The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller (22 page)

Mother’s little helper came in the form of a small, white pill. Only mother wasn’t the one taking them.

The pattern was always the same. I came home from school, did my homework. Then we had dinner, and that was the last thing I remembered. The next morning I’d wake up with few or no memories of ever going to bed. At first, it only happened occasionally, but through the years, with more regularity.

“That’s how it is when you’re young,” she would tell me, in a tone that belittled my concerns. “It’s perfectly normal.”

I believed her.

But the symptoms I began having weren’t normal at all. I’d wake up feeling dehydrated with stomach problems and headaches. In the beginning, they weren’t too bad, but over time they got much worse. The stomachaches sometimes turned to nausea, and I’d sweat a lot.

She continued to explain it all away, saying my food allergies were the cause, or that I wasn’t drinking enough water. But she never seemed to know what I was allergic to, nor did she make any effort to find out. Instead, she’d ply me with Gatorade, bottles and bottles of it. Our refrigerator was always full of them, and I got so tired of drinking the stuff that just the sight of the label was enough to make me ill all over again.

Through the years, the symptoms came and went, as did the strange sleeping patterns. I had periods when everything was fine, until it wasn’t again.

By the time I turned twelve, the sleep issues were more pronounced, as were the symptoms of my so-called allergies. Then I started having problems with slurred speech—so much that one of my teachers called my mother to express concern.

“Yes,” my mother said affirmatively, “I know about it, and of course I’m very concerned, too. I took him to see the doctor, but he can’t seem to find anything wrong. He thinks it may be somehow associated with the Von Willebrand. But thanks so much for letting me know. I’ll keep an eye on it, and please do call me if you notice it’s getting more severe.”

Then she put the phone down with a snort, and that was the end of that.

But not for me.

More and more, I couldn’t account for large blocks of time, felt confused a lot, disoriented. If I pressed her about it, she turned nasty and combative, as if I had no right to ask. But the funny thing was that usually after we fought about it, the symptoms would dissipate. For a little while.

These on-again, off-again bouts became a normal part of life for me, but through it all, my mother’s casual attitude and overall lack of concern continued to unnerve me. I think on some level I always knew she was behind it all—I just didn’t know how. I’d developed a belief system over time that she was the cause of most everything bad in my life, so really, why would this be any different?

It’s amazing how the mind—especially that of a child—can be so easily manipulated. For years, my mother could bend my reality in whatever way she chose, as outlandish or ridiculous as it might be. Blackouts were normal. Frequent headaches and stomach problems were normal. A warped sense of time was just a part of life. Living with an emotionally unstable and abusive mother was something not only to be tolerated; it was to be accepted. She could act as cruel as she wanted, tinker with my sense of reality, and perhaps worst of all, invalidate my emotional reactions—all of it was status quo. Family business as usual.

But that was about to change.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Bill Williams.

Jean Kingsley’s murderous alter ego. Faraday had said he wasn’t real, that she’d made him up.

I swallowed hard, tried to speak past the lump in my throat.

“What’s going on?” CJ asked. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Close.”

“Tell me.”

I did. Explained about Bill Williams: how Jean had taken on his identity during her final days at Glenview, how they’d told me he was nothing more than a product of her imagination. That it was a lie—either that, or they never knew.

After I finished, CJ said, “This just keeps getting weirder.”

“And creepier. The guy scared the crap out of me when I thought she was making him up.”

“What kinds of stories did Faraday tell, anyway? What exactly did Jean say?”

“Awful things. Horrible things. He wouldn’t tell me all of them, said he didn’t want to talk about it...or think about it. According to Jean, Bill Williams was a sadistic sociopath, a killer, who started accumulating bodies at a very young age.”

“How young?”

I hesitated for a moment. “Nine.”

She shivered and rubbed her arm.

“And I’ll spare you the details. You don’t want to hear them.”

“You think they’re true?”

“Who knows?” I said. “Jean’s mind was all over the place most of the time. It’s hit or miss where she’s concerned. But the part about Bill being real sure was.”

“Okay. Next question. You think he and Samuels are one and the same?”

I sighed, contemplated. “Jean claimed Bill was the one who kidnapped and killed Nathan. I didn’t put much stock in that then because Faraday insisted he didn’t exist.”

“But now that we know he’s real…”

“Certainly makes me wonder. I mean, we were already moving toward the idea that the same person killed both Nathan and Jean.”

“So if Samuels killed her,” she said, “And Bill killed Nathan…”

“Then maybe Williams used the Samuels name as a cover to gain access to Jean at the hospital.”

“And don’t forget motive,” CJ added. “Jean was telling people that he was Nathan’s killer.”

“So maybe he got nervous and wanted to shut her up before someone figured out she wasn’t just ranting?”

“It would make sense.”

I began formulating a theory in my head. Jean believed Bill killed her son, and in her deteriorating mental state, the only way she knew to communicate it was to assume his identity. Then one night she woke up, and there he was, standing over her. I tried to imagine what that must have felt like, the horror—nobody to call out to, nobody to protect her. Victimized all over again by her child’s murderer.

CJ echoed my thoughts without even knowing it. “What kind of monster is this?”

“Call Ruth,” I said. “Call her right now.”

***

On the road, once more.

And heading right back toward Corvine, back into the danger zone. I reminded myself that someone wanted us dead. Whoever that was could easily pick up our scent again, putting us back on their radar.

Then I thought about Bill Williams. Was he still alive after all these years? I hoped for our sake that he wasn’t. Being killed would be one thing—but if Jean’s stories were true, being killed by him would be completely another. We were tempting danger, for sure, but the clock was ticking in double-time, Nathan Kingsley’s disappearance and murder becoming an even bigger and more bizarre mystery with each passing minute.

I needed to call Sully. Dialed his number but got no answer, so I left Bill Williams’ name on the message.
Told him it was urgent he get back to me ASAP with anything he could find.

Wentworth Hills had no hills that I could see, but it did
scream money from every rooftop. Ruth’s home was no exception: a sprawling colonial affair with giant pillars and windows everywhere, situated on several impeccably landscaped acres.

We pulled up to the wrought iron gate, pushed the buzzer, but got no response.

“Look,” CJ said, pointing out through the front windshield.

I followed her gaze to a camera situated high up a tree and saw that it was slowly turning in our direction. It stopped on us. Past the gate, I saw more.

Concrete walls encircling the perimeter, a gate fit for a politician or dignitary, and cameras everywhere. Heavy-duty security, I thought, for a little old rich lady. No need to wonder who she was afraid of; I had a good idea.

The gate opened. We drove in and followed a longish driveway leading to the house. A man stood out front, waiting for us. White pants, green polo shirt, mid-to-late forties, with salt and pepper hair. On the stocky side. As we climbed from the car, he stared at CJ’s bandaged forehead for a moment, then at the gash on my head. He gave me a look that seemed to ask for an explanation.

I said, “Car accident.”

He nodded but still appeared a little concerned, then extended his hand for me to shake. “Sebastian Johns, Ruth’s son.”

He led us inside and past a living room filled with old and expensive-looking mahogany furniture, then to an office down the hall. A smallish woman with a warm smile was waiting for us.

“Mrs. Johns,” CJ said, “I’d like you to meet Patrick Bannister. He’s a reporter for
News World.
We’re working together on a story.”

Ruth’s face lit up, so did the ring on her finger as she extended her hand to shake mine—it was the biggest damned diamond I think I’d ever seen. That same hand was also trembling, barely detectable, but enough to give me the sense she was on edge.

They say everything is big in Texas; Ruth might not have been, but most of what she owned certainly was. A grand-piano-sized desk sat in the center of the room, piled high with cardboard filing boxes, all overflowing with papers. Enormous oil paintings set in ornate, carved frames hung on each wall—no Walmart specials here—all originals, all hand-signed by the artists.

“Beautiful place you have here,” I said.

She acknowledged the comment with a nod and smile, then moved behind her desk, nearly obscured by the boxes. All I could see was a tuft of gray hair above the stacks of paper.

“Are all of these your notes?” CJ asked.

Ruth materialized at the other end of her desk. “The rest is in the attic.”

“There’s more?”

Ruth rested a hand on one of the boxes then glanced at it. “What I gave you years ago were the things that I felt pertained to the Kingsley case. I’d been gathering information on Bill long before that … and long after.”

CJ nodded.

“He killed my daughter.” She placed a firm hand on her hip. “There’s not a doubt in my mind. I was never able to prove it, but I know.”

I said, “Mrs. Johns, do you have any idea where he is now?”

She raised both hands, palms facing out. “God only knows. Hopefully as far from here as possible. I’m scared to death of him, even after all these years.”

CJ and I exchanged glances, then I said, “When’s the last time you saw him?”

“He disappeared right after Madison died.”

“And they were never able to prove he killed her?” CJ said.

“I wish. The sheriff couldn’t show it was anything other than an accident, so case closed. Just like that.”

CJ eyed me for a moment, then returned her attention to Ruth. “It’s been a while since I looked at the notes. There were references to Jean, if I recall.”

“And her boy, too,” she added.

“Nathan?” I asked.

“Well, not by name. But I could tell it was him because he’d refer to Jean, then mention
the boy
shortly after. There was no mistaking who that
was.”

CJ said, “Ms. Johns—”

“Call me Ruth, dear.”

“Very well, Ruth. Did you know the Kingsleys at all?”

“Knew
of
them, just through all the media attention, but if you mean personally, then no, I’d never met any of them.”

“Did Bill?” I asked.

Ruth shook her head back and forth quickly. “Not that I’m aware, which is why I was so surprised when I came across them in the notes.”

“We’d like to see them again, if you don’t mind,” CJ said.

“Sure,” Ruth replied, “Not a problem. But just so you know, there’s nothing about the Kingsleys you didn’t see the first time. The rest are my own notes on my daughter’s death.”

CJ gave the boxes a quick glance. “We’d like to look through all of them, if you don’t mind. Even the ones in the attic.”

Ruth seemed to be contemplating the idea but not at all falling in with it. Speaking very slowly now, she said, “I’m not sure why you’d need the information about my daughter, and I’m a little hesitant to let it go. It took years of hard work. I’d really rather not.”