The Dead Room (35 page)

“When was he released?” Teddy asked.

“Two years after his admission. The depression eased some. His mood swings evened out. The chief administrator concluded his behavior was caused by drug abuse and signed his release without my consent. According to the hospital, he was better now and fit to live in the world again.”

“What were your conclusions?” Nash asked.

Gleason thought it over. “Where did you park?” he asked after a moment.

“Out front,” Nash said.

“Then you saw the new wing. It opened last year.”

Gleason didn’t need to flesh out the details. They’d known it before they even walked in. Edward Trisco had received another pass. First from Andrews, then from the institution’s chief administrator.

“Edward’s problems had nothing to do with drugs,” Gleason said. “He used the drugs to forget what happened in his childhood. I never found out exactly what his problems were. Just as I was beginning to get somewhere, the paperwork went through and he was released.”

“What about the woman he kidnapped?” Teddy asked. “Did he ever talk about her?”

Gleason winced. “That’s even more troubling,” he said. “He was arrested on charges of kidnapping and sexual assault. Then what happened became less clear. Drugs were found in the girl’s system as well. Maybe he kidnapped her, but maybe they’d met at a party and it didn’t work out. That was the story anyway. But I’ve spent many hours in therapy with Edward Trisco. He told me himself that he held her against her will and raped her. His parents gave the girl a lot of money. In return, she didn’t press charges and refused to testify. She didn’t talk.”

“Was there any remorse?” Nash asked.

Gleason shook his head. “He was cocky about it. He knew his parents would bail him out. I guess they’d done it before. Because the charges were dropped, there was no need to appear before a judge in order to win his release.”

“When he wasn’t in therapy, did he socialize with the others?” Nash asked.

“No. He was a loner. He spent a lot of time reading.”

“About what?”

“Artists mostly.”

“Anyone in particular?”

Gleason passed the file over to Nash, pointing to his notes and fidgeting in his seat. No question about it, the psychiatrist was deeply concerned about his role in the payoff that led to Trisco’s release.

“I think it’s right there,” he said.

Teddy leaned in for a closer look, searching out the notation the psychiatrist had jotted down in his file so many years ago. When he read the name, he turned to Nash and kept quiet as the horror took root and forged ahead. Their eyes met.

Edward Trisco had been reading about Michelangelo. He’d found the dead room.

FIFTY-FIVE

He felt the ping in his dick and gave it a hard squeeze. He needed to take a leak real bad.

Eddie Trisco backed into the alley just off Sixteenth Street, killed the lights and looked at the entrance to the parking garage at One Liberty Place through the stream of cars and people moving up and down the sidewalks. It was just after midnight. He’d spent most of the day in the car, but it couldn’t be helped. This morning he’d woken up to a series of warning sirens in his head, whipped up another scenario in first-draft form, and spent the early afternoon keeping an eye on Benny’s Café Blue just in case.

His dedication had paid off.

At half past three he’d seen the kid run into the place, show that ugly woman behind the counter a picture of someone, then shoot out the door like a human cannonball in a circus act. It was the same kid that he’d seen in the café last night with the woman from the district attorney’s office—the attorney he’d followed to One Liberty Place. The DA had arrested that stupid mailman, yet the kid with gusto was still nosing around. Still asking questions and trying to fuck up his life.

But Eddie had his name. His number.

The manager at the café had told him all he needed to know the previous night. On his knees and shaking before he shit his pants. Harris Carmichael had been a real talker. Spilled it out in the snow as Eddie filled in the dots and thought about what to do. It hadn’t required a knife. Carmichael had died like a talker with his lips sealed. The Crazy Glue had been a nice touch. But when it was over, Eddie used a knife anyway. He couldn’t help himself. He was mad at it. He hated it. Over and over again he went at the thing until he spotted the first two wharf rats moving in from the river and his mind cleared.

Teddy Mack. He knew his name and had his number.

He’d followed him from the café back to his office this afternoon. Watched him change cars just off Penn campus like he knew what he was doing and knew just where to go. And it seemed as though he really did. Eddie followed the Lexus out to the fun house on the hill in the suburbs. The place where they locked the doors at night and let you scream. After about an hour, the Lexus shot down the hill and through the gate, speeding back to town

Eddie kept up with the bright white car like it was a warning beacon that might lead to his salvation. He caught a glimpse of the kid with gusto entering an office back on campus and found a place to park. Time ticked by. Hours spent looking in the second-floor window from his car. Men in dark suits arrived. With short-cropped hair and narrow ties, he knew they were Feds the moment he set his eyes on them. He could see them in the windows, scurrying like ants. Eddie knew that he’d been made. They were on the phones, writing things down. It looked as if they might work through the night. Then, just twenty minutes ago as he was about to drive off, he spotted the kid with gusto getting into his Corolla and tailed him back to his office in Center City.

Eddie followed the building’s long lines up into the black sky.

There hadn’t been time to find a bathroom, and Eddie hoped he wouldn’t wet his pants. He was in his own car and didn’t want to soil the leather upholstery. He dug his teeth into his lower lip and tried to concentrate. He wasn’t a loser like Harris Carmichael had been, he decided. He could hold it until dawn if he had to, just as his mother had taught him when he wet her bed as a child.

He gave it another hard squeeze the way she had done, and turned to the people passing his windshield. He’d been avoiding eye contact, but needed a distraction. They weren’t watching him. They were leering at him.

Eddie tried not to scream, but couldn’t help a short outburst or two. When the eyes turned away and hurried off, he shivered in the cold night air and hit the door locks. Then he turned up the heat and checked his watch again. Two minutes had passed. It was okay, he told himself. He knew he could wait the guy out because he had to.

Headlights struck the windshield, filling the car with light.

He turned back to the building and saw the Corolla spring from the garage and pull onto the street. He caught a glimpse of the face. The one with gusto. He slid the shift into drive, let two cars pass and eased his shiny black BMW forward. He was finally moving again. One of the watchers instead of the watched.

Eddie followed the taillights down JKF Boulevard. As the Corolla hit a red light at Thirtieth Street Station, he watched the car skid on a patch of ice. The Corolla slid forward and almost plowed into the flow of traffic circling the train station. Why was the kid with gusto driving such a piece-of-shit car? How smart could he really be?

He heard cars blasting their horns as the Corolla finally stopped. Eddie slowed down, keeping his distance and timing it perfectly. When the light turned green, he sped up and followed the Corolla down the ramp onto the expressway.

Teddy Mack lived in the suburbs. The ass wipe attorney who couldn’t afford a decent car was driving west toward the Main Line.

Eddie eased his foot off the gas and settled into his seat, always keeping a car or two between them. He hadn’t been seen the entire day. He was following an idiot. He and Teddy Mack were finally driving home.

The traffic thinned out as they reached King of Prussia, then broke down all together as they exited off Route 202. Eddie backed off, watching the Corolla start up the hill on Devon State Road. He knew the area well. As they crossed Lancaster Pike, he pulled the scarf over his mouth and moved closer just for kicks. A mile or so later, the Corolla slowed down and turned into a driveway. Eddie noted the house and continued down the road. At the stop sign, he made a right onto Sanctuary Road and pulled over.

His dick hurt so bad he thought it might pop off like a cork. He jumped out of the car, yanking at his zipper and knowing he couldn’t make it beneath the trees. Instead of writing his name in the snow, he aimed at one spot as he thought a stray dog might do. Craning his neck back and forth, he kept an eye on the road, searching for headlights from approaching cars. There weren’t any and he smiled. Then he zipped up and sighed with relief. It was a quiet winter night, and they were home.

Eddie leaned across the driver’s seat and opened the glove box. The knife he would be using tonight was one of his favorites. A professional eight-inch carving knife purchased at Williams-Sonoma. Made of high-carbon stainless steel, the imported blade was well balanced, its edge particularly keen. Eddie wrapped the knife in the kitchen towel he’d brought and carefully slipped it into his jacket pocket. Locking up the car and engaging the alarm, he turned the corner and made the short walk up Waterloo Road.

He had a song in his heart and felt like whistling. But as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw someone at the top of the hill and ducked into the bushes. He waited, listened, pulled himself together. After a moment, he took a peek.

It was the face with gusto, standing at the end of the driveway.

The kid was smoking a cigarette and staring at the housing development on the other side of the road. He was thinking something over and it seemed like it might just take forever. Eddie wondered if the kid had figured out that he was followed. But he wasn’t looking down the street. He was staring at the houses. When he finished the cigarette, he flicked it at them like he wished they might burn down and walked away.

The gesture threw Eddie off because he liked it. He wished they’d burn down, too. He got to his feet, brushing the snow off his pants and moving quickly up the street. He saw the kid walk down the driveway and vanish behind the house. He heard a door open and close, followed by silence.

Eddie let the stillness settle in. He noticed the snow falling from the sky, light and gay, the kid through the window pouring a drink in the kitchen. When he scanned the property, he spotted a barn in the backyard. The lights were on and he could smell the scent of oak in the cold air. Someone was in the barn and had a fire going. It looked warm and inviting.

He stepped back and took the place in again. Something about the property seemed idyllic. It made him nervous. It stole his strength and made him feel small. Even weird. Why was he spending his life all alone?

After a moment, he noticed a fence along the property line, hidden behind a hedge that was kept trimmed. Eddie entered the yard, slowly working his way toward the barn. He spotted a grove of rhododendrons and stepped inside the canopy. Moving quietly, he kept away from the light and gazed through the window.

A woman was painting.

He could see her working the brush on the canvas. He locked up and choked.

She looked like an angel. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She looked gentle. Caring. Nurturing. A certain glow lingered in her eyes, and he wondered if she was even real. He began to feel dizzy, staring at her and wanting her. As his eyes drifted away from her face, he noticed the paintings on the wall. Her work. He recognized two canvases. He’d seen them in a show last fall—through the window from the street because he’d been too afraid to walk in.

A noise from the house snatched up his dream.

The back door opened and closed.

Shrinking away from the window, his eyes flicked across the yard. It was Teddy Mack, trudging through the snow toward the barn. But the kid wasn’t heading down the path for the door. He was taking the same route Eddie had. Through the shadows along the fence.

Eddie slithered out of the bushes and around a tree. The kid was tracking him. Hunting him. He pulled the knife out, unwrapping the sharp blade and stuffing the towel in his pocket again. He wasn’t sure what to do. He could still see the angel. It looked like she had wings. He clinched his teeth and pain shot through his head. Averting his eyes, he raised the knife and inched his way back around the trunk of the tree.

Eddie couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The kid had slipped into the grove of rhododendrons just as he had. He was sipping his drink and staring at the angel through the window. Eddie lifted the scarf over his mouth and quieted his breath. He was standing less than six feet away, pretending to be a tree. He could see the kid’s face. The gusto had been painted over with a heavy brush. Only sadness remained.

FIFTY-SIX

Teddy caught a glimpse of the metallic flash from the corner of his eye. The knife was moving toward him in a arcing motion from just behind his right shoulder. He let go of his drink and locked both hands around the man’s boney wrist. It was a gut shot, coming at him hard. Instead of pushing the blade away, he concentrated on steering the knife wayward.