Cast in Stone (34 page)

"But
we have a witness."

"That's
the other problem," I said. "First of all, it's my word
against his. He'd have to be out of his mind to spill his guts to the
police. He's got a wife and family. If I were in his position, I'd
stonewall the hell out of it. You've got to understand, Marge, the
people she leaves behind have been"—I struggled for a
word—"compromised, I guess is the word. They've done things
they'd never have done if it hadn't been for her."

"What
bush is it that you're working so hard at beating around here, Leo?
What are you trying so hard not to tell me?"

I
took a deep breath. "You remember when we started this, you
cracked once that 'a woman's best friend is a man's imagination'?"

"I
remember."

"She's
an artist with that imagination. I think she's learned how to push
all the buttons She knows how to get people to cross the line, over
into a place all their instincts told them to stay out of. Once she
gets them over there, they're not about to be telling folks about
it."

She
thought it over.

"Not
Nicky," she said.

I
retied my lace on my left sneaker.

"I
want her," she said. "I want to wipe that smug look off her
little face. I want to see her behind bars."

"Me
too."

"What
do we do?"

"We
follow the mother."

"What
you're asking is definitely illegal, probably unethical, and perhaps
immoral. Why should I do that for you, Leo? Give me a reason."

I
did my best. I told her everything, from Heck's suspicion that
Allison hadn't been on board, all the way up to Chief Gardner. Saasha
Kennedy was a good listener. You get that way after a few years as a
crisis intervention specialist for the state of Washington. We'd met
last year in a downtown hotel, where she'd been trying to talk a
jumper in off a fourteenth-floor ledge. Later I'd enlisted her help
with a particularly precocious young woman I was supposed to be
guarding. While she still harbored serious doubts about me, she
and Rebecca had become fast friends. We'd doubled to a couple of
dinners and movies with Kennedy and Robert Dolan, her significant
other.

"You're
telling me the truth?" she said when I'd finished. "This
isn't one of your more creative ruses?" "Swear."

"Are
you at home?" she asked. "Yeah."

"I'll
call you back. I'm working out of my apartment today. I'll have
to annex the files by modem. I don't have a dedicated line, so I'll
have to hang up and call you back."

"I'll
be here."

I
tried Rebecca. Still in a meeting. I went into the bedroom and
changed into a pair of gray stonewashed Levis, a burgundy
short-sleeved shirt, and my black high-top Nikes.

The
phone rang. Kennedy.

"I
could only get parts of this. Most of the file is permanently sealed
by court order."

"I
know."

"Claire
Ellen Hasu was involuntarily committed to Western State Hospital in
Steilacoom in July of nineteen eighty. Uncontested."

"What's
uncontested mean in this context?"

"It
means that although there were serious criminal considerations, all
parties agreed that she wasn't fit to stand trial."

"Okay."

"Diagnosed
as schizophrenic. Partially disassociated. Sometimes
unresponsive. Intermittently violent. Security required
full-time for staff safety."

"What's
all that mean?" I asked.

"It
means that sometimes she could appear to be just as normal as pie,
but basically she was crazy as a shithouse rat."

"Okay."

"Transferred
to Evergreen Psychiatric, in Olympia, in eighty-two. Evergreen is
private. Prognosis is unchanged."

"Whoa,
wait a minute. How does somebodv who

disassembles
her spouse get transferred to a private facility?"

"It's
common—if the family has means and the facility meets state
requirements for security, the state is more than happy to get out
from under the financial burden. Eager, even. Transferred again in
eighty-five to Northbay Convalescent in Bellingham. Ditto to Seattle
in eighty-nine." , "This woman needs a travel agent, not a
doctor."

"Some
experimentation is typical of patients with plenty of money and a
poor prognosis. The family wants to feel it's tried everything.
They're looking for the miracle cure. They're willing to try
anything."

More
pages turned. "This history, though, is excessive even for
the well-heeled. If you read her treatment history, she's
followed every new treatment trend around the state for the past
fifteen years. Truly amazing tenacity."

"This
woman gives up on nothing," I said.

"Transferred
to Hampton Psychiatric in Longview in December nineteen ninety-two.
Hampton is quite well respected. They've been around for fifty
years."

"What
does that kind of care cost?" v

"It's
a substantial commitment."

"How
substantial?"

"Well—let's
just take nursing. We'll forget about overhead, administration,
security, medication, all those little details. Just round-the-clock
nursing."

"Round-the-clock?"

"The
patient is on heavy meds and is a high security risk. Twenty-four
hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year."

"How
much an hour?"

"At
least twenty-five bucks an hour. Minimum."

I
could hear her pushing buttons. "So, twenty-five bucks, times
twenty-four hours, times three hundred sixtv-five days is—six
hundred bucks a day—times

three
hundred sixty-five is two hundred nineteen thousand dollars. Now add
twenty percent for benefits, and we get—"

"I
get the idea," I interrupted.

"A
little over two hundred sixty-three thousand. Just for the nursing.
As I said, it's quite unusual for the family to be that flush."

"I'll
bet."

"Now,
Hampton was a semiprivate facility, so you can divide the total cost
by about four, but when you factor in the other expenses, it's going
to push the figure up. Especially the kind of psychoactive meds she's
on now. The meds alone are probably fifty thousand a year."

"Explain,"
I said.

"You
have to understand how far the treatment of schizophrenia has come in
the past twenty-five years. It wasn't that long ago; in the sixties,
they kept zapping you with electricity until you became docile. Heck,
as late as the mid-seventies treatment still consisted of a
straitjacket and a padded room. If you gave them a hard time, they
wrapped you in wet rubber sheets until the shaking calmed you down."

"What
do they do now?"

"Psychoactive
meds. That's what she went to Hampton for. They're the cutting edge
of private psychoactive research."

"And?"
I could hear pages being turned.

"And
they worked. She got her first significant change in prognosis in
what—thirteen years? Thorazine alleviated nearly all of her
symptoms."

"Nearly
all?"

"The
most recent notation says she suffers occasional psychotic
episodes under extreme stress,"

"So
she found her miracle."

"That
remains to be seen. This is all too new. Nobody knows what the
long-term effects are going to

be.
There isn't a sufficient sample to tell about long-term side effects
or whether, over time, the body builds up a resistance to the drugs,
things like that." "So, she's in Longview."

"Not
quite. Let me finish. September eighth of this year, she was
transferred again to something called Mountainview Recovery in
Issaquah."

"A
little over two months ago."

"Right."

“
What
do you know about Mountainview?"

"Nothing."
I could hear pages turning again. "I've got the state directory
here. Chartered in November of seventy-four. Private, which means
we're talking about really big bucks now. Used to be privately owned
and operated. Changed hands earlier this year. Closed for
reorganization until August of ninety-five."

"At
least this clears up one of my loose ends."

"What's
that?" she asked.

"Well,"
I said. "I've been trying to figure out how she goes through as
much money as she does."

"She's
just trying to get her mama cured."

"It
would sound pretty noble if I didn't know where she was getting the
money."

"Find
her, Leo. Before she hurts someone else."

"I
will," I promised.

I
came blinking out of the Mount Baker Tunnel and cruised down the
western high-rise onto the new floating bridge just as the sun put in
a belated guest appearance. I had to flip the switch on the mirror to
keep from being blinded by the slim orange sliver burning low over
the Olympics. A stiff southern breeze had punched the water on the
right side of the bridge into a series of small, disorganized
whitecaps. On the left side, the water was dark and flat.

I
traversed Mercer Island, ran by Factoria, and followed 1-90 out past
Issaquah. I drove past the private road twice before I realized it
was a driveway. No number. No sign. No mailbox. I thought it was just
a turnout across from the white rambler with a big picture window.
The overhanging trees absorbed the last remaining light. I nosed the
Fiat into the darkness, turned on the headlights, and followed the
road up and to the left. Another seventy yards, and then a sharp
right. Up and right, then same thing back to the left. The road was a
series of switchbacks that zigzagged all the way up the south side of
the hill. The little car began to labor up the ever-steeper slopes. I
downshifted to first and continued up.

At
about the better part of a mile from the main road, I stopped in
front of an ornate metal gate. Two small turnouts, one on each side
of the gate, ran parallel to the high metal fence, just enough room
for

a
car to back in and then head down the hill. A small white porcelain
sign at the left of the gate read MOUNTAINVIEW RECOVERY. To the right
of the gate, a white call box was bolted to the other brick column.

I
could hear the slow clicking cadence of a distant sprinkler as it
arched back and forth. The dim lights of a large two-story house
shone dusky yellow through the trees. I backed the Fiat into the
right-hand turnaround, walked back to the gate, and pushed the
button on the box.

A
loud set of chimes rang somewhere in the building.

"Yes?"
An accent of some sort.

Two
anodized lanterns on top of the gateposts suddenly buzzed on,
throwing a thin circle of white light over the gate area.

"My
name is Waterman. I'd like to see whoever is in charge."

"You
have an appointment?"

He
sounded a bit like Hector. Probably Hispanic.

"No.
But I—"

"Sorry.
Only by appointment."

With
a snap of static, he was gone. I heard the whirring then as a small
camera mounted on top of the gate header scanned the area and settled
on me. Smiling for the camera, I leaned on the button long enough to
make the chimes sound like the circus was in town. Nothing. I
respected the process this time with a bigger smile. Still nothing.

I
was debating the wisdom of climbing the fence when they appeared on
the other side. Two Hispanic youths, not much more than twenty.
Five-eight or so, a hundred fifty pounds max, dressed in white from
head to foot.

"You
must go," said the one on the left with the pencil-thin
mustache. "Or we call the police."

I
took a business card from my pocket, walked forward, and offered it
through the fence. They looked at one another like I was trying to
hand them a roadkill rat. When I kept waving it, Lefty stepped
forward and plucked it from my fingers. His lips moved as he tried to
decipher the card. Visibly frustrated now, he turned to his mate. "Yo
lo llevo a la jefa. Quedate aqui y cuidalo."