What Hides Within (36 page)

Chester has been here for me
, he thought. Maybe it was Clive who was evil.

Let it go
, Chester whispered. She seemed discomforted by Clive's constant nightmares.

Why question all that has happened? Why probe the reasons behind your improved life? Why can't you just be happy?

"Improved life? Since I met you, I've seen multiple doctors. I've had a sordid range of medical problems, including headaches, insomnia, possibly amnesia and, let's not forget, brain surgery. I've been stalked, blown up and stabbed. Now, I'm being investigated by the police. My best friend is dead, courtesy of you, and so are my roommate and my sister-in-law. And perhaps worst of all, I had sex with my fat cow of a boss!"

Well, then, I've added some excitement to your pathetic existence, haven't I? Why the sudden about-face? Yes, Clive, you've lost some things. Nothing important, though. Let's compare that with what you've gained. A pay raise. Deeper relationships with your niece and Morgan. Real love, Clive. Something you've never had before. Something people can go their whole lives and never find.

"Since when were you such a sap?"

What? It isn't true? You know it is. Why can't you appreciate what you have?

"Because it's not real! None of it! Everything fell into my lap. It was all fabricated by you! And I can't even be sure you're real. If you're not, that would mean . . ."

Clive was too afraid to finish his own statement. Insanity wasn't something with which the sane could come to grips. And if Chester was nothing more than a figment of his disturbed mind, that would mean all the nasty deeds that he attributed to her would truly have been his own. Derek's death would have been his doing.

"What if I did the things my dreams suggest?"

You're being ridiculous. Morgan was right about you. It's your conscience playing games with your head. You killed a man. You did what you had to do. That couldn't have been easy for you. The nightmares are your mind's way of working through your guilt. Give it some time. You'll be fine, I promise
.

"That's what you said about confronting Kevin. The fucker nearly killed me! Believe me when I say it hurts a lot to get stabbed in the stomach. I lost so much blood. I could have died!"

You're fine now, aren't you?

"That's debatable. Are we talking about my mental state, too?"

Like I said, give it time.

"You talk about my mind not coping well with
my
guilt? I followed
your
instructions. I did what
you
wanted me to do."

What I wanted you to? So that's how you want to play it?

Chester's voice echoed with a rage Clive had not before experienced. It curled him up in fear.

You got us into this mess, Clive. You. Not me. Not us. You. Things were going along just swimmingly, but I leave for one night, one night, and you fuck up everything! We were a team, Clive. Maybe you forgot what that means.

"A team? What kind of team? You're a bug that lives in my head, uninvited I might add. What kind of team could we possibly make? Even still, I thought you and I had become friends?"

We are friends, Clive.
Chester's hostility lessened. For the moment, she almost sounded as though she felt sorry for Clive.

That's why I'm telling you to let go of your guilt and move on with your life. I'm trying to help you. You've done nothing wrong. You shouldn't be torturing yourself like this.

"Tell that to Detective Reilly. She seems to think I've done all sorts of terrible things."

She's mistaken. Who knows you better than me? Anyway, don't worry about her. She has nothing on you. There's still a way out of all of this, but I've done all I can to help you. Now, you must help yourself. Stop digging. Your psyche can't take much more of it. If you persist, you'll only destroy everything that you are and everything that you have. Your happiness, Victoria, Morgan, you'll lose it all. You don't have to. Stop tormenting yourself. Nothing that has happened has been within your control. Let yourself be at peace, and I swear, we'll get through this.

"I'm not so sure I deserve to get through anything. Unless this was all your doing! Was it, Chester?"

Don't be fool--

"Did you do more than just watch? That's what you do, isn't it? Watch?"

That's right, Clive. I watch.

"Oh, so that's what you were doing when you killed Derek. Watching. It all makes sense now."

That was different. I did what needed to be done.

"What else have you 'watched' me do? What have you
made
me do?"

Nothing.

"Nothing? That's it? That's all you have to say?"

Your actions have been entirely your own, Clive. You--

"Please, just leave me alone. I need some time to think."

Believe me, that's the last thing you need. So, I'm afraid I can't let you have that.

"Go away! Leave me alone! I don't want you around anymore."

I'll leave when I choose to leave, but if you keep up this whiny bitch attitude, my stay may be shorter than suits either of our interests.

Unable to control Chester, Clive felt he was losing control of himself. His grasp on rationality, already loosely held, slipped away. His thoughts piled atop one another until none were coherent. Beneath their pile, a solid instinct remained, an instinct that told Clive to remove Chester from his head, if not by consent then by force.

I can see you're as stubborn as always. As I'm not yet ready for your awakening, I'll do what I have to do to stop it. This is going to hurt you a whole lot more than it'll hurt me.

Chester began to hum. She repeated the melody that had brought Clive to his knees that night at Morgan's. Only this time, she was louder and sharper.

Clive noticed, and it hurt. He clawed at his hair and dug his nails into his scalp. He tried to reopen Dr. Landenberg's incision, mad with pain. The scar tissue held fast. Blood dripped from his nose and ran from his ears. Clive could swear his brain was hemorrhaging. He collapsed to the floor, awake but immobilized. And over and over again, Chester hummed her cacophonous melody.

"The suspect, Kevin Ventura, died last week from a stab wound inflicted by his roommate, Clive Menard, at their second floor apartment located at 14 Gilmore Lane in Somerset. Authorities have cleared Menard of any implications concerning his participation in the explosions. Menard was stabbed in the altercation with Ventura. We're told he is recovering at Charlton Memorial Hospital. No charges have been brought against Menard, with Ventura's death considered an act of self-defense."

"Turn that shit off! We get our facts from investigation, not the daily news."

The television screen went blank. The precinct went silent with the television. Officers acted busy. Detective Reilly was all business.

A senior, white-shirted officer approached Reilly's office. Unlike the others, he didn't seem to fear her wrath. With a Calvin and Hobbes coffee mug filled with four-hour old coffee in hand, he leaned against her door frame.

"Still not convinced about Ventura?" Captain Horatio Sanchez asked between sips.

Behind his back, the other officers called him "Dirty Sanchez," not because he was prone to unethical behavior, but because they found humor in the absurd sexual innuendo associated with the name. His caricature provided his subordinates with endless amusement, right down to his thin, shit-streak moustache. Well, particularly the moustache.

Despite her knowledge of, and slight amusement from, the nickname, Reilly respected Sanchez. He had a wealth of experience in the worst kinds of matters. She knew she could rely on him, placing him second-in-command on the Page murder. After all, Sanchez couldn't choose his name. But he could shave off that ridiculous moustache.

"Captain, you've been a cop for as long as I have--"

"Longer, actually, but go ahead."

"When have you ever seen such a gargantuan horde of incriminating evidence gift-wrapped and dropped into our laps like a whore on dick?"

"I never underestimate the stupidity of criminals. Two days ago, we arrested a guy who robbed a florist shop, then later called the shop to apologize and ask the attendant out on a date. Caller identification is everywhere these days. That alone would have been enough to nab the guy without him giving the florist his actual name and number. At least once a month, we have to pull a would-be burglar out of a ventilation shaft. And if I had a dollar for every time 'I promise not to tell if you let me go' worked, I'd be richer than Bill Gates."

"Yeah, but our perp left little evidence at the crime scenes. Now, out of nowhere, evidence is piling up so fast, we're going to need an addition to the precinct just to store it. Awfully convenient, wouldn't you say? When have we ever been so lucky? That apartment doesn't just belong to Ventura, you know."

"You think his roommate had something to do with the explosions? Ventura stabbed him, for Christ's sake. That guy took down a killer. He's a hero."

"I'm not saying Menard was in on it. He certainly has an uncanny ability for showing up at the wrong time. All I'm saying is, Ventura didn't have the brass for something like this."

"What's there to it? You set a bomb and leave. You don't even have to be there when it goes boom. You said so yourself that you always suspected him of killing Valerie Page. I guess he was screwed up in more ways than one."

"He did kill Valerie Page. I'm not questioning that."

"Then you solved a case that means something even to the degenerates of this unfeeling community. And the guy who blew up our Mayor is dead. I hate to admit it, but I kind of wish Ventura would have taken out this new guy, too. He should burn in Hell for sticking us with that asshole."

"That's the problem. Ventura didn't leave the apartment the night Mayor Sousa was murdered. Somebody else's fingerprints were found in the Mayor's car. The whole job was sloppy, unlike the others. Then, the FBI tears apart Ventura's apartment and finds nothing. A week later, he gets stabbed in that same apartment by Menard. Lo and behold, there's suddenly more evidence than there are pimples on your fourteen-year-old daughter's face."

"Leave Maria out of this."

"My point is, none of it adds up."

"Ventura got sloppy. They always do."

"And then there's the duffel bag found by the Somerset Police when the bomber destroyed their parking lot. Hair found in that didn't match Menard's or Ventura's. It was long and wavy, probably a woman's."

"You're a great detective, Samantha, but you have to let this one go. The FBI seems satisfied. They've already closed their investigation."

"They're flat out wrong! Ventura's a murderer, no doubt about it. His size eleven Reebok Premier Infinity KFS III sneakers match the footprints found beside Valerie Page's body."

"You memorized the brand name?"

"The knife's proportions match those projected by forensics, and they have Ventura's own stab wound to compare. Plus, the Samartino boy identified him. I presume that had I had the chance to talk to him, Ventura's alibi would have been class, but he had already been booted from school by then. Everything looked panicked, spur of the moment, brought about by chance or circumstance. Unfortunately, his panic resulted in her death. He put himself in that situation, so it's felony-murder no matter how you slice it. But to plan mass murder and multiple bombings takes a certain type of individual, and Kevin Ventura, well, he ain't it."

"I'm sorry, Samantha, but your orders are to move on. We have plenty of other cases that could use your talents."

"Horatio, you don't have the authority--"

"They aren't my orders. They come from the top. It seems even the big cheeses are afraid to tell you no. They sent me in to do their dirty work. I guess they think you'll listen to me."

"Oh yeah? What'd you tell them?"

"I told them they don't know you like I do. You don't listen to anybody," Sanchez said. "Anyway, the Commissioner wants this matter resolved. To use his words, the community needs to feel safe again. If you ask me, you'd have to time warp the community back to 1955 for that."

"Damn it! It's all politics, and you know it. As long as they got someone to stone and the public's at rest, they don't give a shit who goes down and who doesn't. All they need is a scapegoat. It could be you or me next time."

"I hear you, Samantha. I wish I had better news."

"Detective Reilly," a desk sergeant interrupted. "There's someone on the phone for you who says he knows something about one of your cases."

"Could you be more vague?" Reilly groaned. "Did you get a name?"

"Yes, a Mr. Winter, or something like that. The first name began with an 'F,' I think. Or was it an 'S'?"

Idiots. I'm surrounded by them.
"Just put him through to voicemail. I'll get back to him later."

"Yes, sir, uh, ma'am, Detective, sir."

"Just go."

"Okay. Thank you, sir, um." The officer bolted from the room.

"See what we have to work with? What a useless sack of shit. It's hairbrains like him who are letting killers and psychopaths go free."

"Yeah," Sanchez agreed, seemingly just to appease her. He sat silently, sipping his coffee, letting the detective vent.

"So, are we good?" Sanchez asked after a moment.

"Ventura is only part of the story, Horatio. There's more to it. And now the chief wants to tie my hands."

"You know, what you do in your free time is your own damn business."

"It is, isn't it?"

"It sure is."

Reilly smiled. Sanchez was right. She didn't need to keep those in charge informed of all her daily activities. She would make time for each of her cases, the official and the below the radar. For some, resolution was enough. But Reilly wanted something more. She wanted divulgence.

"He knows I'm an electronics expert, so who better than me to go to for this stuff. He wanted me to order some specific parts for him. He told me he was rebuilding a stereo as a surprise gift for a friend and didn't want the parts coming to his apartment because they might raise her suspicions. He wanted everything to be discreet. As soon as he said 'her,' I thought I knew what it was all about. You know, getting pussy. I never imagined something like this."