Dark Changeling Part 7

A guard showed him to the cubicle where he would interview the suspect. The walls, wood on the bottom and gla.s.s at the top, didn't reach all the way to the ceiling. To Roger's hypersensitive ears, the noise was hardly m.u.f.fled at all.I've done this before and survived the ordeal, he reminded himself with a hint of sarcasm.So I may as well quit whining andconcentrate on the job. He took a seat and waited several minutes, until he heard two pairs of footsteps approaching the door. The prisoner's feet shuffled, to the rattle of the ankle chains that shackled him.

Roger took out a notepad and pen. Thanks to his eidetic memory, he could have functioned without notes, but he thought it best to keep a written record, just as he did with his own patients. The guard guided the prisoner, handcuffed as well as shackled, to a chair across the small table from Roger. Clad in the blue-gray prison coverall, the suspect slumped into the chair and stared at nothing, his cuffed hands motionless in his lap. The guard stepped outside and shut the door, remaining there with his back turned.

Roger's first reaction mingled disappointment and relief. This lean, middle-aged man of average height, with brown hair turning gray at the temples, didn't resemble Sylvia. Albert Warren had sun-weathered skin and brown eyes. Moreover, his aura showed none of the electric violet-blue streaks that distinguished hers. Nor did the odor of his sour breath and sweat-stained clothes bring to mind Sylvia's crisp, metallic scent.

Roger suppressed a smile, realizing how close he'd come to believing Sylvia's fantasy of a vampire race. The man not only looked nothing like a vampire; he didn't look like a murderer, either. Appearances meant little, of course. Psychopathic killers didn't bear any obvious stigmata, even to the eyes of an empath.

Pulling his straight-backed chair closer to the table, Roger said, "Mr. Warren, I'm Dr. Darvell. Do you know why I'm here?"

The man raised his head, gazing over Roger's shoulder instead of meeting his eyes. "To find out if I'm crazy." He sounded unconcerned about the prospect.

"I wouldn't put it quite that way. I've been retained by the District Attorney to a.s.sess your mental condition. There are a few things I need to make sure you understand before we begin."

Warren gazed at him without response.

"First, this interview is not confidential. I may pa.s.s on any-thing you tell me to the prosecution or to investigating officers. Do you understand?"

A slow nod.

"Although I'm interviewing you on behalf of the prosecution, my testimony won't necessarily hurt your case. It may also help your case or have no effect one way or the other."

He waited for Warren to acknowledge the statement with another nod. The man wasn't simply maintaining a stoic mask; he projected no emotion at all."You aren't legally required to answer my questions," Roger said, "but if you don't, I'll make note of that fact and include it in my report. Do you understand?"

"Sure. I don't mind answering questions. But I already told those detectives all about it."

"I need to hear the story directly from you. First, though, do you know where you are?"

Warren looked faintly puzzled at the question. "In jail. Charles Street."

"Do you know today's date?"

"August twenty-something. I kinda lost track."

"What is the year?"

Throwing Roger an "I may be crazy but I'm not stupid" look, the prisoner said, "1979."

Oriented to time and place,Roger noted.Now, down to business. "Mr. Warren, can you explain why you turned yourself in to the police?"

"Like I told them," said the man in a flat tone. "I killed those girls. I need to be locked up." He raised his hands in a half-hearted gesture, and the cuffs clinked as he let them fall back to his lap.

"Why did you suddenly make that decision at this particular time?"

"I been thinking about it, that's all. It's not right, me running around loose." He didn't meet Roger's eyes as he spoke. He radiated no guilt; in fact, he still projected no feeling whatever. He sounded like an amateur actor reciting an imperfectly learned script.Tranquilized? No, Roger had asked the a.s.sistant D.A. about medication, and none had been prescribed. The absence of sedation made the emotional flatness more puzzling.

Roger regarded the patient with a puzzled frown. Lack of affect characterized sociopaths, but Warren didn't feel like other specimens of that cla.s.s Roger had examined. He tried a different angle. "Can you tell me why you killed the women? What did you want from them?"

"I don't know. Felt like I had to." Nothing seethed behind that statement. No suppressed compulsion fighting to break out.

"Did you hate the victims?"

Warren reacted to that-mild confusion. "No. Heck, I didn't even know them."

"Was there s.e.xual feeling a.s.sociated with them?" Normally Roger wouldn't approach that question head-on so early; this man baffled him, driving him to provoke some positive response.

"I don't think so. Don't remember."

Roger stood up. This line of attack wasn't getting anywhere. "Mr. Warren, I want to try something that may help me understand you better-and may help you get out of here. You want that, don't you?"

Alarm flickered in the brown eyes. "No! It's safe here."

Safe from what? Roger's professional antennae quivered. Safe from his own guilty impulses? Or from some outside force he imagined to be forcing him into the violent acts? "Mr. Warren, I want to hypnotize you. Will you cooperate?"

A shrug. No resistance, at least.Roger used hypnosis more than most therapists, for the technique suited his peculiar talents. No subject could lie to him for long.

Now he stood up, moved to Warren's side, and laid a hand lightly on the prisoner's shoulder. "Look at me, please." Roger needed no glittering object as a focal point to compel the subject's concentration. His gaze and touch did the work.

Warren raised his eyes to Roger's. Instantly his apathy dissolved into an open-mouthed stare of panic. His heart racing, he tried to squirm out of Roger's grasp. Both of Roger's hands tightened on the man's shoulders and wrestled him to stillness. Choked with terror, Warren struggled to emit a cry for help.

Staring him down, Roger said in a low voice, "You will be quiet. You will not scream. You'll answer when I speak to you, and that's all. Understand?"

A jerky nod. Soothed by the circular strokes of Roger's thumbs on his collarbone, the man's heartbeat and breathing gradually slowed. "I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe here, remember? Now, what are you afraid of?"

"Your eyes," the man whispered.

The air in Roger's lungs turned icy. "What about them?"

"Like his. Red-they glow-" Warren paused to gulp a breath. "He told me to forget-"

"NowI tell you to remember," Roger said. "Who is 'he'?"

"Grabbed me one night at work," said Warren. "He bit me-here." The man raised both arms in a vague wave, pointing with his chin toward the left one. "Told me I killed those girls, and I better give myself up. Explained to me how each one died, so I wouldn't get mixed up when I told the cops."

"This man ordered you to confess to the murders?"

Another nod. "Then told me to forget he'd talked to me."

"He made you believe you'd actually done it." Roger fixed Warren's attention with a steady gaze. "You didn't kill anyone. You are innocent. You'll forget the details of what this man did to you, but you will remember that." Would he? A single hypnotic session didn't always do the trick. At least Roger had the truth on his side; restoring true memory had to be easier and more reliable than imposing a false memory. "When the police learn that you're innocent, they'll release you."

Fear leaped in the man's eyes again. "No-he'll kill me for this."

"The criminal will be arrested, Mr. Warren. You'll be safe." Roger tightened his mesmeric grip. "Tell me who this man is. What is his name?"

Warren's mouth twisted as if trying not to vomit. At last the words spewed out. "Neil-Sandor."

"One of your co-workers?"

"Yes." Warren let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

"Tell me about him."

"Janitor-works nights. I never ran into him much until he-" Warren gulped and shivered. Roger lightly stroked the man's shoulders to calm him.

Nights, eh? Could this be Sylvia's 'vampire'?The mention of "red eyes" made the hypothesis plausible. "What does he look like?"

"Red hair, beard, kind of scruffy. Real tall." "How tall, compared to me?"

Warren craned his neck to look up at Roger. "About the same. Maybe a little bigger." He started trembling again and whined, "Don't let them send me home. He's out there-he'll kill me-"

"That's up to the police and your attorney," Roger said. He lulled Warren into trance once more. "Remember, you didn't kill those victims. You are innocent. Forget what Sandor did to you. You don't have to be afraid."

Finally the prisoner sank back into slack-jawed pa.s.sivity. Roger had heard enough. He knocked on the door for the guard to return Warren to his cell.

During the cab ride back to his office, Roger's brain simmered with the implications of the interview.Maybe Sylvia really does know the killer; maybe he's related to her. An extended family with an exotic set of powers and weaknesses? In the office, he telephoned O'Toole as promised.

"I'll be sending the usual written report to the District Attorney, of course," said. "I need to talk to you about the case right away, though. In my opinion, Mr. Warren isn't competent to a.s.sist in his own defense. However, I also believe he's not your murderer."

O'Toole's voice sounded like a bulldog's growl. "h.e.l.l-we're back to square one?"

"Not at all," Roger said. "He gave me some information you may find useful, which I'd rather not go into over the phone. Can you drop by my office later today?"

"Sure, if that works better for you." The detective sounded puzzled, no doubt wondering why Roger didn't just deliver his "information" without further ado.

The main reason was to ensure that O'Toole believed in Sandor's guilt and would push for an immediate arrest. For that, face-to- face application of hypnotic influence was necessary. "How about five o'clock," Roger said, "right after my last patient?"

O'Toole agreed. When he showed up at five, to the unex-pressed curiosity of both Dr. Lloyd and the receptionist, Roger led the Lieutenant directly into his office.

As soon as the door was safely shut, Roger said, "Mr. Warren is covering for someone I believe to be the real perpetrator, a man by the name of Neil Sandor who works on the custodial staff at M.I.T."

"Man, that was fast work!" O'Toole's grin faded as he con-sidered the implications. "You telling me Warren's an accessory? The two of them in a serial murder conspiracy?"

"No, Warren isn't an accomplice. He needs therapy, not punishment. I suspect psychotropic drugs may have been used to convince him of his own guilt." That explanation would work better than opening a discussion of whether hypnosis could make a person act against his own best interests.

"You seem d.a.m.n sure of all this." O'Toole stood up, took a few paces across the limited floor s.p.a.ce, and jingled the change in his pockets. "So you think Warren isn't the killer. But couldn't accusing Sandor be another fantasy he dreamed up? Oh, h.e.l.l, at least it's a lead."

"My intuition suggests that this time Warren is telling the truth." He caught O'Toole's eyes and administered a firm psychic shove. "If you check out the two men's work schedules, I have a feeling that Sandor's hours will dovetail with the times of the murders better than Warren's."

"It's worth a try." He still sounded dubious.

"I'm certain of it," Roger said, increasing the mental pressure. "How soon can you get a warrant? You'll want to bring the man in for questioning before he gets suspicious and bolts." "You're right, we can't take any chances. I'll check with the D.A.'s office and talk to a friendly judge." O'Toole brightened up and shook Roger's hand. "Thanks, Doc! I knew you'd come through for us."

What have I done, though?Roger asked himself as he struggled home through downtown traffic. Sylvia would say he'd betrayed one of his own kind. Again Roger wondered whether to tell her what he'd learned. Though aware of his own cowardice in evading the confrontation, he decided to wait until the police ar-rested the supposed vampire. Until then, what he'd discussed with O'Toole was confidential. Smiling grimly at this ration-alization, Roger pigeonholed the subject.

LIFTING A CORNER of the living room curtain, Sylvia stared at the figure under the street lamp three stories down. Roger, curse him, was right; she never should have given Rico her address. When the boy had come to her apartment, they'd shared a delicious hour together. Excitement tingled through her at the memory. She had brought him to climax three times. No older man, even goaded by the stimulus of her hypnotic seduction, could do that. The third time, she had allowed Rico to penetrate her, a new experience for both of them. No danger of pregnancy existed, since Sylvia hadn't reached her fertile stage.

Thinking of Rico's lovemaking made her lightheaded. Too bad she had to blur his memory of the union, for her own safety. After that one encounter, she had ordered him to stay away. The order hadn't stuck. If she'd had better sense, she knew, she would have wiped her address from his mind. In the four nights since then, the boy had shown up each evening promptly at sunset. At first he had lingered in the lobby to waylay her. When the doorman evicted him, he turned to skulking outside.

Watching Rico, Sylvia pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a moan.Dark Powers, I want him so badly! She'd been warned about this kind of addiction but never experienced it before. Its intensity took her by storm. What made this boy different from other donors? Because he pursued her with such abject devotion? Poor child, she was his first s.e.xual partner, and he thought he was in love with her. Sylvia felt hollow inside, and the idea of stalking some other victim made her queasy. Imagining the joy that would burst from Rico if she invited him in demolished the last of her judgment. Even from this distance she felt the tug of his pa.s.sion. She allowed it to draw her down to him.

When she reentered the lobby, holding Rico's hand, the doorman frowned as they walked past. The man disapproved of Sylvia's allowing "riffraff" into his domain. Well, this was one intruder she didn't want protection from.

Upstairs, she led Rico to the couch and wrapped her arms around his waist, her hands ma.s.saging his chest under his T-shirt. His flesh seemed to scorch her palms. Already she couldn't restrain herself from nibbling his earlobes, licking his face and neck.What's wrong with me? Slow down, girl, what's the rush? Four nights was a long time to go without, but she shouldn't be starving quite yet.

Just before she submerged him in an erotic waking dream, Rico said in a voice hoa.r.s.e with arousal, "I'm getting ha.s.sled a lot by Tony-you know, my cousin, he lives with me and Mom- he keeps bugging me about where I go at night."

Half drunk on Rico's l.u.s.t, without having tasted a drop of his blood, Sylvia took little notice of the remark. "What did you tell him?"

she asked unconcernedly, working Rico's arms out of his shirt.

"Nothing." The boy sounded faintly offended. "Hey, what do you think I am? You're special-I wouldn't go shooting off my mouth about you. But Tony, he's worried, he thinks I'm still a little kid."

"Well, you certainly aren't that!" She silenced Rico with a kiss, and within minutes neither of them had energy to spare for talking.

THE SIGHT OF the man looming in her doorway hit Sylvia like a blow to the chest. "How in the name of-how did you get up here?"

The tall, broad-shouldered, red-bearded man laughed, "You think I couldn't handle that uniformed clown in the lobby? Well, are you going to let me in, or risk your neighbors hearing this?"

She retreated a step. "Oh, all right, come in." After closing the door, she said, "Neil, I told you in no uncertain terms that I never wanted to see you again. I don't like the way you operate."

"Not liking it is your privilege. Turning me in is something else." No longer laughing, he radiated anger like heat from a furnace.

"What on earth are you talking about?" She sat down. Neil didn't; he paced around the room, narrowly avoiding her books and stereo equipment, as he raged at her.

"I'm talking about losing my home-losing mycar, for h.e.l.l's sake-going underground! You think you can drive me into hiding and get away with it?"

Sylvia clutched the edge of the sofa to keep from trembling. "I haven't done anything to you. All I wanted was to stay as far away from you as possible."

He bared his teeth at her. "You expect me to believe that?"

"It's the truth. Why would I suddenly betray you, after all this time?"

"The cops came to get me four days ago. I was asleep, I barely woke up in time, I had tofight them!" His fist slammed into the nearest wall. "They saw me, they know what I look like! I've had to hole up in abandoned buildings." The scent of his anger made her stomach lurch.

Noting the hairline crack in the plaster where he'd hit the wall, Sylvia armored her mind against the fear seeping through her vitals.

In a hand-to-hand struggle she would have little chance against Neil, older, larger, and more experienced. "Sit down and take it easy. If you'll just listen to me-"

"Listen!" He whirled to face her. "All right, little one, if you didn't tip off the police, who did?"

"I don't know. We're the only ones in Boston." A sudden thought struck her.Roger-who else? She couldn't guess how he had stumbled across Neil's ident.i.ty, but that had to be the answer.

Neil's quivering alertness showed that he had caught her shift of mood. "You do know something. Who is it?"

Sylvia reinforced her psychic shield. Older than she, Neil could probably force Roger's name out of her unless she kept her guard up. "I don't really know. I have a good guess."