When She Was Bad: A Thriller (12 page)

“What password?” said the girl. “Who are you, anyway?”

8

Irene had finally managed to contact Lily from the taxicab, she told Pender when she returned to the hotel. Only it wasn’t Lily, she went on to explain, it couldn’t have been. “She called me Dr. Cogan. She’s never called me Dr. Cogan—not once in all these years. It’s been Dr. Irene this, Dr. Irene that from the time she was four.”

“Dr. Cogan is probably what Corder calls you,” suggested Pender, who was wearing his horseblanket-plaid slacks and a periwinkle polo shirt. “Maybe she picked it up from him.”

“And the way she rushed through the call, like she couldn’t get rid of me fast enough? I’m telling you, it was Lilith, it had to have been. And the only reason she’d be trying to trick me into thinking she’s Lily is if she had something up her sleeve—something like, say, escaping?”

“Well gosh, Irene, in that case maybe we ought to get her moved to some kind of maximum-security facility where—Oh, wait a minute, I just remembered—she’s already
in
one.”

She blew him a juicy raspberry. “Not funny, Pender.”

“M’dear, you spent half of last night talking my ear off about how hard a time you were having letting go of Lily, but how you knew it was the right thing for both of you. You sure this isn’t just more of the same?”

“I don’t know, maybe you’re right, Pen. Only…. “Sitting on the edge of the bed, scarcely aware of what she was doing, Irene had unwrapped a complimentary pillow mint and popped it into her mouth before she remembered she couldn’t stand the taste of peppermint. Genteelly, she spat it out into a tissue, and tossed the tissue into the wastebasket.

“Only what?” prompted Pender.

“If I were Al Corder, I’d want to be told.”

“Call him, then.”

“I tried, but he must have left for the day—all I got was his voice mail. They won’t give me his home number either—it’s unlisted.”

Pender’s cetaceous brow creased in thought. “I could be missing something here, but if Corder’s already left for the day, maybe he’s not the person you need to talk to. Our flight’s at ten-thirty, right?”

“Yes, but we’re supposed to be at the airport no later than nine thirty. Oh, and I got us an extension on the checkout time, but we still have to be out of our rooms by six-thirty at the latest or we’ll get charged for an extra night.”

“Which gives us a couple hours to kill. We might as well stop by the hospital after dinner, see if we can wangle a visit with Lily. If not, maybe we could talk to whoever’s in charge, give ’em a heads-up. At the very least, it’ll be one less thing for you to worry about. How’s that for a plan?”

“How about
before
dinner,” Irene suggested.

“Fair enough,” said Pender. “Can I have your other mint?”

1

Al Corder changed into khaki slacks and a soft old blue-and-brown-checked flannel shirt, worn tails-out to cover his paunch, then he transferred the contents of his pockets—wallet, coins, fifty bucks in a $-shaped money-clip, a hospital pager, and a Swiss Army knife—from the suit pants to either the khakis or the top of the bureau. As he tossed the suit into the dry-cleaning pile in the closet, Cheryl emerged from the bathroom in her slip and began rummaging through her bureau.

“You done in the bathroom?” he asked her, patting her plump rear as he brushed past her.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

But he quickly doubled back, stooped in a Groucho Marx crouch, to ogle the white breasts dangling fatly beneath the thin fabric of her slip as she bent over to search the bottom drawer of her bureau. “Why, I haven’t seen a pair of melons like that since they closed the farmers’ market.” He waggled his eyebrows and tapped the ash from an imaginary cigar.

“Steady there,” said Cheryl, but she allowed her husband a quick fondle before changing into a dark blue skirt and a white cotton blouse with a moderate neckline—over the last year or so, she’d caught Lyssy staring at her chest with more than passing interest. She crossed the hall and rapped at Alison’s door. “You almost ready, honey?”

Alison opened the door wearing below-the-navel jeans and a skintight sleeveless top that barely reached the bottom of her rib cage. “Oh, Allie, you’re not wearing that, are you?”

The girl looked down at herself. “Well, yeah, Mom—I appear to be,” she observed drily.

“At least put on a sweater.”

“I’m not cold.”

“It’s not
your
temperature I’m worried about,” her mother retorted.

While mother and daughter fought their age-old battle, father ran an electric razor over his five-o’clock shadow, then splashed on some Old Spice aftershave, which he preferred to the designer brands his wife and daughter continued to give him every Father’s Day. Cheryl and Alison were still arguing in the hallway when he left the bedroom. “Holy cow, is that what you’re wearing?” he asked Alison guilelessly.

“I’m not a baby anymore!” she shouted. “Why don’t the two of you just grow up!”

2

It took Max a few seconds to recover from his near-coronary over Lilith’s ostensible failure to recognize him.

“Just messin’ with your head,” she told him with a wink and a grin.

“If you
ever
do that again, I swear I’ll—”

But the psych techs had caught up to them. “Let’s get moving, Lyssy,” said Wally. “You don’t want to be late to your own party.”

The sky was Portland pewter, with a fitful summer breeze rustling through the pines as the patients and their escorts hiked through the arboretum. Wally unlocked the gate; the little procession ducked through the arch-topped door set into the spike-topped brick wall.

Everything felt different on the other side. The openness, the wide lawn, the heavenly smell of new-mown grass, the rusting swing set, the clothes drying on the line—a delighted Max spread his arms and turned in a clumsy circle, like a Bizarro-World version of Julie Andrews in
The Sound of Music.
“Wa-ow,” he said—the two-syllable
wow
was the cornerstone of his Christopher Walken impression.

“Wow what?” said Lilith.

Max glanced around to be sure the psych techs weren’t watching. “No walls,” he whispered. “No fuckin’ walls.”

Silver cardboard letters spelling out Happy Birthday dangled crazily from a string across the top of the front doorway of the director’s residence; it was the director himself who answered the bell. “The gals are in the kitchen preparing the, ah, birthday repast,” Alan Corder announced as he ushered the four of them inside. Lilith said she wanted to help, so Patty accompanied her into the kitchen. Soon, Max mouthed to Lilith as they parted; she nodded curtly and turned away.

But just how soon, not even Max could have predicted. The menfolk had just repaired to the living room, which was decorated with helium balloons and crepe-paper party streamers. Corder was still at the sideboard fixing their drinks—orange soda on the rocks for Wally and “Lyssy”; a weak Scotch and soda for himself—when Patty and Lilith passed the living room on their way upstairs.

“Everything all right?” called Corder.

“Lily’s feeling a little queasy,” replied Patty. “Mrs. Corder said for us to use the guest bathroom.”

Five, ten minutes later—Max was on the sofa sipping his soda; Corder and Wally were in the matching green leather recliners that flanked the fireplace—Lilith returned alone. “Patty had to take a dump. She said for me to wait for her down here,” she announced as she plopped onto the sofa next to Max, breathing hard.

Damn, he thought, be a little more careful with your language, would you?
Take a dump
was pure Lilith, not like Lily at all. But Wally and Corder didn’t seem to notice anything amiss—they were too busy talking shop. Without mentioning names, Wally seemed to be complaining about one of the other psych techs, who was not, in Wally’s opinion, pulling his fair share of the load. As Corder promised to look into it, Lilith slipped something into the crack between the sofa cushions. Max shifted position to cover the motion with his thigh as he reached down and felt—

A knife. A steak knife with a sharp serrated blade a good four inches in length. Obviously Lilith had purloined it from a cabinet drawer while she was in the kitchen earlier. But as his fingers closed around the handle, Max sensed Kinch stirring in the darkness. Quickly Max slid the knife point-first into the front pocket of his chinos, and the stirring subsided.

And now the ball was in his court. “Hey, Wally?”

“Yeah, Lyss?”

“I think maybe I have to go to the little boy’s room.” Infantile, sure—but
very
Lyssy.

“You can use the one off the kitchen,” said Corder.

So far, so good. Max led the way; Wally followed close behind. “Hi, Lyssy, happy birthday, don’t peek,” called Alison as they passed through the kitchen. She was wearing one of her trampy Britney Spears outfits under an oversize letter sweater; she and her mother closed ranks in front of the kitchen table in order to hide the slightly lopsided birthday cake they were decorating.

A dark hallway led from the kitchen to the back door, with a pantry on the right and the bathroom door on the left. Max glanced behind him, past Wally, to make sure they were both well out of sight of the women in the kitchen, then grasped the doorknob and rattled it, as though the door were stuck or locked.

“Here, let me,” said Wally. Max stepped aside, slipping his hand into his pocket and palming the knife. Wally opened the door easily. “There you go,” he said, turning back to Max.

“And there
you
go,” said Max, as a gash like a second mouth sprouted under Wally’s chin, a ghastly, ear-to-ear grin spurting blood at both ends. Wally’s hands flew to his throat; blood welled through his clutching fingers as he dropped to his knees, staring up at Max with one of the saddest, most surprised expressions Max had ever seen—and he’d seen quite a few in his day.

It was over in seconds. When he stooped to wipe the blade clean on Wally’s shorts, Max caught a glimpse of the wristwatch on the corpse’s outflung arm, and discovered to his surprise that it wasn’t even quarter to six. Less than fifteen minutes had elapsed since they first entered the house, and yet the most difficult and potentially dangerous aspect of tonight’s business had already been successfully negotiated.

Which meant he might be able to enjoy the next part, the
real
fun part, in relative leisure. “Hey, Wal,” he said aloud, as Lyssy. “You know what, I think this is going to be the best birthday party ever!”

3

Pender parked the rent-a-car at the curb. The front doors of the Institute were open, but the grand lobby was largely deserted, and a security guard with Elvis sideburns now sat behind the reception desk. “Evening,” he said.

“Good evening,” said Irene; Pender nodded.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I need to…Well, to…“To what? Irene found herself wishing she’d thought this out a little more carefully on the way over. “Is Dr. Corder available, by any chance? I know it’s—”

The guard tapped a few strokes on a keyboard hidden beneath the high counter. “Sorry, he signed out an hour ago,” he said un-helpfully;
your move,
read his expression.

“All right, well, here’s the thing,” said Irene, then paused, momentarily appalled. Here’s the thing? She thought: how very glib! She soldiered on. “My name is Irene Cogan.
Dr.
Irene Cogan. I’m a psychiatrist.”

“Unh-hunh?” the guard grunted, with a rising inflection, as if to say, go on, this ought to be good.

“One of my patients—my former patients—is a patient here now,” she went on, trying not to sound quite so much like a potential customer herself. “Her name is Lily DeVries—is there any chance I might be able to see her?”

He consulted the computer again, shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t seem to find you on the list.”

“It’d only be for a second. I just want to—”

He cut her off. “Sorry. My orders are that all visitors have to be approved in advance by the patient’s doctor.”

“I understand,” said Irene. “But here’s the…“Whoops, she thought, and tried again. “Here’s the situation: I have some important information about Lily that her doctor needs to know.”

“And her doctor is…?”

“Dr. Corder is handling her case personally.”

“Then you should probably call him in the morning, because there’s nothing I can do for you tonight.”

“Oh, sure there is,” said Pender pleasantly but firmly; they were the first words he’d spoken since they’d entered.

“And you are?”

“E. L. Pender, Special Agent Emeritus, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He was, of course, counting on the guard having no idea what
emeritus
meant. “And what you can do for us,” he continued, without raising his voice, “and for yourself, assuming you’d like to keep your current position, or ever hold another job in the security industry, is get on the horn to whoever’s in charge of this facility at the present moment, and get him or her down here asap—that’s alpha sierra alpha papa, as in immediately, toot sweet, and pronto, do you copy?”

“Sure, whyn’t you say so in the first place?” grumbled the guard, turning his back to the visitors and picking up the telephone.

“Very impressive,” whispered Irene.

Pender winked. “Well, you know what Harry Truman said when he gave the order to drop the bomb on Hiroshima: ‘Sometimes you just have to get their attention.’”

4

Strained small talk in the living room:

“Are you enjoying your stay so far, Lily?”

“Yes, very much, thank you, Dr. Corder.”

“Everybody treating you all right?”

“Oh yeah, everybody couldn’t be nicer.”

“Good, good.” Thoughtful nod. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Do you have any Dubonnet?”

“I was thinking more in terms of something, ah, nonalcoholic.”

“That’s okay, never mind.”

Corder checked his watch. “Maybe I’d better go see what’s keeping everyone,” he said, but before he could push himself up from the deep recliner, his wife came stumbling through the archway, with a blood-spattered Ulysses Maxwell shuffling in lockstep behind her, holding a knife to her throat with one hand, half-dragging young Alison by her long blond hair with the other.

“Lyssy, what are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

An amused glance, a barking laugh. “I’m afraid Lyssy is no longer with us, Dr. Al.”

“Who—who are you?” Corder managed to choke the words out.

“What’s the matter, don’t you recognize me, Doc?” he said, slinging Alison to the floor.

“Oh, God,” Corder moaned. “God, no.”

The familiar-looking stranger chuckled. “I’m afraid He’s no longer with us, either.”

5

Martín Cohen was a short, tidy-looking, brown-skinned Hispanic in dark slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt, and a powder-blue bowtie. He looked awfully young to Irene—scarcely old enough to be one of her students.

“Sorry for the delay—I was just getting ready to make my rounds,” he said in a pleasantly textured Mexican accent as he ushered Irene and Pender over to a three-armchair grouping in the lobby and turned up the dimmer switch on a tall floor lamp with an upside-down frosted-glass shade. “I’m Dr. Cohen. Senior resident. Please, have a seat.”

“I’m Irene Cogan, this is Agent Pender. We won’t take up much of your time, I promise,” said Irene; she and Pender sat across a low round table from each other, flanking Cohen.

“I appreciate it. I gather this is about your former patient, Miss DeVries?”

“You’re familiar with the case?”

“I’m familiar with all our cases,” he said, glancing pointedly at his wristwatch. “Please, go on.”

“Here’s the situation. I’ve been trying to contact Lily by phone for two days—unsuccessfully. But I finally spoke to her about…“She glanced at her own watch. “…a little over an hour ago, and I had a very strong impression that it wasn’t Lily I was speaking with, it was one of her alter personalities.”

“I see,” said Cohen; to Irene it sounded more like so what?

She understood his point of view. A patient’s erstwhile doctor shows up after hours insisting that her erstwhile patient has been displaying symptoms of the disorder for which she’d been admitted in the first place—not exactly earth-shattering news.

But Irene persevered, making the same points she’d made earlier to Pender, and eventually, to his credit, Cohen caught on. Curtly, he excused himself to make a phone call, leaving Irene and Pender waiting in the lobby. When he returned a few minutes later, it was to Pender that he addressed himself. “I understand you’re with the FBI?”