Darkness peering (40 page)

"Don't you move a muscle! Stay where you are!"

He paused for an imperceptible moment, then smiled defiantly in her
direction. This icy, contemptuous smile was meant for her.

"I never really cared anyway," he said.

"Stay where you are, Vaughn!"

He tugged both hearing aids out of his ears. With a simple flick of
his wrists, he flung them in different directions far into the woods.
Now he was both profoundly deaf and blind as he continued in her
direction. His pace increased.

He was moving steadily toward her, arms flailing, torso twisting and
shrinking to less than half its width with each antagonistic body
movement. She couldn't get a bead. She didn't want to kill him. He
was unarmed and she had no business shooting him. She tried to find a
nonfatal target--pelvis, leg--but the dark and the rain and the limited
illumination from her flashlight only added to her confusion.

"Stop!"

If you lose your cool, you lose the fight. Her life was in danger. She
had to hit the target in order to stop the threat. All her training
had concentrated on staid, static range drills. McKissack was the only
one who'd explained to her that perfect shot placement might not
suffice in real life, might not stop the threat.

"Freeze! Don't move!"

Her arms trembled as she tried to hold the gun steady, but he continued
moving swiftly toward her, arms thrashing, fingers groping, a feral
look on his face. He swung at the air, vicious and determined. She
backed away. "McKissack! Over here!"

Vaughn Kellum lashed angrily at the space in front of him, and she took
a step backward. Another. Another. To her right and left, dense
woods. She was boxed in. She couldn't swallow. Her heart raced. He
was forcing her hand, moving relentlessly toward her.

"McKissack!" she screamed, taking another step backward.

Legs braced. Distant flashlight beams revolved in the canopy,
circling as though they were lost.

"I'm over here! Hurry!"

She took another step back and her heel hit something hard, and she
flattened against a dogwood tree, its smooth, dense bark supporting her
spine.

"McKissack!"

Gasping for breath.

Vaughn's arms swung like scythes, his eyes roamed aimlessly. He swiped
at the air, inches from her gun. She took another eighth of a second
to make sure of target acquisition, sight picture, backstop ... fuck
it... she pointed the gun at his head.

He grabbed the barrel.

"Oh shit!"

She fired.

The bullet penetrated his skull and blew out the back of his head, and
he rag-dolled in front of her. Sprawled dead on the ground at her
feet.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, THE SUN PEEKED OUT FROM BEhind cumulus clouds
like great gray brains exploding across the sky. Rachel met privately
with Dr. Castillo in his office to explain the unexplainable.

He eyed her solicitously. "How are you feeling, Detective?"

"Bruised. Some cuts. A few broken ribs." She fingered a marble sized
lump over her right eye. "But I'll live."

"My wife and I are extremely grateful," he said. "Words can't express
how indebted we are."

"How's Nicoler"

"Recovering."

She leaned forward in her seat. This little meeting had been her idea.
She wanted to tell him in person, let the words fall like a cold rain
upon his head.

"Vaughn Kellum's been planning this for years," she began. "We've
traced one of the threads all the way back to Claire's ex boyfriend,
three years ago. Three years, Vaughn Kellum's been collecting thread
from Claire's clothes, Nicole's clothes, yours, your wife's. The
ex-boyfriend's, like I said."

Yale's hands lay flat and lifeless on his desk. "But why would anyone
do such a terrible thing?"

Rachel didn't answer right away, filled with an aggressive fury she
didn't quite know what to do with. "Claire left the diner at eight
o'clock on Wednesday night and walked through the fog to Kellum
Kleaners," she said. "According to Nicole's own experience, they
probably had tea together and talked about the charity dance. Claire
liked Vaughn. He was her friend. She never suspected he'd laced her
tea with chloral hydrate."

"The knockout drug."

"The attic room was well insulated, like a recording studio. Nobody
could hear you scream. There was a mattress on the floor, an overhead
light, a portable toilet. We found books, reading matter. He kept
Claire drugged, bound at the wrists and ankles for long periods of
time, same as Nicole. But at night, after the shop closed, they'd eat
dinner together and talk. I'm sure he told her everything."

"Everything?" He seemed confused.

"I've seen his school transcripts. Doctor. His IQ was in the superior
range, above 130. He came from a dysfunctional home, both parents were
alcoholics. He suffered physical and emotional abuse at his father's
hands. His mother apparently blamed you for their troubles."

"Blamed me?"

"He was torn away from home at the age of eight, and his

mother died shortly thereafter. He lost much of his sight, most of
his hearing, couldn't run like the other boys, couldn't play ball
anymore ." She detected the rapid pulse beating in her own throat and
swallowed hard, sitting on a deep desire to hurt him. "Claire went
over there to innocently pick up a blouse, and three weeks later found
herself walking through the woods, where Vaughn knew every tree, every
stone, every grove, every ravine. He took her to a place he knew she
would instinctively crawl out of, toward the traffic sounds, and
injected her with an antipsychotic. He injected it between her toes so
it wouldn't be immediately detected."

Anger flared in Yale's eyes. "Yes, well... thank you for stopping by,
Detective. I'm sure you're very busy, and I've got patients to attend
to--"

"I'm not finished, Doctor," she said. She couldn't help herself, she'd
lost her professional distance. Her hands were trembling. "I read the
files. Throughout the years, you've been accused of gross negligence,
misdiagnosis, extreme departure from standard care, failure to realize
the seriousness of an illness, administration of incorrect dosages,
administration of incorrect blood type, failure to summon help from
another physic an because you didn't want to admit you'd misjudged the
patient's condition, caring more about your reputation and ego than the
health of the patient. At least four of your patients suffered
permanent, irreversible damage as a result, while an elderly woman died
of dehydration in your care. Of the sixteen charges of
malpractice--"

"Alleged medical negligence," he coldly corrected her.

"Three were settled and the rest were thrown out by the tribunal.
Vaughn Kellum's case was settled. Fifteen thousand dollars minus
lawyers' fees In misdiagnosinga little boy's symptoms twenty-seven
years ago, you affected the course of his life, and in doing so, you
affected the course of your own life."

"I tried my best to help that child." He sat rigid in his seat,
breathing hard. "May I remind you, Detective, that death in the
emergency room is not uncommon ..."

"You've been charged with malpractice sixteen times, Doctor, How did
you manage to keep your license?"

"It was never my intent to harm that child. I'm sure you can
understand what it's like to make a judgment call, or a series of
judgment calls. They alleged medical negligence, well I've got news
for you, Detective. Medicine is not an exact science."

"Oh come on, Doctor. You botched it big-time. I read the file. Vaughn
Kellum's parents brought him into the emergency room twice, and each
time you denied that the child was seriously ill. Each time, you
misjudged his condition. You only consulted with another physician
after his parents insisted, and even then you misled Dr. Selby and
tried to cover up your mistakes in a three page addendum inserted into
the child's medical records."

He stood, red-faced with indignation. "You can't possibly blame me for
what happened to Claire!"

"Do you understand the depth of his hatred?" she asked, out of breath
and agitated. She'd lost control. She'd lost her head. This was no
good. "Don't you get it? It took him years to collect all those
pieces of thread. Years to construct the room in the attic. Years to
befriend Claire and Dinger. He was exceedingly patient. Brilliantly
patient. Fanatical in his desire for revenge."

"But this has nothing to do with me. Nothing!"

"Your daughter died because of mistakes you made almost three decades
ago. The least you can do is accept partial responsibility for her
pain and suffering."

He gazed at her helplessly, his face a twisted slab. He reminded her
of a photograph she'd once seen in a museum, a black-and-white
photograph of a Nazi guard in a concentration camp who'd been forced to
dig up the dead.

"Three weeks, she lived in that room. I was there. It's the size of a
walk-in closet. The walls are padded, there's no way out, it stinks of
urine and fear. She lay on that mattress for twenty-one days, scared
out of her wits. Not knowing whether she'd be dead tomorrow, or
whether he'd rape her tonight. This man she had

once called her friend. Then one night, he unlocks the door and walks
into the room with some pills, a needle and thread. I can't imagine
what was going through her mind."

"I did nothing wrong. Anyone could've made the same mistake. I was
vindicated. We settled without an admission of guilt."

"He sewed her up," Rachel continued without mercy, "and escorted her
through the woods in the middle of the night in the pouring rain. He
injected her with Thorazine and left her there to die, she probably
thought. But no, he saved that little task for you. He knew you'd
misdiagnose her symptoms. He knew you'd make another mistake, and that
it would be lethal."

Yale's shoulders spasmed. He choked back the tears, and she suddenly
felt like a criminal.

"He knew your schedule. He knew you were in the middle of a
fourteen-hour shift. And he'd just sewn thread from your Brooks
Brothers suit into your daughter's face."

He groaned and dropped his head in his hands, and her heart froze. Her
gut seized up. She'd been incalculably cruel. He'd lost his daughter.
That was enough. Punishment for a lifetime.

"He knew you would misdiagnose your daughter's symptoms," she said
softly, "just as you'd misdiagnosed his. He was a sick man, bent on
revenge."

"Please," he begged, "no more ..."

"There isn't any more." She stood up. "Vaughn Kellum is dead. It's
over."

"Thank God for that." He slouched in his seat, mouth an anguished
gash. "Thank God ... thank Christ..."

She felt dirty. She hated herself for lashing out at this defenseless
man, this bereft father. The window behind his desk revealed a sky
sharpening to crystal blue.

She opened the door to his office, then turned for one last thought.
"Three weeks she lived in abject terror, knowing she was there because
of you. And you know what? I bet she forgave you."

She shut the door in his stricken face.

MCKISSACK FIT IN SO PERFECTLY WITH THE SMOKY ATMOSPHERE

of the bar, she felt certain she must have conjured him up out of the
red vinyl booths, the spilt beer, the sticky wooden floor. He was
wearing his civvies--plaid flannel shirt, jeans, cracked leather biker
jacket--and his eyes were full of bitters. "I'm behind you a hundred
percent, Rachel. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

"I shot an unarmed suspect at point-blank range," she said, finishing
her wine. "A blind man. The department's being sued."

"By some distant cousin who probably didn't give two shits until this
happened." McKissack signaled the waitress for another round. "Let's
drink to your first unpleasant brush with bureaucracy. Unfortunately,
it won't be your last. Remember those bank robbers in L.A. who
terrorized an entire community with their arsenal of automatic weapons?
They sprayed buildings and houses with armor-piercing bullets, but when
the cops shot one of them and he lay dying on the ground, the press
raised holy hell because an ambulance wasn't called fast enough."

"I shot a defenseless man, McKissack."

He fell into lecturing mode. "A person in a rage with the perceived
intent of attacking an officer and failing to respond to said officer's
orders to stop--"

"He was profoundly deaf without his hearing aids," she reminded him.

"--creates a clear situation in which the officer must act quickly to
stop the attacker. An officer may use deadly force to protect himself
against deadly force." He sighed. "Vaughn Kellum grabbed your gun.
His prints are on the barrel."

"I failed to properly Mirandize him. The D.A. wants to get
reelected."

"The guy was guilty as sin. Nobody's arguing with that. He deserves
to spend eternity in the lowest levels of Dante's hell."

She tried to let these words soothe her but knew that, ultimately,
McKissack couldn't save her. She'd surrendered her gun and shield, was
on temporary leave from the department. Once an internal investigation
was completed, and assuming she was exonerated, she would get her badge
and weapon back. But the nightmares that had started shortly after the
shooting hadn't let up. It wasn't a nice feeling, killing another
human being.

Now she let her gaze wander over McKissack's face. "Have you ever been
in front of a jury, Jim?"

"Yeah, way back when Moby-Dick was a minnow. Just remember, stay calm,
speak in a deliberate voice, and give your lawyer plenty of time to
object."

She wanted to get drunk, really drunk for a change. She wanted to lose
control. She'd never felt so damaged. "You know, I get the shakes.
I'll be sitting there, and something will trigger it."