Vultures At Twilight Part 20

TWENTY-SEVEN.

I lay in Cardiac Care, watching the glittery drip of the intravenous. To my left, hidden by a privacy curtain and partial darkness, my roommate snored. Occasionally, her monitor chirped as she shifted, but other than that, it was quiet.

I desperately wanted to get up, but had been cautioned with all manner of life-threatening complications that if I moved, disaster could follow. My groin throbbed where they had snaked the catheter into my femoral artery up through my aorta and finally into the blood vessels that surrounded my heart.

'You were lucky, Mrs Campbell,' Dr Green, my doom-and-gloom cardiologist had said as he'd showed me the images of the clogged vessel. 'It looks like it's been building up plaque for a while and then it had a spasm.'

I wondered what Bradley would have said. These advances in medicine were the things that had excited and renewed him. I pictured him beside me, explaining the tiny balloon that had been inflated to clear an opening in the clogged artery. He'd tell me what everything was for; the fluid that dripped into my arm, the glowing red numbers on the monitor above my head.

An aide in pink floral scrubs appeared in the lit door. She smiled and squeaked in on rubber-soled shoes. 'Trouble sleeping?'

'It's OK,' I whispered, not wanting to wake the woman by the window.

'I could have the nurse bring you a pill,' she offered as she checked the bandage on the inside of my leg, as she and her earlier counterpart had done every half hour since the procedure and the removal of the catheter afterwards.

'No, that's fine. I'm just thinking.'

'Well, if you need anything,' she said, rearranging my covers, 'just ring.'

I thanked her, and stared up at the darkened ceiling. That I could have died wasn't my major concern. There were too many other things. Obviously, the conversation with Mattie lay heavy on my mind, or, more accurately, my heart. My doctors would probably disagree, but I think the plaque would have been fine and dandy if I hadn't been so . . . heartbroken. While I never knew Philip Conroy, other than by sight, I understood why his sister's journals had depressed him. They'd almost killed me.

I wondered if Mattie had retrieved them yet. She had stayed with me up until I went into the cardiac catheterization lab. Ada had greeted me in the recovery suite, putting on a good face, but clearly distraught. She'd stayed until they'd kicked her out at the end of visiting hours. She'd argued that she was family, but they'd adamantly refused to let her stay.

'You're going to be OK, Lil,' she had told me. 'The doctor said it was a little one. You're going to be fine.'

I wished I could have put her mind at ease. She'd been next to me when my girls had called, first Christina and then Barbara. They'd both insisted on flying out; they'd be here in the morning. And while I loved my daughters, there was something about their coming that made me jumpy. Perhaps it was Christina's 'We can talk about things' that had me worrying. What sort of things needed to be discussed? I'd had a minor heart attack and according to the doctor there was no appreciable damage to the muscle.

I could imagine my children's conversation, certain that they would have been discussing things behind my back: 'What will we do about mother?'

For G.o.d's sake, I'm only fifty-nine! I don't want them to see me like this.

'It's nothing serious,' I had told them. 'Really no reason to fly out. I'm fine.'

To which Barbara had shot back, 'The nurse said you had a heart attack.'

'It's nothing,' I'd repeated, miffed that she had gone behind my back; wasn't that a breach of confidentiality?

'I'll be there in the morning.'

My concern wasn't for me alone; I was afraid of what they would find when they came. I looked at the phone and then at the clock; two a.m. Clearly too early to call Ada, but I needed to know the journals were out of my house. I didn't want my daughters knowing about the murders or the accusation against their father. I wanted them to continue with twice a year visits and once a week phone calls. The status quo was fine, and people were messing with it. I felt the fabric of my existence being shredded. People in Grenville my town weren't supposed to get murdered or accuse my husband of being a pedophile. And you, Lil. I stared at the tiny dots in the ceiling tiles and thought of Ada. You're in love with your best friend, and you must never let her know. There were too many things happening at once and something had to give; apparently, I was it.

'OK,' I whispered into the darkened room. 'Pull yourself together.' The sound of my voice strong and clear like a balm on my worried spirits. 'You can't do anything this very minute, but in the morning . . .' I closed my eyes, nothing to be done, go to sleep. And amidst the drip-drip of my intravenous and the ding-ding of my neighbor's pump, I drifted.

I dreamed. It started in a wooded glade. A shaft of light pierced the forest canopy, dappled reflections skittered across a bubbling brook. In the water, my reflection, but there was too much movement and my face lost form. Birdsong surrounded me and I felt a need to follow the stream. It leads somewhere. There's something you need to see, Lil, follow the water.

The earth grew soft underfoot. I looked down as my shoes sank into oozing mud. Why did I wear pumps? The slimy wetness ruining the hand-st.i.tched Italian soles. Done is done, I thought, and I followed the stream as it gathered volume and speed.

Sinking deeper with each step, my ankles slick with the strange mud. I thought about turning back, but thick storm clouds were gathering over the once idyllic glade. And again: there's something you need to see. Follow the stream.

The water swelled, and a wind whipped whitecaps. Is this going to town? Where is this? Something so familiar. The road leads you to town. You don't know where the water goes. I looked around as my feet sank deeper. I wondered if it was quicksand and, with a great sucking noise, I pulled myself out; but lost my shoes.

A crack of lightening lit the sky. For an instant I saw clearly, and realized that the mud, which covered my legs, was a dark viscous red, like clotted blood.

I held my breath and counted the seconds, waiting for the thunder. Why am I here? I wanted to be home.

The stream widened, threatening to break over its banks. In horror, I watched as it rose, its dark surface bubbled. I edged back into the shadowy woods, bare feet on the slick forest floor. Behind me, I heard the heavy fluid as it crested over the bank crushing twig and leaf as it advanced. I tried to outrun it. I plunged into the forest; my eyes struggled against the dark.

Finally, blocked by brambles, I turned to face the oncoming flood.

Like a tsunami, the dark fluid crested, and then, as though held by the hand of G.o.d, it hung suspended in front of me. As I stared at it, I saw pieces of jewelry floating in its depths, and it smelled like garbage cans left in the sun. 'You have to go into it, Lil,' I told myself. 'You can't run.' And I walked into the wall of blood.

There was a sensation of weightlessness. Am I drowning? But my lungs were full of air and before long I bobbed to the surface. My eyes blinked on to the familiar surroundings of the Pilgrim's Progress golf course. I wasn't lost; I was in the eleventh hole water trap. I swam toward the sh.o.r.e and got out. I smoothed down my clothes and smiled at the strollers on the walking path. No one seemed to think it odd that I'd gone fully dressed into the pond, or that I was covered in blood.

In the distance, Ada was holding a ringing phone. 'It's for you,' she called out. 'I told them you'd be right there.'

'Pick it up,' I yelled back, wondering why she hadn't answered it. The ring grew louder, more insistent.

I woke. The phone rang again. I pulled myself up by the railing on the side of the bed, the pain in my groin less sharp. My eyes struggled to focus in the darkened room. It must be morning, catching the filtered light as it seeped past my roommate's privacy curtain. Contorting my wrist back and trying not to upset the intravenous, I picked up.

'h.e.l.lo?' I said, and listened to the silence that stretched over the line. 'h.e.l.lo?' I heard the faintest trace of breath. 'Who is this?' It must be a wrong number, I thought, and was about to hang up, when a m.u.f.fled male voice spoke.

'You're next,' he said, and it clicked dead.

TWENTY-EIGHT.

Mattie Perez stared at a copy of the crumpled page of Wendy Conroy's journal. Seated behind a battered wood desk in a windowless office Hank had commandeered for her, she now had some idea as to why Tolliver Jacobs had been so cagey. 'We were having problems,' he had said, before calling his attorney. This was not what she'd expected.

She reread Wendy's poem. Poor Lil, she thought, her earlier conversation with Ada Strauss at the hospital having filled her in on the details.

'Lil's convinced Wendy was talking about her husband,' Ada had said.

'Aren't there other doctors in town?' Mattie had asked.

'Lil said there weren't, at least not then. And . . . he was Wendy Conroy's doctor.'

'Did you know Bradley?'

'Yes, the kind of man who'd drop whatever he was doing to help. A very kind person, and completely ethical. This makes no sense. And I told her that. The girl was clearly out of her mind. If she was talking about Bradley it had to be a fantasy, not something that actually happened.'

Mattie studied the poem; it had been torn off along its bottom edge. There had been more to it, almost as if someone had gotten to a particularly offensive part and ripped it out. And why was this one on top of the stack and in such poor condition?

In the next room she heard Kevin Simpson at the copier, going through the other journals, making duplicates and bagging the originals as evidence. At least she had found something he could do without getting in her way. Granted, he had to be reminded to wear gloves and he had no idea how to correctly process and label the evidence. It wasn't her job to show him, but if the evidence got screwed up, it would be her neck on the chopping block. Sergeant Ted MacDonald was already furious with her, screaming at her on the phone 'I don't have these kind of resources! You think this is the only case in Connecticut?' when she'd insisted he authorize search teams and dogs to go after the still missing Sal Rinaldo and Pete Jeffries. The final straw, and what she knew she'd end up paying for, was the email she'd sent clearly stating what she needed and copying his immediate supervisor and both the commanders of field and administrative operations. His response also copied had been a curt two-line answer finally authorizing a single search team.

She looked across her desk at the bulletin board she'd a.s.sembled. On index cards she had placed the names of the victims and beneath each of these were rows of yellow post-it notes with potential motives and leads.

Wendy's poem added a twist, one that might have nothing to do with the murders. Still, the timing of its discovery with Philip's murder made it too hot. And the torn edge needed explanation. Where was the missing piece? Who took it? Philip? Tolliver?

Tolliver was hiding things; she could feel it. Ada had said that he had wanted her and Lil to take the journals and read them. But what if he had already looked through them and taken out a bit here and there?

Nothing added up and she kept coming back to the poem. She stared at a picture of the dead girl, perched on a rock and smiling at the camera. Next to that was the news clipping from the local paper.

Local Woman Found Dead at Silver Glen Hospital The body of Wendy Conroy (28) was discovered early yesterday morning on the grounds of Silver Glen Hospital. The young woman had apparently drowned in an ornamental pond. Miss Conroy had been a resident at Silver Glen, a private psychiatric facility, for five years.

Doctor Gerard Helmut, the medical director for Silver Glen, stated, 'This is a great tragedy. Miss Conroy has been a vital member of our community and she will be greatly missed.' Doctor Helmut offered his condolences to the family and stated that a memorial service would be held at Silver Glen for staff and residents.

Miss Conroy is survived by her parents, Ellen and James Conroy, and her brother, Philip Conroy. The funeral is to be private, and donations will be accepted in her name by the Grenville Arts Council.

Mattie reread the clipping. What was she missing? Or was this just a time-swallowing blind alley?

She listened to the steady hum and click of Kevin at the copy machine.

She thought about Lil and Ada, how they had been more helpful than either Kevin or Hank. Lil in particular had a good sense of the players in town and how they worked. What must she be going through? She thought back to the diner; Lil stood to lose so much. To find out that after more than thirty years of marriage, your husband wasn't who you thought he was. Or worse, that he'd committed the most heinous of acts. It didn't fit. Lil was too savvy for that. Although, it wasn't rare for a woman to discover that the kind and attentive man she thought she'd married was a fiction. How many of them had she sat with? 'He's never done it before,' they'd say, while cradling their broken ribs. She'd encourage them to fill out a report and to have photos taken of their bruises. Few of them followed through. For the first-timers it was: 'He promised not to do it again.' And for those who'd been through repeated bouts, where the violence came harder and faster: 'It'll just make it worse. What good would a restraining order do?' They would leave her office after being given referrals to the proper agencies and a pep talk to 'stop the cycle of abuse'. Armed with numbers for the local women's shelter and the hot line, they would walk bruised and battered back into the arms of their men.

This was different, though. The pieces didn't fit, unless Lil was being less than frank. Most pedophiles had difficulty with adult relationships. If what Lil had said about their marriage was accurate, Bradley didn't fit the profile.

Kevin popped his head into her office. 'What you up to?'

'Thinking,' she said, wishing he'd finish his copying and leave her in peace.

He followed her gaze to the corkboard where she'd pinned her notes. 'She connects with at least two of them,' he offered.

'Who?'

'Wendy. She connects with at least two of the murder victims.'

'You knew her?'

'Sure, we went to school together.'

'Same cla.s.s?'

'Some of them. She was in my homeroom in junior high. Then I think she got pulled out of school either in her soph.o.m.ore or junior year.'

'What was she like?'

'Pretty, real quiet. Kind of the artsy type. She was editor of the school paper. These poems and stuff don't surprise me. Kind of weird though, especially that one about Dr Campbell.'

'You knew him too.'

'Everyone did. I don't think there was another doc for twenty miles, unless of course you went to Danbury.'

'Ever heard any rumors about him?'

'The Doc? Nah. He was a cool. Even made house calls.'

'So there was never any talk or scandal?'

'Not that I knew.'

'Tell me more about Wendy. Who did she hang out with?'

'That's a tough one. I was more into sports. She was someone who was there, but you didn't really notice her a lot.'

'So there was nothing at all unusual?' Mattie asked, feeling like she was pulling teeth. Here Kevin might actually have some useful information, and he was holding back.

'Well ' scratching the back of his head 'now that you mention it, there was some strange stuff in high school. People thought she was weird and then before too long she just went away.'

'Weird how?'

'To me, everyone acts flaky in high school. So I didn't think much about it. But she started getting into all this punk rock stuff, wearing a lot of silver jewelry and black clothes.'

'You said she was connected with two of the victims. Philip was her brother; who else?'

'Mildred Potts was her aunt or something. I remember seeing her around the shop. She'd, like, change the windows and stuff.'

'What about Rudy Caputo and Carl McElroy? Did she have anything to do with either of them?'

'I don't think so, but it's a small place. People know each other and know each other's business.'

'Right. I'm going to head over to Silver Glen. You feel like tagging along?'

'Yeah. What do you want to do there?'

'I'm not sure, see if anything pops up. How far is it?' she asked.

'Bout half an hour.'

'Good, let me call ahead and see what sort of roadblocks they'll put up. If we want to look at her records we'll probably need a subpoena.'

'Maybe not.' He picked up the phone.

'What are you doing?'

'Watch.' He dialed the operator and scribbled down the number. Without stopping he punched in the digits. 'This is Kevin Simpson for Wayland Green. Sure, I'll hold.' Kevin's head bobbed amiably with the music that spilled out of the receiver. 'REM,' he said to Mattie, by way of explanation. 'Hey, Wayland, how's it hanging . . . Not bad. Saw your new car; sharp. Is it a two thousand and twelve? . . . Sweet. Six cylinders? No kidding . . . Kids are good? Great . . . So when's the baby coming? You stopping at three? You're an animal.'

Mattie listened in bemus.e.m.e.nt, wondering when he'd get to the point. And grudgingly, she had to admit that his banter might be useful.