breath.
“You need to see a doctor,” Bloom said.
“When they find her.”
Bloom glanced at the hole. “We have someone working on the electricity now. If she’s down there, they’ll find her.”
“She
is
there,” Louis snapped.
“Wasn’t what I meant, Kincaid. Any idea who it was?”
“No.”
A uniform waved at Bloom. “Lights are on down there,” he called. “At least in some places.”
Bloom gave him a nod, then looked back at Louis. “You warm enough?”
Louis ignored him.
Bloom motioned toward the hole. “You feel like showing us anything?”
Louis didn’t move. Bloom waited for an answer, but Louis couldn’t give him one, couldn’t even take a step toward the hole. There was a part of him that knew how that looked, that it looked weak and frightened, but he just couldn’t do it.
“Look,” Bloom said, “I’ll have one of my officers drive you back to Adrian.”
“No.”
“What the hell do you want me to do with you then?”
“Just leave me alone.”
“If you won’t see a doctor, then I need a statement and I need it quick. Anything you can tell us might help catch this guy.”
“He’s gone.”
“How do you know that?”
Louis spun to him. “Because I fucking know. And I know what’s behind all this, too. I know what they were doing here and why they were doing it and why they had to hide it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Louis almost said it. Almost told him about the babies and the experiments, about Ives and Seraphin, but something stopped him. It was a small, instantaneous flash of clarity that he knew he should listen to. If he told him what he knew, Bloom would think he was crazy, really crazy.
But there was one thing he could tell him. “His name is Buddy Ives,” Louis said. “He was a patient here.”
“I guess you just fucking know that, too?”
“His handprint is on the damn door down there—just like the one he left on the E Building wall.”
Bloom fell quiet, his gaze drifting back to the lift. He let the silence fill the moment, and Louis finally looked away from him.
“I guess we owe you and Charlie an apology,” Bloom said.
“You’ve seen Charlie?” Louis asked.
“Yeah,” Bloom said, his voice edged with embarrassment. “When he showed up at the security gate yesterday afternoon my officer arrested him.”
“
Arrested
him?”
Bloom’s hand came up. “We told him three times to stay off the grounds. We had no choice.”
“You stupid son of a bitch.”
“Hold it right there, Kincaid.”
“Was the cop fucking deaf?” Louis said.
Bloom put a hand on Louis’s chest, but Louis pushed it off, losing the blanket as he stepped into Bloom. Bloom grabbed Louis’s arm and tried to turn him, but Louis twisted away and his arm came back to take a swing, but he never made it. He was pushed down into the snow, a dozen hands keeping him there. He jerked back, trying to push himself up, but he had no strength, and he finally went limp under their pressure.
Bloom’s mouth came down to his ear. “Please,” he said firmly. “Don’t do this. Let us help you.”
Louis lowered his head, taking a moment to close his eyes and calm himself. Then he gave Bloom a nod and the hands left his back. Bloom and Dalum helped him to his feet. Louis wiped his face and stared at the ground, trying to sort his thoughts, but he couldn’t. Things still didn’t seem right.

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