The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller (8 page)

Chapter Thirteen

My mother hated my love of the written word. Most parents would be thrilled to see their kid sitting down with a good book, but nothing seemed to irritate her more. She made a point of letting me know it, too, with her condescending glances, her eye rolling, her cutting remarks. Having a book in my hand meant leaving myself wide open to attacks: sometimes I’d feel anxious just picking one up.

“You know…” she said on one occasion, “Kids who read too much never have any friends.”

I stared at her, bewildered by the comment.

“Seriously.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “People don’t like people who are too smart.”

I didn’t know what to say. I bit my lip and looked at my book.

She shrugged it off. “Have it your way. I’m just saying if you want people to like you, you’re going to have to dummy it down some. You’re scaring them away in droves.”

It was so easy. She could blame the books for almost everything: I was lazy and never got things done because of the books. The books were warping my mind, making me disrespectful. My grades were slipping because I spent too much time with my nose in my books instead of studying.

It just went on and on.

But her cruel words paled when compared to her wicked acts.

Sometimes while reading, I’d suddenly realize the story wasn’t making sense. Then I’d look at the page numbers and find that several had been torn out. It was always toward the end of the book, after I’d already invested a significant amount of time and imagination. Her way of twisting the knife, I suppose. She even did it to my library books. It seemed nothing was sacred.

Other times, I’d leave a book in one spot only to find it missing, several hours later. When I’d ask where it was, she’d act as if she hadn’t a clue. Later, I’d often find them tucked away in a cabinet with the pots and pans, at the bottom of a laundry basket filled with dirty clothes, or in some drawer we hardly ever used. I even found one under the porch once, covered in mud.

Some I never found at all.

But probably, the most evil thing she did was to turn my own books against me.

The Book Game wasn’t a game at all: it was a form of punishment. She’d force me to stand in a corner and face the wall, holding two books up to my chest, elbows out.

And remain completely still.

Then she’d sit in her recliner splitting her attention between the television and me. If I moved an inch, she’d add another book to the pile.

I remember standing with sweat tickling my forehead, elbows shaking, while she sat stuffing peanuts in her mouth and laughing—both at me and whatever was on TV.

Her goal was to make me hate those books, but there wasn’t a stack tall enough or heavy enough to make that happen.

Instead, I just ended up hating her more.

Chapter Fourteen

I stopped at The Copper Kettle on Third and Cedar to grab a quick bite, regroup, and recover from Jerry Lindsay. I needed the downtime anyway; I was feeling tired and low on energy. Travel does that to you—finding clues from a kidnapping and murder hidden among your deceased mother’s belongings, even more so.

I pushed a pile of dry mashed potatoes around my plate and returned to my thoughts about Lindsay. The guy was an ass—no question about that. I just wasn’t sure if he was born that way or hiding something. Either way, I hadn’t bought any of it. The houses in the Kingsley neighborhood were practically piled on top of each other. Someone
should have seen or heard something.
Jean
should have, even with her back to the house. By instinct, most mothers are hyperaware of their surroundings, especially when their kids are out of their immediate view. Why wasn’t she?

Despite Lindsay’s arrogant attitude and willfulness, the interview hadn’t been a total loss. He’d given me one critical piece of information—probably the most important—even if he didn’t mean to. Nathan was wearing the Saint Christopher medal the day he disappeared. That told me my mother could have been the last one to see the boy alive, or at the very least, was involved with, or knew, whoever did. For years, she’d been sitting on what was probably the most damning piece of evidence in the case.

What the hell was she doing with it?

My thoughts jumped to Jean Kingsley, a woman as mysterious as the mystery itself. I still didn’t know much about her, but there was one person around who did: her husband and Nathan’s father, Dennis Kingsley.

I called his number three or four times but got his answering machine. Time was at a premium; I had little of it to waste, so I decided to pay him a visit.

***

CJ wasn’t kidding when she said Kingsley lived up on the hill. A mountaintop was more like it, and to make matters worse, with a long, unpaved road leading to it. I worked my way up, bumping and grinding along every inch, wondering at times if my tires would hold up—and wondering even more if I would.

To my surprise, it was a nice looking place. Nothing huge or extravagant, but clearly he’d put a lot of work into it. Deep clay-colored walls, a terracotta roof, and huge, custom-built doors made of knotty alder. All that and a view of the valley that was nothing short of breathtaking.

I put the giant brass front door knocker to use, giving it three hard raps. A moment later, I saw a large, shadowy figure through the frosted glass.

My immediate impression was that time had not been good to Dennis Kingsley. He looked about fifty pounds heavier and many more than thirty years older. An unkempt, grizzled beard covered his face but couldn’t hide the deep-set creases around the eyes. His expression told me he wasn’t used to company, nor was he happy about having it. I’d figured as much, judging by the visitor-prohibitive location. The man liked being alone.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Kingsley,” I said. “My name’s Patrick Bannister and I work for
News World.
I left a message on your machine.”

He shook his head and pressed his lips together, an indication the conversation was going south before it ever started. But not if I could help it.

I continued, “I’d like to speak with you for a moment, if I could, about your son’s kidnapping.”

He narrowed his eyes; more creases gathered around them. Then he rested his palm against the door as if preparing to close it.

This town had more cold shoulders than a butcher’s freezer. I was getting used to that but couldn’t afford this one.
Think fast, Patrick.

“I spoke to Jerry Lindsay just a short while ago,” I offered quickly, hoping to prevent the inevitable door slam. “He told me to come see you.”

A lie, but desperation knows no boundaries…or morals.

He loosened his hand a little, allowing it to slide a few inches down along the door frame, but then he shook his head, frowned, and said, “I don’t think I want to talk about my—”

“CJ Norris also suggested we speak,” I interrupted. That part was actually true, and he must have liked it better because I saw his face soften a bit.

He thought it over—or at least that’s what he appeared to be doing—looked both ways outside his door, then opened it wider, grudgingly motioning me inside.

I followed him down a long, narrow hallway that led to his living room. Inside, the house was every bit as nice as the exterior. Wood beams crisscrossed the ceiling; the honey-colored floors matched them almost perfectly. Skylights spread a warm glow into and throughout the room. It had a comfortable and welcoming feel—a sharp contrast to the less-than-warm attitude he’d displayed when I first arrived. Clearly, there was more to this man.

I settled into the sofa, and he took the recliner. Still studying my surroundings, I focused on a string of family photos lining the fireplace mantel: Dennis, Jean, and Nathan. Big smiles during much happier times and the start of a new, exciting life—one that came crashing down too soon and without warning.

I pushed the thought aside and turned my gaze to Dennis. He was staring at me. Apparently, I’d not been alone during my visual exploration of his home. I tried to minimize the effect.

“Nice place you have here, Mr. Kingsley. Very nice.”

He nodded slowly. Said nothing.

“And I really appreciate you taking the time.”

“I have to tell you,” he said, now sounding more troubled than annoyed, “I haven’t spoken to anyone about my son in years. I’m a little uncomfortable.”

“I understand, sir, and I can appreciate your hesitancy. I’ll try to make this as easy as possible.”

That seemed to disarm him a little. He studied me some, then said, “So what is it you need, Mr. Bannister?”

“I’d like to get some background on your family, if you don’t mind.” I removed the pad and pen from my shirt pocket. Knowing he wasn’t quite feeling me yet, I decided to wait on Nathan, start with Jean. “Mr. Kingsley, I know your wife was very ill, but had there been any indication she was suicidal?”

He sighed long and slow. “There was very little that surprised me at that point. Things had gone from bad to worse in a hurry, and I guess by then I already knew it wasn’t going to end well.”

“Getting worse how?”

“She’d go from one extreme to the other. Hostile and abusive one day, withdrawn and depressed the next. Then it went from hour to hour, and eventually, minute to minute as the symptoms got worse.”

“How so?”

He threw his hands up. “She stopped making sense. Talked about all kinds of crazy stuff. To be honest, it was difficult going to see her. Like visiting a different person each time. I never knew who the hell to expect. It just wasn’t my Jeanie anymore.”

“When you say crazy stuff, what do you mean?”

“I don’t know...pure nonsense—it went in one ear and out the other most of the time.”

I nodded and offered a sympathetic smile. “Mr. Kingsley, would you have a problem with me speaking to the people at Glenview about her? Can I have your permission?”

He looked down at his hands. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“What about the day your son disappeared? Can you tell me what happened?”

He gazed at me for a long moment, drew a deep breath, let it out quickly. “I came home and found my wife sitting on the living room floor, tears running down her cheeks, a dazed look on her face. And potatoes. Lots of potatoes all over the place.” He looked off into the dining room, and his voice seemed to trail along with it. “For some reason that still sticks in my mind. And her lip was busted.”

“How’d that happen?”

He shook his head. “Said she’d hit it on the kitchen door while she was looking for Nathan.”

I made a note of it, flipped the page. “Then what?”

“I asked her what was going on, but she wouldn’t answer. Wouldn’t even look up at me. So I asked again. Finally, she said, ‘I’ve lost Nathan.’ Just like that: ‘I’ve lost Nathan.’”

“Then what?”

He brought his gaze back to me. “I asked her what she meant.”

“And?”

“She just stared at me—I’ll never forget the empty look in her eyes...and the tears…and the trembling. She was trembling something awful. It scared me. Just kept saying that somebody had taken our son. Over and over…”

I leaned forward. “And what did
you
say?”

“Not sure I really remember. I just...I didn’t understand…I mean, there she was, on the floor, falling apart right in front of me, and telling me she’d lost our son.” He gazed down at the floor. “I kept hoping it was all some misunderstanding, that Nathan was in the other room fast asleep, safe, that he was fine, that…anything other than this.”