Whisper in the Dark (A Thriller) (17 page)

Feeling foolish and ashamed, he climbed into his car, sank deep into the driver’s seat.

He half expected Lisa or Blackburn or someone with a butterfly net to show up, but several minutes went by and no one did. He was alone out here. Just as he’d wanted to be. Alone with his thoughts, his worries, his dread.

His madness?

He knew he should march right back into that hospital and tell them both what was going on. Tell Blackburn about his missing time, that they needed to look more closely at Abby’s murder, because he couldn’t make any guarantees about his own culpability.

This woman, this Jane Doe, had made him see that. Her resemblance to Abby had opened a Pandora’s box of emotions. Emotions he could no longer contain. And in trying to suppress them this past year, he had developed his own psychosis.

The psychosis of a guilty man?

But he didn’t get up. Didn’t march into the hospital. Didn’t tell anyone about the time he’d lost, or the delusions that plagued him.

Instead, he simply leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes.

But the moment he did, a whispery voice said:

“Hello, Dr. Tolan.”

And before he could react, the sting of a needle touched his neck and he was suddenly falling backward down a long, dark hole.

FOUR

The Man Who Wasn’t There

29

S
OLOMON FELT IT
the moment they started up the winding road toward Headcase Hotel. It was only a vague feeling at first, but the closer they got, the stronger it grew.

Trouble.

There was trouble here.

A definite break in The Rhythm.

The two cops were talking football in the front seat, the driver every once in a while glancing at Solomon in the rearview mirror, giving him the cop scowl. This was the one who had started to beat on him once they left County General. Told Solomon he’d blown it, the way he’d acted up with the intake lady, calling him a liar and whatnot. Said that once they got to Baycliff he was gonna tell the doctors that Solomon was a violent sex offender. See how that worked out for him.

Solomon didn’t really care.

Not about that, at least.

But this trouble he sensed, this break in The Rhythm—it was worrisome, to say the least.

On the one hand it told him what he’d needed to know. That the woman he called Myra was here.

But on the other hand, it also told him that what he’d most feared this morning might very well be true. That she wasn’t quite the Myra he knew. She might not even be Myra at all by now.

The car rounded a curve and Solomon saw the hospital up ahead, a cluster of drab old buildings that could just as easily have been a college or an old-town office complex. As they pulled into the parking lot, he noticed a small forest of pepper trees beyond the main walkway.

Solomon felt a strange vibe coming from those trees. Like there was something alive back there. Something dangerous.

Trouble.

It was bound to get worse before it got any better.

It always did.

30

T
WO MELTDOWNS IN
one morning.

That had to be a record.

Tolan was obviously a guy with some very serious psychological issues and Blackburn wished he’d never brought Psycho Bitch here in the first place.

After Tolan fled, Blackburn had turned to her, trying to figure out what it was about this woman that triggered such a strong reaction from the guy. But she had already resumed her previous position—knees up, head tucked to her chest, as she whispered the same mindless chant:

“Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie . . .”

Had she said Tolan’s name earlier?

She’d spoken to him, he knew that much. Said something soft and low, and Blackburn had thought he’d heard her say “Michael.” But he couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t be sure of anything at this point.

“Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie . . .”

Who was this woman?

Did Tolan know her?

What power did she have over him?

After locking her in the room, Blackburn had turned to an orderly crossing the hall.

“You see which way Doc Tolan went?”

The orderly pointed. “Around the corner.”

He was about to start in that direction when his phone bleeped. He dug it out, flipped it open.

De Mello.

He thumbed a button. “Hey, Fred, you get the name of that model yet?”

“Still waiting for a callback,” De Mello said. “But I’ve got the cell phone records you asked for. Where do you want me to fax them?”

Tolan had given them permission to pull his cell records in hopes they’d be able to trace Vincent’s calls. It was a long shot, but they had to try.

Blackburn remembered seeing one of those printer/fax combos in Tolan’s office when the techs were wiring it up. That was as good a place as any. Besides, maybe that was where Tolan had gone.

“Give me a couple minutes,” he said. “I’ll call you back with a number.”

Five minutes later he was standing in Tolan’s office—no sign of the doc in evidence—waiting for the fax machine to kick into gear. After a moment, it rang, picked up, then the printer started whirring, slowly pushing out the list of cell phone calls.

As Blackburn waited, something caught his eye.

Tolan’s bottom desk drawer. Hanging open.

Inside was a manila envelope labeled in black marker: ABBY.

Blackburn knew he should let it go, that it was none of his business, but curiosity got the better of him. Reaching into the drawer, he pulled out the envelope, then raised the flap and saw that it was filled with photographs. Dozens of them.

He took out a handful and sifted through them. Shots of Abby Tolan.

She’d been a beautiful woman. Stunning, in fact. He had only seen the autopsy photos and the single portrait in the murder book, but looking at these, he now understood why both Tolan and Nurse Lisa had reacted to the witness the way they had. The resemblance was close. Close enough to dredge up a lot of grief.

He was about to return them when he noticed something odd about some of the photos inside the envelope. Pulling out another stack, he laid them on the desktop and looked down at them in stunned surprise.

What the hell?

A slow chill ran through Blackburn as the fax machine behind him beeped, telling him his transmission was ready.

H
E FOUND CARMODY
in the communications van, micromanaging as usual, making sure the audio techs weren’t asleep at the wheel.

“We’ve got problems,” he said. “Major problems.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Tolan took off, for one.”

Carmody looked alarmed. “Why? What happened?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. The witness starts singing and he goes ballistic. One of the nurses saw him crossing toward the parking lot and now his car’s gone.”

“Damn it,” Carmody said, climbing out of the van. “We need to find him. If Vincent somehow—”

“Forget Vincent.” Blackburn gestured to the van. “This is a waste of time. All of it.”

“What are you talking about?”

Blackburn sighed. “You hungry?”

“Not particularly.”

“Well, I shouldn’t be either, but I am, and there’s something I gotta show you. Let’s go get lunch.”

T
HEY GOT TRAYS
in the hospital cafeteria, Blackburn filling his plate with slop that looked barely edible. But he was used to barely edible, so he happily scooped it on and looked forward to hammering it down.

Carmody stuck to fresh greens. No dressing.

Typical.

He could see that she was about ready to burst. Agitated by his delaying tactics. To her credit, however, she kept her impatience in check for once, giving Blackburn some slack.

He knew it wouldn’t last long. But he’d needed a few moments to think about how he was going to frame this. Tell her what he now suspected.

“So here’s the thing,” he said, once they’d settled at a table. “Ever since I brought Psycho Bitch here, I—”

“Who?”

He eyed her patiently. “The witness.”

Carmody gave him that look she was so good at. The one that said he was a politically incorrect, misogynistic idiot. “Psycho Bitch?”

He shrugged. “I call ’em like I see ’em.”

She shook her head, stabbed a bite of salad. “You’re a sad man, Frank. Got the sensitivity of a snail.”

“Yeah? You didn’t seem to mind so much when I spent the night at your apartment.”

Her expression froze. “Don’t even go there.”

Blackburn was about to do just that, and then some, but caught himself. It seemed that whenever he got around Carmody for any extended length of time, he let himself get sucked into some weird vortex where he actually gave a shit what she thought of him. Like he was some pimply-faced teenager trying to get the prom queen to take notice.

He looked at her a moment, noting that she was wearing less makeup these days, and that she still wore those tiny ruby earrings her father had given her when she was fifteen. Her birthstone. He wasn’t sure why he remembered that particular tidbit about her life, but it made him uncomfortable to know that he did.

He cleared his throat. “Right. Back to Tolan.”

“I’m losing my patience.”

As if she ever had any.

“The thing is,” Blackburn said, “once I get hold of something, it’s hard for me to let go. You know that. And I can’t stop thinking about what Psycho—Jane Doe keeps saying.”

“Which is?”

“Two times four is a lie.”

Carmody blinked at him. “What?”

“Two times four is a lie. She says it over and over. At first I thought it was just a buncha nut-case nonsense, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Okay,” Carmody said. “I’m curious. Tell me why I should care.”

“Think about it. Two times four. Four multiplied by two. What does that equal?”

“Eight.”

“Exactly. And how many victims have we attributed to Vincent?”

Carmody hesitated. “Eight,” she said.

“Right again. But now the circus is in town based solely on the strength of a couple of phone calls. Phone calls accusing Tolan of being a copycat. Of murdering his wife. Which, if true, would mean that Vincent’s victim count is only seven.”

“If true?”

“Two times four is a lie.”

He waited for Carmody to process this, but wasn’t surprised when she balked. “You expect me to believe that this woman somehow knows how many people Vincent has really killed?”

“No, but maybe she knows that Tolan’s wife wasn’t one of them.”

Carmody stared at him. “You think Tolan killed his wife.”

“Just like Vincent said.”

She clearly wasn’t buying. Seemed amused, in fact. “That’s pretty wild, Frank. Tell me another one.”

“Don’t be so quick to dismiss me, okay?”

“There’s a flaw in your logic. If Tolan killed his wife, why would he bother telling us about Vincent’s phone calls in the first place? Wouldn’t he want to keep that to himself?”

Blackburn waited a moment, then said, “What if I told you those phone calls are complete bullshit? That he made it all up?”

“That’s ludicrous. Why would he do that?”

Blackburn shrugged. “Why else? Guilt.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Frank, if you brought me here to spew this nonsense—”

“Just let me finish, okay?”

Carmody glared at him. “This had better be good.”

They said nothing for a moment, launching into an impromptu staring contest, Blackburn trying to decide if he wanted to put a fist in her face or simply lean across the table and plant a kiss on her lips.

That would certainly catch her off guard.

“How many times,” he said, breaking away from the stare, “have you gotten a perp in the interrogation room, he’s denying and denying—didn’t know the girl, wasn’t near the place—but you get the sense he’s holding back. And you know he wants to tell you about it, keeps steering the conversation in a direction that makes you think he might want to confess.”

“And you think that’s Tolan?”

“Like I said, what if the phone calls from Vincent weren’t real? What if that web page he showed us was a fake? What would that tell you?”

“That he has some very serious mental health issues. But you’re making an assumption that isn’t backed up by the facts.”

“Isn’t it?” Blackburn dipped his hand into his coat pocket and brought out the list of cell phone calls. “Right after Tolan pulled his disappearing act, I got a call from De Mello. He faxed me this.”

He unfolded it and laid it on the table in front of her.

“Tolan says Vincent called him around three this morning, then again about an hour before we got here. Notice anything missing?”

Carmody scanned the sheet. “Here’s one right here. A little after three A.M.”

“Yeah, that’s me, calling about Jane.” He pointed to the next entry. “And this one is Tolan calling me, right before I went into the meeting with Escalante.” He paused. “There’s no activity in between.”

Carmody frowned. “What about his home and office lines?”

“We don’t have the records yet, but he specifically said Vincent called him on his cell phone, remember?”

She remembered, all right. Blackburn could see it in her face.

“I don’t believe this. He lied to us.”

“That he did,” Blackburn said, leaning back in his chair. “Right to our fucking faces.”

31

L
ISA HAD BEEN
to the parking lot three times in the last half hour and still no sign of him. His parking space was empty.

She took her cell phone out, dialed his number. It rang several times, then his voice mail answered. Beeped.

“Michael,” she said, “it’s me again. Where are you? We were supposed to have lunch, remember? Call me when you get this.”

She hung up, feeling hurt and angry.

Wanted to wring his neck.

She knew these crank phone calls, or whatever they were, had rattled him. But she suspected the patient in SR-3 was the real reason for his behavior. Had known it the moment she saw her curled up on the bed—that same petite, fragile frame as Abby’s. The same wild dark hair.