Psychopath (13 page)

He started to leave.

"I dreamt about you," she said.

Jonah froze, afraid to believe he had actually heard what he thought he had — that Naomi and he had been together in the night, even as he lay in bed in his apartment, staring at his ceiling.  He stepped into the room and waited.

"Want me to tell you about it?" she said after a few seconds.

"Please," he said.

"We went for a walk next to this really deep lake," she said.  "It was sunny and warm and beautiful, and I was..." She blushed.

"You were what?"

"Holding your hand."

Jonah nearly gasped.  He could feel Naomi’s hand in his.  "And?"

"And then..." She began to giggle.

"Then..."

She struggled to stop laughing.  "I pushed you away from me, and you fell in and drowned."  She shrugged.  "I guess you couldn’t swim.  Sorry."

"And then you woke up," Jonah said.

"Uh-huh."

"You felt really cold."

"Freezing," she said.

"And you were having trouble catching your breath."

"I could hardly breathe at all."  She squinted at Jonah.  "Hey, how do you know the rest of my dream?"

What Jonah knew about Naomi’s dream was that she was projecting her own fears onto him.  Her real worry was that
he
would push
her
away — coaxing her close to her deepest feelings, then shoving her over the edge, to sink or swim alone.  And in her heart Naomi feared that if Jonah did that, it would kill her.  She would not be able to keep herself afloat after another betrayal.  That’s why when she awakened
she
was the one who felt as though she were drowning.  "I know a lot about dreams," Jonah said.  He paused.  "Want to know the most important thing about yours?"

"Yeah.  What?"

He winked at her.  "I’m gonna hold your hand really tight if we ever go near a lake."

She rolled her eyes.  "I would never push you in for real," she said.

"I would never push you in, either," he said.  "You can count on that."

"Okay," she said.

"So I’ll see you later?" he asked.

"Later, alligator."

"In a while, crocodile."

e i g h t

Clevenger got into work just after 9:00
A.M.
, hung his jacket in the hall closet, and poked his head into North Anderson’s office.  "How goes it?"

"Richie Egbert needs this report ASAP," Anderson said, barely glancing at him.  "Turns out some of the witnesses against Sonny Raveno have serious credibility problems."  He started typing.  "Egbert’s cross-examining them tomorrow."

"I guess that’s good news."

"For Sonny," Anderson said.  The phone rang, but he kept typing.

"Want me to get that?" Clevenger asked.

"It’s been ringing off the hook."  Anderson grabbed a pile of pink message slips off his desk, swiveled in his chair, and held them out.  "I got to get this report out."

Clevenger took the slips, flipped through them.  The first was a message to call Gary Shuman at the
Boston Globe
.  The second was to call Margie Reedy at
New England Cable News
.  The next three were from Josh Resnek at the
Chelsea Independent
.  "What the hell?"

Anderson reached for a newspaper on his desk. "Today’s
New York Times,
he said, handing it to Clevenger.

Clevenger scanned the headlines.  "Am I missing something?"

"Don’t be offended.  You’re under the fold."

Clevenger flipped the paper over.  His eyes locked on the headline at the lower right-hand corner of the front page: 
FBI TAPS OUTSIDE FORENSIC EXPERT IN HIGHWAY KILLER CASE
.  "That fucking...  I decided not to take the case."

"You told them ‘no’ flat-out?" Anderson asked.

"I said I needed time to think it over.  I decided last night."

"I guess the Bureau has its own needs.  While you were mulling over yours, they were putting theirs out on the news wire."

Clevenger felt his blood pressure rising as he read the first two paragraphs:

ASSOCIATED PRESS

______________________

The Federal Bureau of Investigation, under increasing pressure to solve the string of murders known as the Highway Killings, has enlisted the aid of Frank Clevenger, MD, a Boston-based forensic psychiatrist most well-known for solving the murder of infant Brooke Bishop, daughter of billionaire Darwin Bishop, two years ago on Nantucket.

"This agency will leave no stone unturned," Kane Warner, director of the Bureau’s Behavioral Sciences Unit, said. "We’re reaching out to the best and brightest and giving him everything he needs to assist us."

"I got in at eight this morning," Anderson said.  "We already had eleven calls on voice mail.  All of them from reporters.  So I went out and grabbed the papers.  The
Washington Post
, the
Globe
and the
Herald
are on your desk."

Clevenger walked across the hall to his own office, grabbed the phone, and dialed Kane Warner, spreading the newspapers across his desk as he waited for someone to pick up.

"Director Warner’s office," a man’s voice answered.

"It’s Frank Clevenger."

"One moment, Doctor."

Clevenger flipped through the papers.  The
Globe
story wasn’t any more extensive than the one in the
Times
, but the
Herald
had run two full pages on the Highway Killer, complete with a rudimentary map of where bodies had been found and a three-column photograph of Clevenger fielding a question at the news conference he’d given on Nantucket at the conclusion of the Bishop case.

"Dr. Clevenger?" Warner finally answered.

Clevenger started to pace.  "What are you trying to pull here?"

"I’m sorry?"

"I told you I hadn’t decided whether to sign on."

"You’re upset about the news coverage?"

"You know what?  Go fuck..."  He started to hang up.

"Hold on.  Please.  I didn’t leak the story."

Out of the corner of his eye Clevenger saw a
New England Cable News
van pull up beside the office building.  "You expect me to—"

"I responded when the AP called.  ‘No comment’ wouldn’t have buried the story anyway.  But I swear to you I didn’t drop a dime on this.  I’ve asked every person who sat in that room with us yesterday; they all deny leaking it.  I’m sorry it happened.  I don’t know how it did."

"Let me save us both a lot of time and trouble," Clevenger said.  "I’m not working the case."

"I’d ask you to think about it a little longer.  You—"

Another phone line in Clevenger’s office started to ring, then a third.  "My decision is ‘no,’" Clevenger said.  "Categorical.  Final.  Got that?  I’ll be telling the press I turned you down for personal reasons.  You can tell them the same thing.  I hope that saves you face.  I’m not looking to embarrass anyone."

"Would a discussion about your compensation help?" Warner asked.

"Did you hear a word I just said?"

The phones stopped ringing just as a second television van — this one from Channel 7 — pulled up outside.

"I’ve got clearance to go as high as five hundred an hour.  That’s a big number for us."

"Listen to me," Clevenger said, watching satellite poles rise out of the vans.  "No number will turn the key here.  It’s not about money."  Out of the corner of his eye he saw North Anderson at the door to his office.  He motioned him inside.

"How about the number fourteen?" Warner asked.

Anderson sat down in the armchair in front of Clevenger’s desk.

"Fourteen..." Clevenger said.

"Victims."

Clevenger said nothing.

"Fourteen dead people, Doctor.  And I’m going to tell you straight out:  we’re nowhere on this.  You’re not window dressing to me.  I need you."

Forty-nine-point-nine percent of Clevenger wanted to say ‘yes,’ wanted to pit his energy against that of the Highway Killer, to pour all of himself into a worthy and consuming quest that would swallow any doubts he had about his own existence — like whether he was fully alive, whether he was wholly good, whether he could father a son.  Add in potential romance with Whitney McCormick, and his feet wouldn’t have to touch ground at all.  "I can’t.  Not now," he said.  "This isn’t something to nickel and dime.  Getting into this case means getting in all the way.  It means living it and breathing it for as long as it goes on.  I’m not in a position to do that."

One of the other phone lines started ringing again.

"Tell me what would change your mind," Warner said.

"I hope you get this guy," Clevenger said.  "I’d really like to see you nail him.  But you’ll have to get him without me."  He hung up.  He picked up the other line, hung that up, too.

Anderson glanced out the window at a man and woman unloading a television camera, tripod, and sound gear from the back of the New England Cable News van.  The other crew was already on its way to the front door.  "You want me to tell them?"

"My job," Clevenger said.  He squinted out the window and shook his head.

"What’s the real reason you’re turning them down?" Anderson asked.

Clevenger didn’t respond.

"Because if you’re holding back because of me," Anderson said, "don’t.  I was out of line with what I said the other day."

"No.  You were right," Clevenger said.  He looked at Anderson.  "Billy’s been using drugs."

Anderson took the news like a kick to his gut.  "Jesus, Frank, I’m sorry."

"Selling, too.  They expelled him from Auden."

There was a knock at the front door.

"Let them wait," Anderson said.  "When did you find this out?"

"Two days ago."

"Marijuana?"

"Among other things."

"Does he need to detox?"

Clevenger shook his head.  "I’m not exactly sure what he needs.  But I think it all adds up to needing me more than ever.  This is no time for me to disappear."  He took a deep breath, let it out.  "I’ve never really let anyone rely on me."  He saw Anderson about to protest.  "On the job, sure.  I hope you know by now that I’d back you up no matter what.  I think my patients have always known they could count on me.  But outside of that, in my personal life, I haven’t taken responsibility for anyone but myself — and that’s a pretty recent phenomenon.  No wife.  No kids.  Billy’s the first one who made me want to step up to the plate, put somebody else first.  I’ve got to follow through with that.  I’ve got to do the right thing by him."

A third television van pulled alongside the building.

"If there’s anything I can do, just say the word."

"Keep telling me when I’m about to screw up."

The phone started ringing again.

Anderson broke into a wide grin.  "Only if you promise to do the same for me."

"Done."

*            *            *

As Clevenger was walking out of his office to meet the reporters gathered there, Jonah Wrens, 208 miles north in Canaan, Vermont, was opening his office door for Naomi McMorris.  She had her hair in pigtails, tied with pink ribbons.  She was wearing denim overalls with three mice and a wedge of Swiss cheese embroidered on the chest.  The nurses had bought her white leather sneakers decorated with light-up, red plastic hearts that glowed every time she took a step.  "Is now okay?" she asked.

"Now is perfect," Jonah said.

Naomi took her seat in front of Jonah’s desk.  This time Jonah took the one beside hers.  He looked at the bandages along her forearms.  He had seen the battle-worn skin underneath, some scarred, some raw and freshly sutured.  "Why do you cut yourself, Naomi?" he asked.

She turned her arms over so Jonah couldn’t look at her bandages.

"Why?" Jonah repeated.

"Just because," she said shyly.

"Because. . ."

"It feels good."

"What part feels good?" Jonah asked.  "The cutting?  The blood coming out?  The way people get scared when you do it?  All of it?"

She stared down at her lap.

"You can tell me.  It’s okay."

She stayed silent.

"How about if I tell you another secret of mine first?"

She looked up him.

"As long as you still promise not to tell the other doctors," he said.

"Never," she said.

Jonah unbuttoned his sleeves, rolled them up, and turned his arms over.  He watched Naomi’s eyes widen as she stared at the horizontal scars up and down his forearms — the record of his suicidal gestures.  "I’ve done it, too," he said.

"Why?"

Jonah looked at her as if to say,
You know why
.

"To get the yucky stuff out," she said.

Jonah nodded.  He stared at his scars, but he saw Naomi’s rapist forcing apart her knees, pictured the fear and confusion on her face.  Confusion dominated, because there was no way for her to guess at the horror that was about to unfold.  What she knew was that her body was being manipulated in a way that it never had before, arms out, legs out, making way for a man, a man whose face was closer than she wanted it to be.  And though her confusion would grow as the man forced his way even closer, her fear would skyrocket, eclipsing everything.  Then the man would force his way inside her, and her whole world would go black.  Thinking of it, feeling it, Jonah’s eyes began to fill with tears.

Naomi looked at him in the way a knowing child can, a child new enough to this world that everything around her — including the suffering of others — still burns as warm and bright as the noonday sun.  She instinctively wanted to give him more of herself, more of the pain she had kept bottled up inside her.  Because he seemed to want it.  Or need it.  "I felt it go in me," she said.  "Yucky, sticky stuff."

"And you don’t know if it might still be in there."

Now Naomi’s eyes started to get wet.

"Talking about it this way makes you want to cut yourself right now," Jonah said.