The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller Page 7

  “Good Lord,” I said. “All this created from her mind?”

  “I’m afraid so. A very disturbed one, I remind you, one that had lost contact with any form of reality.”

  “Did this Bill—or Mrs. Kingsley— talk about anything else?”

  “Plenty. In her final days, she spent a good part of her time bragging about the other murders he’d committed.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Horrible things. Gruesome things. Some of the most disturbing I’ve ever heard—and trust me, I’ve experienced a lot here.”

  “Details?”

  “I’ve actually tried to forget them… but with a few, I’ve had a hard time doing that.”

  “You can’t tell me?”

  Doctor Faraday gazed out the window and shook his head very slowly. A tree branch shifted in the wind and threw an odd shadow across his face. “I’d rather not.”

  I drew in some air, blew it out quickly. “Can you at least tell me why she’d dream up someone so horrible, let alone want to assume his identity? Who was this guy?”

  He turned back and caught my gaze, held it for moment. “According to her, Bill Williams was the man who kidnapped and murdered her son.”

  The hair on my arms stood straight up—on the back of my neck, too—and suddenly the room felt frigid. I didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then, “She assumed the identity of the man who killed her son…”

  “Correction: the one she manufactured as the killer.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “With the mentally ill, there really isn’t any rhyme or reason, Mr. Bannister.”

  “She ever say why she thought he did it?”

  “No, and it hardly much mattered since it was all made up, anyway.”

  “I appreciate you taking the time, doctor.” I stood up, gathered my things.

  “Welcome,” he replied with an expression that revealed absolutely nothing.

  I reached over to shake his hand—it was still ice-cold—then, handing him my business card, I said, “My cell number’s there if you remember anything else.”

  He led me back down through the hallway and out toward the reception area where a guard escorted me to the elevator. Penfield was standing there, staring at me. Once again.

  “I’m going downstairs, Samuel,” she said, her eyes locked on mine, her expression bare. “I can see him out, save you the trouble.”

  Penfield watched him move down the hall and then under her breath said, “I was here when Mrs. Kingsley died.”

  I felt my heart clap twice inside my chest. Pay dirt.

  She went on, “And I don’t believe she killed herself. Never did.”

  “What are you telling me? That she was murdered?”

  “Nurse Penfield!”

  Doctor Faraday’s voice, coming from around the corner.

  She glanced quickly in that direction, then shoved the folder into my hands. “Take this, then get lost. And I mean it! Fast!”

  I dropped the folder down to my side, could see Faraday coming around the bend.

  The elevator door opened, and I stepped inside quickly, the door closing just in time, barely revealing a nervous Penfield as she turned around to face Faraday.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They say angels come in the most unexpected disguises, but who knew mine would look like Aurora Penfield? The lesson, I suppose, was never underestimate the value of a bitter and disgruntled employee.

  In my motel room, I opened the folder. Inside, were the notes—pages and pages of them—written by Faraday during Jean Kingsley’s stays at Glenview. I spread them on the bed, wondering which might hold the answers I needed.

  The doctor’s messy shorthand was hard to decipher but still clear enough to show Jean Kingsley’s downward spiral growing more pronounced during her final stay:

  June 15, 1977

  Pt. in catatonic state. Unresp @ external stimuli. No talk. Ref. to eat.

  Then:

  June 23, 1977

  Pt more respons. but disconnected @ external stimuli/reality. Aware of surroundings w/min. resp. Nurses report pt. sitting by window, rocking an imaginary baby, singing to it. Words slurred/indistinguishable. Pt. claims she’s holding her deceased son Nathan.

  Disturbing, but mild when compared with what followed next:

  Jul. 5, 1977

  Pt more alert/respon. but anxiety sig. increased. Agitated. Complaining intruder in her bed hides under sheets, touches her inappropriately. Screaming all night.

  Jul. 9, 1977

  Pt suffering from trichotillomania w/noticeable hair loss and trichophagia. Nurses rpt. pt. pulling hair out, eating it. Also found clumps around bed.

  Jul. 14, 1977

  Pt engaging in self-injurious scratching behavior @ forearms and legs. Skin broken, bleeding. Sent to infirmary @ evaluation and treatment.

  Then, toward the end of her stay:

  Jul. 29, 1977

  Pt. anxiety increase signif. Paranoid delusional. Claims someone “after her” but refus. to reveal said perp. or details because this will “turn up the heat.” Pt. speech/manner agitated.

  And around the same time, something even more interesting:

  Jul. 31, 1977

  Abrasion @ pt’s right cheek of unknwn origin. Asked about it=no response. Sent infirmary @ evaluation and treatment.

  No infirmary report in the file; nothing about the outcome there.

  I also found a few notes about Jean’s delusional state where she assumed her new identity as Bill Williams. Although the general information reflected what Faraday had told me, there were no specifics on her rants regarding Bill’s murders. That seemed odd; surely the information would have been relevant to her treatment. Faraday had refused to discuss the particulars, and now here they were, missing from the notes. I wondered if it was more than a coincidence.

  And there was something else he hadn’t told me:

  Aug. 3, 1977

  Pt. talking @ someone she calls, “Sam I am”. Highly agitated/hysterical in ref. to him. When asked who person is, pt. offers no explan. Only that she fears him.

  Aurora had been kind enough to include the visitation logs for Jean’s stays at Glenview. I looked them over. Dennis Kingsley came to see his wife religiously, usually twice daily. He often arrived around seven-thirty a.m., probably before work, then returned around six p.m., most likely after finishing his day. I saw some other names sprinkled throughout the logs but not many, and none stayed for more than a few minutes. Few returned. She’d probably scared the hell out of them.

  Except, that is, for one.

  Michael Samuels. Three visits. Always late at night.

  Sam I am?

  I searched for the guest log on the day Jean died: missing. Every date accounted for except that one.

  Flipped back to the night before the abrasion was discovered on Jean’s cheek. That log was still there: Samuels had paid her a visit around 11:30 p.m.

  What did he do, whack her?

  Looked back at the doctor’s notes a few days after the abrasion appeared:

  Aug 1, 1977

  Pt woke screaming approx. 12:35 a.m., suffering @ night terrors. Nurses rpt. diff time calming her. Admin. 150 mg @ Thorazine. No further incident.

  Bad night, indeed. The woman was terrified. It was also around the same time she began talking about Sam I am.

  What the hell was the guy doing to her?

  Apparently, he’d had the presence of mind to dispose of the records documenting his final visit the night Jean Kingsley died, but not enough to cover all his tracks.

  I dialed Glenview and asked for Aurora Penfield.

  “What is it?” she said, her voice edgy and tight.

  “I need to see you.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “No,” she said again, this time with more annoyance.

  “But I need more information.”

  In a hasty whisper, “You’re going to have to get it without
me. I gave you what I could. Now leave me out of it!”

  “Too late for that. I need to talk to—”

  She hung up.

  I stared at my phone for a long moment. The woman was scared; it seemed obvious.

  I began gathering up the notes. A sheet slid from the loose pile to the floor. As I leaned over to pick it up, I saw an envelope halfway under the door.

  I looked through the peephole. Nobody there. Opened the door, glanced both ways. Picked up the letter, flipped it over: standard business size, white, plain, nothing written on it.

  I tore it open, pulled out the sheet of paper, unfolded it.

  And nearly lost my breath.

  Scrawled across the page in large letters, barely legible handwriting:

  the snoop spies the snoop dies

  My mouth went dry, my body numb. I placed the note on the nightstand and stared at it for a long time. A sick joke? Nothing remotely funny about this. Someone trying to rattle me? Then I remembered CJ’s warning: You might be headed for some trouble.

  Next question: who wanted me out of town? Pretty much everyone, so far. But to go to this length? It had to be someone desperate enough. I considered the people I’d spoken to so far: CJ Norris, Dennis Kingsley, Jerry Lindsay, and Doctor Faraday. Norris was fine. Kingsley was standoffish in the beginning but warmed up once the conversation started. The guy seemed genuine; I liked him—Doctor Faraday, not so much, and Lindsay, not at all. I still couldn’t decide if he was hiding something or just your standard macho shithead—either way, I didn’t trust the old bastard. And if he had sent me this warning, I had to wonder why he’d want to keep me from digging, and even more, what exactly he didn’t want me to find out.

  I walked over to the window and pulled the curtains closer together.

  Thought about calling someone—but who? That would draw even more attention to me, something I could hardly afford right now. Nope, wasn’t going to do that.

  I wiped my sweaty palms on my pant legs, went to the desk, found some motel stationary and a pen.

  Wrote miscreant fifty times.

  Noticed my handwriting looked uncharacteristically shaky.

  Decided to lie down for just a few minutes…

  Chapter Seventeen

  Things weren’t all bad all the time. I had glimpses of what happiness might have felt like. I called them “almost moments.” Times in my life when I almost got what I needed, almost made a connection, almost figured things out.

  Autumn in Black Lake, a time of year I loved, the sweltering summer heat making its downward slide from miserable to mild, the leaves showing the latest in fall color, the winter months riding just above the horizon. School had just started, and I was busy at work on my first project for the year: constructing a family tree using photographs that went as far back as I could find. Warren brought a boxful over for me to pick through. He placed them on the counter, then silently migrated into the living room to watch the football game on TV.

  I remember sitting at the kitchen table and sorting through photos, surrounded by the delicious smell of pumpkin pie. It was my mother’s only indulgence to the holidays. Warren loved her pies, and what Warren wanted, he usually got.

  Maybe it was a combination of the photos, of us all being together, the smell of fresh pies baking in the oven. Maybe it was because my mother appeared to be relaxed and in a decent mood for a change. I don’t know—maybe it was all of those things. Whatever the reason, for a brief moment we almost felt like a real family. And that almost feeling was wonderful.

  Sorting through photos, I came across one that made me curious. Mother was standing right behind me, and I held it up so she could see it. “Is this you?”

  She leaned in for a better look, then smiled and nodded. “With my father.”

  “My grandfather?” I asked, now more interested. I’d never had the chance to know him; he’d died before I was born. I raised the photo for a better look, barely recognizing the girl in the picture as the woman I knew. Young, happy, and beautiful, it was such a sharp contrast. I wondered where along the way she’d left that girl, whether she ever missed her, if she’d even noticed—and what might have turned her so angry at life.

  She took the photo from my hand and gazed at it. With the slightest hint of a smile and with an unaccustomed softness to her voice, she said, “I’d almost forgotten about that day...”

  “Where were you?”

  She lowered herself into the chair next to me, still lost in the photo. I edged in closer and looked on with her. “At the state fair. We went for my birthday. I’d just turned sixteen...”

  She placed the photo flat on the table, began gently running her fingers over it.

  Then the smile turned sad, and tears filled her eyes. She sniffled, wiped them away quickly, as if to erase any trace of sorrow. It was a side of her I’d seldom seen, and suddenly I felt sorry for her. Unsure what to say, I instinctively put my hand on her arm.

  She yanked it away, her sudden refusal making me flinch.

  “The pies are baking,” she said, then stood and rushed back toward the stove. “You’re making a mess with those photos. Get them out of my kitchen.”

  And so I did, not knowing why that picture had allowed us to connect, and at the same time, not knowing why it had ended so quickly.

  But I never forgot how good it felt.

  Chapter Eighteen

  5:36 a.m.

  My moment of rest had turned into hours; I woke up with my clothes still on, still thinking about the nasty-gram on the nightstand. There was no going back to sleep after that. Message received. I wasn’t welcome here. But here I was, and I needed to stay focused.

  I thought about Penfield. She’d said Jean’s death wasn’t a suicide, and while the files may have pointed to Michael Samuels as a possible suspect in some kind of abuse, I saw nothing that proved murder. I needed to talk to her, find out why she was so convinced. I glanced at the clock again. She’d be coming off her shift in about an hour.

  ***

  A driving rain battered the windshield, and suddenly, negotiating the interstate felt more like a challenge than a chore.

  I took the off-ramp to Glenview, then about five minutes later, pulled into the lot. Somehow, the rain made the monster-of-a-building look even more ugly.

  I dialed Sully.

  “I need your help, buddy.”

  “You know,” he said, “you really need to work on that phone etiquette. It’s standard practice in this country to say hello before you start asking for stuff.”

  “Sorry, I’m stressed.”

  “You said that last time.”

  “It still applies. Look, I need you to run a name and D.L. number for me.”

  “Hang on.” I heard the rustling of paper. “Okay, shoot.”

  “Michael Samuels.” I gave him the license number and state from my notes.

  “Date of birth?”

  “Don’t have one, but I’m guessing he’d be somewhere in his fifties now. The license was active in the seventies—not sure if it still is. Find out anything you can about him…as soon as you can. It’s important, Sully.”

  “I’m on it.”

  I clicked the phone off and looked out my window. The rain was coming down harder now. I glanced at my watch: five ‘til seven. I got out of the car, moved beneath an overhang fifteen feet from the employee exit.

  And waited.

  About ten minutes later, a slew of employees began filing out the door, umbrellas raised, making it difficult to see if Penfield was among them. I narrowed my focus as they moved past, searching faces while trying to appear inconspicuous. One woman glanced over at me. I smiled. She smiled back. No sign of Aurora Penfield.

  I waited another fifteen minutes, in vain.

  Where the hell is she?

  I knew she’d been working this shift—I’d spoken to her last night. I also knew there was only one door employees were allowed to use as an exit. Had she gone home early? Stayed to work a double? I didn�
�t have time to wait through another eight hours but desperately needed to speak with her.

  I made my way back toward the parking lot, rain stinging my cheeks like tiny pebbles. When I got to my car, I heard two people talking. I looked up toward the employee door.

  And there she was, speaking with another person as she made her way out.

  Then she rushed toward the parking lot, long, shapely legs moving quickly beneath an umbrella. I jockeyed my position to move into her path. At about ten feet away, she spotted me, and her expression suddenly changed. So did her direction. She did an about-face and hurried back toward the building.

  Fat chance.

  I quickened my pace and chased after her. She was no match for a desperate reporter wearing sneakers. Moving beside her now, I said, “I have to talk to you.”

  She kept walking, steady in her gait, eyes focused straight ahead. “I told you I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “It’s important.”

  “I don’t care,” she said, increasing her pace, still refusing to look at me. “Get away from me or I’ll call security.”

  I stopped moving and stood. “What the hell’s your problem? You give me the damn records, then you want nothing to do with me?”